Page 25 of The Hidden Lord
“Does it matter?” He sounded weary, defeated. “The result is the same.”
Henri studied his profile, noting the way he held himself rigidly upright despite his obvious exhaustion. His stillness reminded her of a wounded animal, dangerous but suffering. Part of her—a foolish, tender part that she tried to suppress—wanted to reach out to him, to offer comfort.
But she hardened her heart against such weakness. This man had kidnapped her, destroyed her life, and now proposed marriage as if it were some sort of solution rather than yet another violation of her autonomy. Whatever pain he might be suffering, whatever noble motives he might claim, there could be no justification for what he had done to her.
“You are right,” Henri said coldly. “It does not matter. What matters is that you have taken my choices away from me. Youhave decided what is best for my life without consulting me, without considering what I might want. And now you expect me to be grateful for your offer of marriage?”
Lord Trenwith’s hands tightened, the only sign he was striving for composure. “I expect nothing,” he said quietly. “I merely offer what protection I can.”
“Protection?” Henri laughed bitterly. “You speak of protection while holding me captive in a foreign country. You speak of duty while destroying my reputation. Your logic is rather twisted, my lord.”
He said no words in response, but Henri saw him flinch as if she had struck him. Good. She wanted him to feel some measure of the anguish he had caused her. She wanted him to understand that his actions had consequences, that she was not some chess piece to be moved about at his convenience.
The carriage rolled on through the French countryside, carrying them toward whatever fate awaited in Calais. Henri turned to stare out her own window, watching unfamiliar landscapes pass by and trying to plan her next move. Marriage to Lord Trenwith was unthinkable, but she would need to find some way to return to England, some way to salvage what remained of her life.
She could not be weak. She could not allow herself to be swayed by momentary glimpses of vulnerability in her captor’s eyes. Whatever game Lord Trenwith was playing, whatever his ultimate goals, Henri would find a way to reclaim her freedom.
Even if it meant hardening her heart against every instinct that whispered she might be missing something important about the man sitting across from her in stony silence. Which would be easier if she had not relied on his tender care when she had found herself so ill during the tumultuous sea journey.
And do not forget he rescued you from a madman.
Henri suppressed what would have been a telltale groan of dismay as her thoughts warred within her cranium, driving her to the brink of her own special kind of madness.
CHAPTER 8
“Ye did me great untruth, and there was no cause why ye should do so.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
The carriage drew to a halt behind a tall, narrow house of weathered gray stone that blended seamlessly with the overcast French sky. Henri peered through the window at the nondescript building, noting how it appeared deliberately unremarkable. No coat of arms adorned the walls; no elaborate ironwork decorated the windows. It was the sort of place chosen to not attract attention.
Lord Trenwith stepped down first, then turned to assist her from the carriage. For a moment, Henri considered crying out, drawing attention from any passersby who might witness her plight. But as she glanced around the narrow lane, she realized how futile such an attempt would be. They were clearly in some sort of service alley, hidden from the main thoroughfares. Moreimportantly, she was now in France, where English law held no sway and her cries for help would likely be met with blank stares or, worse, indifference.
As Lord Trenwith’s hand touched hers to help her down, Henri found herself reluctantly remembering his proposal of marriage. Whatever his motives for kidnapping her, however ill-advised his methods, he had offered her his name and title. A man intent on true harm would hardly make such an offer. The thought brought her little comfort, but it did suggest that her immediate safety was not in jeopardy.
She would have to wait this out. Bide her time, gather information, and look for an opportunity to escape or negotiate her freedom when the timing was right.
Mr. Tyne led them through a plain wooden door into what was clearly the servants’ entrance of the house. The narrow corridor beyond was dimly lit and smelled of cooking fires and lye soap. Henri caught glimpses of a kitchen to one side, where she could hear the quiet bustle of domestic activity, but Mr. Tyne hurried them quickly past and up a narrow staircase.
“Miss Bigsby,” Mr. Tyne said as they climbed, his speech tight with barely suppressed anxiety. “Welcome toLa Maison Grise. I must ask you to understand that these arrangements are … temporary. Accommodation has not been prepared for you, but everything necessary will be provided for your comfort.”
The Gray House, indeed.
Henri said nothing, saving her breath for the steep climb, only noting minutes later that Lord Trenwith had left them. The staircase went on forever, winding upward through the heart of the house until they reached what must have been the very top floor. Mr. Tyne opened the door to a small spartanly furnished room tucked beneath the eaves.
“I regret the modest nature of the quarters,” Mr. Tyne continued, clearly uncomfortable with his role as her gaoler. “Amaid will be along shortly to assist you and provide you with a meal. I trust you will find everything … adequate.”
Henri stepped into the room and heard the unmistakable sound of the key turning in the lock behind her. She was well and truly trapped now, locked in an attic room in a foreign country with no hope of immediate rescue.
Her thoughts threatened to drown her as they flittered to her family. Miss Dulwich would have informed her mother what she had been doing at Danbury’s. Mama might even think to speak with Signor di Bianchi, whom Henri’s lady’s maid would recall from her attendance during their examination of Uncle Reggie’s Caxton edition. Eleanor Bigsby, being an intelligent woman, would likely guess Henri had been taken unwillingly because she had no mode of transport to leave the estate and no reason to run off. But beyond that, Miss Dulwich would have no knowledge to point to where Henri might be. Nay, no rescue could come from that quarter. It was up to Lord Trenwith to see to his urgent business and then release her as he had promised he would. In the meanwhile, she could not contemplate her family’s distress without feeling overwhelmed by anguish, so she put the thoughts aside until the time came to deal with it.
The space was small but clean, furnished with a narrow bed, a washstand, a little table, and a single chair positioned near the window. The walls were bare except for a simple crucifix hanging above the bed, and the floor was covered with worn wooden planks. There was a bit of a chill, but being on the upper floor, some heat must be rising from below to ward off the worst of the cold. It was the sort of room that might house a servant or perhaps a governess, functional but devoid of any comfort or personality.
Henri moved to the window, hoping to gain some sense of her location. The glass was old and slightly warped, but it provided a view of the city spread out below. From her highvantage, she could see the distinctive outline of a harbor in the distance, with tall masts rising like a forest of bare trees against the gray sky.
It had to be the Calais harbor. She cursed herself for not paying closer attention during their journey, for not asking Lord Trenwith directly where he was taking her. But then again, would he have answered honestly?
The harbor view told her she was in a major port city, which meant there would be ships traveling back to England regularly. If she could find a way to escape this room, if she could reach the docks and find passage … Henri pushed the thought away. Such plans were premature until she better understood her situation.
