The Heir - Catherine Coulter [95]
“Her ladyship left the house, my lord. Very quickly, I might add.”
“Damnation, man, why the hell did you not tell me that little bit of news before?”
Crupper drew to his full height. “If you will pardon my liberty, my lord, your lordship was near to the top of the stairs before I was even aware of your presence.”
“This is damned ridiculous,” the earl nearly shouted as he strode past his butler into the warm night.
It did not occur to the earl to simply let her return whenever she wished to. He mentally reviewed her favorite haunts—the old abbey ruins, the fishpond, perhaps even the Deverill graveyard. For some reason he could not define, he knew that she would not be bound for any of her usual places. No, he thought, he knew she was trying to escape—from Evesham Abbey, from her mother, but mainly she would want to escape from him.
Lucifer. He would bet every sou he had that she was riding madly away from here on her stallion.
He ran full tilt to the stables. He was just in time to see Arabella, her skirts billowing out about her, astride Lucifer, galloping away into the dark night.
“James,” he yelled.
His spindly legged head groom emerged in the lighted doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of his master’s furious face. He waited miserably for the earl to sack him. But that didn’t even come to the earl’s mind. He knew that Arabella’s word was indisputable law with all the servants.
“Fetch my stallion, James, and be quick about it.”
As the seconds crept by, the earl was mentally calculating the lead Arabella would have on him. His bay stallion was Marmaluke-trained and of Arab stock. But, Lucifer, damn, the beast was strong as ten horses and fast as the wind. She could be in the next county before he even managed to reach the end of the drive. “James, hurry!”
He wanted to strangle her.
He wanted to shout at her until he ground her down, until she finally admitted what she’d done to him. He wanted desperately for her to tell him she’d made a mistake, that she was sorry, that she regretted it, that she would spend her life making it up to him.
He also wanted to see her, just see her, perhaps even tell her that he understood. He shook his head at himself. He was changing. He was easing. He was ready to forgive her. He wanted to kill the comte, but not her, not Arabella. He didn’t understand himself, but there it was.
Well, damnation.
23
The moon hung as a slim crescent, barely lighting the vague outlines of the country road. The earl rode, head down, nearly touching his horse’s glossy neck, his body molding into the form of the animal. His intense demanding pace brought back memories of another ride in the night, so long ago in faraway Portugal, the critical dispatch folded carefully in the lining of his boot. He felt the same sense of purpose and urgency. He had been elated with the success of his mission when horse and man had very nearly dropped from fatigue at the end of the eight endless hours.
Rickety turnstiles, unpainted wooden fences, small rutted paths—all flew past in a blur of semidarkness. The earl knew of a certainty that Arabella would stay to the main road. She would want nothing to slow her escape.
As he rode, he remembered again her outburst at Dr. Branyon’s announcement. Yes, he understood, but it didn’t lessen his anger, not really.
At first he couldn’t believe his eyes. Were he not so very angry with her, he would have been sorely tempted to laugh aloud at the very undramatic scene before him. Arabella was walking in the middle of the road in full evening dress, leading a limping Lucifer.
She halted as he reined in beside her. She looked up at him with dull eyes. She said nothing, damn her. “Well, madam, I see that you have ended your own merry escape.” He swung from the saddle and faced her, legs apart, his hands on his hips.
She seemed oblivious of his anger, of the ferocious irony of his words. “Yes,” she said, still not looking at him, “Lucifer threw a shoe. I shall have to speak to James. It is quite ridiculous that he should throw a shoe. Don’t you think that