“With any luck, there’ll be a tinderbox in the parlor.”
Ash used the last fading glimmer of twilight to search the area near the hearth. Yes, there was the box—and it still held a bit of crumbling moss and a flint. Thank God.
What he lacked, however, was wood.
There was no chance of locating an ax at this hour, let alone finding and hacking down a small tree. He would be just as likely to chop off his own hand. However, he’d promised Emma a fire, and he’d be damned if he’d let her down.
His gaze fell upon a solitary chair. He lifted it by two of its legs, reared back, and bashed it against the stone mantel. At the other end of the room, Emma jumped. The back of the chair dangled loose, but other than that, the thing remained intact. Curse his grandmother’s appreciation for fine craftsmanship.
He reared back for another swing. The second crack was enough to splinter one leg from the base. Another few good cracks, and he had a pile of flammable wood and a wicked pain shooting from his arm to his neck.
“How are you able to do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Swing with such force, despite the injured shoulder.”
He arranged the chair legs in the fireplace, then stuffed tinder in the cracks. “When I woke from fever, the surgeon told me I must stretch and lift the arm every day if I wanted to keep the use of it. Otherwise the scars will heal too tight and then there’s no moving it at all. It’s as though the joint rusts over.”
“So you play badminton.”
“Among other things.” He struck the flint.
“And it doesn’t pain you any longer?”
Hurts like hell every time.
“No,” he said.
Crouching, he blew steadily on the ember until it caught and crackled into a flame. The lacquer helped the bits of chair catch quickly.
“There.” He stood back, chest heaving with exertion. “I made you a fire. You may now admire my manliness.”
“I do, rather.”
Emma moved forward and held her hands out to warm them over the growing blaze. He had precisely three seconds to admire how her skin glowed in the firelight before thick smoke began to billow from the fireplace. They backed away, coughing into their sleeves.
Ash’s eyes burned. With a rather unliterary curse, he kicked at the small fire, breaking it apart until a few glowing coals were all that remained. For a minute or two, all they could do was cough. Eventually, the smoke dissipated.
“The flue must be clogged,” he said. “Bots on it.”
“Bots?”
“Horse worms.” To her expression of disgust, he replied, “You asked.”
“I suppose I did. The chimneys all need a thorough sweeping, I’d imagine. We’ll add it to the list. Tomorrow.”
No way to write it down tonight.
He paced the room, his frustration boiling over. “If you knew the servants were scheming, you should have told me. I would have driven any such notions out of their heads.”
“I tried to do just that. I told them this is only a marriage of convenience.”
He wiped soot from his face with his sleeve. “Apparently you weren’t convincing.”
“Well, maybe they wouldn’t be so hopeful about it if you weren’t such a miserable employer.”
“If that’s their problem, I can solve it for them. I’ll sack them all directly.”
“Don’t, please. You know we’d never find replacements.” She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered. “I don’t recall seeing any blankets in the house, did you?”
“None. We’ll have to—”
“No,” she interrupted. “We can’t. That’s exactly what they want.”
He was baffled. “What’s exactly what they want?”
“Huddling.”
“Huddling?”
“Yes, huddling. Together. For warmth. The two of us. That’s obviously their plan, and we should refuse to play into it.”
He bristled. “You don’t have to sound quite so disgusted by the idea.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not you I object to, of course. It’s the principle.”
“Principles won’t keep you warm tonight.” Ash made his way to the entry and found his coat, then returned to drape it over her shoulders. “There. That’s a start. Now . . . there was a settee around here somewhere.”
His shin found it. Ouch.
They settled on opposite ends of the uncomfortable horsehair bench. The thing had so many lumps, Ash expected there’d be divots in his arse tomorrow morning. His stomach rumbled in complaint. “If they were going to strand us here, they might have at least packed us some dinner.”
“Please don’t mention dinner,” she said weakly.
This was going to be a long, miserable night.
She jerked with surprise. “What was that noise?”
“What noise?”
“That scratching noise.” She shushed him. “Listen.”
He sat in silence, listening.
“There!” She smacked his shoulder. “There, did you hear it just now? And there again.”
Yes, he heard it. A light scraping noise that coincided with each slight breeze.
“Oh, that,” he said. “That’s just the Mad Duchess.”
“The Mad Duchess?”
“The resident ghost. Every country house has one.” He made his voice mysterious. “The story is that my great-grandfather took a wife. A bride of convenience, for the purposes of siring an heir. She was pretty enough, but he began to regret the match soon after the honeymoon.”
“Why?”
“A hundred reasons. She tore down the curtains. She conspired with the servants. She called him ridiculous names. Worst, she had a demon consort that assumed the form of a cat.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, really.”
“She sounds terrible.”
“Indeed. She was so much trouble, he locked her in a cupboard upstairs and kept her there. For years.”
“Years? That seems extreme.”
“Extreme was what she deserved. She’d driven him mad, and he meant to return the favor. Locked her up. Tossed in a crust or a dampened sponge from time to time. On cold nights, you can still hear her scratching and clawing to get out. Do you hear it?” He paused. “There it is. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.”
She swallowed audibly. “You are a cruel and horrid man, and I hope you get the bots.”
“If you doubt me, feel free to go upstairs and see for yourself.”
“No, thank you.”
All was silent for several minutes, during which Ash felt rather smug.
Then it was Ash’s turn to jerk in surprise. “What’s that noise?”
“What noise?”
“That . . . crinkling noise. It sounds like someone removing a paper wrapping.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Perhaps it’s the Mad Duchess.”
The crinkling sounds stopped. But other sounds took its place. Small, wet sounds. Like sucking and chewing.
“Are you eating?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
A few minutes of silence.
There it was again. That crinkling, followed by light smacking of lips. “You’re eating something, I know it.”
“I am not,” she said. At least, he thought that was what she intended to say. It came out more like, Ah mmf nah.
“You little dissembler. Share.”
“No.”
“Very well, I’ll leave you here.” He rose to his feet. “All alone. In the dark. With the noises.”
“Wait. All right, I’ll share.”
He sat down.
She touched his arm, felt his way down his shirtsleeve, and placed a small packet in his hand. “They’re just a few boiled sweets. I bought them when we stopped to water the horses.”
Ash unwrapped a morsel for himself. “The scratching sound is the branch of an oak tree that grows at the back of the house. It scrapes the windowsill of my old bedchamber. I climbed down that tree many a night to find mischief of one sort or another.” He popped the sweet into his mouth. “You’d better not give my heir that room.”