The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(78)

Sighing, she let the curtain fall back and padded back to bed.


Serena slept only fitfully for the rest of the night. She kept waking up, disturbed either by actual comings and goings or by her imagination. In the end, she gave in and rose early. Having washed and dressed—in a rather newer day gown of fine wool to counteract the castle draughts—she went in search of her sisters. They were discovered in their beds, all still sound asleep. Even Miss Grey was only just waking up, yawning owlishly at her when she stuck her head round her bedchamber door.

“Slugabeds, all of you!” Serena accused and went off to the kitchen instead to beg some warm, freshly baked bread from Cook. Cook cut her a thick slice and slathered it in butter, handing it to her with a tolerant wink and an apple.

Serena hugged her and danced off with her treasure, pausing only to seize her warm cloak on the way out the door.

It was going to be another beautiful morning. As it was, the sun hadn’t quite risen, and there was a hint of frost in the crunching of the grass beneath her feet. Serena considered breaking her confinement altogether and walking into Blackhaven. Only Gillie, her childhood friend was not there but with her husband at Wickenden where she awaited the birth of their first child.

Who would have thought it? The last time Serena had been home, it had been Gillie who was in disgrace, and Serena who’d won the brilliant match, or at least a respectable one. And yet here she was back on the marriage mart, while Gillie had everything.

Not that Serena begrudged her it, for she loved Gillie very much, and her friend’s wicked baron was a lot more exciting than Serena’s wealthy baronet. In fact, Gillie was a living lesson, that marriage needn’t be dull and constricting.

While thinking about Gillie, Serena’s footsteps seemed to have led to the orchard. She laughed at herself, for it was far too early to expect any visitors, let alone the eccentric artist. Besides, it would not do to be seen waiting for him.

As her hand stilled on the latch of the orchard door, a sound in the distance drew her attention and she glanced along the wide formal garden that ran along the orchard wall to the old courtyard entrance. Someone stood there, half turned away from her, apparently calling to someone else inside the courtyard.

Frowning, Serena released the latch and hurried toward the courtyard instead. There was no real reason for any of the servants to be there, except to go to the wine cellar, which was extremely unlikely at this time of day. It crossed Serena’s mind that the man was not a Braithwaite servant, but a smuggler, and if so, he needed to understand where the boundary line was drawn. She would not report their activities or even put an end to them—after all, most of the town was complicit to one degree or another. But smugglers could not be running tame about the castle.

As if he heard her footsteps, the man glanced around, saw her, and immediately bolted inside the courtyard. She’d been right. He was no servant. Picking up her skirts, she ran after him, but when she reached the courtyard, there was no sign of anyone at all. And the cellar, when she tried the outside door, was locked.

Were they on the inside? Her blood ran cold. Were they running loose about the castle? Were they living here? Surely, the servants would be aware of such a thing. Walking into the middle of the courtyard, she gazed up at the windows, including that of her own bedchamber, and turned to those disused parts on the left-hand side. On the third side was merely an ancient wall, partially ruined and rebuilt, in which a newer, cast iron gate had been added. And it seemed to be ajar.

She darted toward it, but before she even swung it open, she saw through the bars, the unmistakable figure of a man bolting into the woods.

Well at least he’s not inside the castle, she thought with relief, hurrying after him. She opened her mouth to yell to him to stop, before it struck her that neither of them really wanted to draw attention. She ran faster, and was rewarded when, from the line of trees, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her.

She waved. But rather than waiting for her, her quarry simply delved into the trees and vanished.

“Oh, for the love of—” But no, he was being sensible. They would talk where no passing gardener would notice them.

When she reached the spot from where he’d seen her, there was no sign of him. Peering through the trees all around her, she crept forward, twigs crunching and snapping beneath her feet.

“Hello?” she hazarded and then, getting no response. “I need to talk to you, but I’m not here to threaten.”

Twigs crackled to her right, drawing her further in. And then, when she was just about to give up, a man stepped out of the trees—surely the man she’d followed from the courtyard—and he lunged at her. He’d have caught her, too, if her reflexes hadn’t been so quick. She leapt back beyond his reach and bolted in sudden terror, for she’d glimpsed the glittering steel in his hand. He didn’t want to talk. He meant her harm.

As she ran through the trees, she heard him pounding after her, crashing through the undergrowth. But it was hard to locate him now, for she kept changing direction in an effort to fool him and her heart thundered too loudly in her ears, eclipsing everything but her own desperately panting breath.

Branches moved to her right and she swerved left, thudding into a hard, male body. Hands seized her. She made a pathetic sound in her throat that she’d meant to be a scream and lashed out at the region of his chest with her balled fists. His grip only tightened.