Married to the Rogue (Season of Scandal #3) - Mary Lancaster Page 0,32

faint rumbling outside, like wheels on the stone yard, though he could hear no horse’s hooves. A faint groan, a thump, and then a creak, like door hinges.

Frowning, he threw off the covers and walked naked to the window, which he had left open a crack because of the warm weather. He heard a horse’s snort, even before he peered down into the yard and saw moving shadows close in against the wall of the house.

The bedchamber he had chosen was the one he had been given as a child when he had come to visit his grandfather. It looked on to the back of the house, to the kitchen door, and the cellar. There was no reason for a horse and cart to be here. A silent horse that must have had covering tied over its hooves. Burglars? Or smugglers? More likely, the latter. It was not unknown for a few bottles to be left at certain houses, either because the goods were paid for or to encourage blind eyes. But no one had lived in this house for years.

He stumbled back to his bedside and lit the lamp before scrambling hastily into his pantaloons and throwing the recently discarded shirt over his head. He pulled on his boots, then lit a candle from the lamp, and left the room.

He used the side stairs, hurrying down toward the kitchen and the servants’ hall. Both were in darkness. He moved silently toward the back door, opposite which was the inside door to the cellar. Both doors were bolted. But surely that was a faint light showing from the cellar?

Hoping they wouldn’t screech, he carefully drew back the bolts on the cellar door. Just in time, he noticed a bottle on the top step and picked it up before he could kick it downstairs and give away his presence. It was French brandy. He set it down against the kitchen wall and then descended the cellar steps, listening intently.

He had been too busy over the past few days to do more than glance in here. After all, Hunter seemed to have kept the cellar stocked with decent port and brandy and had always sent up good choices of wine. But he saw now that the cellar had other rooms.

The stairs led into a storeroom containing a good stock of bottles and two barrels of ale for the servants. But beyond it, a half-open door with light shining through led to another space. And from there, an open door led to the yard. Barrels and crates were piled by the door and, judging by the faint rumbling and grunting, being moved onto the waiting cart outside.

A movement inside caused Christopher to spin around. A man who seemed to have been slumped on the floor was heaving himself to his feet. Christopher’s candle flickered over the pistol in the man’s hand, and he froze.

The man stumbled, then righted himself, blinking blindly in the sudden light. A bloody arm hung loosely by his side, but the pistol was steady.

“Don’t move a muscle or I’ll shoot you,” he growled.

For a stunned moment, Christopher stared.

And then the hairs on his neck sprang up, and he whirled around to face a huge man about to bring a pistol down on his head.

“Wait!” The words came in perfect unison from both himself and the injured man. But almost at the same moment, a ghostly figure leapt behind the huge man and brought a bottle crashing down on his head.

The man blinked and dropped to his knees. And Christopher stared into the wide, frightened eyes of his wife.

Chapter Eight

Unable to sleep, Deborah had been wandering around the house with her single candle, absorbing the atmosphere and the sounds that made it unique. At night, alone and without guests or servants, or even Christopher, she could almost feel Gosmere Hall was truly hers.

She even pushed open the baize door to the servants’ quarters and heard furtive footsteps coming from somewhere below. She wondered if someone was ill and trying not to wake the household, so she hurried after the footsteps into the kitchen and found the unbolted, open door—not to the kitchen garden, but down into a cold cellar.

She crept down, her heart beating now with as much alarm as curiosity, and crossed the storeroom to another open door. And there, she saw her husband caught between two armed men. One pointed a pistol at his heart. The other crept up behind him, his arm lifting to bring the weapon