She nodded, relieved, but whether more from the fact that he’d capitulated than that he’d moved away from her, she wasn’t certain. It didn’t signify—at least he would no longer interfere. Emma quickly divvied up the eastern boundary into manageable sections.
“Right.” She addressed the tired servants, her middle tightening with unease. “We haven’t daylight left to search the remaining area in pairs,” she said, suppressing
her discomfort the best way she knew how—with action. “We’ll all have to take our own section.”
As each man or woman came forward, Emma assigned them a small, defined boundary until only she, Billingsly, and Derick remained in the room.
“Billingsly.” Emma motioned the butler to follow as she exited the dining hall and made her way toward the front entrance. The old servant was too frail to be out searching in the rain, but she knew he’d want to be useful. “As the searchers return, you and Cook do what you can to get them warmed, dry and fed. God forbid we need to continue the search tomorrow,” she muttered, shoving her arms into a coat and struggling to pull it on.
The coat lifted from her shoulders, as if by unseen hands, before the heavy wool settled around her. She whirled in surprise, her elbow coming into solid contact with a hard wall—
“Ooof,” Derick grunted, his black brows dipping as he winced.
—of abdomen, as it were.
“Oh! Oh pardon me…” Emma mumbled, though truthfully she didn’t regret the accidental jab. But how had he appeared behind her? She looked down at his sturdy black boots. Certainly she should have heard a man of his size clomping down the hall after her.
Derick rubbed at the spot where Emma’s elbow had speared him. The place she’d poked on his chest still smarted, too. She was quite strong for such a compact little thing. Bright, too, given what little he’d seen of her tactical mind at work, even if she was overreacting. If he remembered correctly, Emma always had been one to take things too seriously, and to infect those around her with her imaginings. He’d guess she was making a mountain out of the proverbial molehill.
She was also adept at giving orders, and accustomed
to being obeyed. Oh yes, little Pygmy had grown into just the kind of woman he’d thought she would.
Emma turned her back on him—again. Derick shook his head as he watched her struggle with the heavy oak door.
She still had more intelligence than common sense, however, since she was apparently planning to run out into a dangerous storm alone.
He reached around her and grasped the handle, stopping the door from opening. “You neglected to give
me
an assignment.”
Emma turned, effectively caged by his arm and the door at her back. Those large amber eyes widened as he loomed over her. Which heightened his own awareness of how close his body was to hers, nearly touching. How fragile she seemed…how diminutive, and yet so uncommonly tough. He’d already been the recipient of her tart tongue and sharp appendages. Now, thinking back, he remembered that when they were children, Emma had always kept up with him, no matter how he’d tried to lose her.
As if to demonstrate that her stubbornness still remained, Emma lifted her chin in challenge. “I hadn’t thought you would—”
“Wish to help?” Derick returned her challenge, raising a brow. Damn. Her assumption irked. And the fact that he’d been stung by it irked more. He’d long ago grown accustomed to not caring what anyone thought. “Feel responsible for a member of my household?”
Emma blinked. “Your household?” She sputtered. “You haven’t been to Derbyshire in fourteen—”
“No, but I
am
human, Miss Wallingford.” Derick stepped closer, bringing his other arm around and planting it on the door behind her, trapping her. Only so that she would listen to him, of course. Not at all because of her tantalizing scent, a heady mix of lavender and…something
he couldn’t quite place. “I may not agree with your assumptions, but it is clear you strongly believe the maid is in danger. If there is a chance you are correct, I would like to do what I can.”
A huff of exasperation escaped her lips, a gesture Derick took to mean she didn’t think too highly of him or his offer. He allowed a half-cynical smile to curve his lips. What did he care if Miss Emma Wallingford disapproved of one of his many alter egos? It wasn’t
him
, after all.
Besides, he doubted she’d like him any better if she knew his
true
purpose in Derbyshire.
To investigate her brother for treason.
E
mma blinked up at him, her eyes widening like twin full moons at harvest. Her chest rose and fell in shallow pants. Derick’s blood thickened. She was as affected by their nearness as he. Her rapid pulse beat in the hollow of her throat, nearly in time with his.
Why did he react so to her? Certainly he’d been in tighter proximity to many a woman, in and out of the course of duty. But rarely did he allow himself so…
close
to one.
So why now? Why her?
For reasons beyond him, he permitted her perusal—held so still, in fact, that his arms ached from remaining locked on either side of her. Emma’s amber gaze traveled over his forehead, swept his cheeks, settled on his mouth for a long moment, then flew to his eyes. She stared, her chestnut brows dipping in concentration. What did she think she saw?
A part of Derick’s brain registered the danger of letting her see too much. Yet he still didn’t pull away.
Then her full lips flattened, and before he sensed what she was about, Emma ducked beneath his left arm and darted away.
Little minx. She hadn’t been caught up in him. She had been calculating how best to get back to her search. Tenacious nature, indeed. She’d barely had to dip her head to escape him, given their difference in height. He must remember to place his arms lower next time.
Next time?
He had no intention of staying in Derbyshire long enough for there to be a next time. He planned only to settle his estate and discover whether Emma’s brother was the last of the traitors he was hunting, and then his responsibilities to home and country would be finished. And he could finally look forward—to an uncertain future, but at least one on his own terms.
Right now, however, he’d better look behind him if he wanted to keep Emma in his sights, as her footfalls indicated a hasty retreat. Since she would be the most expedient avenue through which to investigate her brother, he intended to stick by her side. Derick pushed away from the door and turned to follow her.
Emma was more than halfway down the hallway already, her oversized coat dragging the ground behind her like the train of a gown being worn by a child playing dress-up. Did they not have decent tailors in upper Derbyshire? That coat was designed for someone much taller than she.
“Emma,” he called out, his longer strides eating the ground between them. The shuffle of Billingsly’s footsteps fell away. No telling what the old butler thought of his and Emma’s unorthodox behavior.
“If you would like to help”—Emma’s voice floated back to him—“then stay here and mark off the map when the searchers return.”
“That would be no help at all,” he countered, almost offended that she thought him thick enough to be pawned off by such a useless task. He shouldn’t be, however. Didn’t he want her and everyone else to view him as feckless?
She stopped abruptly then, without even acknowledging
him, and placed her hands on a panel of wood wainscoting beneath the grand staircase.
The passageway.
It had been used as an escape when the castle functioned as such in medieval times—and when he’d wanted to avoid his mother. It was a service passage now.
The panel slid away, creating an opening in the wall that Emma stepped through. The wood slid closed behind her with a
snick
.
That was rich. Not only was she barely attempting to placate him, she was trying to lose him. Well, he’d be damned before he would allow Emma to get away so easily. His intent to shadow her aside, what kind of man would he be to let her traipse through the countryside alone during a storm, no matter how imperative she thought the reason? She’d pointed out herself how dangerous that could be. The question struck him again about why he cared so much. What was it about this chit of a girl?
When he reached the panel, Derick pressed it as he’d seen Emma do. Nothing happened. The damned wainscoting bore an intricate checkered pattern and he couldn’t remember exactly which squares tripped the lever. He’d been too far away to see which ones Emma had pushed.
He tried them all in turn, stewing with frustration. When he reached the last, he slammed his palm against it with an annoyed growl—which earned him nothing more than a smarting palm. He fisted his hand to soothe the sting.
Which was, of course, when Billingsly finally caught up to him. “Press these two together, milord,” Billingsly suggested, not by expression or tone acknowledging that he’d just witnessed his employer acting like a petulant child. The butler’s gnarled hands trembled slightly as he reached out and touched offset squares. The panel slid open, revealing a narrow but well-tended hallway.
The man nodded his head to the left. “Miss Emma’s likely gone that way, to the servants’ entrance at the back of the house.”
“Thank you, Billingsly,” Derick said. He ducked to clear the tapered beam and stepped into the passage, looking in the direction the butler had indicated. Emma must have already turned the corner.
Derick shot down the hallway, not exactly at a run, but not far from it. The irony wasn’t lost on him. After ten summers trying to ditch little Pygmy, here he was chasing after her—and through his own house, no less.
Natural light greeted him at the next turn, fading as a closing door shut it out. Derick sped up, pushing through the exit. Cold rain met his face as he burst outside. Damnation.
The sky held a pinkish gray cast—pink to the west where the sun had begun its gentle descent into the horizon, gray to the east where dark, swollen clouds forced the light away. It was to the east that Derick spotted Emma, her determined steps carrying her through the stable yard and toward the forest.
He did run then, cursing as his foot slipped in the mud. He frowned, dismayed at how dangerously slick it had grown in such a short time. The spongy consistency spoke of oversaturated ground, not simply rain from this storm. It must have poured here for several days prior.
Already moisture soaked his clothing, conspiring with the brisk wind to chill him through. A little thing like Emma would be reduced to a shivering heap inside those gargantuan outer garments within moments.
“Devil take it, Pygmy,” he growled, coming alongside her. “A woman shouldn’t be out in this storm alone.”
“No, she shouldn’t,” Emma agreed, her tone placid. She kept her eyes straight ahead and didn’t slow her stride one whit. “Which is why I am going to find her and bring her home.”
Derick stopped walking, staring after Emma. “You deliberately misun—”
“And
don’t
call me Pygmy,” she snapped over her shoulder.
Emma forged ahead, holding up her dress and coat as she might the skirts of a ball gown she was trying not to step on while ascending a staircase. The raised hems revealed a dirty pair of—
What
did
she have on her feet? And had she borrowed those ungainly boots from the same owner as the coat?
Derick shook his head, but despite her ill-fitting footwear and the slippery terrain, she picked her way across the yard with a single-minded dexterity that would have made any spymaster proud.
It took only four long strides to catch her once again. “At least stop and wait here whilst I fetch my horse,” he requested, expecting once again to be ignored and already thinking of ways to bend her to his will.
But Emma did stop. She opened her mouth, no doubt to protest. He placed his fingers over her lips to shush her. Her soft skin radiated a pleasant warmth against his chilled fingers. Her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes widened.
Heat unfurled low in his gut. Removing his hand from her mouth, Derick slowly curled his fingers into a fist.
“I noticed you assigned the farthest and most treacherous section of the map to yourself,” he said gruffly. Emma had not given the servants a dangerous task that she was unwilling to do herself. Admiration and disapproval welled up in him. She might be foolish, but she was also noble. “If you truly mean to get through it by dark, a fast steed and another warm body would not be amiss,” he murmured.
Her gaze held him, assessing. Unknown thoughts flitted
across her face, as if she were trying to discern his very character.
Well, that wouldn’t do. Derick lowered his eyes to break the contact between them.
He mustn’t forget his role. People tended to let their guard down more easily when they thought him superficial. They just assumed that a man so focused on himself didn’t listen to anyone else. It made lips looser, and his job easier.
He pasted a smile on his face and regarded Emma with a well-practiced “put upon” expression. “Besides,” he said, giving a wave of his hand, “since you’ve appropriated all of my groomsmen, my horse hasn’t been properly rubbed down. He’ll have to be run anyway.”
Whatever favor he might have found in her eyes vanished and her face went slack. Just as well.
“Fine,” she said, her mouth twisting. “But hurry.”
Emma held herself stiff, not giving in to the urge to relax and settle back against Derick’s warmth. The heat radiating from his hard thighs where she sat cradled sideways upon his lap caused fluttering enough.
Perhaps she should have protested when he’d pulled her onto the horse. But they would reach the search area—and hopefully Molly—faster on horseback, and as Emma wore a dress, being held thus was the only practical solution. At least the oilskin blanket Derick had procured to protect her from the storm afforded a measure of separation, and comfort. She had to admit, the relief from the wind and driving rain was welcome.
What was
not
welcome was the churning in her middle. Fig! She had worked so very hard to forget Derick Aveline. In the back of her mind, she supposed she’d expected he would return to Derbyshire someday, given that he was set to inherit the castle. What she hadn’t expected was this sharp ache, as if his very arrival dug into her soul, turning over feelings long buried, exposing them to the sun like a farmer’s pitchfork turning over fresh dirt for
the spring planting. She had thought these emotions had been long put to rest, curse them. She didn’t have the time or capacity to deal with them right now.