own needs for one measly fortnight.
And if he couldn't solve this riddle within a fortnight-well, then, he didn't know what the hell he was going to do. He sincerely doubted he could last much longer than two weeks in his current state of distress.
With a loud and unapologetic curse, he turned on his heel and strode outside. He needed some fresh air.
Elizabeth tried not to think of James as she scooted past his cozy little cottage. She wasn't successful, of course, but at least she didn't have to worry about stumbling over him this afternoon. He was back in the sitting room, presumably laughing over the way she'd fled the scene.
No, she admitted to herself, he wasn't laughing at her. It would make things so much easier if he were. Then she could hate him.
As if the day weren't bad enough, Malcolm had apparently decided that torturing Elizabeth was more fun than listening to Lady Danbury lecture the Corbishleys, and the immense cat was presently trotting alongside her, hissing at regular intervals.
'Is this truly necessary?' Elizabeth demanded. 'To follow me out just to hiss at me?''
Malcolm's reply was another hiss.
'Beast. No one believes you hiss at me, you know. You only do it when we're alone.'
The cat smirked. Elizabeth would swear to it.
She was still arguing with the blasted cat when she drew alongside the stables. Malcolm was growling and hissing with complete abandon, and Elizabeth was jabbing her finger at him and demanding silence, which was probably why she did not hear the approaching footsteps.
'Miss Hotchkiss.'
Her head jerked up. Sir Bertram Fellport-the blond Adonis with the face of an angel-was standing in front of her. Rather too close, in her opinion. “Oh, good day, sir.' She took a discreet and, she hoped, inoffensive step back.
He smiled, and Elizabeth half expected a gaggle of cherubs to appear about his head, singing of angels on high. 'I am Fellport,' he said.
She nodded. She knew that already, but she saw no reason to inform him of this. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.'
'Did you find your notebook?'
He must have been listening to her conversation with Lady Danbury. 'No,' she replied, 'I did not. But I am certain it shall turn up. These things always do.'
'Yes,' he murmured, his sky-blue eyes regarding her with uncomfortable intensity. 'Have you worked for Lady Danbury long?''
Elizabeth inched back another baby step. 'Five years.'
He reached out and stroked her cheek. 'It must be a lonely existence.'
'Not at all,' she said stiffly. 'If you'll excuse me.'
His hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist with painful force. 'I don't excuse you.'
'Sir Bertram,' she said, somehow keeping her voice even over the pounding of her heart, 'may I remind you that you are a guest in Lady Danbury's home?'
He tugged on her wrist, forcing her to move closer to him. “And may I remind you that you are in Lady Danbury's employ, and thus obligated to see to her guests' comfort?'
Elizabeth looked up at those stunningly blue eyes and saw something very ugly and cold. Her stomach knotted, and she realized that she had to get away now. He was pulling her toward the stables, and once he had her out of sight, there would be no escape.
She let out a scream, but it was cut short by the vicious clamping of his hand over her mouth. “You're going to do what I say,' he hissed in her ear, 'and afterward, you're going to say, Thank you.' '
And then all of Elizabeth's worst fears were realized as she felt herself being dragged into the stables.
Chapter 15
James had his hands shoved in his pockets as he made his way to the stables. He was indulging in a rare fit of sulkiness; it wasn't often that he had to deny himself anything he truly wanted, and putting off his pursuit of Elizabeth had left him in a bad mood.
The fresh air hadn't helped much, so he decided to take that idea to the next level and go for a ride. A breakneck, hell-for-leather, wind-whipping-one's-hair-into-knots-and-tangles sort of ride. As Agatha's estate manager he had free run of the stables, and if it was irregular for such a person to be galloping about like a wild man-well, James intended to be moving far too fast for anyone to recognize him.
But when he arrived at the stables, Malcolm was on his hind legs, clawing madly at the door and screeching like a banshee.
'Good God, cat. What has gotten into you?'
Malcolm howled, backed up a few steps, and head butted the door.
That was when James noticed that the stable doors were closed, which was odd for this time of day. Even though the guests' horses had long since been rubbed down, and the grooms had probably all removed to the Bag of Nails for a pint, one would think that the doors would have remained open. It was a warm day, after all, and the horses could use whatever breeze filtered in.
James heaved the doors open, wincing at the loud creaking of a rusty hinge. He supposed it was his job to take care of things like that. Or at least to see to it that someone else got it done. He tapped his gloved hand against his thigh for one moment, then headed for the supply closet to find something to grease the hinge. It wouldn't take too long to fix, and besides, he rather thought a bit of messy manual labor would do him good just now.
As he reached for the closet door, however, he heard the oddest sound.
No more than a rustle, really, but something about it didn't sound like it originated from a horse.
'Is anyone here?' James called out.
More rustling ensued, and it was faster and more frantic this time, accompanied by a strange panicked grunting noise.
James's blood ran cold.
There were dozens of stalls. The noise could be coming from any of them. And yet somehow he knew. His feet carried him to the stall in the farthest comer, and with a savage cry that was ripped from his very soul, he tore the stall door off its hinges.
Elizabeth knew what hell looked like. It had blue eyes and blond hair, and a vicious, cruel smile. She fought Fellport with everything she had, but at a hair over seven stone, she might as well have been a feather for all the effort he needed to drag her across the stables.
His mouth ground against hers, and she fought to keep her lips closed. He might be stealing her dignity and her control, but she would keep at least one part of herself from him.
He pulled his head away and pressed her up against a post, his fingers biting her upper arms. 'I just kissed you, Miss Hotchkiss,' he said in an oily voice. 'Thank me.'
She stared at him mutinously.
He yanked her toward him, then shoved her back against the post, grinning when her head cracked against the hard, splintered wood. “I believe you had something to say to me,' he cooed.
'Go to hell,' she spat. She knew she shouldn't provoke him; doing so would only cause him to lash out at her, but goddamn him, she would not allow him control over her words.
He glared at her, and for one blessed moment, Elizabeth thought he might not punish her for her insult. But then, with a furious grunt, he heaved her away from the post and threw her into an empty stable stall. She landed
