Where she stood had once been the farmyard, she supposed. Presumably, when the house had become the Dower House and the new Home Farm was built, the outbuildings were demolished and the yard became part of the gardens.
The small mullioned windows reflected light only dully, despite the bright sunshine. As Antonia approached she saw the leaded panes were thick with grime and festooned with cobwebs.
There was a low back door under a heavy porch. She tried it and found it, not surprisingly, locked. She should have thought of that, but they had found no keys that could belong to this house and she would probably have to ask young Jem to break in.
That was disappointing, because by now she was quite excited at the prospect of exploring. Antonia had half turned away when she saw the key hanging on a hook on a beam in the porch. It was red with rust and obviously not, judging by its size, the key to this door. She turned it in her hand, staining her fingers with the rust. It could be the front door key, it was worth trying. Picking her way, she took the drive that led round the side to the front of the house, facing across overgrown lawns to the main gates beyond.
Antonia could vaguely remember the only occasion she had visited the house. She had been with her mother and they had driven in the carriage the short distance down the lanes from the Hall. There had been this old house and the crabby lady who, in her antiquated clothes, had seemed just as ancient. She had pinched Antonia’s cheek painfully, she recalled.
Antonia tried the key in the front-door lock without much hope. It grated and resisted, then suddenly turned with a loud click and the panelled oak swung open. The hall beyond was dark and gloomy with shadowed recesses and the black gaping holes of opened doors.
Every unwelcome memory of every Gothick tale she had read welled up in her mind as she hesitated. She stood, one hand on the door frame, her toes safely on the outside of the threshold, poised to run at the first ominous creak.
Chapter Five
As Antonia hesitated on the step the ridiculousness of her position struck her. She was a grown woman frightened to enter her own property in broad daylight. What would she say to Donna? That she was too afraid to look for the furniture they so badly needed? She stepped into the hall but still, she left the door wide open behind her.
As she moved from room to room, her skirts raised puffs of dust, but, to her amazement, everything was completely dry. There were no damp stains or musty smells, only dry dust and airlessness shrouding the contents of the house, left just as they had been when Cousin Caroline had died nine years before. Relations between Sir Humphrey and his querulous relative had been so poor her father must have ordered the place shut up and had never troubled himself to investigate further.
The ancient brick and oak had stood the test of time and the elements in a way more recent buildings had not. The old house had a homely feeling to it and now she felt quite safe there. Antonia roamed from room to room, lifted dust sheets, peered at hangings in the gloom, ran her fingers along the dark wood of the sturdy furniture. The stairs were wide and shallow and led her up to a gallery and a suite of bedrooms.
She was just inside the door of what must have been Cousin Caroline’s chamber when she heard the floorboards creaking in the hall below. She froze, all the Gothick horrors flooding back. She would not panic, there were no such things as ghosts, but even so… She wanted to get out into the sunlight, get her breath. There was some logical explanation for the sounds, there had to be.
But they were not her imagination, nor were they the sounds of an old house gently creaking. Whoever, or whatever, it was had reached the foot of the stairs. She could hear the boards groaning, just as they had when she had climbed them.
There must be back stairs. Antonia picked up her skirts and ran down the landing on tip-toe, down a passageway, through a doorway and found herself at the head of a flight of a narrow, winding staircase. She stumbled down, the very act of running feeding the sense of urgency. She rounded a dark bend and crashed into something large, solid and alive.
‘Got you!’ Strong hands seized her roughly by the shoulders and shook her. Muffled against woollen cloth, Antonia turned her head frantically and screamed. She could see nothing in the gloom. The man holding her was clenching her upper arms in a vice-like grip that brought tears to her eyes and her heart was leaping sickeningly in her chest.
There was no one within earshot to come to her aid. She had to get out of this alone. Antonia held back her screams and saved her breath for struggling. She began to kick with a vengeance, stubbing her toes against unyielding leather boots. If she could just get her head down she could bite…
Suddenly he let go. Antonia stumbled back against the wall, but before she could turn and run the man seized her by the wrist and dragged her down the last few steps into the kitchen.
‘Come on, girl, let me have a look at you. Out to see what you could steal, were you?’ The light from the casements fell on them and her captor released her with an oath. ‘Hell’s teeth. You again.’
His arms were full of shaking, furious female, one who had every right to be where she was. Antonia Dane glared up at Marcus and finally found her voice. ‘How dare you assault me in my own house?’ He sensed that although she was angry, she was also shaking with relief that it was him and not a thief, let alone someone with even more sinister intentions.
‘The front door was wide open, I could hear somebody moving about upstairs and I thought you were a housebreaker.’ He returned her glare with one of his own, largely because he was feeling unwilling guilt for scaring her. ‘What do you expect me to do? Pass by and let the place be ransacked?’
He let her go and she sagged against the kitchen table as she rubbed her arms. Damn, I’ve hurt her. She had felt so slender in his grip. She was more fragile than she looked and he had been angry.
‘I thought you… l thought you were…’
‘You thought I was the vagrant, someone who was going to attack you?’ He took a step forward as she went even paler. ‘Oh, Lord, you’ve gone sheet-white. Did I hurt your wrist?’
‘No, not really.’ She rubbed it nevertheless, as though the friction helped steady her. Even so, her voice quavered, then broke. ‘I thought you were a headless ghoul.’
‘A ghoul? Really, Miss Dane.’ He began to laugh then stopped. She really had been frightened. ‘Antonia, I am sorry, come here.’ He pulled her gently against his chest and held on while shivers of fright kept coming and she gave in to them, shaking in earnest as he stroked her hair and murmured reassurance. He wondered how often anyone held her, offered her the comfort of their arms. Miss Donaldson was clearly devoted, but he doubted whether her brisk sympathy and sensible friendship expressed themselves in hugs.
The shivering died away, but Antonia stayed in the shelter of his arms, her cheek nestled against his waistcoat.
Then she stirred against him as the realisation of the situation overcame the need to be held. Her awareness triggered something in him too, his hand stopped stroking and moved to caress her nape without conscious intent on his part. The hand holding her against him came up to tip up her face.
‘Your Grace… Renshaw.’
‘You look adorable with cobwebs in your hair, like a kitten that has been exploring.’ He found his voice was husky, that he was aroused. Don’t frighten her any more. Be gentle.
‘I do not t-think this is either wise or proper.’ She made no attempt to break free from his encircling arms.