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Chapter Three

“ Y ou have to believe me,” Eleanor tried yet again for the umpteenth time in the last hour of riding.

Her breath burned in her throat. “I was not honest at first, but I am Lady Eleanor, and anything you have been told about me is not true! Please, I must see Charlotte. We are friends. She needs to hear what I have to say.”

The Duke’s arms were clamped around her, and for most of that dark, cold ride, it was all she could think about.

Powerful thighs bracketed her backside, but she could hardly think about the press of his body against hers, not when anger held him so rigidly at her back, pressing her close to the horse’s neck. He urged his horse to ride faster, as if he could not get her away from Everdawn Hall quickly enough.

She tried to move to the side as much as she could, but he yanked her back to him with a low, warning snarl.

“Neither my sister nor I need anything from a woman who breaks into estates,” he told her, his breath barely labored from riding.

“She does!” Eleanor shouted, not hysterical but panicked. “Her life is in danger. Your Grace, you must believe me.”

“I find it hard to believe any word coming out of your mouth, My Lady,” he snapped.

Eleanor could not stop trying. She couldn’t give up. Not when she had already failed too many women. Charlotte would not join that endless list of names she had once caught a glimpse of in Belgrave’s study.

“Please,” she begged. “I-I have to speak to her.”

“You have nothing to say to her for now, Lady Eleanor. You can send her a letter of congratulations after her wedding,” the Duke said, flicking the reins.

“You are willing to risk your sister’s safety?” Eleanor hissed.

But the Duke was unruffled.

She could try again.

She could escape again.

She would never stop trying—not for Charlotte, not for the women she had failed, not for her own freedom.

By the time the Duke slowed his horse down as the Jacobean manor came into view, Eleanor thought she might be sick—both from her stinging wounds and the fear coiling in her empty stomach.

Terror made her shake. If the Duke felt it, he did not care.

He pulled the horse to a stop before the entrance. Eleanor was lifted off the horse before she could even resist, fear rendering her limp.

The door was already opening, revealing the shadowed face of one of the younger acolytes.

“I must see the head sister,” the Duke barked. “Tell her that the Duke of Everdawn is here.” His voice was so different from the man who had teased her in the library.

How differently people spoke with her upon learning who she was.

Eleanor’s heart broke as the acolyte nodded. She stiffened in his arms, awaiting the arrival of Sister Martha, for Mother Caroline would not be roused over a runaway. Not until Eleanor was punished by the senior sisters first.

Tremors of fear racked her entire body. She could swear she felt the Duke’s gaze on her for a moment, but his features were still twisted in that angry detachment as he watched the doorway.

Moments later, Sister Martha’s pale and tired face appeared. As soon as she laid eyes on Eleanor, a warm smile that Eleanor had not seen since she had first been brought to the convent—a smile that had quickly morphed into a cruel, twisted sneer—spread across her face.

“Oh!” she cried, pressing a hand to her bosom, making sure to clasp the cross she wore around her neck.

“Heavens, Eleanor! We were so worried about you. I prayed for the Lord to guide you back to us. Merciful he is, he has brought you back!” Her eyes flicked to the Duke.

“Your Grace, thank you for returning our wayward charge.”

Behind Sister Martha, Sister Susan, with a terrible gleam in her eyes, came forward with a younger nun, their fingers already reaching for Eleanor. They grabbed her arms, and she tried to buck them off.

“N-No!” she screamed. “No! Your Grace, please! Please, you do not know what they?—”

Her shouts were cut off as she was forced past Sister Martha with quick, brutal efficiency, dashing any hope of salvation. She cried out once more, but a hand was clamped over her mouth.

Spencer Vanserton, the Duke of Everdawn, hesitated as Lady Eleanor was taken away—no, dragged away.

Something ignited the anger that had driven him out of his estate, away from his sister’s engagement party.

“Please, you do not know what they?—”

Her cries were cut off as she was forced through the dark entryway, and he caught sight of the sisters shoving her head down and pushing her forward. Something about the way they handled her had him on edge.

This is none of my business . I needed to keep her away from Charlotte, and now I have.

He forced himself to nod at the head sister and turn back to his horse. But then he paused and looked back at her.

“What is it exactly that you will do to her?” he asked. “To Lady Eleanor?”

The nun, who had kissed her cross upon Lady Eleanor’s return, smiled at him.

Spencer stiffened. He knew a placating, false smile when he saw one.

“Nothing that I would wish to bother Your Grace with,” the sister told him.

“It is a mere lesson on penance and discipline. A ward does not leave the convent, and when she does, she must be purified once more. It is a simple procedure. And do not bother with titles here, Your Grace. She is hardly a lady, from what she has proven.”

Spencer frowned, his unease growing.

A mere lesson on discipline.

The phrase was familiar to him. Hard, cruel lessons labeled as discipline to be excused, to be explained away, to divert concern. He had watched too many people eat up those labels.

Of course, discipline had to be taught, but he did not trust it. Not when his own lessons had been called that and he still bore reminders.

Spencer opened his mouth to ask more, to have his worries appeased or confirmed, when a scream from inside split the night.

He didn’t waste a moment.

“Your Grace, you must not?—”

He bolted past the head sister, ignoring her words, and slipped inside the convent, running down the stone hallway to where the screams continued.

“No, please, I won’t?—”

The cries had his heart pounding, his breathing quickening.

How many times had he tried to stop those screams? How often had he heard similar screams in every nightmare?—

He skidded to a stop as he reached a cracked door. One of the nuns who had taken Lady Eleanor away had a cauldron filled with water and was shoving Eleanor into it.

Spencer’s eyes widened in horror. Her dress was torn, exposing bruises and welts, blood that had dried in long trails down her back, along with more scars.

Lady Eleanor howled again and thrashed as the nun submerged her head into the deep cauldron.

“Sins must be cleansed!” the nun proclaimed loudly. “You have committed too many to even name, Eleanor Barnes.”

This was not purification. It was torture .

“Get away from her!” Spencer roared, rushing forward and pulling Lady Eleanor out of the hot water.

She crumpled into his arms, violent coughs racking her frame.

Spencer did not think; he took off his tailcoat and draped it over her shoulders as she shuddered violently.

Heavens, she had tried to tell him.

“You do not know what they ?— ”

After making sure she could hold herself up while she sat on the floor, he surged to his feet, looming over the young nun, who cowered back.

“What the hell do you think you are doing to her?” he shouted.

“Stand back, Your Grace.” The loud order came from the door.

“This is a House of God,” the head sister told him. “Your authority is respected, but we do ask that you do not interfere with our charges.”

“The charge you are trying to drown?” he bellowed. “She does not deserve this.”

“Are you aware of what she has done? The defilement this girl carries is deserving of a far greater cleansing.”

There is worse than this .

His spine stiffened, and a growl rumbled in his chest. Every muscle tensed, and he felt the urge to move, to fight, to strike , but he held himself in check.

Another woman came up behind the head sister, bearing a heavier-looking cross, her face more lined. He had heard of the pious Mother Caroline, who ruled this place with an iron fist. He had respected such devotion, but not if it entailed torture .

“Your Grace, there is no need to cause a scene,” she said, her voice calm and composed. “The bell for the morning prayers will ring in a few hours. I will not have tired prayers for our Lord simply because?—”

“Because of torture,” Spencer snarled, cutting her off. “Frankly, Sister, I do not care. I will wake up the whole convent myself if any one of you lays a hand on Lady Eleanor.”

Mother Caroline’s eyes slid to Lady Eleanor. “Eleanor needs deep cleansing, Your Grace. Bathing her in holy water is necessary. Sometimes atonement requires a sliver of pain.”

“Not like this,” Spencer choked out, undone by the sheer violence he had witnessed in the scars and wounds on Lady Eleanor’s back. He stood over her protectively. “Is this how you treat every woman sent here?”

“The women who come here, Your Grace…” Mother Caroline paused, looking down her nose at Lady Eleanor. “They cannot keep themselves clean . They have snuck out to sin.”

Spencer stepped closer to the trembling woman on the floor. He did not care what they accused her of, not even if he himself had thought the same. She did not deserve this treatment.

“Eleanor is our responsibility,” Mother Caroline told him firmly. “We do with her as the Lord sees fit.”

“As the Lord sees fit, or as you see fit?” Spencer snapped.

At that, the other nuns shuddered, not knowing what to say.

In the end, Mother Caroline extended a hand. “Return my charge to me, Your Grace. Leave here and ignore what you have seen. It is better for everybody this way.”

But all he could hear was Lady Eleanor.

“Charlotte… Must help Charlotte…” she mumbled over and over.

The desperation in her voice, the fact that she was only thinking of Charlotte right after nearly drowning at the nun’s hands…

This woman was honest.

Another girl’s screams echoed in his head.

He flinched.

I cannot fail another sister.

“Lady Eleanor is coming with me,” he declared, bending down and pulling his coat tighter around her shoulders. “Now, get out of my way.”

“You cannot,” Mother Caroline said simply. “And should you try, be prepared to face the wrath of Lord Quinley. He will bring her back.”

“He will have to know she has left first,” Spencer threatened.

Mother Caroline held his gaze, and he glared at her for daring to challenge his authority. “Eleanor Barnes is not to leave this convent.”

“ Lady Eleanor Barnes is no longer your ward to decide her fate,” he hissed.

“You have no right to take our ward, Your Grace. She is nothing to you.”

His mind raced. Yes, Lord Quinley would come after his daughter. He could even bring the constables to Spencer’s house, claiming his daughter was abducted. The news would spread all over England: the Duke of Everdawn, a kidnapper.

That would ruin Charlotte. And it would drag Lady Eleanor back to this forsaken place.

Unless …

There was a way. The only way.

“I have every right. She is my bride,” Spencer spoke, just as the idea came to him.

He felt the silence descending on the room, the soft gasp behind him. He looked down at Lady Eleanor, extending his hand to her.

“Come with me, Lady Eleanor. We have a wedding to plan,” he told her, his voice firm, resolute.

Her eyes flickered, blinking slowly, her lips parted in shock and confusion.

Spencer kept his eyes on her, moving his head in the slightest of nods—a sign to show her that this was her only way out. And the only way to save Charlotte.

She glanced down at his hand, then back at him, and took it gingerly.

Spencer helped her to her feet, his eyes finding the nuns. “Tell Lord Quinley he can come and find me,” he bit out, his chin lifted. “You will never, ever lay another finger on her.”

And then he wrapped his arm around Lady Eleanor’s waist, supporting her as they walked out of the convent.

None of the nuns attempted to stop him.

And once Lady Eleanor was secure in the saddle, Spencer mounted his horse and they rode off into the night, back home.