Cheryl Holt (32 page)

“I stumbled on it in Alex’s dresser. We quarreled.”

“What is its significance to you?”

“A decade ago, it was stolen at a party in Surrey. My brother, James, was convicted of the crime, but he was innocent.”

“How can you be certain it’s the same ring?”

“A drawing of it was circulated. And the countess who owned it had her initials carved in the band.”

He tugged it off and read the tiny letters. “So they are. When did your brother return to England?”

“At least a year ago. I’m not positive of the exact date.”

“Where does he live?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

He scowled and leveled the knife, and he poked the blade under the skin at her nape. It stung and bled. “Remember: You can’t lie.”

“I’m not.” She was trembling so violently that if she hadn’t been secured to the bed, she might have shaken herself off the mattress. “I send him messages at the tavern I told you about. They’re delivered to him, but I don’t know how; then he contacts me with a reply.”

He studied her, gauging credibility, and apparently, he was convinced of her veracity. “When you questioned Alex about the ring, what was his response?”

“He had no explanation.”

“Ellen!” he warned.

“I swear it! He simply demanded that I give it to him, but he didn’t offer any excuse as to why he had it, though the reason is obvious.”

“It is?”

“He must have been the thief.”

“So loyal, so faithful. So naïve.” He tossed the knife on the floor. “I took it.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Why would you suppose? I needed some money. I received a pretty penny for it, too, though for the life of me, I can’t figure out how Alex came to be in possession of it. Let’s finish this, shall we?” He lay down, his weight crushing her, and he nudged a knee between her thighs, but she couldn’t push him away.

“You let them blame my brother! You ruined my family!”

“Yes, I did,” he concurred. “I was sorry about the uproar. I hadn’t any idea there’d be such a ruckus.”

“You killed my father!” she wailed.

“Don’t be absurd. If your father perished, it was none of my doing.”

“You killed him!” She started screaming and grappling in earnest.

“Shut up!” he ordered.

“I hate you! I curse you to hell for all eternity.”

He slapped her, but she wouldn’t be silent. She would bellow and chastise to the very end.

He clasped her chin and kissed her, his foul, deceitful tongue sliding into her mouth, and she bit down as hard as she could. Desperate to pull away, he reared back, and she felt skin tear, felt blood spurting. He reached inside her dress and pinched her nipple, squeezing and squeezing until she couldn’t tolerate the pain, and she let go.

He stared her down, his malice rolling off him in waves, and he put his fingers on her throat, cutting off her air, making her squirm with anxiety.

“I like it when you resist,” he said. “Let’s see how tough you really are.”

“Crazed bastard!” she hurled.

He gripped her dress and ripped it down the front, baring her to her navel. At the sight of her exposed breasts, he grinned evilly; then he punched her. She was rapidly losing consciousness, and soon she’d be incoherent, and she couldn’t imagine what would happen then. Of course, if he murdered her while she was blacked out, maybe it would be for the best.

“Move away from her!” a male voice commanded. “Now!”

In her confused state, several seconds passed before she grasped that someone else had spoken. He’d entered without their noticing, and as Nicholas clutched his fist to dispense another blow, the man threatened, “My pistol is loaded and cocked. If you strike her again, the next breath you take will be your last.”

They both froze, the words washing over them, invading the mysterious place of brutality and terror that they occupied.

She glanced to the side, wondering if he were an apparition, if she were hallucinating, but no . . . He’d truly arrived, though through the bright sunlight cascading in the window it was difficult to determine who it was. He took a step toward them, then another, his form gradually taking shape.

“Alex!”

She careened between puzzlement and incredulity. She’d been certain she’d never see him again, so her mind couldn’t wrap itself around his opportune appearance. Yet he was actually standing there. He was holding a pistol, and it was pointed at Nicholas.

“Alex?” Nicholas said, too, but his exclamation was imbued with panic. He leapt away from her and off the bed.

“Are you all right, Ellen?” Alex queried without looking at her, his focus on his brother.

“He’s hit me, but he hasn’t had a chance to do any worse.”

Nicholas was nervous and embarrassed and not nearly so brave as he’d been. The bully had vanished, and he switched to being the bumbling younger sibling.

“Alex,” he sneered, “you wouldn’t believe what a little slattern you’ve married. I ran into her out in the mews, and she was all over me. She told me she’d heard about this cottage, and she begged me to show it to her. She wouldn’t let me refuse.”

“That’s a lie!” She was crying, struggling to loose the restraints. Surely Alex wouldn’t presume her capable of such treachery! “I never did any such thing. I merely requested a ride in his gig, and he—”

“Hush!” Alex said. “When she left with you, Nick, I was watching from an upstairs window.”

“Well”—Nicholas shifted with discomfort—“matters didn’t get cooking until we were out of the city. She couldn’t keep her hands off me.”

“Really?” Alex mused with a deadly calm.

“Oh yes,” Nicholas responded. “It’s rather beneficial that I found out about her, wouldn’t you agree? Saves you a lot of bother at the divorce and all that. I can be a witness as to her low character.”

“How was your face injured?”

“I bumped into the door.”

“And you tied her up because . . . ?”

“She insisted she likes it rough. You lucky dog. Must have been quite a wedding night, eh?”

Alex’s expression was shielded. There was an awkward pause, both brothers glaring; then Alex raised his pistol and walloped Nicholas alongside the head. Nicholas lurched to the side, and Alex whacked him again, even harder. Nicholas fell to the floor, and Alex kicked him in the stomach. With the force of the impact, Nicholas’s body lifted, his air rushing out in a loud whoosh, and he huddled on the rag, wheezing and heaving.

Alex stepped over him, retrieved a blanket, and draped it over her; then he freed her from her bindings. The instant the ropes dropped away, she curled up into a ball, her back to him, as she quietly wept. He hovered closer, as if he might cradle her in his arms, and with every fiber of her being she wished he would, but he didn’t know how to cross the bridge that separated them. Or perhaps he couldn’t bear to hold her. Perhaps he was sickened by seeing her stripped and at Nicholas’s mercy.

In her distraught condition, his declining to touch her
seemed the most horrid moment of all, as if she’d relinquished everything precious.

“He’ll never hurt you again,” he murmured. “I swear it to you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll have you out of here in a minute.”

“Just do what you have to do.” She was too ashamed to look at him, and she gazed at the far wall. Although none of the ordeal had been her fault, she felt to blame, as if some misbehavior had brought on the assault. “Can you . . . can you take him away? Please?”

“Yes. You rest. I’ll return shortly. Will you be all right alone?”

“I’m fine,” she asserted.

With the nightmare ended, she was shivering with shock, but she hid her anguish so that he wouldn’t observe it, so that he wouldn’t be obliged to offer solace that she was positive he’d find distasteful.

He spun away, and she yearned to shout,
Don’t go! Don’t leave me!
but she swallowed down any silly, weak words he wouldn’t want to hear.

“Get up!” he snarled to Nicholas, and she listened as he nudged Nicholas with his boot.

“Bugger off!” Nicholas was huffing and spitting, and trying to catch his breath.

“You kidnapped my wife, you were about to rape her, and you have the audacity to disrespect me?”

“She’s a whore,” Nicholas maintained. “She asked for it.”

“You know, Nick, the more I learn about you, the more inclined I am to think that the rumors about your parentage are true.” Alex delivered another blow, though
with his fist or his gun she couldn’t tell, and he repeated, “Now, get up, and walk out like a man—instead of slithering out like the snake you are.”

There was some scuffling and shuffling; then Nicholas stood, and he grumbled, “I hate you. I’ve always hated you.”

“The truth finally comes out,” Alex retorted.

“Mother said I should have been the earl, that I would have been better at it than you.”

“I have no doubt that our dear mama felt that way. She loved you best, didn’t she? She pampered you and cosseted you, lied for you and covered for you. Were you aware that she was called the Harlot of the
Ton?”

“Be silent!”

“I wonder which of her lovers was your father?”

At the nasty exchange, Ellen gasped. What odious, grim comments! How long had their enmity festered? What part had she played in luring it to the surface?

Suddenly Alex ordered, “Put it down, you deranged fool! Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

At the strange remark she rolled over, and she was astonished to see that Nicholas had grabbed the knife and was wielding it with malicious intent.

“I should have killed you years ago,” he threatened.

“Why haven’t you tried?” Alex inquired. “Could it be cowardice?”

At the taunt Nicholas attacked so fast that Ellen didn’t have time to react. Nor did Alex. The knife was plunged into his abdomen, and as Nicholas stumbled away, the handle was sticking out, blood oozing around it, and Alex casually yanked it out.

He seemed unconcerned, as if he’d expected nothing
more from his recalcitrant sibling. Nicholas was stunned, as Ellen frantically mumbled, “Oh my God . . . oh my God . . .”

“You idiot,” Alex snapped, as he glanced down at the wound. “You’ve ruined a perfectly good shirt.”

He aimed his pistol and fired at point-blank range. There was a loud bang, plenty of smoke, and Nicholas dropped like a stone.

  21  

Alex trudged up the stairs to the third floor of the hotel. He supposed he could have had the lawyers handle the conclusion, could have stayed at home and waited to be apprised when it was over, but that had seemed the cowardly route. This was one occasion when he had to act like a man, when he had to take control and clean up the mess he’d made.

His body ached from the mild physical exertion of climbing, and he fretted that he might never return to his prior vigor. He was so pathetically enfeebled, yet for the next few minutes he had to shield any infirmity.

As he reached the top step, he leaned against the wall, catching his breath, commanding his shaking legs to do their job and keep him on his feet. He was perspiring, his heart pounding, and he’d love to find a cushy sofa and lie down.

He’d been stabbed by his brother and had lived to tell about it, but over the past weeks there had been many moments when he wished he’d died. He’d always been a healthy person, had never had so much as a broken
bone, so he hadn’t realized that recovery could be so tedious. Or so painful.

A footman tromped after him, and from the man’s concerned assessment it was obvious he was about to remark on Alex’s dismal state, to offer assistance as if Alex were an ailing grandfather, so he pushed himself upright and walked on.

Of all the ignominies Nicholas’s insanity had generated, Alex most hated being viewed as an invalid by his staff. During his recuperation, they’d been kind and solicitous, but he loathed their pitying glances, their veiled whispers about good and bad blood, about Cain and Abel. He yearned to forget the whole sordid episode.

When he’d espied Nick slinking off with Ellen, he’d suffered the worst sensation of disaster, so he’d gone after her. But he hadn’t gone alone. He’d had two men travel with him, and the split-second decision had saved his sorry hide. The men were loyal servants, and they’d been composed throughout the crisis. They’d restrained Nick, had gotten both brothers medical care, and had brought in women to tend Ellen.