Cheryl Holt (40 page)

Anne was crouched on the ground, leaned against the wall, and shivering so violently that her teeth were clacking. The sun was too bright, so she’d closed her eyes, although it occurred to her that they might be swollen shut.

She was conscious, but barely, having detached herself from what was happening so it was difficult to remember who or where she was.

The blanket in which she was wrapped did little to stem her quaking. It reeked of Willie and his jail, of panic and torment and murder.

Was Stephen inside? Or was she hallucinating? Had fear driven her mad? Had her mind snapped and conveyed her to another, better place? If so, she wasn’t concerned. She preferred to be cloistered in her mental haven, rather than bound and gagged in Willie’s prison.

“Anne!” The voice was male, insistent, calling her from the brink where she hovered. It couldn’t be Stephen, yet it sounded like him. Stephen was in London, engaged to be married, the toast of the town, so she must really be crazed.

“Anne!” Like a pesky, buzzing fly, he refused to give her any peace.

He grabbed for her, but she didn’t assist or resist. Every bone in her body ached, every inch of skin screamed in agony, so she couldn’t help or hinder him in whatever he intended. Easily lifting her, he carried her in his arms, which was good because she couldn’t have stood on her own.

She could sense a horse, could detect its heat and coat of hair, and, as if she weighed no more than a feather, he hoisted her up. Another person approached, and her pulse pounded.

Willie? Coming for her?
No, it was Kate.

“Hold her steady, while I mount,” the man told Kate, and Anne was relieved when Kate’s hands rested on her thigh and waist.

She yearned to thank them for their kindnesses, to participate, or at least balance herself, but she felt as if she was made out of water, as if she’d melted and was invisible.

“You’re all right now, dearie,” Kate consoled. “Relax and let us take care of
you
for a change.”

The man leapt up behind her, landing on the animal’s rump. He cradled her, solicitous of her injured back, but nestling her to him all the same, so that she was secure and positive she wouldn’t fall.

Was she free? Was she away?

She couldn’t bear to hope, so she would float on a tide of dreams and prayers, would stay precisely where she was, until she found a reason to be somewhere else.

Speaking to Kate, he said, “As soon as the bastard dies, proceed straight to Anne’s. Don’t dawdle. And don’t leave anything that might tie you to the affair.”

“Don’t worry about us. Willie and I will be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Now fetch her home. Prudence will be waiting.”

He nodded, then kicked the horse, and it lurched away.

The wind was cool, bracing. The odors of autumn assailed her, and it seemed as if she might actually be outside and racing toward her farm. But if they never arrived in fact,
she could go there in her head. She could remain there in perpetuity.

She was cognizant of the direction they were traveling, knew each twist and turn of the road, recognized when they entered her property, when they approached her residence, but they skirted around it, moving across the yard to the grotto.

Was it wishful thinking? Had she conjured up the cherished spot?

They stopped, and he dismounted, then he shifted her weight, and she dropped to him, toppling so fast that her stomach tickled with the descent. The pressure on her wounds exacerbated some of the gashes. They were oozing, wet, sticking to the blanket.

“Praise be! She’s alive!” a female exclaimed. Pru. Yes, sweet Pru. “And my brother?”

“Is about to meet his Maker. Kate’s with him, but she’ll be here shortly.”

“What can I do?”

“I’m going to bathe her. I’ll need her robe, some soap, and the softest towels you have.”

“I’ll get them.”

Pru’s footsteps faded away.

“Anne,” he said, “it’s Stephen. You’re with me. I’m taking you into the water. It might sting.”

I don’t care! Just wash me! I want to be clean! Rid me of this stench!

She meant to say the words aloud, but she couldn’t utter them. Her mouth wasn’t functioning.

He carted her across the grass, to the pool. Fully dressed, he waded in, and soon, her heels were in the water, then her feet, her ankles. Gradually, he squatted, lowering her into the reviving warmth.

As she was submerged, she burned and spasmed, and he
linked their fingers, squeezing tight, as if he could absorb the pain.

“I’ve got you, Anne. I’ve brought you home.” He sat on the bottom, with her on his lap, so that she was immersed to her neck. “You’re safe.”

“It . . . it hurts,” she managed.

“Yes. I imagine it will for a long while.”

Mustering her courage, she opened her eyes, though they were tiny slits due to the blows Willie had delivered, and Stephen was sitting with her. Not a chimera. Not an illusion. Or perhaps she had died, and this was her perfect version of heaven, herself sequestered at her farm, surrounded by the people she loved, and Stephen by her side forever.

Trembling, she traced the shape of his handsome, familiar face.

“You came for me.” She was awestruck, overwhelmed with gratitude.

“Of course, I did, you silly girl.” He raised her hand and kissed her palm.

“How did you know I needed you?”

“You were crying out to me, inside my head.”

She started to weep, huge tears dripping down her swollen cheeks. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

“I won’t,” he vowed. “I won’t leave you ever again.”

Stephen hovered in the dark, watching Camilla’s carriage, as her driver sneaked to the bushes to relieve himself.

Down the lane, under the hanging lamps illuminating the path, Camilla strolled toward him, having just exited a small soiree. Though the season in Bath was ended, she’d lingered with the last members of the Quality who hadn’t left for town yet.

No doubt, she planned an uneventful ride to her next party, but she was about to be temporarily delayed. With her
driver still occupied, Stephen crept from the shadows and climbed into her coach.

In his coat, he’d tucked a journal that he’d pilfered from Anne’s desk. It was filled with numbers and notations, and it looked authentic, as did the entries he’d inserted for additional effect. If Camilla demanded proof for what he was about to relate, he’d be happy to disclose it—false though it might be.

For what she’d set in motion he’d like to kill her, to simply wrap his fingers around her slender throat and choke the life out of her, but rapid demise would be too easy. He wanted her suffering to go on and on, and he’d devised the ideal method by which to torment her for years.

Lounging against the squab, he folded himself into the dim corner, listening to the swish of her expensive gown, the glide of her fashionable slippers. The driver emerged, assisting her with the step, the door. As she clambered in, Stephen could smell alcohol on her breath, and he grinned. Intoxication would muddle her reasoning, would make her more likely to panic.

She wasn’t expecting anyone to be lurking, and she’d seated herself before she glanced up and saw him. Since he was attired all in black, he was difficult to discern, and she jumped with alarm, emitting a muted squeal.

Leaning forward, he let her ascertain his identity.

“Lady Camilla?” the driver queried from outside. “Is everything all right in there?”

“Tell him
yes,
” Stephen advised, “and that it will be a minute before you depart.”

She pulled at the curtain and peered out. “Yes, Thomas. I’m fine. I tripped. Hold on a moment, would you?” Pasting on a smile, she regrouped, though it was obvious she wasn’t pleased by Stephen’s sudden appearance. “What a wonderful surprise. I thought you were in London.”

“I returned.”

“Marvelous. Bath has been so dreary, but I must say”—she assessed him, evidently thinking they might renew their liaison—“the scenery has definitely improved. Shall we retire to my house? We could have a nightcap.”

“This isn’t a social visit.”

Simpering, she cooed, “We could make it one.”

“I’d rather be attacked by bats than spend time alone with you.”

“Honestly!” she bristled. “You don’t have to be so rude.”

“Rudeness is the only behavior you understand.”

“What is so dreadfully important?” she huffed. “Why all this drama? If your intent is to hurl insults, you could have called on me tomorrow afternoon in my parlor.”

“We shouldn’t risk your servants eavesdropping.”

“They’re as discreet as any, but what could you possibly have to impart that I wouldn’t wish them to discover?”

“I have some disturbing news that can only be shared in private.”

If she had an inkling of what he was about to reveal, she concealed it well. “What is it?”

“There’s been a murder.”

“A murder! Why would you presume that I would have a connection to such a sordid incident?”

“I’m sure that’s what the authorities would like to know—should any of the facts become public.”

“Who was slain? It couldn’t be anyone with whom I’m acquainted.”

“Willie McGee.”

At the mention of McGee, she flinched with shock, but she hastily shielded her reaction. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“It’s funny that you haven’t, when he considered himself to be your business partner.”

“How did you arrive at such a ludicrous notion?”

“It’s all in this diary he kept in his desk.” Stephen held it
up, letting her see the embossed cover, and he leafed to one of the faked pages. “He claims that you hired him to kill one of his neighbors—a Mrs. Anne Paxton Smythe.”

“I didn’t pay him to kill her! I merely—” Realizing what she’d admitted, she bit off the rest.

“Were you aware that Anne is the daughter of Edward Paxton?”

“The Earl of Salisbury?” She looked ill, her blush fading to a ghostly white.

“The very one. She’s also my fiancée.”

“She is not! You’re engaged to Felicity.”

“No, I’m not,” he was delighted to pronounce. “So . . . she’s about to be a Chamberlin, which will put her under my father’s protection. And mine.” He paused, allowing the implication to sink in. “It would seem that Mrs. Smythe has many powerful friends. Now about Mr. McGee—”

“What about him?”

“His records were very explicit. He was concerned about your motives, and he was convinced you were setting him up, in a double cross, to take the fall for Mrs. Smythe’s death.”

“That’s crazy!”

“Is it? The details are all in here.” He offered her the book, so that she could peruse it, but she didn’t. “He maintains that if he’s a victim of foul play, the authorities should question you. Why do you suppose that is?”

“I have no idea.”

He snapped the journal shut. “You have one week to flee the country.”

“How dare you demand as much! I won’t do it, I tell you. I won’t!”

“Won’t you?” He smiled, a vicious indicator of his resolve. “McGee’s body hasn’t been found yet, but it will be very soon. If you are still in England when his corpse is located, I will turn this information over to the law. I have several
witnesses who can place you at his property at some very inconvenient times.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“I don’t care where you go, just so it’s far away from here. I have men watching you. They will report to me when you board ship. Should you decline to acquiesce, I will proceed accordingly.”

“Everything you allege would be a lie.”

“Would it? You don’t know McGee? You were never at his farm? You never hired him?”

She fussed and stewed, her anger rising. “I’ll fight you! I’ll deny every aspect of your trumped-up story. It will be your word against mine.”

“That’s certainly your prerogative, but don’t forget that the punishment for murder is hanging.”

As though she could feel the noose tightening, she gulped and rubbed her throat. For an eternity, she glared at him, her malice palpable. “You bastard!”

“You shouldn’t have hurt Anne, and in case you’re inclined to repeat your folly, I plan to ensure that you never have the chance. Pray that she lives a long and healthy life. If anything ever happens to her, if she should become ill or suffer a convenient
accident
, I will hunt you down, no matter where on this earth you attempt to hide.”

“You can’t do this to me!”

“I already have.” He moved to the door, the book clutched in his hand. “One week, Camilla, and you might want to hurry. The clock is ticking.”

Exiting, he inhaled a huge breath of fresh air, liking how it cleared his head. Then, he sauntered off, thrilled with his night’s work.

Eleanor took Charles into her mouth, and as she’d suspected, his hips responded. Even though he was trussed like a goose, he couldn’t resist. She knew he wanted to come,
that he needed to come, but he was so obstinate, he’d restrain himself forever just to spite her.

She abandoned his cock, and busied herself with his apparel, eager to have him as naked as she. With her pregnancy blossoming, her torso was on fire. She was in a lusty state, anxious for a fierce copulation, and she would persuade him to participate—or die trying!

“Where did you find your henchman?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Mr. Rafferty?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve known him for ages. He’s Bow Street. I originally hired him to spy on my husband.” She sighed. “You wouldn’t believe what I learned.”

As if he might inquire, a spark of interest glimmered, but he tamped it down. The intractable oaf!

“Aren’t you worried that he’ll tattle about what you’re doing?”

“Oh, no. He’s very discreet.”

“If he blabbers, your precious reputation will be tarnished beyond repair.”

“Maybe my character should be blackened a tad. Once a woman decides to keep a sexual slave—”

“A sexual slave!” His cheeks were red with fury.

“—her honor is shot to hell.”

“I’m not about to be anybody’s carnal captive. Especially yours!”

“I really don’t think you have any choice.”

“What if the servants gossip?”