Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (35 page)

When she opened her eyes only a few slanting streams of silvery light laced the darkness. At first Rachel could remember nothing. Not where she was or why... barely even who. Then a short snuffling noise sounded and she turned her head to see Logan. His large frame sprawled in a chair pulled up beside the bed where she lay. He obviously was watching her when he fell asleep.

And all the events of the evening came hurtling back at her.

The discovery that Elizabeth and Geoffrey’s murderer was near. Her insistence that she leave immediately to find him. Logan’s eyes as she acted in what Dr. Quincy called “a highly agitated and irresponsible manner.”

“And who wouldn’t be agitated,” she’d yelled at the pompous old man. “Lord Bingham killed my dearest friend and her lover. Me,” she added. “He killed me as well.”

That was when Logan bundled her off to her room, away from the startled faces of Anne and Jamie. The uncharacteristically still tongue of Mistress Quincy. And the shaking head and medical jargon uttered by the doctor.

The last thing Rachel heard the doctor ask as Logan hustled her toward the landing was, “Is there any history of madness?”

“I’m not insane,” she insisted, whirling out of Logan’s grip and turning to stare back at the group. “I’m not.”

When Logan closed the bedroom door behind them she expected a lecture on watching her tongue. There was none. Somehow his reaction, closemouthed but gentle as he played the lady’s maid, frightened her more than any tirade he could give.

“He did kill them,” she said, as he loosened the stays of her corset. “And I must avenge them.”

By the time Anne knocked at the door, offering a tray with teapot and cup, Rachel was trying to redress in a borrowed riding habit.

“I’ve no need of tea,” she said when Logan offered her the delicate china cup.

“It will calm you.”

“I don’t need to be calmed. I need to find Bingham.”

“We shall discuss it further in the morning.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.” She flipped golden hair from her face and stared at him as defiantly as she could while fumbling with the petticoat tabs.

“Just a sip,” he coaxed, and to please him, to try and show him that she wasn’t mad, she complied.

After that she remembered nothing till her eyelids lifted moments ago.

She swallowed, her mouth dry, and called out his name. Logan lurched forward immediately, taking her hand as it lay on the coverlet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been drugged,” she said and watched as his lashes drifted down to cover his light eyes. “I suppose ’twas Dr. Quincy’s idea.”

“Aye. But that’s not to say I didn’t agree. You were wanting to run off in the night chasing some English duke you say killed your friend.”

“He
did
kill my friend. And at the risk of being called mad, I shall repeat what I’ve told you from the beginning. He—”

Two fingers covered her lips, staying her speech. “Please, say it no more.”

His gentle breath waft across her cheek. He slipped his hand away, then sealed his lips to hers in the softest of kisses. When he pulled away his eyes were closed and his head dropped to the pillow beside hers. A strand of dark hair fell, tangling with the tumble of golden curls. She thought she heard him beg again for her to stop.

Rachel reached up to touch him, the rough stubble of his beard, the raw silk of hair. She wished she could please him. At this moment she wanted more than anything to be what he wanted. To never think of Lord Bingham. To care nothing that he’d killed her friend. To forget that her own existence on earth was tenuous.

She heard his breathing, felt the pain he suffered because of her, and wished it would be no more. But there was nothing she could do to change what had to be.

She
was
Lady Rachel Elliott. She
had
witnessed Lord Bingham shoot two people. And she
was
an angel.

Rachel wasn’t certain how long she lay there, her fingers drifting through his hair, caressing his cheek. He still sat on the chair, but his upper body leaned over the bed and his face nestled close to hers.

She must have drifted off to sleep... he certainly did. For when she woke again the palest pewter showed through the wedge between the curtains.

As carefully as she could Rachel slipped from beneath the arm draped protectively beneath her breasts and crawled off the bed. She didn’t want to leave him. Rachel stood a moment, the clothing she gathered bunched in her arms, and looked down on him. His hair was loose, strands falling across his cheek, catching on dark stubble. He appeared ruggedly male, yet vulnerable in a way that tore at Rachel’s heart.

She reached out, to touch, to feel his power, but paused, inches from contact. He would be safe here in the bosom of his family until she returned. Without another backward glance Rachel crept to the door.

It closed behind her with a soft metallic click.

~ ~ ~

Damnation! When he caught that woman he would... Logan paused in mid-thought as he spurred his mount on, following the post road north from Charles Town. What in the hell was he to do with her?

Dr. Quincy’s suggestion had merit. He spoke of the hospital in Philadelphia. Of the section devoted entirely to patients with diseased minds. Logan gripped the reins tighter.

Was that what Rachel needed? Certainly her actions last night seemed to indicate such. He had never seen such single-minded determination, such an insistence that she needed to follow the Englishmen.

Logan could close his eyes and see again the expression on her face when she declared to all and sundry that the duke killed her friend... and her.

’Twas no wonder Dr. Quincy laced the tea with laudanum. Without the drug’s calming effects, she might never have quieted. But Logan didn’t agree with the doctor’s assessment that she be sent away to an asylum... couldn’t bring himself to agree.

Rachel didn’t belong locked away in a dingy cell. He’d sooner believe she was Lady Rachel Elliott, darling of King George.

Which was exactly what James’s wife Anne believed. Caroline, too, if truth be told. Even after witnessing Rachel’s temperament of last night. After knowing she fled, alone, in pursuit of the enigmatic duke, Anne seemed convinced Rachel was exactly who she claimed to be.

“I haven’t time to listen,” Logan insisted this morning after he woke to find her gone. Acting very much a madman himself, he pounded on every door in the household, waking Anne and James, setting the young twins to crying, stirring the servants, demanding of all if they’d seen Rachel.

No one had, though James, stomping into boots, insisted upon helping Logan look. Anne was the one pleading for calm. “She can’t have gone far. And I don’t agree with you that she doesn’t know what she’s about. I think she knows exactly what she’s doing. Logan, please calm down.”

‘You don’t seem to understand—”

“I understand more than you think I do. You’re in love with her, and she with you, I wager. And you’re torn between believing what appears to be true, and what in your heart you fear might be the real truth.”

He’d pulled away from her restraining hand, insisting that he must leave, insisting that he would go alone. Trying not to think on what Anne had said.

Logan had found Rachel’s trail easy enough. She’d traded her diamond necklace for a seat on the post stage. At least she hadn’t ridden off by herself, for the land was marshy with wide rivers to cross and dangers lurking in the heavy woods.

She was safe enough till he caught up with her, he supposed. But was he? Safe from the thoughts he tried to quell.

Was Anne right? Did he love Rachel? Did he fear she told him the truth?

As he rounded a bend in the road, Logan spotted the lumbering coach ahead, and dug his heels into the stallion’s flank. There was time enough to ponder his feelings once he had her safely in his arms.

The driver, a surly fellow with a gaping hole where his front teeth should be, was reluctant to rein in the horses. But his companion seemed to think it a good chance to step to the side of the path and relieve himself.

“I need a word with one of your passengers,” Logan said as he dismounted.

“Only got one.”

“She’ll do.” Logan swung open the door, coming face-to-face with an irate Rachel.

“What are you doing here?”

“I should think that obvious.” He pushed inside, flopping down on the seat opposite her. “To me a better question would be where in the hell you think you’re going.”

The way she crossed her arms and stuck her pretty chin in the air was hellish annoying. And Logan told her.

“’Tis something I must do,” she finally said. “But you needn’t have concerned yourself.” She leveled her blue eyes on him. “I’m not deserting you. Obviously, though I have tried—and done so repeatedly—my task of saving your life is not complete. I was coming back to you.”

“That be a relief.”

She didn’t care for his sarcastic tone. “If you are so inclined to be rid of me, then why did you follow?”

“Because, I feel responsible, damnit.” Logan heard the two fellows grumbling between themselves on the road and lowered his voice. “I can’t have you running around like a... a...”

“Madwoman?” She arched a delicate brow. “’Tis what you think, I know. It’s what that silly doctor thinks, too, else why would he have drugged me?”

“He’s concerned only for your well-being.” Logan remembered the man’s insistence that Rachel be locked in an asylum, and questioned his own words.

“Logan.” She sighed and leaned forward. “I know how... how this must sound to you. But I’m not in any danger. I can’t die a—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If you insist upon this trip, foolish as it is, I shall accompany you.”

“But—”

“There be nothing more to say on the matter.” With that Logan leaped from the coach and tied his horse behind. A few words and a bit of coin assured the driver’s cooperation, if not his pleasure.

After settling into his seat Logan held up his hand to stave off whatever she planned to say. “It seems that I’m tired. ’Tis perhaps caused by lack of sleep and rude awakenings.” He tucked his whiskered chin onto his chest and closed his eyes. Moments later one popped open.

“I’m assuming you are content not to run away from me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why indeed,” was all he mumbled before drifting off to sleep.

~ ~ ~

It took them three days—three days of torrential rains—to catch up with the ducal party. And they were only able to do that because the river was so high the ferryman at Negro Head Point refused to take the coach across. So the nearby inn was packed with travelers waiting to cross to Wilmington.

Actually, the inn would not have been crowded if not for the need to accommodate the duke with a sitting room and sleeping chamber, as well as providing rooms for his staff of servants.

As soon as the post stage pulled into the stable yard and Rachel spotted the shiny black coach with its coat of arms painted on the side, she lunged for the door. If not for Logan’s hand clamped around her arm she would have swung to the ground before the steps were lowered.

“Let me go. He’s here,” she said, twisting round to glare at him.

“And
we
shall see him.”

“There’s no need for you to be there. I’ve told you what Lord Bingham is capable of.”

“Which is exactly why I do need to be there.” Logan had listened patiently as she told him the story again of her friend and her lover. Of the fateful night near the lake. He’d sat, fingers steepled as her story continued. Her death. The light. The angels.

And he believed... believed that she believed every word was true.

~ ~ ~

“I don’t wish to wait till I’ve eaten.”

“Nay, I don’t imagine you do. But we shall anyway.” Logan ordered them both a stew of rice and ham, then leaned back against the smoke-darkened paneled walls of the inn.

“I wouldn’t have allowed you to accompany me, if I’d realized what a despot you were going to become.” Rachel crossed her arms with a huff, turning so he could only see her profile. Looking back quickly when she heard his laugh. “I fail to understand what you find amusing.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, though there was nothing apologetic in the amused grin he flashed her, the dimples deepening beside his mouth. “’Tis just your portrayal of
me
as the despot.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Rachel’s eyes widened innocently. “Surely you don’t mean that
I
...?”

Rachel didn’t finish her thought for at that moment there was a flutter of activity near the stairs. Before Logan could push out from his bench against the wall, Rachel was on her feet, heading in the direction of the chaos.

“Hell and damnation.” Logan rushed after her, catching only a glimpse of her blue gown as she wriggled between two burly men.

It wasn’t difficult to pick out the duke. He stood on a step looking as arrogant and pompous as Logan imagined he would. His voice was low and raspy as he called out orders. Apparently he had it in mind to do a bit of hunting while the break in the weather held. “... to relieve the tedious boredom of this disgusting hovel,” he announced to the taproom in general. At any rate he was garbed in some richly embroidered riding coat, his powdered wig immaculate beneath a feather-trimmed hat.

And he barely lifted a brow when a feminine voice yelled, “Murderer!”

By this time Logan had managed to wrestle through the congregation of servants and guards to grab Rachel’s arm. She twisted, trying to pull away and screamed the charge again. This time the duke did take notice. He stared down his long nose, his gray eyes glacier.

“Yes, Lord Alfred Bingham, ’tis you that I charge with murder. You killed Elizabeth, your wife. And Sir Geoffrey. And though it possibly wasn’t part of your plan you also caused the death of Lady Rachel Elliott.”

“Who among this rabble speaks so to the Duke of Bingham?”

Rachel stepped forward, and, after taking a deep breath, so did Logan. “I do, Your
Lordship
.” Rachel lifted her chin. “Yes, take a good look and know who I am. And that I shall not allow your deed to go unpunished.”