His Lady Mistress (36 page)

Max…He read and swore. A quick glance out the window confirmed his fear. A sea mist was coming in. Surely she hadn’t gone out in that? They wouldn’t have let her. Would they?

Twenty minutes later he was running for the stables.

‘Took the gig? In this?’ Max’s stomach chilled as he stared at his head groom. The sea mist drifted around them in the stable yard. Beyond it the gardens and house were lost, as if they had never been. He’d watched it roll in and devour them.
Faster than he’d ever seen it. And Verity had left three hours ago.

‘Damn it, Marley! She’s not used to this part of the country…’

Marley nodded. ‘Aye. Didn’t think she’d be this long, or that the mist would come on this bad. But I made sure she had Bessie in the shafts. That little cob knows the way back from hell. And she’s got the dogs with her.’

A cob and a couple of gun-shy spaniels?

He was being ridiculous. She’d gone to the village, to take Sarah to Martha Granger. The road was safe in daylight, even in a heavy mist. It went nowhere near the cliffs. But even so…‘Fig out a fresh one, Jem. I’ll meet her.’ He caught the man’s guilty eye. ‘Never mind. I dare say she’s safe enough. But…’ he left the sentence unfinished, all too aware of Marley’s suspiciously straight face.

He
was
being ridiculous. The road from the village was excellent—she couldn’t miss the turn. It was straight after the beech wood. Even if she did, Bessie wouldn’t. But he wanted to see her. To be with her. He hadn’t said everything that needed to be said. If only she’d waited, he’d have gone with her.

Verity clucked to the cob between the shafts and glanced around in disbelief. How could a mist roll in that fast? A sea mist? She could taste the salty tang. It hung in the still air, shrouding the road until she felt as if there were no reality beyond it. That the world had vanished into wreathing, clinging whiteness.

The old stableman’s voice came to her…
Be a mist later, I shouldn’t wonder. If’n ye’re still out, don’t worry. Give the mare her head. She’ll get ye home.

The dogs sat beside her, tongues out, panting happily. She shouldn’t have come out, or if she had, she shouldn’t have stayed at Martha Granger’s so long. If only she had a watch with her. Time stood still in this white, lost world without
landmarks. She had no idea how far she had come. Blakeney was only two miles from the village, but until she reached the beech wood she couldn’t know where she was.

She kept the little mare to a walk, unsure of the road. The mist lay so thickly, blanketing everything. Why hadn’t she waited for Max? He would have come with her.
You know why you left before he awoke. You never would have left the bed if he’d been awake and you promised to take Sarah over yourself.

Her body still sang with the rhythm of their loving, deep and sweet. Max had claimed her repeatedly through the night, there in his bed. Their marriage bed, he had whispered. And safe within her, their future blossomed and grew.

The dogs heard something first, Gus standing up and wriggling around until he faced backwards. Then Verity heard it—a trotting horse. Her hands tightened on the ribbons, then relaxed. Obviously she wasn’t the only one out. She cast a brief glance back over her shoulder. Nothing. Literally. She strained her eyes into the mist. The hoofbeats sounded clearer. A dark shape loomed up. The horse. A tall one. Gus barked loudly.

She swallowed. Of course, company would be nice, but who was it? She didn’t know anyone down here yet. Her stomach tightened. No doubt the rider would come up with her. Flicking another glance back, she frowned. She could see the faint, dark shape of the horse more clearly. Whoever it was was holding their distance. Of course, the rider might well be cautious about coming up with an unknown. Not that dangerous criminals usually travelled about the countryside in gigs with a couple of spaniels. Taffy was staring back now, uttering short barks.

It might be another woman. Verity pulled Bessie up and waited. The dark shape halted too. It must be a woman. Verity relaxed. Probably whoever she was, she had exactly the same qualms about strangers.

‘Hello,’ called Verity. ‘Do you wish to ride alongside?’

The horse came forward, materialising out of the wreathing gloom. It wasn’t a woman. Even as she recognised the rider, he spoke.

‘Well met, cousin. What a piece of luck to find you so easily. A pity I’ll never be able to thank Lady Arnsworth for the service she did me when she assured Mama that Blakehurst had sent you down here.’

Her lungs seized with fright. What did Godfrey want with her?

The answer gleamed in a raised pistol as Godfrey halted, ten paces away.

Frantically Verity swung around, yelling, slapping the reins on Bessie’s rump, knowing it was useless. Bessie couldn’t outrun the other horse, let alone a pistol shot. The mare broke into a reluctant jog. Oh, God! Why hadn’t she brought a whip? She slapped the reins again, and Bessie tossed her head, snorting indignantly.

A sharp crack and something hot whizzed past Verity’s cheek, scorching it. Her cry of shocked pain was drowned out as Bessie screamed, plunged and bolted. The dogs went crazy, barking and whimpering in fright. Gripping the reins with one hand, Verity hung on to the side of the gig with the other, nearly flung out at the jouncing as the little mare thundered along the road. Desperately she hauled on the reins, but Bessie had the bit between her teeth and pounded on.

Wildly, Verity looked back. Godfrey was catching up. Easily. Terrified, she realised that he might not have to fire again. If he was lucky, Bessie’s bolt would do his job for him. No one would think anything of it, save that she had lost control of the mare.

Sobbing, she fought to rein Bessie in. Ahead the beech woods loomed. The turn off was just past them. She had to slow Bessie enough to make that turn. She had to! Hauling on the reins, she prayed and pulled harder, until her hands throbbed with the effort. As they flashed under the trees, she
realised—Bessie had slowed, was steadying, coming back to hand.

She looked back. Godfrey was twenty yards away. Too far for a pistol shot from horseback with a moving target. He couldn’t have more than one more pistol. He wouldn’t risk it.

She dragged on the reins again as the turn loomed up and felt the mare stagger but somehow keep her footing. Then Bessie was swinging into the turn, still at a gallop. Too fast. Verity knew it was too fast, even as they turned. The nearside wheel slid into the ditch and the world flipped upside down as she tumbled out of the gig.

She was alive. Unless the dogs had died too. They were barking as though possessed. Yes. She was definitely alive. Her cheek stung and breathing hurt too much for anything else. She felt bruised all over. A wet nose was shoved in her face.

Dazed, she opened her eyes. Gus. Then he backed slightly, snarling. She looked up. Godfrey sat his horse, a hopeful look fading from his face.

‘Bloody inconvenient bitch!’ he said savagely. ‘Any normal woman would have broken her neck. But not you! Oh, no. You have to be shot, damn your eyes!’

Dragging in a breath, she struggled to understand, to sit up. The effort left her faint. She shut her eyes, dizzy, leaning on one elbow. On either side, the spaniels growled, hackles raised.

‘Godfrey…why?’

‘Did you and Blakehurst really think I’d let you steal my inheritance?’ Her throat closed as his words penetrated. He was going to kill her.

Desperate, she tried reason. ‘Godfrey, killing me won’t give you the money. If I die, it’s—’

‘His!’ he spat. ‘Don’t think I haven’t realised. But he won’t have you. And he said it himself—revenge. I’ll have it every
time I look at him. And there won’t be a damn thing he can prove!’

He levelled the pistol. Point-blank range. He couldn’t miss. She would never see Max again.

Then she heard it—the sound of another horse, ridden hard. Hope flared. ‘Godfrey, don’t be a fool. Someone’s coming…’ A rider, perhaps Max looking for her…She screamed his name.

Godfrey cursed violently and squinted down at her, sighting along the barrel. Terror dried her mouth, choking her. The rider would be too late.

She rolled wildly, scrabbling for purchase in the dusty road. She heard him swear, heard the horse edge nearer as the dogs’ barking became frantic above the thunder of the other hoofbeats. Her numb fingers closed on something, heavy and rounded. Ice cold, silky. A flint. Her only chance. Ignoring the stabbing pain in her ribs, she flung it as hard as she could.

The mist was thickening. Having started out at a canter, Max eased his horse back to a trot. Probably by the time he reached the beech wood, he would meet Verity. That, or she would have stayed at Martha’s cottage and he’d have to ride all the way into the village to bring her home. Either way, she was perfectly safe.

A shot echoed, blanketed by the fog and distance. His breath jerked in, then relaxed. A poacher, probably. Nothing to worry—then he heard the dogs, barking hysterically. And the sound of a runaway horse.

He put his gelding into a flat gallop within four strides. Never before had he wished for a whip and spurs to use on a horse. He leaned forward, urging every ounce of speed out of the animal, fear hammering in his blood. He could hear nothing above the hoofbeats and the creak of harness, save the pounding voice in his brain,
Too late
…Verity, oh,
God…She screamed his name. Ice-cold rage edged with despair ripped through him as he heard the screaming horse and the second shot.

The flint struck the already upset horse full on the muzzle. It reared up even as the dogs hurled themselves forward, barking insanely. Verity shrieked in terror as the horse came down, steel-shod hooves slashing at the dogs. She could hear Godfrey yelling as he tried to control the horse and force it forward, still aiming the pistol at her.

Gus charged in, snapping at the horse’s fetlocks, closely followed by Taffy. The frightened beast reared again, striking out wildly as the pistol discharged. For a moment time hung suspended as the horse hovered and then collapsed on top of its shrieking rider, legs flailing feebly.

The mist and the woods spun in a whirling gold-and-silver blur around Verity as she became conscious of more pounding hoofbeats, a hoarse voice yelling her name over the barking and the dreadful, gurgling moans from beneath the fallen horse…and then nothing.

She was safe. She couldn’t move, but she was safe. Someone was holding her. Powerful arms held her close, as though they would never release her and a breaking voice whispered her name over and over. ‘Verity, oh, God. Verity, sweetheart, my love. For Christ’s sake, say something!’

‘Max?’ It was all she could manage, through the dizziness and confusion that still swung about her. She burrowed a little closer, needing his warmth, his closeness. Clumsy hands trembled over her face, pushing back her tumbled curls.

‘Are you hurt badly, dearest?’ His voice shook too.

She tried a deep breath and winced. ‘My ribs. I think one’s cracked.’

He swore and eased his hold on her. Panic flooded in. She shrank against him. ‘No! Please, hold me. Please! Where…where is he?’

His arms tightened. ‘Shh. It’s all right. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you.’

‘Where is he?’ She had to know.

She felt the tension, the fury that surged through him.

‘Under his horse. Dead.’

Horror sliced through her.

‘I…killed him too, then,’ she whispered. ‘Max…I never meant to…’ Abruptly she found herself facing him.

His eyes blazed into her. ‘No! Stop it, Verity! It wasn’t your fault. He accidentally shot his horse, from what I could see. It fell right on top of him. You had nothing to do with it. Verity, listen to me—you didn’t kill him.’

She felt sick, shaking. Seeing again the horse rearing as the flint struck it. Falling backwards. She opened her mouth, but he put his fingers over it, gently silencing her.

‘No more, darling. You need to be at home.’

The doctor gave it as his considered opinion that Lady Blakehurst had a much tougher constitution than her husband credited her with. And that, despite the cracked rib, she would be perfectly well in a few days if she rested and were properly looked after.

Max cleared his throat slightly. ‘One thing, doctor. I understand that my wife may be…that is, she is…!’

‘Expecting a happy event in about seven months?’ suggested the doctor with a grin. ‘She mentioned it. As I said. Rest. No reason to think there’ll be a problem. Whatever you do, don’t suggest such a thing to her. Upset can do as much damage in these cases as the fall itself! I have pooh-poohed the idea, but insisted that she remain in bed for a few days because of the cracked rib.’ He fixed Max with a fierce glare. ‘However—she needs to put on a little more weight. See to it, my lord.’

Max went back to Verity’s room and dismissed the maid and Henny. The latter had to be almost forcibly ejected.

Verity huddled against her pillows, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

For a moment Max just looked at her, unable to believe that she was alive. That somehow she had been spared.

She looked up at him. ‘Max—will there be a trial?’ Her eyes were huge, shadowed.

‘No, dearest. He’s dead. He’ll have to face a higher court.’

‘I…I meant…me.’

‘You?’

She still believed that it was her fault. Three swift strides had him beside her on the bed. Grimly he removed the teacup from her icy hands and enveloped them in his, pulling her into the shelter of his shoulder. Gently he held her, feeling the tremors rack her body.

‘Verity, listen to me. You have never killed anyone. Not Godfrey and not your father. They made their own decisions. You were never responsible for either of them. You were a child when your father died. And as for Godfrey—’ He broke off, unable to speak for the aftershocks of terror shuddering through him as he carefully touched the mark on her cheek where the ball had grazed it. She had been
that
close to death.

‘I threw a rock—a flint, I think. It hit the horse so that it reared. That was—’