My Darling Caroline (24 page)

Brent regarded her closely, and when he did nothing but lightly shake his head in ignorance, she once again started pulling at his shirt.

“Something’s wrong,” he murmured, grabbing her body and firmly holding her still. He held up his right hand and made four finger movements in front of his daughter’s face.

To Charlotte’s sheer astonishment, Rosalyn raised her small right hand and repeated them exactly. On occasion she’d seen her niece gesture for this or that, but never manipulate her fingers to communicate calmly.

Now fully intrigued, she knelt beside her brother on the cold ground. “Those are letters, aren’t they?”

“Yes…”

“Spelling what?” she beseeched in wonder.

“
Mama.
”

“Flower…Mama?”

Brent shook his head again, and Rosalyn, her growing frustration becoming obvious in her expression, moved her fingers quickly once more, this time adding three new letters.

Suddenly his face became ashen. “She’s saying ‘Mama bad.’”

Charlotte’s heart began to pound as she watched her brother spell
Mama
once more, then put his hands together in front of him, clench his fists, and release them outwardly in the same gesture his daughter had shown them.

Rosalyn nodded vehemently.

“Oh, Jesus.”

Now she was scared. “Brent—”

He grabbed her wrist, thrust her hand against his daughter’s, and looked straight into her eyes.

“Caroline is in the greenhouse, and she’s in danger, Charlotte,” he enunciated precisely, quietly, in a voice taut with fear. “Take Rosalyn into the house and stay there until I return.”

“I should go, too—”

“Goddamn it, Charlotte, just do what I say for once in your life!”

That stunned her so thoroughly she couldn’t reply. She nodded and grasped his daughter’s outstretched hand as Rosalyn, with keen perception, began to squirm in protest.

He stood, instantly calm and composed. “I’ll be fine. Tell no one where I’ve gone and don’t let her out of your sight for a second because she’ll follow me. Understand?”

She nodded once more, and with that he was gone.

Chapter 20

I
nstinct alone told her she’d made a devastating mistake the moment she laid eyes on the stranger.

Purposely and blatantly defying her husband’s authority, Caroline had sneaked away to the greenhouse, never intending to stay and work but to simply retrieve the letter from Professor Jenson, which she’d forgotten two days before when she’d made her hasty departure. As furious as she was with the pompous idiot she’d married, she’d rather risk being caught and laying witness to his rage than have him learn of her original plan to leave for New York.

So, with resolve she stepped inside the glass structure. Just as quickly as she lifted the folded piece of paper from the desk, in walked the man, as casually and boldly as if he owned the property, catching her completely and immediately off guard not only from his surprise entrance, but also from his stunning appearance.

He had marvelous features—blond hair trimmed to his shoulders, side whiskers framing his hard, square jaw, slate-gray eyes thickly lashed, and an elegant, almost sculpted mouth. He was striking to look at, and never in her life until now had she been made speechless by a man simply because he was so physically attractive.

But at closer glance, his appearance was also odd, not that there was anything wrong with it exactly. He dressed impeccably, wearing lightweight breeches in dark rust, a pale, cotton shirt, starched, wrinkle-free, and buttoned severely to his neck, black riding boots both polished and clean as if they’d never touched a speck of mud or even a horse for that matter, and he carried a black woolen overcoat across his left arm. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was wearing a costume, although even a costume would surely have gathered dirt or wrinkles when he rode or walked to the greenhouse. This unusually handsome man looked as if he’d stepped out of his bath and into the forest.

He started talking to her, and for no rational reason she felt tiny hairs rise on her neck. His name was Peter Whitsworth, a horse trainer who worked for their neighbor. According to him, he’d suddenly and unexpectedly come upon the greenhouse as he’d wandered north to view the area fully, had seen her enter, and had decided to introduce himself.

Still, something about him didn’t seem right, and although he spoke perfect English, his manner and almost too congenial voice troubled her intuitively. He was too smooth, too pleasant, and because of the strangeness of the entire situation, her instincts told her to start working rather than try to leave, smiling casually as she quickly dropped the letter back on the desk and began moving plants from one table to the other.

For nearly ten minutes he followed her around, discussing pleasantries and the freezing English winter, which in itself seemed strange as this one had thus far seemed unusually warm. It wasn’t until he dropped his overcoat onto one of the benches and started talking of her personally that his voice began to change, to deepen in intensity, his eyes turning dark as he watched her.

“I saw a little girl as I rode in,” he quietly said, moving next to her as she carried a plant in each hand to the basin. “Before I could speak, she ran off.” He snickered. “I don’t think I look so very frightening. Do you?”

Caroline tried to smile, avoiding his gaze, and making every attempt to keep her voice affable. “She’s my daughter and not very used to strangers, I’m afraid.”

“Really? Your daughter?” His voice lowered. “How surprising that she didn’t look at all like you.”

Her head shot up immediately. He stood two feet from her, with his perfectly etched mouth turned up into a smile that never reached his eyes. Keeping her poise intact, she mumbled, “She looks more like my husband’s family.”

“Ahh…”

The urge to run crept under her skin. If she could only keep her cordial demeanor long enough, keep him talking, someone at the house would miss her, probably assume where she was, and perhaps come looking. On the other hand, nobody would have any reason to believe she’d be in danger at the greenhouse. The only person who’d likely care would be Brent, and as she hadn’t spoken to him in days, she had no idea where he was right now.

It was clear she needed to delicately attempt to take her leave.

She wiped her hands on a towel beside the basin. “Well, it was certainly a pleasure, Mr. Whitsworth, but my husband—”

“Let’s talk about your husband,” he interjected softly as he lifted a finger to run it slowly down her arm.

She shivered, her eyes opening wide to his gray, suddenly malevolent gaze. “What do you want?” she coldly, quietly asked.

He smiled again, faintly. “You are indeed
audacieuse
, are you not,
petite dame
?”

She had only a vague idea of what he said, but she positively knew he spoke French. And as she grasped the coincidences, this man’s underlying strangeness coupled with Brent’s demand in staying away from the greenhouse, her mind began to clear, and that was when she realized exactly who he was.

As if reading her thoughts, or perhaps it was from the glaze of terror filling her eyes, his expression changed.

“Plain hair, plain features, but exquisite eyes and a figure…
tres voluptueuse et érotique.
” He moved his hand to boldly cup her breast. “The Raven chose well, I think.”

“Yes, I did.”

Caroline knew she was more startled than the Frenchman when she heard Brent’s clear, deep voice from across the room. But she couldn’t take her eyes from the man beside her, couldn’t move, suddenly paralyzed from a surge of raw fear. He caressed her breast lightly through her gown, daring her to react and certainly taunting her husband; then he dropped his arm to her wrist, grasping it firmly as he turned in Brent’s direction. With one look, pure and centered hatred graced his features.

“Well,
mon ami
, we meet again.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Brent nonchalantly take three steps inside so that he stood next to the oblong table closest to them, innocently push several potted plants out of his way, and jump up to sit on the table, never looking directly at her but instead to the man, waiting.

The Frenchman turned his attention back to her, lifting his finger to gently stroke her cheek. “She is little and ordinary, Raven. I wonder why you married her?”

“She’s a very good fuck.” He casually leaned back on the table, resting on his palms. “What are you doing here, Philip?”

Slowly, stunned, Caroline turned to stare at her husband. He was so calm, so calculating and controlled, apparently indifferent to her and the danger at hand. And the only sign of anxiety, of any emotion other than apathy he exhibited was the tiny trickle of sweat that slid from his left brow to his hardened jaw. He had run to the greenhouse, she was certain of that, and now he was composed and smooth and desperately attempting to save her life.

The man pulled her against him, her arm twisted behind her back, then cupped her breast once more with his free hand, hard and unexpectedly, making her gasp from the touch.

“I am here for you,
mon ami,
” he answered pleasantly, gazing down at her, challenging. “But I think, since she is so tempting, I will also have your wife.”

Her heart pounded, her eyes widened, and she swallowed forcefully to maintain control of her fear, keeping her gaze focused on her husband, who didn’t appear to notice her at all as he stared at the man who caressed her so suggestively through the delicate silk of her day gown.

After a long, unbearable moment of silence, Brent gravely maintained, “I don’t think so.”

“
Non?
You use my woman and do not give me a taste of yours?” He grinned. “The French enjoy sharing their ladies, Raven. I thought you knew that.”

“The French share their whores, Philip, as I shared yours, but the English do not share their wives.” He cocked a sardonic brow. “I thought you knew that.”

Philip’s eyes became dark and dangerous as he dropped his hand from her breast, tightening his grip on her wrist with the other.

“And you are English, aren’t you, Lord Weymerth?”

Slowly, meticulously, he confirmed, “Quite…English.”

If the conversation had taken place at any other time, under any other circumstance, Caroline might have laughed. They sounded like children fighting over a toy or territory of play, but the pain in her hand assured her this was no small disagreement. Pure evil was present—she could feel it slicing the still, cold air—and this confrontation was real. One of them would surely die.

She started shaking, and Philip noticed in satisfaction. “You are scared of me already?”

Her eyes flashed defiantly. “Yes, I’m scared,” she hissed in a frigid, trembling voice. Bravely and without clear thought, she sneered, “You’re a heathen animal. It’s no wonder Christine Dumont didn’t want you—”

“Caroline!”

She heard her husband’s roar above the thunderous crack reverberating through the room before she ever felt the stinging pain of the madman’s hand on her face. She stumbled back against the basin, attempting to catch herself with her free arm, and though she was dazed and startled into submission by his sudden action, he grabbed her by her hair and struck her a second time, violently, the force of it slamming her face into the ground.

“Touch her again, Philip,” Brent threatened carefully, deliberately, his words calculated and thick with loathing, “and I’ll cut off your balls, stuff them down your throat with my fist, and watch while you bleed to death.”

The Frenchman chuckled once more and purposely stepped on the hem of her gown to keep her from crawling away. Shaking and breathing in gulps, she tried to push herself up on all fours, attempting to wipe tears of pain from her eyes, licking her bloodied lips. The skin on her face burned, her cheek throbbed, and her skull felt as if it had been stabbed with a dull knife; but as stunned and hurting as she was, she managed to draw the courage to glance up at Brent.

Just as before, he sat on the table, leaning back on his palms, calmly composed as if she weren’t even present in the room.

Suddenly he started speaking in French, and it was the astonishment of hearing the subtle changes in his voice, his expressiveness, that kept her from breaking down into terrified whimpers, kept her staring at his face both in pride and wide-eyed disbelief. He spoke not just fluent French as Nedda had intimated, but gracefully eloquent, absolutely perfect French. If she hadn’t met him until just now, she’d never suspect him to be English.

Brent felt the only way to get Philip’s mind off his wife was to quickly change the subject, to find another common ground, and truthfully he wanted to switch languages because he refused to risk losing his beautiful, brave Caroline simply because she had confronted and insulted a professional killer. As smart and courageous as she was, she had no vivid understanding of what Philip could do, which in turn made her fragile and helpless, and most definitely dead without his quick action. His hope was that if she was ignorant of the exchange, she’d keep her mouth shut.

“You still haven’t mentioned your reason for coming to me, Philip,” he calmly remarked, trying with difficulty to keep his boiling rage and burning fear under control as he made every attempt to avoid looking at his wife. “I’m no longer your threat, and the risk of returning to England after the emperor’s fall seems a bit stupid, even for you.”

The Frenchman raised a palm in innocence. “Waterloo is over, my friend, but our battle will not be finished until one or both of us is dead. You know that.”

He shrugged indifferently. “How did you know I didn’t die in the trench?”

“Filthy place to die, Raven,” Philip returned quietly, holding his gaze as he reached down to stroke Caroline’s hair, making her physically cringe from his touch. “But I think the excitement I felt by finally having the chance to kill a menace to the emperor heroically while in battle was only surpassed by my joy when I learned you did not die. You lived in hell for days, did you not?” He chuckled as his eyes shone in pools of cold, silvery steel. “Living in a swamp of death is much worse than dying in one. I made you suffer in France, and now you will die in England. Only fitting.”

Brent sat forward, elbows on knees, and glanced quickly at Caroline, who remained huddled next to the water basin, now staring at the ground in front of her. He didn’t want to provoke the man, but he knew she was his target, and any attempt to unsettle Philip could force him to strike her again with something more dangerous and damaging than his fist. He needed him unsettled, though, because catching him off guard would be his only advantage, and unfortunately he could think of no way to do this without endangering his wife. He would simply have to do what he could and be faster and smarter than the killer who now stood only a few feet away.

“The war is over, Philip,” he ridiculed in utter contempt. “The English have won, the French have fallen. You have nothing to fight for now that Bonaparte is exiled for good, the troops are disassembled, the money gone. Why did you come here to continue this game of tactical illusion when you could have stayed on the Continent and become a new person?” He grinned cynically and sneered. “Perhaps you should have given up on me and centered your time on something constructive like…learning to please a woman well enough to keep her in your bed for an entire night.” He chuckled mildly. “Now there’s a novel thought.”

Cords of hard muscle in the killer’s neck stood out against his starched shirt, his side whiskers flared with the tightening of his jaw, and Brent was encouraged.

“You are a fool, Raven,” he spat in abhorrence. “But I should have understood your stupidity because of what you are—an English bastard who still, with all his education and deductive reasoning, cannot clearly grasp why I’m here.”

For the first time since walking into the greenhouse, Brent was uncertain. Philip despised him and wanted him dead, but it was also quite true that in coming to England, to Miramont, he took an extreme risk in never returning to his homeland. They were equally skilled, but he had the advantage this time by being on his ground. Philip knew this.