Silk and Shadows (55 page)

Disbelieving, he read the note again. Then he numbly bent over to find what had fallen out. The gleam of gold caught his eye, and he picked up the subtly contoured wedding ring that he had had made specially for his wife.

Last night's passion had not changed Sara's mind. With a blaze of shattering, anguished fury, he realized that her tears had not meant surrender. She had wept because she was saying good-bye.

Ross was yanked from sleep by a blood-chilling howl. The sound was somewhere between an Afghan war cry and the tortured keening of Middle Eastern women mourning their dead, and it compelled instant response. Automatically he tried to get up, only to be stopped by shattering pain in his shoulder and weakness that almost sent him crashing to the floor.

As he clung dizzily to the bedside table with his good hand, he remembered the shooting the previous day, plus a few fragmentary later images: jolting along on a horse, painful probing at his shoulder, later Sara's soft voice. That explained his unfamiliar surroundings—he was at Sulgrave.

The howl had not been repeated, but now sounds of smashing and breaking came from the same direction. Could Weldon possibly have mounted some kind of attack on the house? When his head steadied, Ross lurched over to the fireplace and grabbed the poker. Then, clad only in his drawers, he opened the door and tracked the noise to its source.

It sounded like a battle was taking place in his cousin's dressing room. Cautiously he opened the door, thinking that there had better not be any real danger, because at the moment Sara's cat could whip Ross with one paw behind its back.

The scene inside the small room brought Ross to a stunned halt. Mikahl was going berserk. He had already tipped over a heavy wardrobe, and the floor was ankle-deep in delicate lady's undergarments, bruised shoes, and crushed hats.

As Ross watched, the other man shoved over the chest of drawers with an incoherent growl of fury. Then he began jerking out drawers and pitching them into the wall. The frames smashed noisily, gouging holes in the plaster before clattering to the floor. Drawers emptied, Mikahl grabbed an elegant evening gown and ripped it from decolletage to hem with his bare hands.

Ross tightened his grip on the poker, for Mikahl in a rage was a daunting sight. Raising his voice, he said sharply, "What the devil are you doing?"

His friend whirled, his eyes feral and his body poised for attack. Seeing who had entered, Mikahl checked his motion, but he still radiated violence. "Your damned cousin has left me."

Ross whistled softly. An assault by Weldon would have been more believable than Sara deserting her husband. Deciding that he was in no immediate danger, Ross let the
poker
sag to the floor while he unobtrusively propped his right shoulder against the door frame. "Why?"

"Because I'm a bastard who has injured innocent people without giving a damn," was the harsh answer. "Because I'm a monster who has been cutting a swath like one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse."

Ross took a moment to absorb that. "She didn't leave you because you're a bastard," he said with dry, calculated humor, "though the rest may be correct."

Ross thought that the odds were about even whether the comment would bring assault on his own head or penetrate Mikahl's mania. Fortunately, after an uncertain moment, the latter happened. Gaze sharpening, his friend growled, "What the hell are you doing out of bed?"

"I came to find out if Weldon had broken in with a party of hired assassins."

"Not yet." Mikahl smiled mirthlessly. "I think Weldon will need to pause and regroup his forces. His chief thug, Kane, is the one who shot you, and Kane is now answering to a higher master than Charles Weldon."

Ross's brows went up. "What happened?"

"I had my knife, and 1 was faster than he was," his friend said with grim satisfaction. "Someone in Weldon's household has probably found his body on the back steps by now."

Ross gave an involuntary shiver; this was definitely an ugly business. "What happens next?"

"I don't know." Wearily Mikahl pushed his disordered hair from his eyes. "1 just do not know."

"Well, I hope you think of something quickly," Ross said tartly. "If Sara went to London, will she be safe there?"

Mikahl's expression changed again. "I'll check to see if any of the guards went with her."

"Good idea." Ross's knees were slowly beginning to give way, so he said, "Would you mind helping me back to bed before I join the rubble on the floor?"

Swearing, Mikahl reached Ross just in time to save him from collapse. The hard grip sent pain blazing through Ross's side and momentarily darkened his vision.

"Neither you nor your cousin have the sense God gave a sparrow." As Mikahl pulled Ross's good arm over his own neck, his voice was rough but his hands were not. After half carrying Ross back to the bedroom and depositing him on the bed, Mikahl made a quick examination of the bandages. "Doesn't seem to have started bleeding again. Do you have the elementary intelligence to stay in bed until you're fit to get up?"

"I'll be delighted to stay here," Ross said, sweat sheening his forehead, "as long as the house isn't under attack."

"It isn't and it won't be." Mikahl straightened.

"Are you going to thrash me or give me a lecture on how to treat my wife?"

"I couldn't thrash you when I was healthy, so I certainly couldn't do it now." Ross smiled wryly. "And while I have done many foolish things in my life, meddling in someone else's marriage is not one of them." At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to slide back into darkness, but he forced his weighted eyelids to remain open. "No one ever said marriage was easy, but most problems can be solved."

Mikahl shook his head. "Not this one. Once you said that I believed that the end justified the means while Sara held to the higher standard of right and wrong. That is the heart of our disagreement. I doubt that something so basic can be changed."

Ross sighed. "Don't say I didn't warn you. When Sara was a child, she fell in love with John Wesley's Rule of Conduct. Wesley founded a religious group called the Methodists, and he said '
Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as ever you can
.' Sara embroidered it on a sampler and made me memorize it."

"If that is what she believes, the situation is hopeless," Mikahl said acidly. "No one can live up to that."

"Probably not, but the point is to try," Ross said, his voice fading. "Why not try to compromise? I imagine that Sara is as miserable as you. Surely you can find some common ground."

"I'm not miserable, and I don't need a priggish, moralizing female in my life," Mikahl snapped as he pulled the blankets over his friend.

Ross had heard more convincing denials, but wisely he held his tongue. Instead, as he drifted into welcome darkness, he uttered a heartfelt prayer than Mikahl and Sara would find some way to heal the breach, for both their sakes.

After leaving Ross, Peregrine made inquiries about how and when his wife had left Sulgrave. He was relieved to learn that Jenny Miller had gone with Sara, and that the maid had insisted on taking two of the guards. Thank heaven for Jenny, who understood the danger and would look out for Sara.

As Peregrine was finishing his morning coffee, another move in the game was played. A solicitor arrived with an envelope containing a bank draft from Weldon in the amount of the notes Peregrine held. He had forgotten that this was the last day for Weldon to pay. Benjamin Slade had not forgotten, of course; the lawyer would have had the bailiffs on Weldon the next morning if the notes had not been paid off. Now Weldon was safe from debtor's prison.

More interesting than the money itself was the accompanying note from Weldon. Tersely he said that the Duke of Haddonfield had been delighted to provide the money to frustrate his son-in-law's evil intentions toward an English gentleman. Doubtless the message was intended to provoke, but Peregrine was beyond being irritated by anything so petty. Besides, today he had received eighty thousand pounds, and Weldon had received Kane's corpse; Peregrine felt that he had come out ahead in the transaction.

After turning the draft over to Slade, Peregrine went out to the stables. Siva, though not seriously injured, needed time to recover from being grazed by the bullet, so Peregrine took another horse. Then he went galloping up to the Downs, feeling a desperate need for open air to sort out his chaotic feelings.

In theory, riding alone here might be dangerous, but Peregrine believed what he had told Ross earlier. Weldon's violence had always been committed at second hand, except when he was terrorizing someone smaller and weaker than himself. Now he would have to find a replacement for Kane, which would not be easy. For the day, at least, the Downs should be safe, though Peregrine kept automatic watch as he cantered along the trail.

It was hard to believe that Sara was gone. Just a few days earlier, they had ridden along these hilltops, stopping to enjoy the views, to picnic, and make love.

Fiercely he told himself that he did not need Sara. He would survive without her, as he had survived many things far worse than the loss of a woman.

He drew his horse in at the highest point on this section of the trail. The hills, fields, and scattered villages of southern England rolled away below him. It was a peaceful, prosperous land, though not a dramatic one.

Without Sara there was no reason to stay in England. He would not have to be as careful about how he killed Weldon, for after the deed was done he could leave the country forever. To be peregrine meant to be free, unconstrained by tethers and obligations. The longer he had stayed in England, the more he had become Mikahl Khanauri, but now he could return to being Peregrine, the wanderer.

The whole world would be at his feet again. The high Himalayas, where the crystal air pierced the lungs as deeply as the beauty pierced the heart. Desert nights with brilliant stars flung across the black velvet sky. Tropical islands with turquoise waters and darting fish in improbable rainbow colors.

He had seen all those things, and he did not need to see them again. None of them was Sulgrave.

What made a place worth revisiting was friends. He would go back to Kafiristan, where Malik and his family would welcome him with joyous affection. He could stay as long as he liked and always be welcome.