Surrender (23 page)

John Trim rushed from behind the counter, holding a musket. He ran outside. A moment later, he reappeared with a pair of dusty, cracked saddlebags. Jack jerked his head at an adjacent and empty table. Trim laid them down and went through them. He produced a small cloth bundle.

“Open it,” Jack said.

Trim did, exposing a large sapphire ring and a pair of earrings. “The countess’s sapphires!” Trim exclaimed.

Jack smiled at Whyte. “I will tell her you have seen God, my good fellow. And God works in mysterious ways.” He released him, hard.

Whyte clutched his crotch, groaning, as the men in the crowd chuckled and laughed. Chairs scraped back. Seats were retaken. Jack bundled up the sapphires and put them in his pocket as Whyte and his two friends hurried outside. Watching them through a window, Jack said, “I am sorry, John, for causing an uproar.”

“The poor countess! You were right to take back her jewels,” Trim said. “If I had known that Whyte was robbing her, I would have stepped in. I was here that day. I warned her not to seek him out!”

Whyte had finally mounted, with help, and he and his cronies left. “She doesn’t listen,” Jack said softly. How was he going to return the jewels without seeing her? But didn’t he have to speak to her to make certain she had understood that she must forget everything she had overheard on Looe Island?

Trim was staring in some surprise.

Quickly, Jack smiled—blandly. Had he just sounded like a love-struck idiot? “What can I give you for any damages?”

Trim looked at the single broken chair. “Probably a shilling or two.”

Jack gave him a pound, patted his back and walked through the tables toward the door. A few of the men seated there turned to greet him and cheer. “Well done, Greystone,” someone said.

Clearly, the countess was well liked.

And why wouldn’t she be? Everyone could see that she had had a difficult life.

Jack went to his stallion, suddenly realizing that he wanted to see Evelyn, terribly, and for that very reason, he should not go near her just yet. He could send Trevelyan to check up on her. Trevelyan could return the sapphires. He was a caller anyway. He might even confide in his friend, partially, and use Trevelyan to keep her out of danger.

And he was so involved in his musings that when he realized that someone had come up to stand behind him, it was too late.

Jack started to turn, instantly sensing danger, and he just glimpsed a huge, dark object before it struck the side of his head. He gasped from the stunning pain. Stars exploded before his eyes. As he staggered, trying to reach for his dagger, another blow followed, directly across his kidneys, this one from behind, from another man, and he fell. And then the blows rained down on him as he was hit with the butt of a gun, repeatedly, and as he was kicked, many times, in the back, the chest, the ribs.

He had been taken by surprise. He was going to die.

Bright lights filled his vision. He swam in pain. And then, through the horrific haze of pain, he realized that the beating had stopped. He tasted blood.

Had Ed Whyte done this?

“Do you know where your loyalties lie?”

His mind blazed to life; he knew that thick French accent. Jack tried to blink away the exploding stars; he tried to see. A face with a dark complexion and dark eyes swam before him now—a very familiar face.

“You had better not be deceiving us,
mon ami,
” Victor LaSalle said softly. “We will not tolerate treachery.”

LeClerc suspected the truth, Jack realized. Now the stars faded, and their gazes met. He suspected Jack spied for both sides.

LeClerc smiled coldly at him. “Make certain you are with us,
mon ami,
and not against us,” he said very softly. “Can you hear me?”

Jack nodded. Instantly pain stabbed through the side of his head. Someone moaned—he realized it was him.

“Good. Know this. If you betray us, those you love the most will pay a terrible price for your treachery.”

Jack tried desperately to comprehend him. What the hell was he saying?

LeClerc leaned so close now, Jack could feel his breath. “Your pretty mistress will not be pretty anymore, and I will enjoy every moment I spend with her.”

Jack gasped—and groaned.

LeClerc stood and nodded at the man standing with him. The fellow kicked Jack hard in the ribs another time. Jack screamed.

“That is to make certain you understand the consequences of all your actions…
mon ami.
”

Jack heard him perfectly now. He understood him. LeClerc would hurt Evelyn, rape her and then destroy her. He had to warn her. He had to protect her.

Jack heard horses galloping off. LeClerc and the other man were gone. He tried to push himself to sit. As he began to do so, pain exploded in his rib cage, his head. With the explosion of pain, there was blinding light. And then there was only darkness.

CHAPTER TWELVE

E
VELYN
SAT
BOLT
upright, awakened from a deep sleep, the dog barking madly. Someone was banging on the front door. Fear seized her—it was the middle of the night! She leaped from her bed as the barking and knocking continued, lighting a taper quickly and then grabbing the pistol she now kept on her bedside table—and it was loaded. Fully awake, she ran barefoot across the room and encountered Laurent rushing down the corridor, holding a carbine and a candle. He was also barefoot.

“Who could be at the door?” she cried.

His eyes were wide and wild, his nightcap askew. “Thieves do not knock.”

No, thieves did not knock; this was an emergency, then! They both hurried down the stairs, Evelyn’s heart thundering with alarm and fear. They did not have close neighbors. Was a stranger at her front door?

Laurent called loudly, “Who is it? Who is there?”

The frantic pounding ceased, although Jolie kept barking. “Madame! It is John Trim! Hurry!”

Evelyn stumbled in surprise as they reached the front hall, sharing a confused glance with Laurent. What on earth had happened? Trim’s inn was an hour away! Then as Laurent started to lower the carbine, she seized his arm. “It could be a trap.”

He blinked in shock at her.

She could not believe she had become so suspicious, so wary—but she was not about to forget being threatened by LeClerc’s crony the other night. They had changed the locks on the house already. Trim could be outside with anyone, including another armed intruder with malicious intent.

Evelyn set the taper down on the hall’s single table, while Laurent kept his held high. She hurried to the door, holding her pistol tightly. She did not think her heart had ever pounded with so much force. She cocked the trigger and aimed the gun in the direction of whoever was standing outside. She nodded at Laurent to go and open it.

He opened the door, revealing John Trim. The innkeeper was huddled in a heavy coat, his hat pulled low, and in the dark, all she saw were the whites of his eyes and his pale, frightened face. “My lady! Forgive me! It is Greystone—he insisted!”

Evelyn now saw a wagon in her driveway, another man standing beside it. In the dark, she thought she recognized the fellow, but wasn’t sure who it was. “What is wrong?” she cried. She could not imagine what had happened to bring Trim to her door this way, or how Jack was involved.

“Greystone is badly injured! I found him outside the inn, and we wished to tend him, but he insisted, very strongly, that we take him here instead!”

Evelyn had frozen. Jack was hurt? Jack was in that wagon? She could see no one there!

“He has been unconscious for the past hour!” He turned and ran back to the wagon.

Jack was hurt—so hurt that he was prone.

Realizing what was happening, Evelyn rushed to the edge of the front steps, ready to run down to them, even barefoot and without a robe. She shivered, her gaze locked on the wagon as both men lowered the back and reached within it.

In real fear, Evelyn watched as Trim and the man she now recognized as Will Lacey, one of the villagers, dragged Jack to the edge of the wagon’s bed. She bit her lip hard to keep from crying out, as they then maneuvered Jack into a sitting position. Evelyn gasped as his head rolled back, as he slumped between them. He was unconscious, as Trim had said.

Laurent ran past her. “You will catch an ague,” he warned as he went to help the two men.

Evelyn could not go inside, not now, as Trim and Will started forward, dragging Jack from the wagon and taking him with them. He moaned, stumbling.

“Help us if you can, Jack-O,” Trim said. “We are at Roselynd.”

Jack now attempted to walk with the men, staggering as they both dragged and carried him toward her. He groaned again. “Evelyn?”

If only she could help—but there was nothing she could do. If only he would be all right!

She stepped aside as they approached, Laurent with them and holding his taper high to light the dark way. She finally glimpsed his battered face and covered her mouth with her hands, to prevent her frightened cry from escaping.

Blood had dried on one side of his face.

And now, she saw the blood on his white shirt.

Oh, God, what had they done to him?

Who
had done this to him?

They reached the top of the front steps, both Trim and Will panting from the exertion of carrying such a large man. Jack remained slumped in their arms between them, but their gazes met. His was glazed with pain. “Where do you want us to put him?” Trim asked.

“We will put him upstairs. He needs a proper bed,” she heard herself say briskly. Was that her speaking, so calmly, so sensibly, when she was sick with fear now? “It will be difficult, but he will recover better there than on the couch.”

He whispered, “Evelyn.”

“Hush.” She managed a smile. “You must help them get you upstairs. It will be an effort, I know, but once you are in bed, you will be much happier.” How much blood had he lost?

He smiled at her, the pain clouding his eyes. “I am always happier…in bed.” And he turned ghastly white.

“Jack!” But it was too late…. He slumped over; he had fainted.

“It is for the best,” Laurent cried.

Her heart pounding, Evelyn followed the men inside as they half dragged and half carried Jack across the hall, and then, with great difficulty and agonizing slowness, up the stairs. He remained unconscious through the ordeal. Finally they reached the second floor.

Evelyn now ran ahead. She hurried into a small, unused chamber and quickly laid her pistol down—she hadn’t realized she still held it. Laurent rushed in, as well, and together they turned down the bed. Laurent began lighting tapers. Adelaide appeared, her face ashen. Trim and Will now dragged Jack to the bed. “On three,” Trim said.

Evelyn now clamped her hand over her mouth. The bedchamber was mostly lit and she could finally see how badly Jack was injured. The bloody side of his head was frightening. He had clearly been struck above his left ear, and blood had dried on his cheek and temple and in his hair.

He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and there were also numerous bloodstains on his shirt and even on his breeches. It was as if he had been kicked and punched repeatedly. Had he also been struck with a heavy or sharp object? Or, dear God, had he been shot? She was sick.

And now Trim counted to three and they heaved Jack onto the bed. He woke and cried out and cursed.

Evelyn ran to him, taking his hand in both of hers, gripping it firmly. “You are safe now.”

His lashes lifted. His pain-filled gaze met hers, but without recognition.

She was only vaguely aware of the audience they had. “You will be fine,” she said softly. “I am going to take care of you now.”

His eyes brightened with the light of recognition. His mouth softened and for one moment, their gazes held. Then he fainted again.

Evelyn’s insides roiled. “What happened?” She began to unbutton his shirt. “Was he shot?”

“We don’t know what happened—but he has been badly beaten,” Trim said. “And, no, he was not shot. When I saw the blood, that was my first thought, too.”

She was shaking like a leaf, but Jack needed her now. She almost lifted his hand and kissed it, but managed to refrain. She pulled aside his shirt and managed not to cry out when she saw the bruises and abrasions covering his chest. She was so sick now. “Who did this?”

“We don’t know. Maybe it was Ed Whyte.”

“Whyte?” she gasped, turning to stare at Trim and Will.

“Jack was at my inn, my lady, and he and Whyte had a row. Whyte left, then Jack did. A customer found him out front. Clearly he was attacked when he left the inn. Mrs. Trim thinks he has broken several ribs. Broken ribs are painful, Lady D’Orsay, and that would explain why he cannot stay conscious. But he did not give us a chance to tend him, so I do not know the extent of his injuries. He insisted, very strongly, that we take him here, just before passing out.”

She inhaled. Had Whyte done this? Oddly, she did not think so! She was looking at his head wound now, but it was hard to see, as dried blood and hair obscured her vision. “I need a basin of water, and some cloths—as well as soap and brandy.”

“I will get everything, my lady,” Adelaide said, rushing away.

Laurent stood beside her. He murmured, “That head wound might need stitches.”

“A blow to the head can cause a lot of damage, my lady. He needs a physician and he needs rest,” Trim commented.

Of course he did—the closest doctor was in Bodmin. But Jack needed attention now. She opened his shirt completely—his ribs were mottled with bruises, too. She managed not to let tears arise. “Mr. Trim, I cannot thank you and Will enough for bringing him here. Please, let me give you a chamber for the night.” She prayed for Adelaide to hurry.

“Can we help tend him?” Trim asked. “After you clean him up, I could wrap his ribs.”

Evelyn did not know the first thing about nursing, much less bandaging a man’s broken or bruised ribs. She intended to wash away all the blood, in order to see exactly what his injuries were. But she was hopeful now, and she looked at John Trim. “Do you know how to bandage his ribs?”

Trim smiled briefly. “This is the Bodmin Moor, my lady. Of course I do.”

She realized she was still holding Jack’s hand. She released it and stood up. “Then I accept your offer.”

* * *

E
VELYN
HAD
TAKEN
a small wooden chair from the corner of the room and pulled it up to Jack’s bed. She had been seated there for hours; dawn was staining the sky outside mauve. Jack remained unmoving in the bed. But he was sleeping, and for that she was grateful.

Laurent had helped her remove all of his clothing, except his knickers, and had stayed with her while she bathed away the blood, mostly because she was so shaken and she needed his encouragement, reassurance and support. A number of abrasions had caused the blood, and his most serious wound seemed to be the hole in his head, above his ear, but it did not appear to need stitches.

Trim and Will had remained downstairs, eating a small meal left over from supper, which Adelaide had served them. Once Jack had been bathed, she had called Trim up. Trim had begun to bandage his ribs, causing Jack to awaken. They had given him two excessively large glasses of brandy—for the pain. He had somehow, stoically, endured the bandaging, gritting his teeth, not uttering a word. And the moment Trim was done, he had looked at her, closed his eyes and fallen asleep. He had been sleeping ever since.

Evelyn had not moved since taking her chair by his bed, even though everyone else in the house had gone to bed. She had been battling tears for hours.

In order not to cry, she reassured herself. Jack was not going to die—broken ribs would hardly kill a man. And while an infection could, they had doused his wounds with brandy smuggled from France—the clear, undiluted alcohol that was so strong it would kill a man if drunk.

She wiped at her tears, and then continued to hold his hand. She wanted to know what had happened, and why—she wanted to know who was responsible for such a brutal beating. She did not know why he had been arguing with Whyte, but the smuggler was a coward, and she did not believe he would attack Jack, not in such a manner. And she also thought she must send a letter to Lucas, which she would do in another hour or so. She would not tell his sisters what had happened, however—she did not want to worry them, and she would leave such a decision to Lucas.

Was this assault related to his spying? Hadn’t she been assaulted and threatened ten days ago?

“Why…are you crying?”

His hoarse, broken words jerked her attention back to him. Evelyn met his weary, searching gaze and cried out, “You are awake!”

He moaned softly and asked, “What…happened?”

She kissed his hand. “You were beaten. Who did this, Jack?”

He was startled. “Where…am I?”

He did not remember? “You are at Roselynd. Trim found you outside of the inn. You had been beaten—savagely! He wanted to attend you there, but you insisted on coming here.” She could not hold back the tears. They trickled down her face.

He had been staring steadily at her, but now, as if exhausted, his eyes closed.

Still holding his hand, she stroked his brow with her other one. His gray gaze flew open. “You are so concerned.”

She trembled. “I am very concerned.”

“Why?”

She was disbelieving. And she began to flush. “I believe you know why.” She felt her color increase.

“No…I don’t.” He lifted his hand toward her face, and suddenly dropped it, groaning.

Not for the first time, she wished she had laudanum in the house. “Do you want some brandy?”

He was pale now; clearly, a simple movement was intolerable. When he did not answer, she realized he was struggling not to faint. Evelyn leaped up to bring him a glass, which she had ready. Trim had suggested he would need the liquor when he awoke. She was using the fine French brandy that Henri had kept, both for their own use and for entertaining guests.

She sat on the bed now, by his hip. He was lying prone, and she hesitated. He would not be able to sip unless he sat up. Yet she knew that moving him would hurt.

“Help me…to sit.”

Evelyn set the glass down on the bedside table and put her arm beneath him, under his shoulders. He cried out.

She was dismayed and afraid—as she hadn’t even moved him, yet. His eyes were tightly closed now, and sweat shone on his brow. He was panting.

A long moment passed. Jack inhaled and looked at her, his face hard with determination. “Help me sit, Evelyn,” he said, and it was an order.

Afraid to hurt him, Evelyn began to lift him. He grunted, biting off a groan, now sweating, leveraging himself up. He finally cried out, seated upright, and very abruptly, she jammed two pillows behind him.

“Bloody damn hell.” Jack sat there panting, his eyes closed, fighting the pain. Evelyn wiped away her tears and then picked up a damp cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow and temples. His lashes lifted and their gazes locked.