The Secret Rose (31 page)

Without realizing she’d moved, Abigail picked up the gun from the corner of the desk and hid it in the folds of her skirt, then slowly made her way to the door.

“Tell her to come out, Captain Cambridge, or your brother will pay for your stubbornness.”

Ethan’s voice sounded loud and harsh. “Stay where you are, Abby.”

Before she could reach for the handle, she heard the sickening thud of fists hitting flesh and knew Stephen had already paid for her refusal to come out.

Abigail turned the handle on the heavy oak door and pulled it open. Her gaze first sought Ethan. The gun he’d taken to protect himself lay on the floor in front of him.

She turned next to Stephen.

She did not know what she expected to find, what she expected to feel, but there was none of the anger and hatred she’d felt before. She was too relieved that he was alive.

Stephen stood to her left, his hands bound in front of him, the bloody results of the whip Stafford was so fond of using in evidence across his shoulders.

She looked at his face. The handsome features were still there, the strong cut of his jaw that matched Ethan’s, the high cheekbones, the full lips. But there the similarities ended. Stephen’s posture lacked Ethan’s strength. His bearing showed only a glimmer of the unspoken authority Ethan wore like a mantle. Stephen paled in comparison to the innate pride that was Ethan’s greatest asset.

His golden hair was long and unkempt, his face bruised and dirty, and he was thinner than the last time she’d seen him. But at least he was alive. She wanted to shout for joy. He was alive.

Their eyes met, his a bottomless pool of heartache and regret. She did not need words to understand what he was trying to tell her. His look alone said it all. He was begging for her forgiveness. She bit her bottom lip, wanting so terribly to let him know she forgave him everything. There was much for which she needed him to forgive her, too. She prayed he would somehow know.

He looked at her a long moment, then nodded, a sense of peace relaxing the tense muscles on his face.

He understood.

“I admit this is a lovely reunion,” Stafford said, “though I didn’t gather you together for your pleasure, but for mine.”

“You have me, Stafford,” Ethan said, stepping away from her and from Stephen. He made his way to the other side of the hall, as far from her as he could, as if the distance he was putting between them would protect her. “Let everyone else go. I’ll stay.”

“You don’t know how tempting that is, Cambridge. But I haven’t waited all these years to put you out of your misery. I prefer to create a hell from which you’ll never escape.”

Stafford lifted his pistol and pointed it at Ethan’s chest. “I want you to live the rest of your life regretting the day you stole my slaves. Regretting the day you ruined my reputation. The day you disgraced and humiliated me in front of my wife and my neighbors. I want every day to be a living hell for you because you are alive, and everyone you ever loved is dead.”

The air caught in Abigail’s throat. In that second, she knew Stafford intended to kill them.

She focused on the desperate look on Ethan’s face. His head moved the smallest bit toward his gun that lay on the floor. She shook her head. He’d be dead before he reached it.

Abigail clamped her fingers tighter on the gun hidden in the folds of her skirt. She knew she had no choice. Stafford’s demented mind was rife with hatred, crazed with revenge. He wouldn’t be satisfied until everyone Ethan cared about was dead, lost to him forever.

Stafford turned his head and smiled at her. A snide, vindictive snarl curled his lips. “I haven’t forgotten what you did to me the last time we met, Mrs. Cambridge. I’m not one to forgive easily.”

She would be first. She could see it in his eyes.

“Leave her alone, Stafford! This is between you and me. My wife has nothing to do with this.”

Stafford preened.

“You won’t get away with this,” Ethan said, moving closer to Stafford, closer to his gun that lay on the floor. She knew he was trying to draw the blackguard’s attention away from her. It worked for only a second.

“Won’t I?” Stafford laughed, then without hesitation swung toward her with his pistol raised.

“Abby! Dear God! No!”

Everything happened at once. Ethan threw himself toward Stafford, but he was too far away to stop him from firing.

Stephen catapulted toward her, leaping in front of her to act as a shield.

Stafford pulled the trigger and fired, the loud explosion ripping through the air. The bullet intended for her slammed into Stephen, hurtling him to the floor.

Abigail wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. Instead, she pulled the pistol from the folds of her skirt and answered Stafford’s shot with one of her own. The bullet hit him in the center of his chest.

Stafford staggered, the shocked look on his face filled with hatred and disbelief. He looked at the growing circle of blood, then raised a second gun and pointed it at her. She tried to fire again, but her gun wouldn’t fire. She had no way to protect herself.

She closed her eyes and waited to feel the pain. She heard the shot, loud and deafening, followed by a second shot. Nothing. She felt nothing.

She opened her eyes to find Stafford crumpled in a heap on the floor, his hate-filled eyes glazed even in death.

Without hesitation, Ethan swung his gun toward Stafford’s men lined up against the wall. No one moved. No one lifted a weapon to continue the fight. It was as if none of them wanted a part of Stafford’s revenge now that their leader was dead. Even money had not guaranteed loyalty in the men Stafford had hired to follow him. Especially when they realized their leader had been about to murder a woman in cold blood.

One by one they dropped their weapons to the floor, surrendering even before Mac burst through the front door.

“Abby, are you all right?” Ethan said, grasping her by the shoulders and holding her. His hands touched her face and her hair and her arms, as if he needed to make sure she wasn’t hurt.

She tried to stop shaking, but couldn’t. “I’m fine, Ethan,” she stammered, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. “But Stephen’s hurt.”

Ethan dropped his hands from her shoulders and bent down to Stephen lying on the floor. He didn’t move.

“Hang on, Stephen. Everything will be all right. We’ll get you upstairs and—”

“Ethan,” Stephen whispered, his voice weak, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Don’t talk, Stephen. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later.”

Stephen shook his head. “No. Now. There’s something…you…need to…know.”

“You can tell me later.” Ethan looked at Mac. “Give Stafford’s men four seconds to get him out of here. Shoot anyone who’s still here after five seconds. Then come help me with Stephen.”

Stafford’s men hastily gathered up their leader’s body and hurried from the house, then Mac and Ethan carried Stephen upstairs.

Abigail ran back to the study to get Mary Rose before following Ethan up the steps. When they reached the second floor, Abigail heard pounding from down the hall. She ran to the last room and turned the key in the door. Barney and the staff rushed out.

“Send someone for a doctor,” Abigail ordered, and one of the footmen raced down the stairs.

“We’ll need water and towels,” she ordered. “And bandages.”

Barney sent the staff scurrying to get what she needed. Abigail handed Mary Rose to one of the maids, then raced back to where they’d taken Stephen.

“Abigail,” Stephen said when she rushed into the room.

“I’m right here.” She grasped his hand and held it.

“I’m…sorry.”

“Shh,” she said, brushing her fingers across his forehead. “We can talk later, when you’re better.”

“What you saw…meant nothing.”

She swallowed hard. “I know, Stephen. I know.”

Stephen didn’t say more. Thankfully, he closed his eyes and lost consciousness.

She raised her head and found herself staring into Ethan’s questioning glare. There was still Mary Rose. The child was Stephen’s.

And there was only one way Abigail could keep her.

Ethan rolled his shoulders, then stretched his legs out in front of him. After three hours, it was difficult to find a more comfortable way to sit.

He looked at Stephen, peaceful in lightly sedated slumber on the bed, and felt a familiar rush of relief that his brother was improving. He would live. The doctor had declared so, yesterday morning, when he’d arrived to find Stephen standing at the side of the bed clutching the bedpost for support. Today they would take him out into the garden for a while. The sunshine would do him good.

Ethan shifted in his chair again, searching for a softer spot. The sun was just rising in the east, its hazy glow of oranges and purples and blues sifting through the open window, brightening the room. Stephen had more color in the daylight. Ethan was glad. More than once during the past three weeks, he’d feared his brother wouldn’t live to see another day. From the concern he saw on Abigail’s face, she didn’t, either.

A knot formed in the pit of Ethan’s stomach. They’d barely spoken since the day Stephen had been shot. Both existed in a secluded shell that kept their emotions isolated and tucked safely away. He didn’t have the courage to face his greatest fear—that once Stephen found out about Mary Rose, he’d refuse to give her up. And if he did, he knew what Abigail would do.

It could never be said that Abigail hoped Stephen wouldn’t survive. She’d cared for Stephen, staying at his side until she was weak with exhaustion. He couldn’t regret the hours she’d spent with his brother, nursing him, caring for him, even demanding that he take another breath when no one else thought he had another breath left in him.

Even though he’d been the man she’d been engaged to not that long ago, Ethan knew she no longer loved Stephen. If she ever had. The desperation in her lovemaking told him so. The way she clung to him was all the evidence he needed to know she loved him.

The tears she shed told him how frightened she was that she would have to make a choice between him and Mary Rose.

A sharp spasm of red shot through him, twisting his heart in his chest, and tearing it out by its very core. He’d even considered never telling Stephen about Mary Rose. He’d contemplated leaving with Abby and Mary Rose and not letting Stephen know he had a child.

But he knew he couldn’t keep Mary Rose from him. He was her father. He and Abby could never live with such a lie between them. And yet…

He clenched his fists around the arms of the padded chair. How could he demand she stay married to him when it meant she’d lose Mary Rose? Every secret she’d kept from him had been to protect the babe and keep her safe. Abigail would sooner die than be separated from her.

Ethan bolted from the chair and walked to the opposite side of the room. He prayed an answer to his problems would magically appear. But he knew one wouldn’t.

The only solution was to give Abby up and let her make a life with Stephen and Mary Rose. But, bloody hell, he was loath to even consider that. And what if she carried his child? There was that possibility. How could he give her up if his babe was growing in her?

Ethan breathed in a deep breath that burned in his lungs. If only he didn’t love her so. Then giving her up wouldn’t hurt so much.

“From the look on your face, Ethan, you are in more pain than I.”

Ethan looked over his shoulder to where Stephen lay on the bed. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No. I think it’s a good sign, when I no longer want to sleep away my days and nights.”

Ethan smiled. “It’s a very good sign. Can I get you something? Something to eat or drink?”

“No. Please, sit down. Stay with me for a while. I’d like to talk to you while Abigail isn’t here. There are many things we need to discuss privately.”

Ethan sat back in the chair and placed his right ankle atop his left knee. He hoped his relaxed posture made it look as though he wasn’t terrified of what would result from this conversation.

Stephen leveled a penetrating gaze at Ethan. “Abigail tells me you and she are wed.”

Ethan lifted his chin. “Yes. It seemed the best decision, considering…”

“Considering she’d inherited a clipper you needed desperately in order to save my inheritance,” Stephen finished for him.

“You didn’t leave your holdings in very stable condition, my lord.”

Stephen had the good grace to look sheepish. “No, I did not.” He paused. “Do I have anything to go home to?”

“Your creditors agreed to extend your credit once I announced my betrothal to Abigail. They knew about the clipper she inherited upon her father’s death.”

“Is that why you married her? Only to pay my debts?”

The breath caught in Ethan’s lungs. “We agreed to marry because it suited us both.”

“Ah, Ethan,” Stephen said on a heavy sigh. “You always were better suited to be the earl than I.”

Ethan gave a harsh laugh. “No. I just learned at an early age that I wouldn’t be afforded the pampered life you were granted. That I’d always have to make my own way in the world and couldn’t depend on Father and Mother to shower me with favors.”

“And their harshness made you a better person,” Stephen answered. “Their leniency spoiled me unmercifully. I’ve no excuses for what happened. The condition of the estates is all my fault. My only defense is that after Father died, I found that for the first time in my life I was free to make decisions of my own. There was no one looking over my shoulder, criticizing me for how I spent my money. It was a newfound freedom I had no idea how to handle. And then I met Abigail and thought if I married her, I’d have an endless supply of the riches her father’s clipper ship brought in.”

Stephen struggled to sit up straighter on the bed, and Ethan leaned over to put another pillow behind him. “Has Abigail told you what happened between us?” Stephen asked when he was settled.

“I know that you had an affair with her mother. That Abigail discovered the two of you together. And in her anger, she struck you, knocking you unconscious.”

Stephen took in a breath that shuddered in the predawn shadows.