The Wicked One (31 page)

He collapsed and lay there in the thin snow, cradling his dead wife to his chest and finally allowing the tears to come.  Tears that, once started, would not stop, but only gathered force like a river that has broken its dam.  Great, hitching sobs locked up his chest and convulsed his body with grief.  He crushed her in his arms, buried his face in her hair, and unbuckling her, let the wracking sobs consume him.

Blackheath.

At first he thought it was only a product of his tortured mind, his bitter, crushing guilt, that brought the word into his head.  He tightened his arms around her.  She was dead.

"Blackheath."

A ghost.

"Lucien . . . you — you came for me . . ."

No ghost.  He raised his head, shoved his fingers into her hair to anchor her head, and looked down at her white, white face.  At the eyes, half-closed and glazed with shock, that stared up into his.  She wasn't dead.  She ought to be, but she was not.

"Eva — "

"Lucien . . .  I hurt.  Hurt all over."  Her voice was thin, thready.  Dear God, he had to get her warm.  Had to get her to safety.  Had to get her to a doctor.

He gathered her up in his arms and, slipping on ice, carried her to the lee of the overturned coach, settling her against the undercarriage.  He wished he had his coat to cover her.  Wished he had a horse.  Wished to God he'd set out in search of her earlier, instead of drowning himself in self-pity and despair.

"Where do you hurt, sweeting?"

She tipped her head back against the coach, closing her eyes.  "It's gone, Lucien . . . gone."

Immediately, he knew what she meant.  His hands shaking, he tried to warm them on his own freezing body, to no avail.  Fearing the worst, he carefully lifted her skirts — and felt everything inside him still. She was covered in blood.  Her legs were streaked with it, her thighs soaked with it.  And it was still coming out of her.

She began to cry.

Wordlessly, Lucien gathered her close as her body lurched with great, hitching sobs of pain and grief.  He set his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut and rocked her, his own pain so intense he thought he might die from it.  Her arms came around him, clinging like a child.  She tried to bury herself against him, her tears scalding his neck.  Lucien's throat closed with agony.  This was all his fault.  He had done this to her.  To their unborn baby.  In seeking to keep his child here in England, he had killed it.

Killed it.

"Eva."

He held her against him, feeling the wind rocking the overturned vehicle against which they rested.  Rothwell should have returned by now.  Where was he?  "Eva, I must go get help."

"Don't leave me, Lucien — oh, please, don't leave me."

She was crying again, unable to think, only feel.  Gone was her hatred of him; gone was her stubborn, willful pride, her beautiful fire; in its place was only this broken shell to which he had reduced her, this pitiful, sobbing little girl-woman who would die if he did not get her to safety soon.

"Eva, listen to me," he said, peeling her from his chest and setting her back.  He looked into her eyes, but her soul was gone, along with all reason, comprehension, and understanding, and only two empty orbs of pain looked back at him.  "Eva — I am going for help.  You must stay here, do you understand me?"

"Don't leave me.  Please, don't leave me."

"Darling, I have to.  I will be back for you.  You must promise me to hold on, to stay awake, to muster every reason you can think of to hate me, if only to keep fighting, do you understand?  Do not fall asleep — do not leave
me
, Eva.  I cannot go on without you."  He pulled her close, dropping a long, trembling kiss upon her icy brow.  "Don't leave me, because I love you."

"Don't leave me," she repeated, her words a whisper.

He loved her.  He had said it, but she had not comprehended, for the only thing she knew was pain and shock and grief.  Lucien stood up on his one good leg, knowing, even as he surveyed the coach that he had not the strength to push it back over.  Oh, hell.  Oh bloody, ripping hell.  Snow sifted down around him, coating his eyelashes, and his body was shivering uncontrollably.  Desperately, he wondered what he could do to shelter her . . . and then realized there might be a rug in the boot.

On one leg, he hobbled around the overturned coach, managed to get the boot open, and yes — oh, thank God — found a blanket.

He carried it back to her.  Her eyes were closed.  Panicking, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her until they opened once more.

"Don't leave me, Lucien . . ."

He could not answer her.  If he did not leave her, she would die here, in his arms.  He pulled her closer to the coach, trying to wedge her between the axle and undercarriage, and tucked the blanket around her to keep out the cold.  Then, gently taking her hands, he kissed each palm and tucked them beneath the blanket.

He got to his feet, resolved on a course of action, cursing Rothwell, who should have returned long before now.  Around them, the snow whispered down . . . slow, deadly, silent.

She looked at him, a flicker of comprehension in her eyes, of panic — before her lids lowered once more.

Lucien turned on his heel.  He tucked his raw, reddened hands beneath his armpits to try and warm them, and, dragging his useless foot, shivering uncontrollably in the cold, began the long trek back to the house.

Chapter 26

The riders that Lucien had heard galloping through the night had been no mere drunken hallucination.  His brothers, who had set off in immediate pursuit of Nerissa, had found her in Southampton, waiting for a ship to take her to France; now, she was safe in the coach that accompanied them, and her brothers had decided to spend a few days at Gingermere before returning their angry sister to Blackheath Castle.

Covered in snow and frozen to the bone, they entered the house only to find the place in an uproar.  His and Her Graces had argued. 
His and HER Graces?
Charles had expostulated, when his siblings could only stare in shock.

"He married her this afternoon," explained the housekeeper.

"They had a blazing row and she left him an hour ago," added the butler.  "In the storm."

And then an extremely distraught young man whose face was blistered with cold had burst in, babbling that the duchess was dead, fallen down the cliff, and that he had met His Grace — who'd appeared to be quite under the weather with drink — out on the cliffs, wearing no coat, no greatcoat, nothing but a thin shirt to protect him from the elements, and that His Grace had gone to retrieve the duchess's body and that everyone in the house was supposed to turn out to help —

Thank God for Lord Charles, whose military training and competent, reassuring manner were enough to bring order out of chaos.  "Everybody
quiet
," he ordered in a sharp voice that instantly quelled all clamor.  He faced them all, snow and ice still dripping from his blond queue and down his broad, commanding back.  "Now listen to me."

He was not wearing his army uniform, but he might as well have been.  He was the officer his men knew and respected — and as one, the panicky household quieted and gave him their full attention.

Charles faced the shivering groom who had just arrived.  "Someone fetch this man a hot drink.  What is your name?"

"Rothwell, my lord."

"Rothwell, tell me exactly what happened, where you left the duchess, and where you last saw my brother."

Teeth chattering, Rothwell croaked out the tale, repeating His Grace's orders, wringing his reddened hands, and saying over and over again that if only the duchess had stayed put she wouldn't have died.  "She's at Taverton Bend, my lord . . . halfway down the cliff."

Grim-faced, Charles listened to this tale and then immediately began to bark out orders.

"You there —" he beckoned to a footman — "what is your name?  Peterson?  Well, Peterson, listen closely.  I want you to ride into the village and fetch the doctor.  You will detain him here until my brothers and I return with the duke and duchess.  Go now."

"And you."  He summoned the housekeeper.  "You are?"

"Mrs. Cantwell, my lord."

"Mrs. Cantwell, I want you and your staff to ready the bedrooms, build up the fires, gather all the blankets you can find, and have something hot and nourishing waiting when we all get back.  My sister will help you."

"Yes my lord."

"And you.  Johnson, yes?  Run to the stables, find twenty yards of rope, and get the saddles back on our horses as fast as you can move.  I'll need blankets and a lantern as well.  Now hurry."

One by one, Charles took the trouble to learn the names — and earn the loyalty — of those he would entrust with each task, and then, satisfied that all was running as smoothly as he could make it, he sent for his own wet greatcoat, called for a spare, and, with Gareth and Andrew hot on his heels, hurried back into the night.

He had a feeling there was no time to lose.

~~~~

Lucien had long since given up trying to walk.

Where his ankle had been, there was only agony.  Had he the time, he might have torn a strip from his sleeve and bound up the gaping leg wound, but he dared not waste even a single moment.  All that mattered was reaching the house . . . and bringing help back for Eva.

But his leg, damn it, would not support him.  He found a stick, frozen to the ground, and managed to pry it loose, only to have it break when he tried to use it as a crutch.  He flung it aside and continued on, hobbling on one foot, dragging the other, until ice cost him his balance and he went sprawling, landing hard on his chin and sending his teeth through the tip of his tongue.  He hauled himself to his feet, spitting out blood, the cold making him dizzy now, light-headed, faint.  Still he pressed on.  And fell again.

He began to crawl, ignoring the pain in his frozen hands as he pulled himself through the thin, crusted snow.  How far had he come?  How far back had he left Eva?  He wasn't sure.  Nothing existed now except cold.  Pain.  And the only thing that continued to drive him:

The knowledge that if he did not reach the house, his wife would die.

The ache in his hands became unbearable.  He got to his knees and then, using his injured ankle for balance, back to his feet.  He put weight upon that ankle, forcing it to do work it could not do, hating it for its incompetence, punishing it with pain for giving out on him.  He would not let it stop him.  Would not let it keep him from saving his duchess's life.

He was ever so cold.  His wet shirt had frozen now, chafing his skin raw.  His teeth chattered in his head, and he felt an increasingly urgent need to stop, to lie down . . . to sleep.  And still the snow fell, whispering down all around him.  He paused, panting, and gazed out into the night.  Nothing but darkness.  The persistent hiss of falling snow.  And far off to his right, the sea.

Keep moving.

It was anguish just to move his legs.  Agony just to draw breath.  To stay awake.

Don't fall asleep,
he had told her.

Don't fall asleep,
he ordered himself.

But he was fast losing the ability to think.  His mind was no longer obeying his will, and neither was his body.  He shook with cold, with exhaustion — with shock.  It became an effort just to keep his eyes open.  Again he fell.  Again, he managed to get to his feet, rods of agony shooting up his injured leg, the snow behind him bloody where he had fallen.  But the agony kept him awake.  Alive.  In sleep lay death.  He knew that.  He pressed on, forcing weight onto the leg, welcoming the pain because pain meant survival.

He concentrated on each step.  Welcomed each burst of pain.  Thought only of Eva, lying back there alone, helpless, probably dying, maybe already dead.  She was depending on him.  He could not fail her.  Where the hell was Rothwell?  Why hadn't he returned?  Where was everyone?

Where, for that matter, was he?

Keep moving.

He did — and then his leg gave out from under him.  He tumbled down an incline, his body crashing through ice, salt water stinging his eyes, filling his nose, choking him.

Recoiling with cold, he clawed to the surface and, gasping hoarsely, blinked the salt from his eyes.

The inlet.  The damned inlet.  He was nearly home, then.  Nearly to safety.  Warmth.  And most importantly of all, help for Eva.

But he was too cold.  He couldn't think.  His strength was rapidly failing him.  Floes of ice were drifting down on him, hitting his face, the arm he weakly raised to try and deflect them.  He went under.  Clawed back to the surface just as another chunk of ice smashed into his back.  He willed strength into his exhausted arms, his legs, but there was nothing left.  Nothing.  With one last, desperate kick, he propelled himself to shore, dragged himself partway up the frozen bank, and shut his eyes, ice and salt water still flowing over his legs.

Keep moving.

He tried.

Keep moving, damn it!

His face fell against the frozen bank.  His body would no longer obey him.  Blackness encroached upon his vision field, and he tried, a last time, to move.  Failed.  And then Lucien whispered the two words he had never thought to utter, only his lips moving against the ice that pillowed his cheek.

"I . . . cannot."

And succumbed to the darkness.

~~~~

Charles, carrying a lantern and mounted on his faithful military mount, Contender, led his brothers toward the bridge.  He refused to think of what they might find out there in the darkness.  Refused to think they might be too late.  Refused to think at all, except of finding his brother and sister-in-law.

"Charles, hold up!"

It was Gareth, just behind him on Crusader, pulling the horse up as they crested the bridge; behind him, Andrew's grey thoroughbred, Newton, nearly plowed into Contender's haunches.  "Look, there's someone in the water down there!"

Charles stared in the direction that Gareth indicated and felt his heart still.  "It's Lucien," he said, already swinging off Contender and running across the bridge.