Time After Time (286 page)

“Who are you?” Gerald demanded.

“My name is Isabelle Lockwood,” she answered.

Gerald’s grip on the gun slackened slightly as he frowned. “Lockwood? You married to one of the sons, then.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Not anymore.”

The shadowed eyes clouded in confusion. “‘Ere, then, what’s that mean?”

Finally, an idea took hold. If Isabelle could just keep him talking, an opportunity of some sort would present itself. Or, she argued with herself, he would get tired of talking and kill both her
and
Naomi.
Oh, well
, she supposed,
in for a penny, in for a pound —
and she was already in for a guinea, at least.

Isabelle shrugged and exhaled. She strolled down the row of violets and stopped to pick a dead leaf from a plant. Gerald followed her movement with his eyes.

“I used to be married to Marshall Lockwood,” she explained. “We wed before he was the duke. He divorced me after his father died.” She met the gaze of Naomi’s captor and spoke carefully. “I’ve been angry at him, too. I understand how you feel. But you need to release Lady Naomi now. She’s no part of your quarrel with His Grace.”

The convict shook visibly. His hat came loose and toppled to the floor. Red tresses tumbled to just past the
woman’s
shoulders. Isabelle gasped. “Like hell she ain’t!” the incensed woman spat. “He took everything from me.”

Isabelle shook her head, bewildered. “How can that be? Who are you?”

“Sally Palmer,” she said proudly, “the woman who loves Mr. Thomas Gerald.”

Naomi met Isabelle’s startled gaze with a bewildered look of her own. Isabelle extended a hand. “I’m afraid I’m a trifle lost. If you’ll just put down the gun, I’m sure we can reach an understanding.”

“Oh, no I won’t!” Sally Palmer bellowed. Naomi flinched away from the mouth near her ear. “This here high-falootin’ la-a-ady,” she mocked with a sneer, “is part of the family what ruined my Thomas. I know all about Lockwoods and Monthwaites, and that nothing but bad ever comes of ’em. The old duke sent my Thomas into exile, but all on the fault of the new duke.”

“Miss Palmer,” Isabelle spread her hands to reason with the woman, who was little more than a girl in truth, “Mr. Gerald served the sentence for his crime. And unless I’m mistaken, you met Mr. Gerald during his exile, so you cannot say nothing but bad came of it. Done is done, is it not? Why continue to harbor ill will against the Monthwaite family?”

Sally Palmer’s lips drew into a thin line, and her face turned an angry purple. “He didn’t do it!” she shrieked. Isabelle stepped back at the force of her tone. Naomi let out a piteous cry. “That vile man’s the one killed that horse and foal!” Sally continued. “And the bloody coward let Thomas take the blame!”

“What?” Isabelle shook her head. The woman was crazed, she reminded herself. Otherwise, she wouldn’t spout such nonsense and behave in this erratic manner.

“It’s true!” Sally’s voice took on a pleading tone. “Thomas told me all about it when I nursed him through the ’fluenza.” She licked her lips. “As Thomas tells it, they was like friends. Not really, I know,” she said derisively, “but he used to come to the stables and talk while my Thomas worked. Spoiled, do-nothing lordling,” she spat as an aside. “He used to tell Thomas about plants and things they could do.”

Isabelle blinked. That did sound like a young Marshall.

Sally Palmer dropped the gun to her side, but kept a firm grip on Naomi. Her riding hat was askew atop her head, and her hair hung in loose strands over her captor’s arm.

“Then there was a brood mare, Priscilla, Thomas called her.” Sally shook her head sadly. “He told me how ’e worried over her, with her foal not coming when it should, and her starting to get sick-like.” The young woman’s voice took on a pleading quality as she continued her tale. “Then one day the young lord comes in to check on Priscilla. Says he had an idea to help her start her foaling. He mixes up this and that, but he asks Thomas to give it to her. So he do. Then here’s the mare and her foal dead, and Thomas blamed for it, neat as can be.” Rage and anguish warred, contorting Sally’s features.

Isabelle’s face went cold. She stared at the frantic girl. Somehow, she recognized herself in Sally’s words; recognized the same tone of desperation as she told her story of a man wrongfully accused, just as Isabelle had been, and had longed for someone to believe her innocent of adultery. Reason told her Sally was lying. But if she wasn’t?

“My brother would never do that!” Naomi protested.

Sally yanked her head back by the hair. Naomi cried out in pain. “He would and he did,” she said darkly, looming over her.

She was coming unhinged, Isabelle realized.

“I know how you feel,” Isabelle blurted. There was no time to analyze the veracity of the woman’s claims. Right now, she just had to keep her distracted from Naomi. “If there’s anyone held higher in public scorn than a convict, it’s a divorced woman.” She raised her chin and laughed nervously, hoping she conveyed some sense of fraternity.

Calmly, as though strolling through the roses at a garden party, she began moving toward the armed woman and Naomi.

“Monthwaite did quite a number on me, too.” She stopped to smell a blossom on Marshall’s pea plants.

“Then you know exactly what I mean,” Sally said. “You know why I’ve got to get back at him.”

Isabelle nodded once, firmly. “Indeed I do, Miss Palmer. But consider: The Duke of Monthwaite is a ridiculously wealthy, powerful man. If you bring harm to his sister or property, you will hang. But a ransom,” she said widening her eyes, “might be just the thing. He could give you and Mr. Gerald enough money to start over. You could go to Canada,” she suggested. “What do you think?”

Sally’s brow creased. “I don’t think Thomas would like that. We passed a couple years in the islands, but he tol’ me he was going to bring me to England, that we’d have a life here.” She stared blankly out the glass wall; her arm around Naomi’s neck slackened. Isabelle inched toward Marshall’s workbench.

The greenhouse door flew open with a crack. “Release her, Miss Palmer,” Marshall demanded, pointing his own pistol at the miscreant.

Isabelle’s heart kicked at the sight of him. His wavy, dark hair was in windswept disarray, and the dust and mud splatters all over his finely tailored clothes bespoke his long day in the saddle.

In a flash, Sally’s arm clamped around Naomi once again, and the gun pressed to her head.

Isabelle cursed. Marshall’s eyes flew to her. Isabelle nodded once, answering his unspoken question. Yes, she was all right.

“So glad you’ve descended from on high to join us, Yer Grace,” Sally mocked. “I’d begun to think I wouldn’t have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, but now that you’re here, there’s something I’d like to discuss.”

“And what would that be?” Marshall mused.

“Do not play stupid with me!” Spittle flew from Sally’s lips. Her nostrils flared. “I’m going to make it real clear for you, Monthwaite. Drop your gun, or I kill your sister.”

Isabelle heard the sickening sound of Sally’s pistol cocking.

Marshall held his hands out and slowly bent his knees, placing the gun on the floor.

“Kick it,” Sally demanded.

Marshall shoved the pistol with his foot. It spun away under a table, out of reach.

“And now,” Sally said through tight lips, “we’re going to have that discussion. Or, to be more precise,
you’re
going to do some discussing. I’m going to listen and so are these ladies. And so help me God, don’t you dare pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

Just then, another man burst into the greenhouse — lean and hard in appearance, his face had the rugged look of a man much used to working out-of-doors. Panting, he pressed one hand to his heaving chest and raised the other. “Sally,” he gasped, “stop this madness!”

“Thomas!” Sally beamed at the newcomer. “I was going to come home to you again, my love, just as soon as it was all over.”

“It’s over now, Sally,” the man proclaimed. “You made your point with the mare, though I wish to God you hadn’t done — you know I wouldn’t have wanted you to,” he chided. “There’s no need to harm anyone else. Put down the gun.”

Sally shook her head; a strand of hair clung to her sweat-sheened cheek in a graceful curve incongruous with the mad gleam in her eyes. “I can’t, Thomas. Don’t you see? I’m doing this for you, dear heart, for us!” She nodded fervently, then returned her attention to Marshall. “Even better,” she announced with a triumphant lift of her chin. “You can say it in front of these ladies
and
Thomas. Do it!”

Isabelle’s eyes went back and forth between Sally and Marshall. At last, Marshall ducked his head in a gesture of capitulation.

When he lifted his head again, his dark eyes were filled with anguish. “I’m responsible for the death of the mare and her foal.”

Isabelle inhaled sharply. That wasn’t really true. He was just saying it to appease Sally, wasn’t he?

“I cooked the herbal medicine,” Marshall said. “I made a mistake, and it went wrong.” He shook his head slowly. “I was scared and ashamed, and I let Mr. Gerald take the blame. For that, I am sincerely and utterly sorry.”

A cold, hard weight settled in Isabelle’s stomach. It was true, all of it.

Marshall held his hands out, palms up. “I understand why you are angry. But if you’d just listen — ”

“You ruined his life!” Sally snapped. “When I met him, my Thomas was on a labor gang of criminals instead of practicing an honest trade. D’you know how hard it’ll be, with that hanging over us?” A strangled sound came from her throat, and it took Isabelle a moment to realize the woman was holding back furious tears. “But I’ll do it, Thomas,” she swore passionately. “I’ll stay by your side through thick and thin, just like a good woman should, no matter how this lyin’ bastard has spoiled things for us.”

“Sally, please put down the gun,” Thomas begged. “You’re not helping me none this way!”

Isabelle watched the young woman in horrified fascination. She shook visibly with the force of her anger and hurt, her countenance as terrible as an avenging angel.

“Will taking Lady Naomi’s life somehow make it all better?” Marshall reasoned.

Sally sniffed. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand holding the gun. She shook her head. “No,” she said in a quieter, calmer tone. “But taking yours will.” In one smooth motion, she raised her hand, then lowered her arm and pulled the trigger.

The gun’s rapport slammed against Isabelle’s eardrums. Marshall collapsed to the greenhouse floor.

Naomi screamed and Thomas bellowed.

Isabelle barely registered what had happened. She seized one of the heavy jugs Marshall used for mixing plant food from the workbench and ran. With the murderous shot still ringing in her ears, she brought the jug crashing down on the crown of Sally’s head. The woman fell in a heavy heap with her arm still around Naomi, pulling her down to the floor, too.

Isabelle tossed aside the remnants of the jug and dragged Naomi free of Sally’s grasp. She grabbed the gun then raced across the floor and knelt beside Marshall.

A trickle of blood seeped from beneath his prone body, spreading crimson fingers across the flagstones. “Help me roll him,” Isabelle said. Together, the women and Thomas Gerald turned Marshall onto his back. Thomas then sprinted to assess Sally’s condition.

Marshall’s face was ashen; he groaned weakly.

A wound in his upper thigh bled freely. Isabelle clamped her hand on top of the bullet hole. Marshall’s blood welled up between her fingers, hot and wet, and spilled down to join the rapidly growing puddle on the floor. In desperation, she hastily wadded her skirt and pressed it against the wound. She had to stanch the blood; a leg wound could easily prove fatal. “Get help!” she yelled.

Naomi blanched as she watched in wide-eyed alarm. She nodded quickly, scrambled to her feet, and ran from the greenhouse, screaming at the top of her lungs.

Isabelle pressed down on Marshall’s leg with all her strength. His lips drained of color, and it seemed to her that his breathing was becoming shallow.

Her heart felt as though it were ripping in two. She cried out in anguish. “Don’t you die,” she wailed. “You cannot!”

The fabric of her skirt was soon sodden with his lifeblood. Marshall was slipping away beneath her fingers. A primal scream tore from her throat. She redoubled her efforts at compression, willing her own life to pass into Marshall.

He drew a shuddering breath and was still.

Chapter Nineteen

Pain.

He was on fire. Fire all over.

“He’s waking.”

“Keep him still! There’s no room for error. If I slip, we’ll lose him.”

“Drink, Your Grace.”

Something wet touched his lips. He drank deeply and greedily, trying to quench the fire.

A cool touch on his head, like a breath of air.

“Isabe — ”

• • •

Pain.

Sharp and throbbing all at once, radiating from his thigh. His stomach felt weak. His very bones hurt.

“You awake, Marsh?”

He dragged his eyelids over hot, dry eyes.

Sunlight filtered around the heavy curtains covering his windows. He squinted. Grant sat in an armchair that’d been brought near the bed.

He opened his mouth to speak, but coughed. His tongue was dry and swollen. “Water,” he croaked.

Grant poured a glass from the carafe on the bedside table and supported his head while he drank. “Now that you’re awake, I suppose the danger has passed and I’ve missed my chance to become duke.” He smiled wryly.

Marshall exhaled a raspy laugh. “Still could happen. Don’t have a surplus of heirs at the moment.”

He fell heavily against his pillow and stared at the plaster ceiling for several minutes. “How long’ve I been out?” he slurred.

“Almost two days.”

Marshall nodded. His memory of the greenhouse was hazy. He remembered riding like hellfire after encountering Thomas Gerald. He’d gone looking for Isabelle when she wasn’t in the kitchen, and followed her silly, ingenious carrot trail to the greenhouse. It was all murky after that. The raw fear at finding his sister and his beloved held by an armed kidnapper was all that remained.