Once he gained the cottage, he shot a glance at Simon. “Finished?”
“Yes.” The boy shoved his bowl away. He’d only eaten half the fare. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“Oh?”
“My tummy hurts.” He pressed a hand to his belly. “I want Mama.”
“I know. So do I.” Coming closer, his chest tight with both worry and pride, Cecil offered a hand. “Let’s go upstairs. I think you could benefit from an early night anyway, for you’ve had more than enough excitement this week for any boy your age.” He didn’t need to stress over his mother’s safety.
That is my job.
As the boy exchanged his clothing for his night shirt and he climbed into the narrow bed, he contemplated Cecil with wide eyes. “Are you going out to find Mama?”
“I am.” Gently, he drew the sheet and quilt over the boy and tucked him in. Then he put another log into the fireplace and watched as the flames slowly licked over the wood. “No matter what, Simon, I need you to stay in this room until I return. Do you understand?” He turned and leveled a look on his son but couldn’t quell a fond smile.
“Yes.” The boy seemed so pale beneath his covers with his little head peeking out and his hands clutching the counterpane. “You will bring her back, won’t you?”
“Absolutely, I will.” With a nod of confidence he didn’t quite feel, Cecil left the room, firmly closing the door behind him. He then crossed the narrow hall and entered his own chamber, going straight to the bed and kneeling before it.
Drawing out a flat wooden box, he opened the lid and withdrew one of the two pistols resting inside. Never did he wish to employ a firearm again, but he would bring it with him in case it was needed. And so help him, if that black hearted stalker had anything to do with her delay, there would be hell to pay.
After sliding the box far beneath the bed, Cecil stood and pocketed the pistol. As quietly and as quickly as he could, he went back downstairs, grabbed the lantern from the table where the detritus of Simon’s meal rested and then just as silently left the cottage. By hell or high water, he would not step foot in the place again without Sarah.
He’d traversed the road, the illumination from his lantern the only light for miles, and at the halfway mark, dark shapes lay huddled before him.
“Please, God, no.” Breaking into a run, Cecil tore down the road until he reached the objects. He blew out a shuddering breath upon discovering a few brown paper-wrapped packages tumbled into the snow. Kneeling, he examined the largest one. Sarah’s name was scrawled on the top. His chest squeezed as he traced the handwriting with a gloved fingertip.
She’d been here. So where was she now?
Shoving misgivings and fears to the back of his mind, Cecil put the lantern closer to the ground. Two sets of footprints were partially covered—hers and from someone much larger.
A man. And not only that, mussed snow indicated there’d been a struggle of some sort.
“Damn and blast.” Cecil rose into a standing position his muscles protested. He held the lantern high as a chilly breeze caught at his greatcoat. The footsteps veered off the road and went into the meadow. “Where the devil is he taking her?”
It didn’t matter, for no amount of distance would keep Cecil from rescuing her.
When he came across traces of the snow angels he’d made with Sarah and Simon—footprints marring the pretty scene—familiar anger built in his chest, only this time it wasn’t from the perceived failures of his past. Someone—some man—dared to take Sarah from him, and that went beyond the pale.
Hastening his steps, he followed the prints in the snow. Truly, was the man so ignorant that he’d leave obvious evidence as to his trail?
Perhaps the miscreant didn’t care, or he was blinded by his hatred. If he had a pistol and he’d threatened her—
A feminine scream rent the silence. Cecil bolted toward the sound, the muscles in his leg aching. The light from his swinging lantern sent creepy shadows and light bouncing over the snowy ground.
“Sarah?” He feared the breeze swallowed his shout. “Where are you, sweeting? Give me a clue, and I’ll be there to serve vengeance.” In a small part of his brain, such old-fashioned talk amused him, but it was true. There’d be nowhere for the bastard to hide.
“Cecil!” Terror propelled the word over the snow and through the darkness. But she was an intelligent woman, and the vocalization gave him a fair direction. “Help me! He’ll shoot—”
Her cry was abruptly cut off, and he was loathe to contemplate why, but the reasoning spiked his anger and quickened his steps. If that man had harmed her in any way, he would give up his life for the trespass.
Then he saw them, and the sight chilled his blood. A tall man with tousled black hair stood behind Sarah, the nose of a pistol jammed into her ribs while he held her captive by choking her within the vee of his free arm. And, dash it all, her hands were bound behind her back.
Such audacity would not go unpunished. “Release the lady at once,” he ordered as he edged closer.
“Ah, and here comes the gallant hero. Unexpected, but it will allow me to kill two birds with one stone as it were,” the man drawled, the sarcasm and hatred in his dry tone more than evident.
Cecil snorted. “Never, over the course of my twenty-year military career have I considered myself a hero.” He raked his gaze up and down Sarah’s person, but it was too dark and her position too perilous to ascertain any degree of injury. “I am a solider, sir. Have only done what has been needed.” And now Sarah needed him more than ever.
I won’t muck this up, love.
“What gammon.” The man spat upon the ground. In the erratic light of the lantern, his face twisted into a mask of hate. “You’re retired, sent home broken and near death, and disfigured besides.” Cecil must have shown his shock, for the man grinned, and it was a macabre affair. “Oh yes, I’ve heard of you. At one time, every club in London talked about the men of valor, built on the battlefields. You’re a decorated officer, a hero on the fields, proud and humble, should have died twice over. Yet you are too stubborn for all of that.”
“How do you know so much about me, Mr.?” Slowly, he set the lantern on the ground at his feet. It would only hinder his reactions.
“I’m skilled at finding out what I need to know.” The man shrugged, and when Sarah attempted to wriggle away, he tightened the crook of his elbow about her delicate throat. The whimper she gave off slashed through Cecil’s chest. “My apologies. I’m Owen Bradley, and I’m sure you know I’m here to have my revenge upon Mrs. Presley.”
Cecil rolled his eyes. “There is no honor in revenge.”
“I left honor behind when England turned its back on me.”
“There’s a reason for that, don’t you think?” He didn’t care to discuss the reasoning that had brought this man into his life. The fact he threatened Sarah demanded immediate attention.
“Yes, well, let’s return to the subject of your presence in Mrs. Presley’s life, shall we?” When Cecil stood stoic with a glare focused on the blackheart, Mr. Bradley continued. “When I finally managed to unearth Sarah’s hiding place and I gained her garden that first time, imagine my surprise when you turned up, playing the hero to the woman who would have been a spy had she not found herself pregnant.”
“Do not expect to slander this woman if you wish to survive the night.” Warning rumbled through his voice, and slowly, oh so slowly, he slipped his right hand into the pocket of his greatcoat.
“Cecil... don’t... antagonize him,” Sarah managed to gasp out. She kicked back at her captor, but he easily avoided her attack, which meant she’d tried the tactic on him before.
“Men like Mr. Bradley do not respond to niceties, but then, I didn’t expect anything above such underhandedness from a man who betrayed his regiment, his friends, and his country,” Cecil responded in the same quiet, barely-controlled voice.
“I don’t respond to guilt either, Major Stapleton.” Mr. Bradley narrowed his ey
es to slits. The malice on his face was magnified in the shadows.
“But you know better, don’t you?” He pulled the pistol from his pocket and brought it up, leveling the nose at the man opposite him. “You used to fight with honor, you had a purpose. This isn’t it.”
Mr. Bradley laughed, and the sound sent prickles down Cecil’s back. He was near to unhinged. “I became disenchanted at carrying out another man’s dictates, so I forged my own path... until Mrs. Presley ruined everything.” Again, he tightened his hold, and Sarah gasped for breath. Tears shimmered on her pale cheeks in the anemic light.
“Cease this madness, and I vow to go easy on you.”
“I rather doubt that, Major. Once a solider, always a solider.” When Sarah struck backward with her bound hands, the man shoved the nose of his pistol harder into her side, effectively quelling her movements.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Cecil didn’t relax his posture. “Soldiers kill to protect what they hold dear. Though I vowed to never again take up arms against my fellow man, I will this night, because you have no right to trespass where you have.” He had his pistol trained on the man, but he didn’t have a clear shot. He knew it and Mr. Bradley knew the same. It took all his concentration to hold the damned thing steady, to command his weak muscles not to shake. For Sarah, he would do this. For Simon’s future, he had to even as distaste soured his stomach.
“Bah! You know nothing of it.” Mr. Bradley glared. “This woman destroyed my life. I have every right.” He again tightened his hold about Sarah’s neck. More of the fight left her, and with her wrists bound behind her back, her struggles were ineffective. No doubt the lack of proper breathing had taken its toll.
“No.” For each bruise she’d accumulate this night, Cecil would make certain this man paid for them. “From the way I understand it, you destroyed your life all by yourself. Traitors always do.” He kept his pistol level with nary a tremor, his gaze never wavering. “Let her go, Mr. Bradley. This will not end well for you either way.”
“That remains to be seen, but life requires an eye for an eye, don’t you think?” He glared, grew more agitated when Cecil didn’t answer. “You cannot tell me that you’ve not wished revenge upon those who killed the men in your regiment, the men who wounded you, put you down as if you were little more than a cur in the street.”
Anger twisted in his chest like shrapnel remnants, but it didn’t hurt as much as it once had. “Perhaps I did at one time.” He flicked his gaze to Sarah and his heart gave a mighty thud as if starting back to life. She’d done that. “Now I know what it is to let go of the anger and to take up the reins of living again.” There was no way to get off a shot without running the risk of hitting her, so he would bide his time. If nothing else, he’d learned the value of patience on the battlefield.
“Spare me the maudlin declarations.” Mr. Bradley spat again. “Mrs. Presley is not worth your time. She keeps secrets; has made a life on the backs of them. I’ll wager she’s not told you everything by half.”
Cecil shrugged. He met Sarah’s terrified gaze and offered a tiny grin. “That is part of a woman’s mystery, Mr. Bradley.” It didn’t matter what her history with this man was. He didn’t care why Mr. Bradley had deemed it necessary to reach this pass. The future offered a blank slate for both him and Sarah. “Perhaps if things had been different, had you made other decisions, you might realize this for yourself.”
Silence reigned for long moments before Mr. Bradley spoke again. “I grow tired of this poor excuse for a Drury Lane production.” He shoved the nose of his pistol further into Sarah’s side, just beneath the curve of her breast. If he pulled the trigger, she would certainly die from the wound.
She cried out; the sound strangled by his arm about her throat. “I never wanted to become a spy.” Her words were breathless, forced out, propelled by desperation. “It wasn’t who I was.”
“I cease to care,” Mr. Bradley responded, his voice devoid of emotion.
“I didn’t know Alexander played at it.” Sarah’s tone wavered, and that tiny tell shredded Cecil’s composure. She threw a frantic glance at him, the pleading in her wide eyes tugging at him. “All I wanted was to... do the right thing.” She gasped for breath. “To live in peace.” A gag escaped when her captor tightened his hold. “To raise my son.”
“We don’t always get what we want,” Mr. Bradley said as he cocked his pistol. That sound rang with dreadful finality in the chilly air.
A whimper escaped her. “Let me go, Owen.” A horrible gasping sound came from her throat. “You can disappear, start over, join your family... find your own peace.”
“There’s still time to leave with your dignity,” Cecil added. It took every ounce of his patience not to rush the man, but Sarah might be injured—or worse—in the process.
For one moment, Cecil thought the traitor had reconsidered, but then he firmed his jaw, his expression hard, his eyes glittering. “No. I’m beyond that, don’t wish for redemption,” he whispered, too far gone in his hatred and revenge. “If I die, I’m taking her with me.”
“Not while I still have breath.” Then he found the opening he’d hoped for. Sarah went limp in Mr. Bradley’s arms, whether by nature or design he couldn’t discern, but as the man juggled his hold on her and the pistol, Cecil took aim. He squeezed the trigger.
Bang! The pistol’s report echoed in the frosty air. Smoke curled from the nose of the gun. The weapon temporarily spent, Cecil shoved it into a pocket.
Mr. Bradley’s body jerked. He released Sarah, who slumped to the snowy ground, alternately gasping for breath and sobbing. The wound in the man’s shoulder oozed blood, leaving a dark stain that spread over the upper part of his clothing, eerie in the dim light.
“Damn you, Stapleton!” When Mr. Bradley raised his arm and his revolver, Cecil launched himself bodily at the man, but Sarah had anticipated him.
She kicked out a booted foot, caught him in the back of one knee. “Bastard!”
The blackguard stumbled, his focus scattered, and Cecil caught him in the midsection with a shoulder. They both slammed to the ground hard enough that the back of Mr. Bradley’s head bounced off the snow-covered earth.
He grappled with his adversary for the remaining pistol, and when he closed his fingers around it, Cecil tossed it out of reach. “Remember, Bradley, you’ve also made this choice,” he ground out as his muscles protested and breath shuddered from him. Without regret, Cecil struggled to his feet. He hauled the man up by his collar, holding him in a tight grip. With a glance at Sarah, who knelt on the ground, he asked, “Do you want the honor of knocking him senseless?”
“No.” In the flickering light of the lantern, purpling bruises were beginning on her cheek and chin, and once more Cecil’s ire flared. But when she smiled, warmth burgeoned in his chest and swept it away. “Do your worst, Cecil. I only want you.”
His heart skipped a beat, the sensation so foreign he marveled over it.
“Buggar it. You two are disgusting—”
Cecil delivered a hard uppercut to Mr. Bradley’s chin that knocked the bastard out cold. He let the man fall into the snow in favor of dashing to Sarah. In short order, he untied the rope from around her wrists and assisted her into a standing position. Then he bundled her into his arms. “You’re shaking,” he whispered as he placed feather-weighted kisses to her tear-damp cheeks, her closed eyelids, her cold lips. “My poor darling.” He swooped her into his arms despite her half-hearted protest.
“What of him?” She gestured at Mr. Bradley with her chin.
“I’ll come back for him in a thrice. Let’s get you home before you catch a head cold.”
With a tiny sigh, Sarah wrapped her arms around his shoulders and snuggled against his chest. “What would I do without you?”
Hopefully, she’d never need to find out. As if he’d kept a midnight vigil, his mind cleared, for he now knew what he wanted more than anything for Christmas day.
Chapter Eighteen
&nbs
p; Christmas morning, 1814
Cecil didn’t know what to expect that morning, but when he stirred at dawn with Sarah lying in the bed beside him, he hardly dared to hope. This was what he wanted to wake to for the rest of his life—her; companionship, as a friend, as a lover... all of it. His spine tingled from need.
Last night after bringing her back to the cottage, she’d refused food, shaken and numb from the shock of her ordeal, so he’d carried her upstairs and tucked her—fully clothed—into his bed. Then he’d once more left the cottage and shortly thereafter retrieved Mr. Bradley’s unconscious body. He’d dragged the man behind him on a pull sled to the village, putting him into the care of the local constable—who’d he’d been obliged to rouse from his festive table—and asked the man to hold the traitor until someone from the Home Office could collect him. It might not be for a few days, for he’d need to hire a courier, and that wouldn’t happen until after Boxing Day. Then he’d brought Sarah’s abandoned packages back with him and left them on the fur rug in front of the hearth.
When he finally regained the cottage, she had fallen asleep, and so weary was he, that once he’d shed his boots and outerwear, he stretched out on the bed beside her, promptly giving into slumber himself.
Now, as she opened her eyes and gazed at him with the soft grogginess of sleep, his heart squeezed. “Good morning.”
“Are you well?” Cecil could hardly force the whisper from his tight throat as he trailed his knuckles along her cheek where a bruise had formed. He wanted to kiss that abused flesh, but he didn’t have the right.
Not yet.
“I am, and most grateful you came along when you did.” Then, she gasped and pushed into a sitting position. “Where’s Simon?”
“No doubt still dreaming.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat, his muscles protesting every movement. “All is well. Please don’t worry.” There was so much he wished to say, but it would need to wait until he could marshal his thoughts.
“We didn’t decorate the tree last night.” Disappointment threaded through the statement.
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