*
It was not lost on her that even in this he’d managed to give her the illusion of control. But that was not what she wanted from him. Slowing her movements, she stopped entirely and waited. He looked up at her, eyes dark and blazing with desire.
“What would you do right now,” she asked, “If you didn’t know about my past?”
“Everything,” he said.
“Then do it… because when I’m with you, I’m not that girl anymore. I’m not broken or shattered by them.”
It was all the urging he needed. Somehow, he flipped them so that she was beneath him and he was still inside her. One of his hands hooked behind her knee, hitching it higher on his hips. She raised her other, the slight shift opening her fully to him. To say that it was a wonder was the biggest of understatements. He filled her completely, consumed her. And when he moved within her, she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the beauty of it. Her thighs trembled as the familiar tension stole through her. When her stomach began to quiver with it, his own movements became sharper, his control breaking as his own need for release drove him.
It was that which pushed her over that precipice. As she looked up at him, his face etched with desire, she shattered completely. Waves of pleasure rocked her, ebbing and flowing within her as her body shuddered beneath his and a sob escaped her. He stiffened, his body drawing taut and a harsh groan erupting from him as he jerked within her.
When he collapsed atop her, sweat slicking his skin and his breath a harsh rasp, Viola clung to him. She wrapped herself around him and savored the moment. It was the first time since the night of her wedding that she felt whole, as if the broken pieces of her had finally fused together once more.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“And I you,” she replied, stroking his back. “Let’s hope it will be enough for all that we must face.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was the wee hours of the morning when a commotion woke the entire household. Viola sat up in bed, Nicholas was still beside her. He’d stayed because she’d asked him to.
“What is it? What’s happening?” she asked as she listened to servants shouting. One word penetrated the sleep-induced fog. Fire.
“Tristan!” she shouted and jumped from the bed.
Nicholas grabbed her and pulled her back. He shoved her nightrail at her with a terse order to put it on. “The fire isn’t here, Viola… it’s at the mill, and Graham can’t afford to lose it. Not now when the estate is on the verge of being profitable again!”
Viola turned back to see that Nicholas was already more than halfway dressed. He’d donned his breeches and was struggling into his shirt.
“Are you certain? There’s no danger here?”
He paused and looked at her sharply. “I can’t say that. I have no reason to believe otherwise except for the same instincts that have kept me alive for all these years. Stay here. No matter what happens, no matter what you might hear, do not leave this house. I’ll have one of the maids fetch your nurse and Tristan and bring them here. You should go below stairs when you’ve dressed and join Lady Agatha and Lady Beatrice. I can’t help but feel there will be safety in numbers for you all.”
Viola watched him leave, a sinking feeling settling into her gut. Was it Randall? Had he done something horrible to avenge what he perceived as Lord Blakemore wronging him by sheltering her? She wouldn’t put it past him. The man had always been petty and vindictive. It pained her to think that people who had shown her such kindness and hospitality would suffer for it. Or was it something even more sinister, she wondered. Was this all part of some devious plan to gain access to her and Tristan?
The one saving grace was that he didn’t know about Tristan yet, she reminded herself. No one could have told him yet that her son had joined her. She couldn’t imagine that if he did know, he wouldn’t have been shouting from the rooftops that she’d not pawn off her bastard as the heir. If she was wrong, the danger to both of them would be too high. They’d have no choice but to flee. And she didn’t want to run.
She didn’t want to leave what she’d found with Nicholas Warner. It wasn’t just passion, or the indescribable pleasure that he’d shown her. It was the love they’d confessed to one another. It was the teasing moments, the fact that he could see straight through into the very heart of her it seemed. No one had ever known her as he did. The sad truth of her life to that point was that no one else had ever cared to. She’d been a commodity to her father, something even less than human to her husband, and her own mother hadn’t been able to pull herself out of her laudanum-induced haze to care enough. It wasn’t self-pity, but honest reflection that had led her to those conclusions. She didn’t bemoan her fate either. Whatever she might have suffered, those steps had led her to her current place, with her child who was her entire world and a man that she prayed with her whole heart would be part of that world, as well.
After a moment, the door opened and Belinda came in carrying a sleepy-eyed and fussy Tristan. The moment he entered the room, he reached for her and Viola took him into her arms. As always, it soothed her soul to hold him close. Whatever else she might have done wrong in her life, he would always be the most perfect thing she’d ever do.
“What’s all the commotion about?” Belinda asked worriedly.
“There’s a fire at the mill on the estate. It could be an accident,” Viola offered.
“But you don’t think it is,” the nurse surmised.
Their relationship was quite off for mistress and servant, but Viola wouldn’t have altered it for the world. Belinda had been her trusted confidante and had nursed her back to health every time Percival’s drunken rages or temper had gotten the better of him. Those days, trapped inside her own bedchamber by the ugly and vicious bruises that she’d been too embarrassed to allow others to see, had decimated any social barriers between them.
“No. I think it was Randall. I think he resents Lord Blakemore’s assistance and interference on my behalf. It would be just like him to do something so reckless and destructive in order to exact his own petty revenge for any perceived wrong,” she admitted, though it pained her to do so.
Belinda shook her head. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. He’s not a reasonable man. That vile temper of his and his own inflated sense of worth and entitlement will not allow him to be reasonable. You cannot deal with him.”
“I should at least try,” Viola stated firmly. “He doesn’t know about Tristan. And I won’t let him. I won’t take that risk… but if I offer to go away again, to simply vanish, in exchange for a small portion of my inheritance, then perhaps no one else will be harmed.” And Nicholas would go with them. Was it too much to hope for a happy ending for herself?
“No. Because he’d never consent to it… and I don’t need to remind you that he’s as capable, if not more so, of violence as his uncle was. And even worse, I think he enjoys it. Lord Ramsleigh had a temper and acted out of anger, but that boy, he’s cruel for the sake of it. He takes pleasure in inflicting pain on others, and you perhaps more than anyone.”
Viola turned away. The reminder of the humiliation she’d suffered at Randall’s hands, of all the different ways he’d terrorized and bullied her while they resided under the same roof brought too many fresh and painful memories to the surface. She didn’t want to think of those times, not while standing next to the very bed she’d occupied with Nicholas only a short time earlier. It felt as if Randall’s contagion was spreading, seeping out into areas of her life that she longed to protect from the stench and filth of him. Those moments of joy, of completion with Nicholas, seemed further and further away.
“I know you’re right… but I can’t just let him destroy these people when they’ve done so much to help us!” Viola protested.
“I’m begging you,” Belinda urged, “for Tristan’s sake, don’t fall into his trap. If he were to get his hands on you, what would become of the boy? Think of him, my lady!”
That ar
gument swayed her, brought her crashing to her senses. It was too much to risk.
“Let us go below stairs, at least,” Viola said. “No doubt, Lady Agatha and Lady Beatrice are beside themselves with worry.”
*
Timothy Cobb watched from the shadows of the trees that lined the long drive to Castle Black. The group with him was not large, only about twelve men in all, but as he watched Lord Blakemore and Dr. Warner flee the house with a bevy of footmen in their wake, he had little doubt that it would be enough.
“How many bloody servants do they have?” one of the men asked.
Cobb shushed him. “Keep quiet or we may find out. When the call goes out that there’s a cottage burning on the other side of the estate, then the rest of the servants will go to put it out. That’ll leave the women alone and unprotected. If we don’t get that devil-witch out of that house while they’re away, we’ll not succeed at all.”
“Never known you to be so devoted to the good Lord before,” someone else groused.
“Aye. Right enough. Maybe I don’t go to the church and play nice before the vicar as some do,” Cobb replied in a heated whisper. “But that’s a far cry from suffering the presence of a witch… a woman clearly in league with devil hisself and responsible for bringing bad luck and misfortune to all of Blackfield!”
As if on cue, a young boy came running from the other side of the forest, onto the drive, shouting fire at the top of his lungs. He’d neared the top of the hill when the butler stepped out. The wind carried his words easily enough through the darkness.
“We know about the fire, boy. His lordship is already on his way to the mill as we speak,” the man offered.
“No,” the boy said, gasping as his sides heaved from the exertion. “Not the mill, sir. Old Nan’s cottage has gone up… they’ve got her out, but the other cottages are too near it and the wind is picking up!”
The butler was off then, shouting orders. Within minutes, the remaining servants from the castle were gone, buckets in hand. They followed the boy through the woods toward the burning cottage of the old midwife.
“Now’s our chance,” Cobb said.
They didn’t go directly up the drive. Instead, they cut back through the trees and came up along the cliff’s edge to the single room on the lower level where light blazed from the windows. No doubt, in the wake of such turmoil, they would have gathered to drink their expensive sherry and pity the poor folk displaced by the tragedy, he thought bitterly.
Stepping onto the terrace, he peered through the window. He could see two women, the old lady and the wife of Lord Blakemore. Lady Ramsleigh had not yet bothered to come and commiserate with them, it seemed. It was no matter, he decided. With little fanfare, he used the butt of his pistol to break the glass pane nearest the lock on the terrace door. Both women screamed as he let himself inside, the small but effective mob following behind him. All of them had done as instructed and tied a cloth over their faces.
“Where’s the witch?” Cobb demanded.
“What is the meaning of this?” the old woman shouted. “You will be hanged for this! Leave now while you still may!”
“We’ll leave when the dead woman goes with us!” another man shouted from the back of the group. “And if you don’t hand her over, you jus’ might burn with her!”
“You set the fires to draw the men away.”
The statement was made, more calmly than it should have been, from the doorway.
Cobb glanced over and grinned behind his mask. She was a right looker, he thought. Hair black as night, tousled from bed and wearing naught but her nightrail and a wrapper, she was a sight to behold.
“Maybe we did and maybe we didn’t,” he said. “The Lord do work in mysterious ways, after all. You’re comin’ with us, Lady Ramsleigh… taken into our custody for the crime of witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft is no longer recognized by the crown as a crime,” she replied. “If you do this, it isn’t justice of any sort. It will be nothing short of kidnapping and murder. No doubt committed at the behest of my late husband’s nephew, Randall Grantham.”
“Seeing as how you’ve been dead for nigh on two years, I doubt we’ll be swinging for sending a corpse back to her grave. Come with us now and we won’t have to hurt the others,” Cobb warned as he raised his pistol and pointed it directly at Beatrice, who’d half-risen from her chair. “Put up a fight, and there’ll be no heir to inherit this den of iniquity.”
*
Viola watched in horror as the masked man pointed his gun directly at Lady Blakemore. “Do not risk it, Beatrice!” Lady Ramsleigh hissed. “I’ll go with them.”
Lady Agatha sobbed loudly. Beatrice lowered herself back down, but glared daggers at the intruders. “Where are you taking her?” she demanded.
“To the square in the village,” one of them answered. “She’ll be tried. If she’s found guilty, she will hang for her crimes! Too wet out to burn her as she likely deserves.”
Viola’s one consolation was that Tristan was safe. Belinda had made away with him and they didn’t know he was in the house. “It will be all right. I’m certain that Lord Blakemore and Dr. Warner will get things sorted out in a timely fashion.”
“You’ll be dead before the dawn,” the leader swore. “The sun won’t rise on you again, Witch!”
The words were uttered with conviction, but the gleam in his eyes was something else entirely. Not even triumph, Viola thought. It was greed and nothing more. Whoever he was, he’d been well paid to see her life end in such an ignoble way. Randall. No one better than he understood the power of gossip. He’d used her so-called resurrection to bring about what would likely be her actual death.
“Then take me on and let’s be done with it,” she insisted. She couldn’t afford for them to linger in case Tristan should cry out. If they heard him, all would be lost.
Two of the men stepped forward. They grabbed her arms roughly, binding her hands behind her back and marching her through the same terrace doors they’d entered through. No sooner had they stepped outside than the heavens opened and rain began to pour in thick sheets. It was fitting and would at least hide her tears.
As they pushed her forward, Viola didn’t look back. If she did, they might wonder what she was looking back for. Her own safety was of little import. She would not bring death and ruin to those who had helped her so selflessly and she would not risk her child’s life by rousing their suspicions. With her head held high, she allowed them to march her through the rain and into the darkness.
*
William Wells had stirred earlier. He’d managed to get himself out of bed and was standing in the hall staring at a terrified maid and a small boy with brown curls and terrified, blue eyes. Beyond the door, he could hear angry voices and one of them belonged to Cobb. There were too many of them to fight, even if he’d been at full strength. So he waited in silence. When at last it seemed they’d gone, he asked the maid, “Where’s his lordship and the doctor?”
“They’ve gone to the mill… you take the boy, and I’ll go get them,” she said.
“And you know how to get there?” he asked.
She faltered then. “No. I don’t.”
“I’ve ridden a horse drunk as a stoat for nigh on two decades. I reckon I can do the same with my head busted up a little,” he said. Turning on his heel, still dressed in his bloodied shirt and breeches, he returned to his room long enough to tug on his boots and made for the stable. He faltered a few times, nearly cast up his accounts twice but, finally, he reached the stables. He saddled the first horse that looked like it wouldn’t murder him and still seemed to have a bit of spirit. Rather than try to hoist himself up, he used the mounting block and managed to get himself on the horse’s back without doing too much damage. Leaning low over the saddle, he urged the horse forward and once clear of the stable, into a gallop. He had one thought and one thought only, to reach the good doctor.
Chapter Nineteen
The fire had not been as
much of a travesty as it might have been. The heavy downpour had done most of the work in taming the blaze before they even arrived. Comprised almost entirely of stone, the mill had sustained damage to a few interior walls made of wood and its thatched roof. Otherwise the structure as a whole remained sound. He should have felt relief but, in spite of their relative good fortune, Nicholas could not shake the strange sense of foreboding that swept through him. There was a strange prickling sensation along his skin, a disturbance of his senses. Something was terribly wrong but he couldn’t fathom what it might be.
“It’s well under control,” Nicholas said, shouting to be heard over the downpour. There was a sense of urgency riding him, a need to get back and assure himself of everyone’s safety. “We should return to the house. I dislike leaving the ladies there alone. I cannot help but feel either Randall Grantham or Daventry had a hand in this.”
Graham nodded. “I do not believe the fire was an accident either. One of the tenants reported that they saw a man slipping about earlier, his face covered with a cloth. It’s hardly the sort of thing one does when not engaging in criminal activity.”
Ambrose was shaking his head. “I agree that this was far too convenient. I can’t help but feel it was nothing more than a distraction to lure us away. If it’s all the same to you, Blakemore, I’ll head back to the house and keep an eye on things there while the two of you finish sorting all of this out.”
“I think that’s a fine idea,” Graham agreed. “Warner?”
“Agreed. I think Randall is making a play… whether it’s petty vengeance or something worse, I cannot yet say,” Nicholas replied, taking in the damage with a sweeping glance. “I have a very bad feeling about all of this and I wonder if we are not already too late.”
No sooner had the conversation concluded than a horse emerged from the trees at a speed that was beyond foolish. Bent low over its neck was William Wells, looking as pale as death and streaked with mud and dirt.
The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh Page 18