Raven: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  Chapter 21

  Archer was dead.

  When a man was shot in the heart from close range, it would take a miracle to save his life. Jessica returned with the linen only to witness the rogue gasp his last breath. She raced into Blent’s arms and cried seven years’ worth of tears.

  D’Angelo used the bed sheet to cover the body, to ease Jessica’s distress. Finlay had more pressing matters on his mind. He took to his heels and raced into the great hall, taking a second to determine which exit was best.

  Mrs Friswell decided for him.

  In somewhat of a hurry, she came limping into the house through the front door, pointing a trembling finger at the courtyard. “Hurry, sir! Hurry!” She released the chatelaine she held in her other hand and moved swiftly forward. “It’s the mistress, sir … the mistress …” Two hounds bounded into the house, nipping at her cloak and tugging for her attention. “Hurry! The mistress followed the maid into the water.”

  Finlay’s heart stopped.

  His entire life flashed before his eyes in the space of seconds.

  Past. Present. Future.

  A broken heart. Shattered dreams. Unbearable loss.

  “The water?” he snapped. “The moat?”

  “Yes, sir, hurry.”

  Good God!

  Finlay raced outside. Fear threatened to consume him as he followed the hounds to the water’s edge. “Sophia!” Nausea roiled in his stomach. The pain in his throat mirrored the pain behind his eyes as he held his emotion at bay. “Sophia!”

  “F-Finlay!”

  Thick mist clung to the ground, making it difficult to see where the grass verge ended and the moat began, but the hounds had stopped a few feet ahead, their harsh barks communicating the urgency.

  Finlay lay flat on the ground and crawled forward until he reached the edge. “Sophia!” He thrust out his arm. “Can you see my hand?”

  “Yes, b-but I’m so c-cold, Finlay. I’m so t-tired.”

  Mother of all devils!

  There was nothing for it. He’d have to enter the water.

  But then D’Angelo appeared behind him. He dropped to a sitting position on the ground and grabbed Finlay’s feet. “Crawl closer. I’ll hold you, stop you slipping into the moat.”

  D’Angelo was as strong as an ox and kept a firm hold of Finlay’s legs as they both shuffled forward.

  “Can you grab my hand, Sophia?” Finlay grasped at nothing but air.

  “No, you’re t-too—” Sophia panicked. She mumbled to herself to keep calm, called out to the Lord and prayed for Divine intervention.

  “I’m going in,” he cried to D’Angelo.

  “No!” D’Angelo shuffled forward again, giving Finlay another inch. “By the time your muscles relax and become accustomed to the cold, it will be too late. Trust me. I’ll not let you go.”

  Finlay crawled forward another inch until his torso hung over the verge. He reached out again and brushed the tips of Sophia’s fingers. Making contact gave him the confidence to advance a little further. This time, he managed to grip her fingers and haul her closer to the bank.

  Hellfire!

  Her digits were as cold as ice.

  “Hold on, Sophia!” he cried.

  And then a loud curse and the crunching of booted footsteps on the gravel marked Sloane’s arrival. He darted to the water’s edge and dropped down next to Finlay.

  “It seems I’ve arrived just in time,” Sloane said.

  “Sophia is in the moat, but she should be easier to grab now I’ve pulled her closer to the bank.” And Sloane had a slightly longer reach.

  “I’ve got hold of her wrist.” Sloane gritted his teeth in steely determination. “D’Angelo, we’ll haul her out on the count of three.”

  D’Angelo counted, and they used all their strength to drag Sophia out onto the bank.

  Finlay quickly turned her onto her back. Relief brought tears to his eyes when he saw her heave a breath. Her lips were blue, her face deathly white, almost grey. Her body shook from being submerged in the moat’s icy depths. The worst was over, but he had to get her out of the cold, had to warm her limbs.

  “Are you all right?” he said, frantically rubbing life back into her cheeks and arms and hands.

  She blinked water from her eyes and nodded. “Yes, b-but I’m so cold, Finlay.”

  Finlay pressed his lips to hers, the chaste kiss conveying the wealth of love in his heart. “I’ll carry you upstairs. You need a hot bath and one of Mrs Friswell’s tisanes. What about Maud?”

  Sophia sighed and shook her head before conveying her thanks to Sloane and D’Angelo. “I’m r-relieved to see you alive, M-Mr Sloane.”

  “We heard the gunshot and the blood-curdling scream,” Finlay said.

  “Goodwin tripped the wire on the spring-gun and took a ball to the thigh. The fool scrambled to his feet but later collapsed and caught his head in a mantrap.”

  Finlay hissed in sympathy, for it was an unpleasant way to meet one’s end.

  Sophia brought a shaky hand to her mouth, but made no reply.

  “I need to get Sophia inside.” Finlay crouched and quickly scooped her up into his arms. A chill often led to infections in the chest, worse besides. “But in short, Maud shot Archer dead, then drowned in the moat. I shall pen a statement while the facts are still fresh in my mind, but only once Sophia is settled.”

  Sloane nodded. “We will do the same. I’ll alert the local magistrate, and D’Angelo will take statements from those present while we await his arrival.”

  Finlay couldn’t think about dealing with the magistrate, not when the woman he loved shivered in his arms. “Will one of you sit with Jessica? Explain what happened and reassure her Sophia is well and needs rest.”

  Sloane accepted the task. “Though I’m not sure how to tackle the matter of Dr Goodwin’s gruesome end.”

  “After everything that’s happened, I expect she would appreciate the truth.”

  The rumbling of carriage wheels along the drive had them all staring at the gatehouse. Blent had removed the chains on the gates to enable Sloane to enter the property earlier.

  The unmarked carriage passed through the gatehouse and entered the forecourt. Ashwood’s coachman tugged the reins and brought the carriage rattling to a stop. Ashwood, Daventry and Sir Malcolm all vacated the vehicle.

  “It occurred to me that you might need Sir Malcolm’s assistance,” Daventry said. “We’d have arrived sooner, but he was called to another case.”

  Finlay sighed again with relief.

  Daventry would deal with everything.

  “I’m taking Sophia inside, Sloane will explain what’s occurred but don’t enter the woods without him.”

  Finlay carried Sophia into the house while Sloane and D’Angelo gave the gentlemen a brief recount of events. He’d barely crossed the threshold when Jessica and Mrs Friswell hurried towards them.

  “Sophia!” Tears streamed down Jessica’s face. “Oh, Mr Cole, will she be all right?”

  “I’ll b-be fine. I’m just wet and c-cold.” Sophia cupped Jessica’s cheek. “Stay with Mr Blent and pour him a brandy. The p-poor man has had a terrible fright.”

  “But you’ll need help with your clothes.”

  “Finlay will attend m-me.” Sophia glanced at the housekeeper. “Mrs Friswell, have Anne bring two g-glasses of brandy, and then you m-must rest your leg.”

  “And have her bring one of your tisanes, one to stave off the cold,” Finlay said, already moving past the concerned women. “I must hurry before the chill settles into her bones.”

  His arms ached, and he prayed he still had the strength to carry Sophia upstairs. And God help him, he wanted to embrace her, kiss her and relish in the knowledge the nightmare was over.

  “We’ll be in the great chamber,” he added.

  Finlay did manage the stairs. Once inside the room, he closed the door and lowered Sophia down into a chair while he quickly lit the fire.

  “Come.” Finlay took Sophia’
s hand and pulled her to her feet. Water dripped from her dress, leaving a puddle on the boards. “Turn around so I might help you undress.”

  After all she had been through, he presumed she craved a warm bed and a few hours’ sleep. The heated look in her eyes said she craved something passionate and energetic. Indeed, when she turned and offered him her back, her coy smile spoke of seduction.

  Were the situation not urgent, he might have stroked her nape, or pressed his lips to the sensitive spot below her ear. But banishing all lustful thoughts, he stripped her out of her sodden dress, and the petticoat that carried the same stench as the Thames foreshore.

  “Oh, Finlay, I smell foul. I don’t know how you c-can stand so close. I imagine my lips taste of algae.”

  He threw her stays to the floor to join the wet mound of material and then slipped his arm around her waist and drew her round to face him.

  “I love your smell. I love your taste and your lush lips.” To prove his point, he captured her sweet mouth, slipped his tongue between the wet seam and delved deep inside.

  Fire ignited in his loins. The passion held at bay all these years burned through him like a wildfire. The insatiable need to bury himself in her snug channel hardened his cock. Damn. He wanted her in every conceivable way—beneath him, straddling him, gripping the bedpost as he slammed into her welcoming body.

  He tore his mouth from hers. “You’ll catch your death standing here.”

  Her amorous smile deepened. “You’ll keep me warm, and the fire is blazing.”

  “My body is like a raging inferno.”

  She laughed. “Lock the door, Finlay.”

  “Love, you need rest.” His voice lacked conviction.

  “I need you. I need you covering me, your skin against mine, the weight of your muscular frame pressing me into the mattress.” She gathered her wet shift and dragged it over her head. “I want you inside me, Finlay, deep inside me.”

  Lust writhed like a devil through his veins.

  Love filled his heart, the organ swelling in his chest.

  He perused her naked form, admired the curves he’d caressed but had never seen fully in the flesh, took a moment to appreciate her in all her glory.

  “You’re so beautiful, Sophia.”

  “And I’m yours, Finlay. I’ve always been yours.”

  He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Tugging back the coverlet and sheets, he lowered her down onto the mattress. He stood for a moment, fearing this was a dream and he would wake in a cold sweat with the same crippling sense of loss and longing.

  “Take off your clothes, F-Finlay,” she said, shivering.

  She groaned in frustration when he pulled the covers over her body. “Love, you need to keep warm while I undress.”

  Her relieved smile made him laugh. God, he’d forgotten what it was like to be so happy, so carefree. He bounded to the door, a skip in his step, and turned the key. Then he removed his clothes and climbed into bed.

  “Oh, you’re so warm, Finlay,” she breathed as he rolled on top of her.

  He gasped a breath when her cold hands settled on his back, and her icy feet brushed against his calves. “Hell, we need to do something to heat your blood.”

  “A wicked kiss might be a good place to start.”

  “No, my love. Let’s start by warming your heart.” He stared at her, looked deep into her eyes, ready to bare his soul. “I’m in love with you, Sophia. I’m so in love with you I can barely catch my breath.”

  Water filled her eyes. “Can this be true, Finlay? Tell me it’s not a dream.”

  He kissed her slowly, a soul-stirring mating of mouths. “When you marry me, I shall spend every night proving this is a glorious reality.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Marry you? Are you sure you want—”

  “I never want to be parted from you again.”

  “But you’ll want children.”

  “I want you. Nothing else matters. Besides, there are hundreds of children living on the streets, hundreds of children without a home and loving parents. Just say you’ll marry me and we will work out the details later.” He smiled. “Hurry. After all the activity tonight, there’s every chance my knee will seize.”

  She laughed. “I love you, Finlay Cole, and cannot wait to be your wife. Now kiss me. Let me feel passion’s heat burning in my veins.”

  He obliged.

  They ignored the knock on the door and Anne calling to say she’d brought brandy. They ignored Anne’s question about leaving the tray on the landing and focused on making love in a bed of all places.

  * * *

  Finlay and Sophia were married in the quaint chapel in Blackborne a week later. Viscount Morley had accompanied Finlay to see the archbishop at Doctors’ Commons, had argued that a man whose life had been torn apart by a clerical error deserved some consideration. Indeed, the viscount and his son were the only wedding guests but for Finlay’s colleagues from the Order.

  “So, Miss Draper is to marry Mr Blent?” Sloane said.

  The guests were enjoying drinks in the drawing room, but Finlay had strolled out to the forecourt to get some air.

  “They’re in love. Sophia will give them Blackborne as a wedding gift, and Viscount Morley has hired Blent to design the gardens at his Hertfordshire estate.”

  “The fellow let me see his drawings last night. I asked if he might create a twenty-foot waterfall in an orangery. He agreed to give the matter his consideration and let me know when he’s drawn up the plans.”

  “You wish to create a tropical oasis?”

  Sloane’s slow smile reached his eyes. “Though I wish it were otherwise, the call to water is in the blood.” He glanced out towards Blackborne Wood. “During our work for the Order I’ve seen many horrific sights. Nothing compares to seeing Goodwin snared in a mantrap.”

  “No. I heard Sir Malcolm needed a large brandy.”

  Thankfully, all three conspirators were dead. Jessica had made a steady recovery. How ironic that Maud was the mentally unbalanced one.

  “I can’t say I’ll miss riding through these woods,” Finlay said.

  Sloane nodded. “There’s an eerie presence out there, something unsettling, but then I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder of late.”

  Sloane never appeared unnerved.

  “Daventry said you solved the stolen identity case in a matter of two days. Surely you’ve no other miscreants out baying for your blood.”

  Sloane gave a mocking snort. “This particular miscreant has a penchant for stalking. I visited the circulating library only to find Miss Hart perusing the books on the opposite shelf. Miss Hart sat behind me at Gunter’s and ordered pineapple mousse.”

  “Is there something significant about that?”

  Sloane threw his hands in the air. “I ordered pineapple mousse.”

  “I see.” It took Finlay all his time not to burst into fits of laughter.

  “I saw her sneaking around Little Chelsea with her servant the other night when she should have her back pressed to the ballroom wall. I’m likely to return home and find her soaking in my damn bath tub.”

  Sloane usually tackled problems with a lion’s ferocity. He was known as Valiant amongst the agents of the Order. A man of unwavering courage. Surely he wasn’t intimidated by a wallflower.

  “Have you not asked Miss Hart why she’s taken an interest in you?”

  Sloane huffed and thrust his hand inside his coat pocket. He removed a letter and handed it to Finlay. “Read this.”

  Finlay obliged, but not before noting the small sketch at the bottom of the page—a swallow perched on a dagger. It was an emblem used by Sloane’s ancestor.

  “Miss Hart has something of great importance to discuss with you,” Finlay said, handing back the letter. “Yet you have refused to meet privately, she says.”

  “I’ll not encourage the woman to make a damn fool of herself. Besides, she’s obviously discovered I’m related to Livingston Sloane and sp
ends her days dreaming about pirates. Is that not the case with all wallflowers?”

  Finlay pursed his lips. “There’s something romantic about a wallflower desiring the love of a marauding pirate. Is Miss Hart unattractive?” He had that odd feeling again. Fate was about to whip up a storm.

  “Not unattractive, no, but I need a woman with a mind for adventure, a wild sort made for sin, not a fern-hugging spinster with no notion of how to please a man.” Sloane huffed again. “Forget I mentioned it. No doubt you’re eager to return to your wife.”

  His wife.

  The words had heat swirling in his chest.

  And then, as if on cue, Anne approached and offered Finlay a note. He peeled back the folds, a smile forming when he studied the single sentence written in feminine script.

  He turned to Sloane. “If you’ll excuse me, my presence is needed elsewhere. No doubt we shall continue this conversation once you’ve agreed to meet privately with Miss Hart.”

  Finlay did not wait to hear Sloane’s disgruntled reply. He had an engagement in the servants’ quarters. Indeed, while the guests in the drawing room were engaged in lively chatter, he went in search of the broom cupboard. After trying numerous rooms along the corridor leading to the kitchen, he pushed open the scullery door and found his wife waiting by the sink.

  “Ah, Finlay. I thought you might help me with a dilemma.” Her sapphire blue eyes held more than a hint of mischief.

  “And what dilemma is that?” he said, ignoring the shelves laden with plates and pots and pans. He couldn’t take his eyes off her—his wife. He loved the way her lilac gown hugged her hips, loved the way her breasts heaved with excitement. He loved her more than he could ever express in words.

  “Would you consider this a broom cupboard or a storeroom?”

  “Neither.” He suppressed a grin. “This is the scullery.”

  “I see,” she said, feigning ignorance and confusion. She strode towards him, trailing her fingers seductively over his shoulder as she moved to lock the door. “And how does one make such a determination? Perhaps space is a factor. As you can see, we have brooms in here and an assortment of utensils. Yet it seems more spacious than the broom cupboard in the theatre.”