by Hope Tarr
She tried to break the rope at her wrists by prying them apart but all her efforts won her was bloodied flesh. A shot rang nearby. The acrid odor of gunpowder drifted inside her small chamber.
Oh, God, Anthony!
Feral with fear, she gnawed at the knots.
It was no use. She spat bits of hemp and dropped to her elbows and knees, dragging herself to the door. Panting, she pressed her ear against the wide planks.
The silence rang with the finality of a funeral dirge. If Anthony were all right, surely he would already be here, releasing her. She hung back so the door wouldn’t hit her when it opened.
It didn’t budge. Eyes trained on the handle, she muttered snippets of prayers. With every passing second, she grew a little colder, a little more numb inside. Soon she stopped praying altogether.
Anthony lay wounded. If he wasn’t dead already, he shortly would be. She waited, mentally calculating the time it would take Dumfreys to reload.
To keep her sanity, she counted to ten and back again, first in French, then in Latin. Still no second shot. That must mean the first bullet had hit home. That Anthony was dead. She crawled back to the pallet. Exhausted, she eased onto her side, drew her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes.
In murdering Anthony, Dumfreys no doubt believed he had removed the last obstacle to her complete surrender. He wanted to break her, to dominate not only her body but her mind and quite possibly her soul. But she would thwart him. Physical resistance would be futile, but there were other tactics, far subtler and infinitely more potent.
She would take her spirit, her soul, and bury it amidst the rich velvet blackness. So deep that he’d never be able to find it, let alone claim it for his own. All he’d have of her would be her body—the empty, vapid shell.
It would be easy to accomplish, really.
Her heart felt dead already.
Chapter Nineteen
Anthony looked down at the kidnapper, lying prone in a pool of whiskey, legs buried beneath the overturned barrel. He knew firsthand how it felt to lay helpless at the foot of the foe. It was a damnable state, one he’d not wish on his worst enemy. Until now.
“Who are you?” His drumming boot set off ripples in the spillage. Kicking an already beaten foe violated every precept of a gentleman’s code, yet Anthony was tempted. Sorely.
Sweat beaded an unrepentant face. “Go to hell, Montrose. I’ll be damned if I’ll answer to you.”
Heavy footsteps pounded toward them. Anthony whirled, his pistol at the ready. Seeing it was Jack, he relaxed. “Everything under control?”
Jack nodded. “Aye. Stenton’s tied up, and Luke’s sleepin’ like a wee babe. Mugglestone’s gone for the magistrate.” Lifting his lantern, he glanced down at the kidnapper. “Lud, ’tis the squire,” he exclaimed, his good eye popping.
One of the local squires was willing to make me a loan, but I found his terms for repayment…unacceptable.
Chelsea’s admission pushed to the forefront of Anthony’s mind. Was this her neighbor, the same squire whom, he suspected, had all but raped her? He hadn’t pressed her for details at the time, not wanting to embarrass her. God, how much misery might have been saved if only he had.
If indeed this was the man.
Before he could ask, Jack supplied the answer. “’Is name’s Dumfreys. Squire William Dumfreys. ’E’s known Miss Chelsea and Master Robert since they was born.” Shaking his head, he looked down at Dumfreys. “Why’d you do it, man? You was like an uncle to her?”
Dumfreys’s face crumpled. A tear slipped down his cheek. “I wanted to be more. So much more.”
The man was mad, but Anthony couldn’t pity him. He thought of Chelsea, happy and sated as he’d left her that morning. What had she suffered since? How would he find her now?
Hatred gnawed at his entrails like a cancer. He went down on his good knee and pressed the barrel of his cocked pistol to one silvered temple. “Save the rest of your confession for the magistrate. Only answer me this—what have you done with her?”
“I’ll tell you nothing.” The kidnapper glared at him through silent tears. “You might as well pull the trigger. Go on.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “Or haven’t you the stomach for it?”
Fresh anger, bright and lethal, blasted Anthony. I’m being goaded, he told himself, but he no longer cared. His finger found the trigger. He had only to pull back and then…
Jack’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Don’t do it, lad. “’E’s not worth the waste o’ good shot. Leave ’im for the ’angman.”
Sweat pricked Anthony’s palms. He looked from the squire to Jack’s earnest face.
Trembling, he lowered the pistol and gained his feet. “I believe you have a point.” Sending Jack a shaky smile, he secured and pocketed his firearm. “Why should I deprive Chelsea or myself of the pleasure of seeing this filth hang?”
He was lying, of course. He’d never subject Chelsea to such a spectacle. She’d already experienced enough violence to last several lifetimes.
From the floor, the venomous voice rang out, “Damn you, Montrose! Damn you to hell!”
Anthony started toward Dumfreys, but Jack stepped between them. “Miss Chelsea’s waitin’ fer ye. She’s sure to be behind one o’ these doors.” He handed Anthony a ring of keys. “Go to ’er. I’ll bide ’ere.”
Anthony moved along the torchlit corridor, trying doors to his left and right. Chelsea was behind one of them, that much he knew. What he didn’t know was in what state.
There’d been an ensign in his company who’d been captured at Barrosa. He’d been tortured, sodomized, until he revealed the location of the new Allied supply route. His torn flesh eventually had mended. But his mind, unhinged, had never repaired itself. The boy’s senseless gaze still haunted him. Would he find Chelsea in a similar state, her lovely blue-green eyes blank and staring?
Stop it. You can’t help her if you’re like this.
He pressed on. Only two more doors to try. He slid back the bolt of the second to last. Whatever Chelsea had endured since he’d left her, he would find a way to make her forget, to make her eyes smile again. He’d not fail her. Not this time.
The rusted hinge shrieked when he pushed. He slipped inside. Eerie quiet thrummed and shadows crowded him. A puddle of candlelight splashed across the earth floor. Claret-colored stains trailed to a heap of rags in the distant corner.
The heap shifted. Wide, frightened eyes met his.
Chest tight, Anthony crept closer. “Chelsea?”
Chelsea’s shriek jellied his blood and sent his feet flying from under him. As soon as his soles reconnected with the floor, he swooped down beside her, tore off his coat, and draped it around her quaking shoulders.
“A-Anthon-y.” Hair tangled, eyes feral, and shirt torn, she spoke his name through chattering teeth.
God, I’m too late. He cupped her cheek. It was cold, like marble. Cold like the faces of his dead friends and nearly as white.
But Chelsea was alive. Her head dropped to her chest. She started to cry, soundlessly at first but soon the sobs intensified. He lifted her chin. Big, fat tears rolled down her mottled cheeks. Relief wrenched him. The ensign, he remembered, had shown no emotion.
“I thought you were a ghost.” She sobbed into her tented hands. “I thought he’d…”
“And I thought…” Tears clogged his throat, wet his cheeks. Too grateful to bother hiding them, he searched her face. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“He s-said he was going to k-kill you like…Oh, Anthony, he was our neighbor, a friend of my father’s. And yet he killed him and Mother. He k-killed m-my parents.” She tried to bury her face in her tied hands.
“Hush, love. He won’t harm you or anyone you love ever again.”
He drew her hands down and kissed the salt from her palms. He’d deal with the ropes in a moment, after she’d calmed.
She looked up, eyes wary. “Is he dead, then?”
He shook his head. “Injured. Jack is gu
arding him.”
He thought of how close he’d come to doing murder, and a chill blew across his back. To divert himself, he pulled out his pocket knife.
“Hold still,” he cautioned when she shied away.
He slipped the blade beneath the ropes at her wrist and carefully cut. The hemp fell away, leaving only the braiding burned into her skin. Bastard. A pity that drawing and quartering was no longer sanctioned by the Crown, he reflected, shifting to cut the rope at her ankles.
Freed, she still shivered with cold and nerves. He drew her against him and lay down, pressing her back against his chest.
When he saw the patch of matted hair at the back of her head, rage knotted his insides. Subduing it, he pulled himself upright. Combing back the crust, he probed the bump.
“Does it hurt?”
Chowderhead. Of course it must throb like the very devil. The skin was broken, and the raised flesh was the size of a robin’s egg.
She shook her head, and then winced. “It did at first. Now I mostly feel muzzy.”
He braced himself, every muscle tensed. “Did he…hurt you anywhere else?”
Turning away, she chewed her bottom lip. “He taunted me, promised to make me take part in all manner of degrading acts. But if you mean did he rape me, no.”
He released the breath he’d been holding.
“It was a near thing,” she admitted. “If it hadn’t been for some woman, Bess was her name…” She turned onto her back, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “I collect you, er…persuaded her to help you?”
Caught off guard, he hesitated. Might she be…jealous?
Pleased at the prospect, he replied, “He owns this tavern, where she works. I promised to do everything in my power to see that the deed falls to her.”
She sat up, eyes flying to the door. “But, Anthony, what about Stenton? And Luke? At least one of them was here when I arrived. He hit me from behind.”
He pressed her back down. “We found Luke in the kitchen upstairs. Without Stenton to think for him, he was easy enough to subdue.” He winked. “You know what they say about brawn versus brains.”
This time the smile reached her eyes. “Lucky for me, you have both.”
He grinned, absurdly pleased. Women had been heaping flattery upon him for years, but compliments had never meant much ere now. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and asked himself if it was too soon to kiss her.
Her eyes stayed him. “And Stenton?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes.” His fingers fell away. “We came upon him in the tunnels. With a pistol to his head, he was only too willing to lead us to Robert.” And Phoebe, he nearly added, then thought better of it. Now was not the time to address that topic.
Relief shone in her eyes but almost immediately the clouds rolled in. “Robert?”
With his thumb he traced small circles on her soft cheek. It was probably wrong of him, but he couldn’t stop touching her.
“We found him in a room very much like this one. He’s a bit worse for wear, but he looks to be a sturdy fellow. With some sisterly nursing, he’ll soon recover his strength. The important thing is that he’s safe, as are you.”
“Safe.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m almost afraid to believe it.”
He braced a palm on either side of her head. “Believe.” Craving her lips, he settled for her forehead.
She opened her eyes. “Where is he now?”
Damning himself for a lout, he started up. “You’re anxious to see him, of course.” Ridiculous to be jealous of a brother and yet he was, dreadfully so. He wasn’t ready to share her.
She looped a hand about his wrist and tugged. “Yes, but in a moment. For now, just hold me…please.”
Pride and love. They swelled his chest until he thought surely his sternum would crack. She wanted him to comfort her. She wanted him.
He dropped down beside her, tucked an arm beneath her, and lifted her onto his lap. Her slight body trembling against him shredded the remnants of his reserve.
“Yes, I’ll hold you. I’ll hold onto you forever if only you’ll let me.”
He kissed the top of her head, buried his face in her hair, and dragged his beard-roughened cheek across her smooth one, tasting a tear winding down her cheek. He was about to claim her lips when a cough sounded.
He followed her wide-eyed gaze over his shoulder to the open door. Reggie, Lord Tremont, Robert Bellamy—and Phoebe—crowded the archway, eyes wide and mouths agape.
Chelsea pushed at his chest. He thought she mouthed the words, What have we done? but couldn’t be sure. To avoid a scene, he let her up. She stumbled to her feet, and he had no choice but to follow.
Lord Tremont’s gray eyes snapped. “Now see here, Montrose. What’s this?”
“Montrose?” Robert Bellamy, gauntness lending inches to his moderate height, turned to Phoebe. “Your fiancé?”
Phoebe’s face crumpled. “So I believed him to be.” She backed away, turned, and then fled.
“Phoebe, wait.” Robert started after her, swayed, and clutched the doorpost. His hazel eyes, haunted and angry, fixed on Chelsea, then Anthony. “I’ll deal with you later, Montrose.” He pushed away from the door and left.
Tremont and Reggie moved to close the gap. Reggie’s gaze settled on Chelsea, who had retreated to the back of the chamber. “You’re the redhead from Vauxhall, aren’t you?” He started across the threshold. “The one he deserted my sister for.”
Anthony blocked him. He wished he could shield Chelsea from the scathing words as easily as he could shield her body.
“Your quarrel is with me, Tremont. Leave her the hell out of it.” He advanced. Another pace and he would tread on Reggie’s toes.
Lord Tremont braced a stubby hand on his son’s shoulder. “Stand aside, Reginald. You can have at him after I’ve done.”
He stripped off his coat and shoved it at Reggie, then headed to the center of the room.
Red-faced, he tucked his stubby fingers into fists. “I don’t suppose anyone has chalk?”
Anthony shook his head. “Lord Tremont, I am not going to fight you.”
“Hah! Think you’re too good to fight an old man, eh? Well, I’ll have you know I was accounted quite the pugilist in my Oxford days. Still remember a thing or two.” Intricate footwork brought him within inches of Anthony.
“Really, milord, this is absurd.” Hands at his sides, Anthony stepped back. A blow stirred the air about his midriff.
“Think you can dupe my gel and get away with it,” Lord Tremont huffed. Sweat streaming, he moved in to take another jab. “I’ll teach you a thing or two about honor, you scalawag.”
Anthony looked over Lord Tremont’s head to Reggie, who still held his father’s coat.
“Reggie, for God’s sake talk some sense into your father. Or are you just going to stand there and watch him have an apoplexy?”
Reggie hesitated. Suddenly his vague gaze sharpened. He pushed away from the wall and squared his shoulders.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not,” Reggie said with more conviction than Anthony had ever heard him apply to any topic other than cards.
He draped his father’s coat over a dusty barrel, removed his own cherry-colored outer garment, and folded it atop the other. He came forward and nudged his father out of the way.
Lord Tremont frowned. “But I was just warming up.”
“Sorry, Papa, but the family honor is at stake.” He drew back his gloved fist.
The next thing Anthony knew he was tasting the most expensive kid leather. Bracing his back against the wall he’d just befriended, he shook his head, packed with wool and swimming with stars.
“Bravo! That’ll teach him.” Tremont beamed at Reggie. “Wouldn’t have thought you had it in you. Seems you’re my son after all.”
His lordship’s voice echoed inside Anthony’s skull as if from a cavern. The gentleman wore two heads, both beaming with paternal pride.
Anthony bent and spat into a corner, gratef
ul when no teeth accompanied the blood. “I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you either,” he agreed, gathering himself.
Reggie flexed his right hand. “After that last bout on the bridge, I started working out at Gentleman Jackson’s. Practice just about every afternoon.” He grinned. “Never thought I’d best you though. You look bloody awful, old boy.”
Anthony smiled back. Blood oozed from his split lip, but his head was beginning to clear, leaving plenty of room for rage. Reggie had all but called Chelsea a whore. That alone would earn him a second black eye.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He pushed away from the wall.
“You are?” Reggie paused in retrieving his coat. “W-why?”
“Because we’re not finished.”
Anthony launched forward.
The next minutes dissolved into pummeling fists, gasping breaths, and swashing blood and saliva, Reggie’s. Anthony hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours and his body, still sore and bruised from the tangle with Lord Ambrose, groaned in protest as he pushed it to its limit. Reggie’s attack had caught him off guard. But, with his attention focused, he easily bested the younger, less experienced fighter. He softened some of his blows but only some.
A pistol’s report caused the two combatants to break apart. Jack scowled from the doorway, plaster raining on his head and shoulders.
“Mugglestone’s back wi’ the magistrate. They’re waitin’ upstairs.” His scowl deepened.
“Oh, and just so ye know, while ye’ve been brawlin’, Squire Dumfreys killed ’imself, ate some powder from the compartment of a fancy ring he wears.”
Anthony combed the damp hair from his eyes with bruised fingers. He searched the narrow cell for Chelsea. How was she taking the news that her parents’ murderer, her brother’s kidnapper, her would-be ravisher, was dead?
He would have to wait to find out.
Chelsea was gone.
As soon as the Tremonts moved from the door, Chelsea started toward it. She felt like a snared rabbit—suffocated, panicked, doomed. The only difference was that the rabbit was innocent.
She, on the other hand, was entirely culpable. The night before, she’d knowingly made love with another woman’s fiancé. That morning she’d awakened fully prepared to repeat the act. Just moments before she’d all but thrown herself at Anthony’s head, shamelessly begging him to stay with her, to hold her. And he had, at great personal cost. She’d probably ruined his life.