Flaming June

by Emma V. Leech

  Juno, the queen of goddesses. That’s what Henry had said she was. Goddess of love and of marriage, yet Juno was a warrior, too. She would have defended her family from all comers, Isabella felt sure.

  It was foolish perhaps, but as she struggled into the dress alone and with fingers that would not cooperate, she found a strange sense of tranquillity. Her heart still thudded in her chest as she reached once more for the powder and shot, but her hands no longer shook.

  Isabella moved with quiet calm to the window at the front of the house, which had the best view of the tree-lined alley that led to their door. She flung the windows open wide and reached for one of the duelling pistols that Jack had left primed and ready. It was a beautiful thing, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver scroll work. Juno would approve, she thought with a wry smile.

  The night lay hot and heavy, the month of her goddess fierce, scorching the landscape where most years she was a gentler presence. Sweat prickled down Isabella’s back, heat and nerves combined, pressing down on her as she waited.

  It was almost full dark when she heard them, and Isabella thanked providence that a bright full moon hung fat and full in the sky. A silvery light touched the gardens before her, casting eerie shadows as Isabella knelt before the window, her wrists propped on the sill as she raised the pistol.

  The muted clatter of hooves on dusty ground grew louder, the sound of men laughing, as if they were out for a pleasurable sporting event. Fury grew in Isabella’s heart and the sound of a pistol firing rang out across the darkness as the riders emerged from the tree-covered alley. The first horse reared with a scream of fear as the bullet hit the tree beside it, sending splinters flying. The rider of the horrified beast tumbled to the ground with a curse as the others scattered, their mounts plunging into the dark garden as the men shouted and tried to regain control.

  “Who the devil is firing up there?” shouted an angry voice from beneath the canopy of the trees.

  Isabella fired again, just to make a point, before standing in the light of the window.

  “I am Lady Isabella Barbour, and you, sir, are trespassing. I demand you remove yourselves from my husband’s land before I shoot you.” Isabella heard her voice carry in the darkness, the imperious, high-handed tone of the woman her mother had bred to marry a marquess.

  “Lady Isabella,” came a cultured, soothing voice. “There is no need for such histrionics. We have come for your husband, not for you. He’s a danger to himself and others and needs keeping in a place of safety. We mean neither of you any harm, madam. Hand him over and you will be mistress of Barcham Place.”

  Rage such as Isabella had never known lent her an icy calm. She picked up the rifle, taking her time to aim, keeping her breathing steady and even. The toe of a gleaming hessian boot was visible, peeping out from behind the tree the man sheltered behind. Isabella spared a moment to send a prayer, to God, or to Juno, whoever was listening … and fired.

  The scream echoed around the gardens and Isabella gave a little shout of triumph, exhilaration fizzing in her blood like champagne. “I warned you, sir,” she shouted over the din of the man’s screams. “I will aim a little higher at the next man to approach this house, so I hope you all have an heir and a spare, for you’ll not sire another if you make the attempt.”

  Isabella held her breath as she heard shouts of rage and indignation as the man continued to scream. Good Lord, what a white-livered cur. “He should try having a baby,” she muttered to herself as she reached for the next gun. Three shots left. “Hurry, Belle. Please hurry.” She whispered the words, her palms sweating as she tried to hold the weight of the pistol steady. The gardens grew quiet, the stamp and huff of unsettled horses the only sound, save that of an owl on the hunt. She knew they’d not be fool enough to approach the front of the house now.

  Isabella closed the window, gathered the loaded rifle and the two pistols with care, carrying the shot bag in her teeth and the powder flask under her arm as she ran to the back of the house. All doors and windows were secured, but she was damned if she’d allow them close enough to find out. Besides which, this was a waiting game now. If they realised Henry was not inside the house, they’d widen their search. She prayed her husband would stay where he was and not move.

  She threw the window open just in time to see a shadowy figure cross the lawn. Without bothering to take the time to aim, she fired. Dirt flew up a bare foot in front of the man who yelled in surprise.

  “Damnation, madam!”

  He stilled as Isabella threw down the pistol and took the rifle in hand. She smirked at the fellow who had covered his crotch with his hands. Who knew she was such a fine shot? Perhaps her warrior goddess was looking down at her after all. Here she stood, illuminated by moonlight, her figure clear and bright to those down below, defending everything she loved.

  “The next one will make you a eunuch, sir,” she shouted. The figure ran for cover. Isabella snorted, laughing with disdain. “I have more loaded guns, and enough powder and shot to play this game for days, gentlemen. Might I suggest you leave before I grow bored and make my next shot count? I won’t be aiming for your toes, I promise.”

  The night grew still around her, and Isabella took a deep breath, training the rifle on the gardens below. “Hurry, Belle,” she said, the words pleading as she glanced up at the moon. “Please hurry.”

  ***

  Henry jolted as the sound of a shot firing pierced the night. His heart leapt in his chest, fear, cold and burning like ice as it surged beneath his skin.

  “Isabella!”

  He scrambled to his feet, hurrying outside when the terror of what awaited him stilled his movements. Guns didn’t frighten him. Dying and leaving his family if it meant they would be safe was a risk he would take with a glad heart … Yet his own terrors lurked, tangling in his head, pressing down on him like a weight until his heart felt it would burst with frustration and fear.

  Another shot, and dread for Isabella and Marie’s safety overrode all else.

  He plunged into the darkness, running like a wild creature, the taste of life and death on his tongue, fuelling his blood and pumping his heart as he ran to protect what was his. The distance between him and his home seemed that of the earth to the moon as he covered the ground with all the speed he possessed.

  Henry slid to a halt as a third shot rang out, and then a scream rent the air. His heart beat in his throat, so fierce it hurt. A man’s scream, he assured himself, pushing on once more. As the pitiful wails howled to the moon, he knew it wasn’t Jack. Jack would never make such a fuss. Which meant Jack was there, he was defending the house. His terror calmed a little and he moved with more stealth now.

  The great house appeared through the tree line and Henry slowed. He could hear men’s voices, cursing his wife. Rage and indignation boiled inside him, and then he saw her.

  An upper window flew open, Isabella lit up in the moonlight. With astonishment, he saw her raise a pistol without hesitation and fire. The man trying to approach the house yelled and cursed as the bullet struck just inches before him. Henry sucked in a breath. “Juno,” he murmured, his heart filled with pride and awe. He noted that she wore the dress he’d chosen for her, the moonlight turning it to gold. She’d done that for him, the embodiment of an ancient deity come to earth.

  “The next one will make you a eunuch, sir.”

  Henry swallowed a laugh of wonder and surprise. His love for her swelled in his chest along with a desperate bitterness they should force her to defend him in such a way. Yet what kind of man was he that he would hide in the dark while his wife fought for him alone? For she was alone, Jack nowhere in sight.

  The murderous rage that had wanted Treedle’s blood simmered beneath his skin. Isabella would not face this alone for his sake.

  He stalked through the undergrowth until he found someone on whom to vent his rage. It was too easy, though, as his large hand covered the man’s mouth, his arm squeezing his throat until it cut his air off.

>   “Make a sound and I’ll snap your neck like a dry twig,” Henry growled in his ear. He could feel the terrified thud of the man’s heart, his breathing harsh over Henry’s fingers as he gave a slight nod. The desire to break his neck anyway was tantalising, but Henry stilled his bloodlust. There was a rope at the man’s feet, no doubt intended for him, and Henry took satisfaction in tying him up so tight the rope bit into his skin. Stuffing the fellow’s handkerchief into his mouth, Henry left him wide-eyed with terror as he moved forward.

  Two men lingered on the edge of the lawn, their voices low, but carrying on the still night.

  “Bitch is as mad as he is,” one of them muttered.

  “Treedle said as much,” replied his companion, sounding amused. “Reckoned she was mad for it, practically begged him to take her. Her husband must be a half-wit, to marry her when she was full of another man’s bastard.”

  Henry’s fist smashed into the side of the dark figure’s head and he dropped like it had felled him, crashing to the ground as his companion turned with a gasp, raising a pistol. Henry smacked it from his hand and the pistol tumbled, exploding to life as it hit the ground and the mechanism fired. His hand clamped around the man’s neck as his eyes grew wide, the white startling in the moonlight.

  “Say it again,” Henry dared him, squeezing now as the man choked.

  His victim shook his head, scrabbling at Henry’s massive hand, to no avail as his face grew purple. Henry turned him, his arm about the man’s neck still as he reached down for the pistol his companion wore. He tugged it from the man who lay as still as the dead. Henry didn’t much care if he was.

  Pressing the gun to the man’s temple, he moved into the open.

  “Henry! No!” Isabella’s cry pierced the night and his heart as he looked up at her.

  “It’s all right,” he said, his voice calm and strong, though terror was licking at his mind. “I love you, Juno,” he added, the words just for her as men moved from the darkness.

  “Stay back!” his wife screamed, raising the rifle she carried. The men stilled, seeing her now for the threat she was. Treedle wasn’t here, Henry noted with contempt. Still hiding in the dark like a coward, like he had. Self-disgust bit deep, and Henry turned to the men who would come for him.

  “If you leave now, I’ll let him go unharmed,” he said, facing the one man who seemed the ring leader here. No doubt he was in Viscount Treedle’s employ. Henry watched as the fellow held out his hands in a placating gesture. It might have been more reassuring if his companions weren’t armed to the teeth.

  “Now then, Mr Barbour,” the man said, his tone patronising. “We don’t want to hurt you, just to take you for a little ride so you can have a talk with us, that’s all.”

  Henry snorted. “Yes, I know that. A one-way ride to the asylum. Mad I may be, but not stupid, I’m afraid. So, I think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Ah, but is isn’t all the same,” the man said, his voice still soothing, though his eyes glittered with malice. He was the kind of man who loved to hunt, Henry realised with a thrill of fear shivering down his spine. Henry was his prey. “You’ve caused a deal of damage and embarrassment to my employer, sir. If I don’t return the favour, it’ll be me with my head on a pike. I don’t like that idea.”

  “Sounds a fine idea to me,” Henry shot back, glancing up at Isabella to give him courage. She stood rigid in the moonlight, her rifle still trained on the man he spoke with. “And if your employer hadn’t trespassed on my land, threatened my daughter, and raised his hand to my wife, he’d still be in one piece.” As he remembered Treedle raising his fist to Isabella, Henry’s rage grew. “You can tell him I’ll come for what’s left when I get around to it. Which will be all the sooner if he ever speaks my wife’s name again.”

  “Really?” the man sneered as he spoke, his voice dripping contempt as his hand slid to draw a pistol from beneath the folds of his coat. “How will you manage that when you’re too frightened to leave your own home? Hiding behind your wife’s skirts.”

  Humiliation burned as the words found their mark. Henry sucked in a breath, his concentration wavering as the man he held sensed his distraction and thrust his elbow into Henry’s stomach.

  Henry doubled over as the fellow ran, and then everything happened at once.

  Isabella’s scream rang out as he saw the man before him raise his pistol, and a shot rang out. Shouts and yells filled the moonlit garden as more men thundered towards them on horse-back.

  By the time Henry could make sense of what had happened, he saw the man who’d gone to fire upon him cradling his hand to his chest, blood dripping in a steady stream. His pistol lay where it had fallen in the grass.

  A moment later and Henry got to his feet, only to be almost knocked flat again as Isabella burst from the house and threw her arms around him.

  “Henry, Henry!”

  She still carried a pistol and her eyes darted around the dark garden as Henry thrust her behind him, raising the gun he still carried.

  “Henry, be careful. It’s Winterbourne,” she said, her voice urgent. “He’s come to help us.”

  As she spoke, a dark, cold voice sounded in the garden. “Lower your damn guns before I shoot you myself.”

  “That’s not Winterbourne,” Henry said, keeping Isabella at his back.

  The riders moved forward, and Henry felt a rush of relief to see Lord Winterbourne was indeed there, though it was not him that had spoken. That fellow looked like the devil himself, his hair black and tied back in a style long gone, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

  “Calm yourself, Gabriel,” Lord Winterbourne’s voice was clear and strong and the man beside him snorted. Henry watched as the marquess dismounted and walked towards him.

  “Henry?” he said, his tone cautious as he held out a hand to him.

  Henry stared around the garden, at men on both sides who were armed, still unsure of whom to trust.

  “We won’t let them take you, Henry," the marquess said. “They have no right, and Treedle will get what’s coming to him, I assure you.”

  “He will indeed.” The man who looked like Satan out for a midnight ride sounded amused at the prospect.

  Edward glanced back at him before returning his attention to Henry.

  “My cousin,” he said with a wry smile. “Viscount DeMorte.” DeMorte flashed a devilish grin, saluting with the pistol he held.

  Isabella sucked in a breath behind him, as did the men who’d come to take Henry to the madhouse. Whoever he was, they knew him and feared him, too.

  “Who here says this man is mad?” DeMorte demanded, his voice harsh and angry in the darkness. “For I say, he’s as sane as I am.” He laughed, a wicked, almost deranged sound as he turned his horse in a circle, staring at each man in turn. “Would anyone like to argue that?”

  There were murmurs and head-shaking, and that disturbing laughter sounded again. “I thought not,” Lord DeMorte said, the sneer on his face audible in the words. “Be off with you then, and anyone wanting to remove my friend here from his property will answer to me. Make sure Viscount Treedle knows, and tell him to expect me on the morrow. We can breakfast together.”

  Even Henry felt the shiver of apprehension that followed those words. Whoever DeMorte was, Treedle would not enjoy his visit. He looked back at the marquess as Edward held his hand out once more. The men who would have taken him were dispersing now.

  Henry looked at the man’s outstretched hand and felt Isabella grasp his arm, her touch reassuring. He looked at her and took a breath before taking Edward’s hand and shaking it.

  “Good man,” Edward said, his voice approving. “Now, is there any chance of a drink before we leave? I feel I need one.”

  Chapter 20

  “Wherein demons are confronted.”

  Isabella passed the generous glasses of brandy to Lord Winterbourne and Lord DeMorte. She avoided DeMorte’s eye, finding the man an unsettling presence. He seemed as ill at ease
as Henry, but far more threatening.

  “I’ve sent word back to the house,” Lord Winterbourne said with a smile as he accepted the drink. “Your little Marie will be back with you soon enough.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Isabella said with relief.

  Winterbourne shook his head. “Call me Edward, please.”

  He seemed far more relaxed than Isabella remembered him. At the Christmas party, he’d appeared rude and unpleasant, unapproachable. Belle must have done this, she thought with a smile. Belle’s innate kindness and understanding shone from her. Even a big, angry fellow like the marquess must be no match for that depth of sweetness. She glanced back at Henry, her heart aching as she wished she could help him in the same way.

  He was sitting with his head bowed, avoiding everyone’s eye and threading the bronze ribbon she’d given him back and forth and around his fingers. DeMorte watched him, his glittering eyes fascinated, though she sensed no judgement in his gaze.

  “My wife has told me a great deal about your work, Henry,” Lord Winterbourne said, disregarding that Henry was ignoring everybody. “In fact, I’ve heard little else from her. I am tasked to persuade you to paint our son. God help you,” he murmured, though the pride in his voice was obvious.

  “I’m not sure it’s possible to paint a moving target,” DeMorte remarked as Edward snorted. “She also said Mr Barbour was terribly handsome, did she not, Edward?” his cousin observed, the flicker of a taunting smile at lips that looked cruel and hard.

  Edward glowered at him, deciding the comment was beneath him as he turned back to Henry. “I would be honoured if we might view some of your work?”

  “Henry?” Isabella prompted, her voice gentle.

  Henry didn’t look up, but shrugged, hunching into himself.

  “May I show them, Henry?” she asked, hoping it was just the two men in the room whose presence disturbed him. He looked deeply unhappy and she feared the events of the night had left a mark on him.

  He nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. Isabella turned back to the two men to discover DeMorte was engaged in arranging the items on her sideboard with a depth of concentration that was a little unusual. She turned to Edward instead.