Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  With an uneasy sigh, Brett stood and ran a hand through his hair. What in hell was going on? Who would be trying to kill Ashleigh... or him? Images drifted into his mind... images of another accident—only that one had been fatal.

  Shaking his head as if to clear it, Brett looked at Tom. "Thank you for coming out for this," he said.

  Tom nodded respectfully, a worried look in his eyes.

  "But now, Tom, I must ask you one more thing."

  "Aye, Yer Grace?"

  "Please say nothing of this to anyone. I wish to do some careful thinking on what this discovery implies before I decide what we're to do about it. Can you give me your promise?"

  Tom's eyes met the turquoise gaze openly. He'd known the lad almost all his life, and he was heartily fond of this present duke of Ravensford. His Grace was a fair-minded man, and a smart one, to boot. If he'd determined the matter needed studying and closed lips in the process, there was likely good reason for it.

  "Ye hae me word on't, Yer Grace."

  "Good man," said Brett, clapping him on the shoulder. "And now I'll be heading back to the Hall while you remain to make your repairs. Shall I send one of the other men to help you?"

  Tom gave him a gap-toothed smile. "Nay, 'tis easily mended by one. But, if ye d' nae mind, Yer Grace, I'll be checkin' on t' other balcony as well." He gave his employer a pointed look.

  "You're one step ahead of me, Tom. I was just about to ask that." Brett headed for the stairs. "Take your time with it. I'll water the pony and move him and your dray into the shade before I leave."

  * * * * *

  As Brett rode toward the Hall, his thoughts were grim. What was he to do with this discovery, now that fact had replaced mere suspicion? He knew most men would immediately call the constable, but for him, it wasn't so simple. Most men weren't involved in clandestine government service. He'd suffered attacks on his life before, the most recent being the one in which Patrick had saved his life. But all those had occurred while there'd been a war raging, and now England was at peace—except for a little matter of her former colonies in America, he corrected, but that had never been in his sphere of operation.

  And what if the foul play had been aimed at Ashleigh? It had been generally known that it was she who'd be spending most of the time here once the cottage was restored.

  Still, he couldn't think why anyone would wish her dead. Or could he? Briefly his thoughts focused on an image of Elizabeth Hastings's furious face when she'd learned of his new betrothal, but he dismissed it as quickly as it came. Elizabeth might be a shrew, but he hardly thought her capable of murder. No, Elizabeth was a female more likely to use words to inflict harm.

  As the thought came to him, he realized he'd better warn Ashleigh to be prepared for that, if nothing else. After all, Elizabeth lived close by, and it was hardly likely that his marriage would keep her from continuing to visit the Hall and her beloved godmother.

  Well, all the more reason to take Ashleigh away for a while. The summons to London couldn't have come at a more opportune time. And, among other things, the time away would afford him a chance to mull things over... to think what to do to ensure there would be no more accidents.

  His thoughts shifted to his bride, bringing a soft smile to his lips. He was going to enjoy showing her around London. She was such a wide-eyed innocent, so ingenuously appreciative of all she saw in this new life-style that was such a contrast to her years of ignominious drudgery in that brothel!

  And he could hardly wait to see her face when he presented her with his wedding gift this evening. His smile broadened as he patted the papers he carried in his waistcoat pocket while reining Raven in, for they were approaching the entrance to the stable block. The papers were a transfer of ownership of one black filly named Irish Night to Her Grace, the duchess of Ravensford, otherwise known as Ashleigh Sinclair Westmont. He couldn't wait!

  * * * * *

  A half-dozen anxious faces met their duke's heated gaze as he stood before them in the entrance hall.

  "Do you expect me to believe that none of you saw them leave, in broad daylight?" Brett thundered.

  Chauncey Jameson exchanged a worried glance with Hettie Busby, then exerted all his powers of self-control to avoid reaching for a handkerchief to wipe his perspiring brow before his duke, and replied, "Her Grace never returned to the Hall from the dowager's cottage, Your Grace, and as for Sir Patrick and Miss O'Brien, we thought they were taking Her Grace's mount to her when they left, and that was late morning."

  "Aye, Yer Grace," added Old Henry. "I 'anded Sir Patrick Irish Night's tether meself, I did."

  Brett was frantic with worry. It was now early evening, and they'd searched the house and grounds for hours after the three of them had failed to return for luncheon, as scheduled. Where could she be? How could all three of them have disappeared as they had? As he thought, a cold chill of apprehension seized him. Was this the ultimate foul play, a final piece of dirty work to correct the failure of last night's accident? And if so, there had to be someone with might, as well as cunning, involved, for Patrick was powerfully built and a mean fighter, especially when defense was concerned.

  Suddenly, as he stood there wondering what to do, he heard footsteps running up the drive, then a furious knocking at the door.

  Jameson went to the door, opening it to reveal the anxious faces of Jonathan Busby and the young footman named Robert.

  "B-beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Jameson, sir, but w-we wish t' see 'Is Grace, if ye please," stammered Jonathan.

  "Aye, sir, ye see, we've found somethin'," Robert added. "Send them in," Brett called out.

  The two young men approached, Jonathan with a quick glance at his parents, Robert with his eyes on the floor.

  When they stood side by side in front of the duke, Jonathan gave Robert an elbow in the ribs. "Show 'im," he muttered.

  Darting a glance at his duke's stern visage, Robert withdrew a sheet of parchment from his sleeve and handed it forward while Jonathan proceeded to explain.

  "Ye said t' keep searchin', Yer Grace, so Robby 'n me, we decided t' give th' cottage a good goin' over, onct we was done wi' th' garden." He looked slightly apologetic. "Th' door was open after ye left, ye see."

  "An' we found that paper under a table in th' upstairs drawin' room, near th' window. Th' wind must hae blown it t' th' floor, ye see, an' so everyone missed it earlier."

  "I see," said Brett, quickly unfolding the parchment. "Good work, lads."

  Beaming, both footmen retired beside Hettie and Old Henry while Brett scanned the letter.

  Dear Brett,

  I don't know how to say this, except to tell you I am leaving. I know now our wedding was a mistake, and I am correcting it the only way I know how. I would like to explain further, but my feelings are too raw right now, and I find I lack the words.

  Please do not try to find me. I convinced Megan and Patrick to accompany me, so I shall be safe enough.

  Finally, suffice it to say that I hope you are able to obtain a quick annulment or divorce and marry Elizabeth Hastings as you had planned. She will be infinitely more suitable, I am sure.

  Ashleigh

  Brett's face was as expressionless as stone as he finished reading the letter, but the turquoise eyes glittered dangerously as he raised them to Henry Busby. "Have Raven saddled at once," he bit out.

  Recognizing the chilling look in those eyes, Henry knew not to question the command and moved instantly for the door with an "Aye, Yer Grace."

  "Higgins," came the order to Brett's valet, "finish packing and go on ahead to London when you're ready. I leave now!"

  And with a quick stride, he was out the door after Henry.

  As he strode toward the stables, Brett's mind was a seething sea of fury. So she'd proved true to form, after all. Like all womankind, she was as false as a lie. Well, more the fool he, for not anticipating it coming this quickly! Leave him on the day after their wedding, would she? Well, he'd see about that! He'd find her, and when he
did, she'd regret the moment she ever laid eyes on him. No woman was ever again going to play him false and get away with it—no woman!

  With a grim set to his chin, Brett quickened his pace to the stables.

  * * * * *

  Ashleigh stood uncertainly beside Irish Night's stall in the stable of the White Horse Inn just outside of London where they'd taken lodgings for the night. In her hand she still held the note the innkeeper's wife had delivered to her chamber as she was preparing to undress for bed. "Ashleigh," it read, in the crude block letters her friend still labored to produce, "Patrick's gone to fech sum linamint fer his stalyonz leg, but I need yer help. Meet me in the stabel. —Megan."

  They had made this unplanned stop on their way to another inn near the docks in London where Patrick knew he'd find the first mate of his sloop, the Ashleigh Anne. The sloop was their ultimate destination, but, inasmuch as she carried an American flag, he'd had to hide her in one of the many secret coves along the Devon coast that he'd known from his free-trading years, and because his trusted first mate stayed in London during their layover, Patrick had taken them on this roundabout route before he planned to sail them all to his home in America—for good. But then, shortly after dark, Saint, Patrick's beloved chestnut stallion, had gone lame from a particularly rough spot in the unpaved road they'd been traveling—for Patrick had kept them to back roads and away from main highways in an effort to avoid being seen in their flight—and they'd had to stop here for the night.

  After a supper in the inn's common room, Ashleigh had left Megan and Patrick to retire early. It had been a long, exhausting day for her, both physically and emotionally, and she was bone weary. But then she'd received Megan's note, and now, here she stood in the stable, and there was no sign of Megan or Patrick, or anyone else for that matter.

  Thinking it odd that not even the old stable man was about—the one she'd spoken to earlier with special instructions for rubbing Irish Night down—she walked the few steps to the next stall, expecting to see poor Saint, but when she got there, Saint was gone!

  At the same instant, she heard a rustling behind her, and as she turned to see what it was, a pair of strong hands grabbed her from behind, one quickly clamping across her mouth as she opened it to scream, the other pulling her roughly against a large male frame. She felt herself yanked upward, her feet dangling in the air as an arm clasped her in an iron band of muscle that held her immobile against her captor's chest.

  Frantically, Ashleigh sought to loose herself, twisting her head from left to right to free her mouth and kicking backward with her legs, for her arms were held firmly against her sides, but it was no use. Although it was dark in the stable, she had no need of light to know the man was almost twice her size and many times stronger. A growing terror seized her as she realized she was entirely at his mercy.

  Then a familiar scent met her half-covered nostrils over the equine smells of the stable, and a roughly whispered voice she recognized cut the air.

  "I'm going to release your mouth as soon as you nod your head to indicate you won't scream, but I promise you—one sound, and I'll knock you unconscious, so help me, I will!"

  Brett's voice! And she'd recognized the male scent of his, too, with its combination of sandalwood soap, tobacco and leather meeting her nose. Terror giving way to dread, she nodded.

  He removed his hands and set her down on the hay-strewn floor, then grabbed her none too gently by the shoulders and spun her about to face him. She raised her eyes to meet his in the dim light given off by a single lantern at the end of the row of stalls, and what she saw then caused a cold lump of fear to settle in her midsection.

  Eyes that had been chilling often enough in the past, now bored into hers with an icy regard that made all previous looks seem like nothing by comparison. Even in the near dark, their turquoise shards telegraphed an anger so monumental, she drew in her breath with an audible gasp.

  "Get your tack and saddle the filly," he ground out at her from between clenched teeth, "and, dear wife, make not one errant move, for it would still be very easy for me to render you unconscious."

  When Irish Night was saddled and bridled, he forced her to mount, then took a length of rope and bound her wrists together before handing her the reins. Her eyes widened as she saw him lead Raven forth from a stall farther down the row and take, from where it was draped over his saddle, a long cloak she'd kept at the stables at Ravensford Hall to use on chilly mornings when she'd worked with the filly. This he promptly threw over her shoulders, fastening and draping it so that it concealed her bound wrists. Then he extracted an old silk scarf she'd also kept in the stables to tie back her hair on occasion, when it got in the way of her work. She watched in silence while he mounted Raven, moved the stallion alongside the filly and reached out with the scarf in such a way as to indicate he would gag her.

  "Oh, Brett, no!" she cried out softly. "Please don't—"

  "One more word, and you'll find yourself bound hand and foot, as well as gagged, and slung over your saddle like a sack of meal!" he bit out with fury, and proceeded to tie the gag in place.

  They rode for what seemed like hours, though in her weariness, Ashleigh couldn't tell for sure. The only words Brett imparted came at the beginning of the journey when, as he saw her casting about the inn yard, he told her not to bother looking for help. He'd sent the stable man out to exercise Saint's stiff leg after the liniment had been applied. As for Megan and her brother, he said, they were soundly tucked away in their beds at the inn. The note she'd received had been forged—by him. Did she realize, he mockingly inquired, that some of his wartime government service had involved learning to pen forgeries? Megan's simple letters had been child's play for him!

  Sometime well after midnight, judging by how high the moon rode in the sky, Ashleigh saw the cobbled streets and narrow buildings they'd been passing give way to the familiar breadth of St. James's, and then King Street, and she knew he was taking her to his London residence.

  Dismounting and throwing his reins to a sleepy-eyed stable boy he called Tim, he lifted Ashleigh from the black filly's back, gave her gag a tug to pull it free and, with a menacing look that said he would brook no attempts at fleeing or calling for help, ushered her to the rear door of the town house.

  A wide-eyed Higgins met them at the door, but, aside from a brief response to a curtly phrased question from the duke as to how soon ahead of them he'd arrived, remained wisely silent as Brett bade him good-night and marched Ashleigh firmly upstairs.

  Once there, he did not take her to the chamber she'd shared with Megan when they were in London in late spring, but instead, led her into a large, well-furnished bedchamber done in a masculine style, with its colors in varying hues of brown and dark blue. Shutting the door behind them, to Ashleigh's dismay he then locked it and pocketed the key; then he turned to her with eyes that glittered with impending menace.

  Now that they were away from where other ears might hear, Ashleigh felt she dared risking speech. She had to know his intent. Swallowing past the growing lump in her throat, she turned apprehensive blue eyes upward. "Brett, I know you must be ang—"

  "Shut your lying little mouth, you false bitch!" he snarled, roughly undoing her cloak. "Your charming little note said all I need to hear from you—ever!" He began to untie her bonds, the grim line of his mouth offset not a whit by the white lines that formed around it and the faint tick in his jaw muscles as he strove to hold his temper in check.

  Then, as she rubbed at her sore wrists where the rope had been tied, he reached for the buttons of her smart little riding jacket.

  Ashleigh took a step backward in alarm, her wide eyes flying to his face. Did he mean to undress her? Was he going to force intimacies upon her while in this forbidding mood? For it would be force he would have to use; she couldn't begin to think of giving him willing access to her body with things as they were between them now.

  But Brett avoided her eyes and merely jerked her toward him and removed the jacke
t; then he spun her around and started on the buttons at the back of her habit.

  "Brett, I—"

  "One more word—just one—and I'll make you wish you'd never been given speech," he spat. Then he was pushing the habit down around her waist, her hips, her thighs, until it fell at last in a heap about her ankles.

  This done, he began to divest her of her undergarments, finishing the shameful disrobing by throwing her heedlessly on the bed where he pulled off her boots and rolled down her stockings.

  While he accomplished this, Ashleigh remained carefully silent, but had all she could do to push back the tears of fright and despair that choked. Unbidden, her thoughts flew back to an earlier time of humiliation and fear at his hands.

  Finally, when she lay cowering and nude on the large tester bed, he stood looking down at her from his great height, his turquoise eyes gleaming with naked anger.

  "I don't think you'll be going anywhere without your clothes," he sneered, "but just to make sure..." He retrieved the discarded scarf and began to bind her wrists again with it instead of the rope, oblivious to Ashleigh's moan of distress at the act. Then, almost as an afterthought, he pulled the bed's coverlet over her trembling form; this done, he blew out the lamp and headed for the door.

  After he had unlocked it, she saw him turn toward her in the light given off by a pair of candles in a sconce in the hallway. "Sleep well, Your Grace," he mocked, then shut the door, and a moment later, a soft click told her it was locked.

  Exhausted as she was, Ashleigh lay awake for a long time, unable to sleep. Myriad questions kept assaulting her brain, tumbling her thoughts about. What did he intend to do with her? Surely he couldn't keep her locked up like this indefinitely? Didn't he realize Patrick and Megan would tear London apart to find her? But would they know she was here? What if Brett kept her whereabouts hidden when they came to his house? And how long would Brett keep her from speaking, from trying to explain to him what had prompted her to leave? For she felt she could thereby perhaps gain enough of his understanding, if not his sympathy, to convince him to let her go.