He needed Rachel. He patted her shoulder to reassure her. “It’s okay to cry.”
And she did.
No doubt, she cried for the life she could not control, barreling toward the truth with the speed of electrical fire. “I could not grieve because I had to care for my younger brother, Thomas.”
Anthony pulled her closer and his jaw ached from gritting his teeth so hard. She referred to when her parents had died.
She shivered and took a deep breath, sinking into the rhythm of her story. “The British controlled Boston and the Quartering Act was executed. I was forced to house and feed His Majesty’s soldiers. The same ones who killed my father.”
His body tensed. The Quartering Act was a diabolical measure enforced by His Majesty upon the Colonists. But a lone defenseless woman, housing men? He could imagine her terror.
She shook her head, her breath trembling in her chest and rattling through her lips. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Go on. You can confide in me, Rachel,” he encouraged, but his voice hardened. Then he spoke more temperately. “I’m listening.”
How strong she was to shove away the self-protective veneer she hid behind.
“I was alone, trying to deal with a house full of British soldiers. They knew of my family’s patriotic involvement in the war and hated us for it. I was frightened of them”
Her voice broke. He knew what was coming.
“One soldier, an officer…I felt his eyes on me. When I served his meals, he would find excuses to touch me…I-I complained to his commander but was ignored. The officer would trip Thomas, make my little brother the butt of his sick humor. I had to protect Thomas…my future, a mere whim of British soldiers.”
“The mare began to foal. I went to the stable…the soldier followed me…attacked me…I fought…so strong…Thomas came…he tried to save me…so small…” She clutched his shirt, unleashing a flood of desperate gasps, reliving the horror.
“The officer backhanded him across the room…Thomas’s head h-hit a block and tackle…he paid the price. If only I hadn’t gone to check on the mare, Thomas would be alive. Little Thomas, barely nine summers, so full of love and mischief and life. He died, protecting me. Why didn’t I die instead?”
Envisioning her helplessness, Anthony balled his hands into fists. A howling wind threw rain against the window in strong gusts, and the air hung heavy and cold as stinging nettles.
“The British officer renewed his attack on me, knocked me unconscious. From what I learned later, Jacob arrived, beat the officer. Other soldiers arrived. The officer who attacked me accused Jacob of murder. Who was to take the word of a drunken Colonial against one of the King’s men?
Jacob was arrested and dragged away in chains. Incarcerated and awaiting trial, he faced execution. I lay in a coma for many weeks, unable to aid his defense. Everyone knew the charges were ludicrous. With the help of Patriot’s, Jacob escaped. Because of me, he had to leave Boston, and then took up the dangerous practice of privateering.”
“When I awoke, people treated me like a social pariah. Men who had loved to dance with me…” she shrugged. “…dropped off. All I ever wanted was a husband and children…”
She pushed away from Anthony, but he held her solid.
“I-I don’t deserve anyone’s affection… I am not worthy.”
Because I’m not that desirable.
Now he understood. Anthony wanted to pummel his fists into the bastard officer’s face, to beat him to a bloody pulp.
The horrors she had been drawn against. That this bright, beautiful woman had suffered so much. In rapid succession, the death of her parents, the impressment of British soldiers, no family to protect her, the death of her baby brother before her own eyes. How one vulnerable girl had faced a world gone mad. He cursed his countrymen, the sore need and greed of men for power over the Colonies.
He offered her his handkerchief. “Dry your tears,” he said with gentleness, far from the roar he forced down in his throat.
The stinging grief and crushing guilt, she suffered, had never abated. The yoke of responsibility in protecting her brother, followed by his murder, weighed a lodestone around her neck. No wonder she withdrew at times. No wonder she felt unworthy. Deep down, beneath that glowing smile was a magnificent woman who held an ongoing sense of helplessness, bearing the weight of everyone dear to her.
He rubbed his chin in the silkiness of her hair. The dog lay on the opposite seat, head sagged between her paws, and eyes lifted in empathy. “I’m glad you told me. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause it and you didn’t deserve it.”
Rachel’s lingering self-condemnation from the failed rape and the stigma attached haunted Anthony. In England the disgrace would be bandied about with ruthlessness, but puritanical Boston Colonials? She’d have been crucified.
To exhibit the tremendous strength and courage she had, striving to do good, to push away her pain and sufferings, and then she did everything in her power to protect others. That she faced the humiliation of a tyrannical British officer. That she rose from the ashes to take over a shipyard, a job for men. That she championed him at Lord Chelmsford’s. That she put up with his stubbornness and impatience, demonstrated she was beyond an angel…and she cried for the profound loneliness that filled her heart, and a future that seemed bleak and uncertain.
Rachel’s kindness to his favorite aunt said a lot about her character. Many of the women of his acquaintance were like Celeste. They would have been unaware of an old woman’s comfort, covering Aunt Margaret with a blanket while she slept. Polite but haughty, and with certainty, never would they have exercised the compassion Rachel did.
She touched his soul. Anthony held her, the painting in the library of God and his angels came to mind. “The experiences of our past are the architects of our present. Do not let the bad overwhelm what is good. Sometimes, suffering out of our control marks us but need not scar us for life. What we allow the mark of our suffering to become is in our own hands. You are nothing but goodness, Rachel.”
She unleashed another floodgate of tears. Oh, dear Lord, he wasn’t any good at this at all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t”
Rachel buried her face in his neck and sighed, her wet lashes brushing against his skin with every blink.
“If anybody’s opinion matters, it is yours, Anthony.”
Pride burst in him. He traced the smoothness of her chin, lifting her face to meet his, slowly, lazily, never breaking eye contact, he leaned forward and in one smooth movement kissed her. Her sweet breath warm against his mouth, the softness and pliability of her lips against his, and then unspoken promises that rocked him in a way he wouldn’t have believed.
Their lips parting, she said, “Why did you do that?”
He was breathing hard and so was she. “I don’t know. It seemed the logical thing to do.”
On all fours, the mutt growled, stuck its head out the window, full blown barking, running back and forth on the opposing seat…wouldn’t stop. “I should muzzle the mutt.”
The carriage pitched. Catapulted into the air, rolled and thumped and bumped. Rachel screamed, slammed into Anthony. The carriage came to a standstill. He rather liked her on his lap except the carriage slanted at a ninety-degree angle. What stopped them? He yanked the curtain back. Rachel moaned. Plus or minus a few inches, a frigid river churned two hundred and eighty yards below.
“Don’t move. The rotted log that supports us will snap under the stress.” He calculated the odds of dying by falling on one of the many sharp protruding branches that dotted the cliff like pikes, as opposed to fracturing their skulls on razor-sharp rocks that jutted out in the river. Not good. No need to inform Rachel of the danger. As likely as not, she had the formula worked out ahead of him.
On the cliff, up above, the dog barked. Must have been thrown from the carriage. The driver shouted and hooves clattered down the road. The driver had taken off with the horses.
No help from that
quarter. Clearly another attack. “Are you all right?”
The carriage slipped, caught again. Rachel shrieked, clung to his jacket. “We need to depart this death trap.”
“I’ll stay here and balance the weight. You climb out the top window.”
“I can’t leave you here.”
“Go. I’ll climb after you.”
She hesitated then crawled out the window, grappling roots and ledges, hauling herself up the slope. The log popped. The carriage slid. Taking him down. He thrust with his feet, dove out the window. Hooked his arm on an overhanging branch, swinging wildly.
Rachel scrambled down, dug her feet into a frozen crevice, held out her hand. “Now.”
Newton’s law of motion: A body will stay in motion unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. Anthony swung his full weight, clenched her outstretched hand. The inertia of her yank and the shift of his mass equaled his impact into the rock face. His breath whooshed out. His jaw throbbed. Stopped by Newton’s unbalanced force was like getting hit with a team of horses, yet arguably, a good place to be.
A rumble like thunder followed by a loud crash. He followed her glassy stare to where the carriage rested spiked on rocks in the river. Icy water rushed and flooded the conveyance, the underbelly exposed to view.
“The axle has been sawed.” She started shaking.
Anthony held her close until her trembling stopped. “Other than a few scratches, we are good.”
The dog whined and barked. “At least she is safe,” Rachel smiled.
His Rachel was back. Anthony pushed her up the crag, and in minutes, they hauled over the top of the cliff. The driver and horses had vanished. The dog leapt into Rachel’s arms, licking her face.
“Someone is trying to kill you, Anthony.” She put the dog down and faced him. “I told you that I didn’t like the look of the driver.”
She didn’t mention that she could have been killed, unselfishly concerned for his well-being. Her skirts were soaked with mud, her auburn hair undone from its pins, flowed in riotous waves down her shoulders and back. She couldn’t have been more beautiful.
“We have a long hike, and if you say, I told you so…well, I deserve it one hundred times over.” He held out his arm and she grabbed hold. He led her down the mud-rutted road as if they were entering an evening opera instead of following the track of the Rutland’s stolen horses.
“We need to focus on what happened.” Her tone was firmer now, conjuring memories with that precocious mind of hers. “I need you to think. Have you seen the driver before?”
“I was in a hurry to find you. I didn’t pay attention to him.”
Rachel let out a long slow breath, her expression grave. “He was six feet, brown straw-like hair sticking outside his hat, blue watery eyes and unshaven. Then there was the strange man who approached me in town. He had that voiceI would never forgetand I’m sure it was the same raspy vocal sounds in tenor and octave I’ve heard before. He had a red wool cap, probably concealed a bald head, thin frame, nose like an ape, wart on his upper right cheek, five foot, eight inches tall, red coat. Anyone familiar?”
She had a great memory for detail. He rarely remembered a face. “Could be five percent of England.”
“What kinds of questions did he ask?”
“He asked of you, what you were working on in your laboratory…if I had heard that the laboratory had exploded. He had laughed at that notion. I told him he was rude and should frame his questions to the Rutland’s and then I walked into the store to get away from him. When I turned to get a better look, he had disappeared.”
Anthony shook his head. “I suspect he was the one responsible for sawing through the axle. The driver, I’ve never laid eyes on him.”
“Why would the man asking the questions, risk being seen?”
“To gloat. A farewell performance before sending us to the next world. With certainty, he didn’t plan on us surviving.”
She wiped a smudge on her cheek clean with her sleeve. “And how many do you estimate are there working together?”
“To saw the axle took a while and the culprits were cunning enough to calculate the break at the time we would be travelling along the river.”
“Someone in the town was witness to their machinations,” she insisted. “Unless they performed the deed in your stables?”
Leave it to Rachel to be thinking ahead of him. “That would take a lot of daring in light of the extra guards posted. Which reminds me, do not leave the premises unless you are escorted. I command it. Your association with the Rutland’s has endangered you, especially now that you can identify someone, possibly the villain himself. He will be more desperate.”
She raised two fingers to her forehead and gave him a jaunty salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
He scowled. “Today’s activities could have yielded ghastly consequences.”
Rachel snorted. “Even in your most serious glare, you are nothing but a pussycat.”
“Have you asked Sir Bonneville about his knee?” Anthony said.
Rachel’s ring of laughter wound through the forest and her good humor was infectious.
“I deserved that, Lord Anthony.”
He wanted to kiss her, again, right then and there. I’m no good at this…romance and attachments. I’m a disaster. I don’t know how to love. He’d kissed her in the carriage, but that was impulsive. He hadn’t known what else to do to comfort her. Hah. If only, he believed that. Truth was, he kissed her because he’d wanted to. He was drawn to her like the proverbial moth to the flame.
His muscles tightened. She had suffered tragedy after tragedy, grieving overlong and faced the hopelessness of an uncertain future. That she had been subjected to ridicule and scorn for a violent act entirely against her and out of her control was unconscionable. How he’d like to make it up to her. But how?
“You know what I’m dreaming about?”
Locking yourself up in my lab with me. Forever. “I haven’t a clue. Enlighten me.”
“Having a whole plate full of cream puffs. My stomach is caving in.”
“After today’s ordeal you can have all the creampuffs you want.” He wanted to kiss her and go on kissing her forever.
“I am going to keep you to your promise.”
Scattered across the forest floor remained the heart-shaped leaves of heliotrope. In between, patches of snowdrops showed their snowy white flowers, an indication that the shorter days began to lengthen. Blue tits abandoned their communal flocks and were feeding in pairs, their soft tupp echoing through the woodland canopy. Two squirrels emerged, chattering, and scolding, driving two birds to a higher branch. The dog chased after them, barking at the bottom of the tree. He smiled at the scene. “Lovely,” he whispered, looking down on her.
How odd. With Rachel, he seemed to notice things. Things he hadn’t noticed in a long time.
Dusk approached and with it, leaden gray skies unburdened freezing rain, falling over his collar, the icy chill, cascading down his back. Rachel’s teeth chattered and he hated that she was exposed to the elements. He took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. If only he could conjure a ride home.
“What else can go wrong?” she said as they rounded a bend in the road. The dog growled and the hair ruffed up on its back.
“That’s far enough,” a gruff male voice came from behind.
Guns drawn, two men with scarves, concealing half their faces moved from the woods. The dog snarled and snapped. Rachel called her back and she leaped into her arms. Not a great guard dog.
Highway men? Unbelievable. Anthony pushed Rachel and the dog to the left, shielding her with his body. They halted behind a felled tree, the southern end, closest to Rachel, projected upward at a thirty-degree angle. A delightful boulder rested midway beneath.
Rachel blinked the sleet off her lashes. “Are you jesting? In this weather?”
“We want to unload you of your baubles.”
“I would if I had any valuables.” Anthony fumed.
He had enough of this day.
East Londoners, the way they dropped their r-r’s. A long way from home. Must be desperate to adopt new hunting grounds, except their trade must be good because the fat guy was well fed. The men clicked the flintlocks on their guns. Sixty percent odds their powder was wet and the firearms were useless.
The smaller one chortled. “By their fancy dress, Gus, I’m guessin’ they have lots of money.”
“Fool. I told you not to say my name.”
“Sorry, Gus.”
“Shut-up.” Gus motioned Anthony with his gun. “Hand ’em over.”
Anthony hedged, his head down, fumbling in his pockets for money. “Are you part of the group that tried to assassinate us earlier?” Their scarves had slipped, revealing their faces. Not the sharpest knives in the drawer. What was worse, the dolts would have to kill them since he and Rachel could now identify them.
Anthony tracked to the right, six feet down the log. In the event the highwaymen were trigger happy, and the forty percent chance the powder did work, he’d draw the fire away from Rachel. He faced Gus, looming up out of the gray gloom. His companion smiled, flashing a row of three rotten teeth. Brothers? Up close, the corpulent Gus was more ominous. Nothing like the farm boys he boxed. Those boys were immense, calm and purposeful and above all, totally in control of their brains.
Gus’s neck swiveled back and forth on powerful shoulders, the kind of shoulders that could easily lift an ox. “What do you mean…assassinate?”
“Sawing the axle on the Duke of Rutland’s carriage, precipitating the conveyance’s fall down a cliff, the intent to kill me and the lady. Hanging for attempted murder.”
Gus hopped from side to side, bending one way, bending the other. His huge feet stamped divots in the mud. The dog leaped from Rachel’s arms, charged the giant. Gus kicked her and the mutt went squealing into the woods.
Rachel started toward Gus. Anthony raised a hand to warn her down. He’s mine.
“Did you have to kick her?” she shrieked.
“The damn dog bit me,” Gus sneered. “I don’t know about any carriage.”
Anthony believed them. These two couldn’t handle a saw let alone plan cutting an apple in half. “Highway robbery is another offense, bearing severe penalties. Of course, you can only be hanged once. I’ll give you two options. Option one is agree right now to let us go, and I’ll forget about the robbery.”
Light of My Heart Page 11