With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection
Page 93
"Death made glorious, destruction sanctified," she whispered.
"You know what I stand for: courage and honor, duty to God and country."
There were men who lived thus, believed thus, Rachel knew— any sacrifice for the greater glory. But she'd also known soldiers with old eyes filled with regret and shoulders bowed down from what they had done, seen, battles they'd fought to keep others safe. When soldiers sacrificed their own peace for the sole purpose of protecting others, they were the noblest heroes imaginable, should be honored to the depths of one's heart.
Gavin had fought, but he hadn't lost his soul. Adam was a warrior, with a warrior's strength, but he, too would save life if it were in his power rather than destroy it.
Impatience flashed into Dunstan's face. "What the devil is wrong with you? You've always been thrilled at my triumphs. Elated at victories. I remember you as a girl, more eager for tales of battle than any awestruck recruit I've ever seen."
"I remember," Rachel said. "I'm sorry." Sorry for being so blind, sorry for not weeping with the wives and children of these faceless enemies you climbed to glory upon. Sorry I never understood the price good soldiers paid—the regrets, the nightmares.
"Go upstairs, Rachel. Rest." There was disapproval in his tones, a dismissal that hinted what life would have been like if she had wed this man—a series of battles he would have won because he didn't count the cost.
"Before you go, take this." He rummaged in his pocket, drew out an object that glinted between his fingers. The betrothal ring he'd placed on her finger a lifetime ago.
"No," Rachel said, curling her fingers into her palms with a sudden sense of panic. "I can't wear it now. My hands."
She held out the bruised fingers, and for a moment, she expected Dunstan to insist, but he merely opened one of her hands and placed the ring in her palm.
"This whole unfortunate affair is all behind us now, Rachel. Soon you'll be my bride. I'll make you proud, I vow it. When the Glen Lyon is executed tomorrow, no man will ever dare mock me again."
"Tomorrow?" Rachel asked faintly.
"I'll not rest until he's in hell. Once he is," Dunstan said, smiling, "I will fulfill my destiny. I'll be a man of power, an officer to be reckoned with. And you will be the perfect ornament at my side." He reached up and grasped her chin between thumb and finger, and she fought to suppress a shudder.
"Of one thing you may be certain, Rachel: I will never again let you out of my sight."
Rachel clutched the betrothal ring in her hand and all but fled up the stairs to the bedchamber where Dunstan directed her.
I will never let you out of my sight.
The words echoed, ominous as any death knell. Her plan tonight depended on escaping not only Dunstan's keen gaze, but those of the men who would be gathered to honor her, men drawn from their guard posts so they would be as far away as possible from the cell where Gavin awaited his execution.
Rachel closed the bedchamber door, her fingers tracing the obscured outline of the pistol hidden beneath her skirts.
The execution was set for tomorrow. That meant tonight was her only hope. She would have only one chance to save Gavin's life.
Her fingers trembled for an instant, then she stilled them, her spine stiffening. No. She had no time for fear. She'd been raised as a general's daughter, weaned on tales of battles against impossible odds, but it had taken a man labeled coward to teach her the one thing worth fighting for.
Love.
She would find a way to reach Gavin tonight. They would find a new future together, or she would be condemned as a traitor herself and mount the new-made gallows at his side.
Chapter Nineteen
How many gallons of brandy did it take to toast a traitor through the gates of hell? Gavin was certain if it took every last drop at Sir Dunstan's disposal, the man would drain it in a frenzy of triumph this night. The soldier who had brought Gavin a greasy knuckle of mutton for dinner had taken great delight in informing the prisoner of the festivities that would take place at Furley House.
In celebration of Sir Dunstan's ultimate triumph over the Glen Lyon, he had summoned every officer within twenty miles. They had come, eager to honor the courageous Mistress de Lacey who had escaped the traitor's clutches, and greedy to witness the spectacle of the Glen Lyon's destruction.
Gavin stalked the length of his cell, the scraping of manacles against the raw flesh of his wrists not half so painful as the images that spilled across his mind: Rachel, trapped in a chamber full of posturing fools who were gloating over the fact that he would die when dawn came; Rachel, suffering the torment of the damned, knowing that it was her word that had tightened the noose about his neck.
Gavin knew the frozen moment she had identified him as the Glen Lyon would haunt her forever. Unanswerable questions would plague her in nightmares. Had there been some way to save him, something she could have done, something she could have said?
Gavin shoved the hair back from his brow, the manacles rubbing his cheekbone, the chains rattling, cold against his face. He'd gladly make any bargain to be able to see her one last time, to tell her not to grieve for him. Because of her, he would mount the gallows knowing that he could never be alone again. Rachel was buried so deep in his soul that even death could never part them.
If only his final gift to her could have been something beautiful, instead of regrets and grief and nightmares. Nightmares that would force her to choose again and again and again, sending him to an eternal line of gallows.
If only there was some way she could forget. Philosophers said that time healed all wounds. He hoped that they were right, that his lady would one day find peace. If he somehow managed to reach heaven, he'd risk being banished forever if he could steal down and wipe the pain, the memories from her mind.
A muffled sound of voices outside the cell door shook Gavin from his musings. Gavin heard the young sentry's chuckle. Changing of the guard? Gavin wondered. After all, Sir Dunstan wouldn't want any of his men to miss the opportunity of paying homage to him.
Gavin stalked to the filthy mattress and sank down on it, burying his face in his hands. He had known from the first moment he had ridden away from his dying father's bedside, his grandfather's sword in his hand, that he'd surrendered all thoughts of a future. He'd known with painful clarity what the outcome of the rebellion would be. And from the instant he'd donned the mantle of the Glen Lyon, he'd been certain of his own fate—death, from a pistol shot or sword thrust, or upon a gallows.
There had even been times he'd thought he'd meet his fate with something akin to relief. It would be over, finished at last.
But that was before Rachel had been dragged, kicking and shouting, into his life. Now, with the memory of Rachel's sighs of passion, her gasps of pleasure, her hands eager on his skin, a thousand possibilities more wondrous than anything he'd ever imagined reached out to taunt him, shades of a future that could never be. I want to live. The fierce need welled up inside him.
No. Gavin fought it grimly. It is better to end it this way, quick and clean. Rachel would heal after a time. She would find another man to give her all the things Gavin could not—a house full of love and children, an honorable name. Rachel would survive. She was too valiant a lady not to. He had to cling to that certainty, or he would go mad.
"Damn it, you should be rejoicing," Gavin muttered. "Rachel will never wed that cur Sir Dunstan. She'll find another man to love her someday. Adam will be safe. Even if Wells tried to ambush him, Adam will manage to get away. Mama Fee will guard the babies, and they'll shield her from her grief. Things turned out better than you had any right to hope for. You should be thanking God, not railing at the fates."
A trill of feminine laughter rippled out, muffled through the heavy door, and Gavin froze, the familiarity of that laugh piercing him. No. It couldn't be. But the thought had barely formed when he heard a soft thud, followed by the scraping of a key in the lock. It grated in protest then the door opened. Gavin's heart slam
med to a halt.
"Rachel." He forced her name through a throat thick with emotion, scarcely believing that she was real.
Framed in the orange-gold light of the flambeaus that lit the corridor beyond, she seemed a veritable vision in a gown the color of moonstruck midnight, rivers of darkest blue spilling over an underskirt of silver.
In an instant, she cast the bundle clutched in her arms to the cell floor and flung herself against him. He couldn't even hold her, the shackles, with their short chain, making it impossible. But he could feel her against him, her breasts pressing against his bloodstained shirt, her hair, soft and fragrant, twined with pearls, a silken fall against the coarse stubble of his jaw.
His hands were trapped between them, the manacles cutting deeply into his wrists, but he didn't care. He drew away, enough to raise his fingertips to her face and stare down into those over-bright eyes. "Rachel, what the devil are you doing here? It's too dangerous."
"But I've come to help you escape."
"Escape?" The word plunged like a pike into Gavin's chest. "Are you insane? You have to leave at once! If you think for one moment I will let you sacrifice yourself in some mad scheme, you're crazed! Get the devil out of here! If Wells discovers what you've been up to, God knows what he'll do."
"I expect he'll be most displeased," Rachel said with a nervous laugh. "Especially since I made the guard unconscious."
"You did what?" Horror sluiced through Gavin. He'd never been so damned afraid in his whole life.
"I brought him some wine from the party, so that he could celebrate as well, and I, well, I laced it with laudanum."
"Damn it, girl! What the devil have you done? I'm going to hang! Do you want to hang with me?"
She was defiant. "I'd rather hang with you than spend the rest of my life without you!" she blazed. "And if you'll stop being bullheaded and noble and do as I say, we might just get away before anyone notices I'm missing."
"Rachel," Gavin swore, but she was already fumbling with the manacles, unlocking them. They scraped across his skin as they fell, clattering to the stone floor. The instant Gavin was free, he raced outside, dragging the unconscious guard into the cell.
Rachel was already unfastening the mysterious bundle. The scarlet of a uniform spilled out, along with a brace of pistols and a sword. "The uniform is Dunstan's," she said. "Put it on!"
"You stole his uniform?"
"You won't be able to walk three feet garbed as the Glen Lyon, but Sir Dunstan Wells and his betrothed can wander where they will. Blast it, Gavin, if you don't hurry, we will be caught! I slipped away while the men were sequestered with their port. But the instant they're done, Dunstan will come searching for me."
Gavin swore, stripping away his own clothes, grabbing up the breeches. His hands were awkward, his muscles stiff, but with Rachel's help, he was speedily garbed in the uniform. She unwrapped a length of bed sheet containing one of the white-powdered wigs Dunstan favored. Gavin stuffed his hair beneath it, jammed a tricorne onto his head, and grabbed up the weapons she'd brought.
Panic jolted through him, the thought of what would happen to Rachel if they were caught too hideous to contemplate. The fact that she had risked this for love of him was the most excruciating pain Gavin had ever known.
"Hurry," he said, sword drawn ready. "We have to get out of here."
"Put the sword away!" Rachel hissed. "Dunstan would hardly be running about his own headquarters with his sword blade bare!"
Gavin swore then slammed the weapon back into the scabbard. His fingers closed around hers. "Which way?"
Her eyebrows arched. "We're going to walk straight out through the main entry."
"Do you know how many guards Wells had posted?"
"Seventeen. I made a point to visit each of them, to express my regret that they wouldn't be able to join the party. As some small consolation, I offered them wine."
"More wine?"
"To toast my safe return. There wasn't enough laudanum to make them unconscious, but they should all be befuddled enough in the darkness to think that you are their commander, bringing his betrothed out for a romantic tryst."
It was an insane plan, as bold a stroke as any general had ever plotted, as reckless as any scheme the Glen Lyon had ever devised. Gavin could only pray to God it would work.
They slipped from the cell, and Gavin locked it, the echoing emptiness of the corridor beyond seeming to mock him, jeer at him. He tipped the jaunty brim of his tricorne hat so that it shadowed his face, and then grabbed her hand with his own.
It seemed to take an eternity to make their way through the shadowy labyrinth of passages that was the ancient keep. They mounted the stone stairs, rising to the newer level, leaving the old stone part of the building behind. Step by step, they made their way through winding corridors that had been stripped of their former splendor by the soldiers who now inhabited them.
With each step, Gavin could hear Rachel's breath, quick and light, feel the life in her, a thing more fragile than she could ever imagine. He knew he would fight with all the savagery of the beast inside him to see her safe, yet he knew that even that force might not be enough to save her from the rashness of this act.
Twice, they slid into a darkened alcove as a guard passed, Gavin's hand on the hilt of his sword. Once, when there was no place to escape, he grabbed Rachel, and pressed her against the wall, bestowing on her a kiss so fervent no underling officer in his right mind would have dared to disturb them.
When the man slunk away, Gavin forced himself to slow down, adopt the quick pace of a military man intent on reaching some destination.
His fevered gaze caught a glimpse of Rachel, and he knew that if they escaped this house full of soldiers, it would be her doing. She was a consummate actress, bright eyed and smiling, a woman who appeared bedazzled, bewitched by the man beside her. Only Gavin was close enough to feel the desperation in her fingers where they clutched his arm as if she would never let him go.
I can't fail her, Gavin thought fiercely. He couldn't fail her as he'd failed so many others.
He tensed as he glimpsed the arch where the corridor opened into the entry hall. There were voices, laughter. He could hear the strange slurring, evidence that Rachel's concoction had been downed by these particular soldiers. Gavin sucked in a steadying breath. Rachel's very survival hinged on the next few moments.
He put his arm about Rachel's shoulder, angling his head so that the edge of the wig and the shadow from the brim of the tricorne would help obscure his face. Rachel turned her gaze up to his adoringly, laughing softly, her slipper heels clicking as if urging him on. She was chattering—inane things about a lieutenant's wife's new baby, the wedding gown she would have designed in Paris, how wonderful it felt to be free from the Scottish barbarians that had held her.
As they paced beneath the blaze of candles spilling from the chandelier, she reached up one hand and caressed Gavin's cheek, yet another brilliant ruse to keep his identity hidden at such a crucial moment.
Gavin thought he'd never seen anyone so brave, known any woman so utterly magnificent. His gaze flashed to the door. A private with a scar across one cheekbone swung the carved panel open, and saluted. "Sir, I need to ask you to stop for a moment."
Gavin's blood ran cold. He started to grope for his sword, ready to fight his way out, but Rachel's hand on his arm made him freeze. "Get back to your post," Gavin ordered quietly, but the man held his ground.
"Sir, I just wanted this opportunity to tell you how much this triumph means to all of us—catching that rogue Glen Lyon, and having Mistress de Lacey free and safe as well."
Gavin growled in answer, attempting to push past the soldier. But the man stepped into his path, blocking the opening of the door.
"Don't know how much longer we could have borne it—having the rest o' the army laughing at us for letting one blasted rebel get away. And we know your superiors were getting right furious, threatening—well, threatening you with awful things."
"Let us pass," Gavin snapped.
Gavin sensed rather than saw the subtle shiver of suspicion go through the man, but just as Gavin was certain he needed to go for his sword, Rachel cut in with a laugh like silver bells.
"You must forgive Sir Dunstan. You know, we've not seen each other since the rebellion began, and he is . . . we are attempting to escape the party for a bit." She flashed the soldier a dazzling smile, her cheeks stung pink. "The moon is lovely tonight."
The soldier stammered. "Of course it is. I mean, I didn't think—" The soldier all but leaped out of the way, obviously dashed uncomfortable.
Gavin looped his arm about Rachel and maneuvered them into the shadows. The night was bright with moonshine, rare and silvery, illuminating the landscape in an ethereal glow. Bloody hell, why couldn't it be black as pitch just this once?
"Did you hear?" Gavin demanded in a whisper. "Wells and the men were returning to the ladies."
Rachel's answer was to scoop up her gown and start to run. "Horses saddled and ready behind that copse of trees."
They dashed toward them, Manslayer whickering a greeting. Gavin hurled Rachel up onto her mount, then swung onto his own.
At that instant, he glimpsed something that shot panic through his veins—Wells standing with the guard they had passed moments ago.
"Ride!" Gavin bellowed at Rachel just as a roar of alarm sounded. The horses sprang into motion, racing hell bent across the edge of the lawn, thundering past guards struggling to respond to their commander's raging commands. But Rachel's drugged wine had done its work well. Shots blasted into the night, bellows of outrage and alarm echoing in their wake as Gavin and Rachel thundered down the moonlit road.
Three horsemen raced to block their way. "Rachel, keep going," Gavin ordered, his sword hissing as he drew it from its scabbard. He plunged into the center of the soldiers. The first man fell beneath the onslaught; the second tumbled off of his mount, flung off balance from the wine. The third man's saber nicked Gavin's arm, just as Gavin drove his own blade home.