Rescued by Love

by Joan Vincent

  The baroness nodded. “Sarita’s safe with Lady Imogene, but what of Mr. Sullivan?”

  “Lin should be free by now. I sent my men after him,” Cris said, pulling Pergrine to his feet.

  “You are fortunate he was not badly harmed. Take them to the high-sheriff,” he told Clem.

  “But he’s at the ball,” Traunt answered.

  “No need to spoil your celebration.” The earl cocked his head at Pergrine. “If recall you have a very sound gaol.

  “Secure them and any men you’ve taken. Then come join us, Mr. Traunt.”

  “Gladly, m’lord.” He signalled his men to escort the two traitors down the corridor.

  “And you, my ladies,” Dunstan bowed with a flourish, “will allow me to return you to the ball.”

  The three dipped into deep curtsies and broke out laughing.

  “I just hate to think what Imogene will say when she hears what she has missed,” Lady Phillippa said, taking the earl’s arm.

  “Oh, lud.” The baroness rolled her eyes at the thought. “Don’t you think it would be wise to refresh our toilettes just a mite?” she added as they neared the main part of the manor.

  “Isn’t that Imogene they carry?” Henrietta gasped as the huge entryway opened before them.

  They dashed to the settee where the countess was being laid.

  “A vinaigrette, brandy, a wet cloth,” Dunstan ordered as the three sisters hovered over her.

  “My head may be split,” Lady Imogene said clearly, although her eyes remained closed, “but there is no need to suffocate me. Brienne, speak to those—idiots. They claim they do not have Sarita.” She forced her eyes open, but groaned and covered them with her hand.

  The earl swung his attention to the rough-clad young teens who had carried her in. “Where did you find Lady Ludlow?”

  The oldest hesitantly steeped. “Clem. He told us to let nothin’ pass,” he stammered. “Well, her—her ladyship there was creepin’ through them bushes ‘n we didn’t know it t’were her. When I grabbed her, she near bit me finger off. That’s when I hit her. Didn’t mean no harm.

  “Me apologies, m’lady.” He bobbed his head at the countess.

  “I believe you, man, but wasn’t there a young woman with her?” Dunstan demanded impatiently.

  He shook his head and looked at the men behind him, who pled their ignorance with shrugs.

  “She was right behind me.” Lady Imogene struggled upright, hampered by three pair of helping hands. “She was.”

  “Perhaps the blow has befuddled you. Sarita must be in the gallery,” the marchioness said uncertainly.

  The countess opened her mouth to protest. It dropped further as Lin Sullivan staggered into the hall.

  “Deborah,” he gasped. “Mandel swore he’d take Deborah. Where is she?”

  “Enoch!”

  The happy cry turned their attention to the grand staircase at the far end of the entryway, where Deborah struggled to get through the throng. In moments she raced down the steps and flew, sobbing with relief, into Lin’s open arms.

  “Isn’t Sarita with you?” Dunstan asked Reverend Durham, who followed his daughter.

  “Why, no. She left some time ago with Lady Imogene.”

  “My God, Cris.” Lin raised his face from the perfume of Deborah’s golden hair, his joy mixed with his anguish. “Mandel must have meant Sarita. He told me this eve he was taking Miss Durham to France.”

  Dunstan swung to Jervy, who was behind Lin. “Did you find his boat?”

  “Aye, m’lord, and left the men with it.”

  “Where are the other men?”

  “I sent one to find them. They should be together by now.”

  “Let’s be away.” The earl grabbed a pistol from the man beside him. He gripped Durham’s shoulder. “I’ll find her if I have to go to France, or I’ll see Mandel in hell,” he swore and was gone.

  * * * *

  The tight gag cut into Sarita’s mouth. She tasted the saltiness of blood as Mandel held her before him in the saddle. She had had no chance when he grabbed her from behind as she followed the countess.

  Drawing his mount to a halt, Pierre untied the gag but did not free her hands. “Now ma cherie, that kiss.” His lips closed hungrily on hers.

  With all the will she possessed, Sarita remained limp in his arms.

  “Bah!” he spat. “The kiss of a fish.” He spurred his mount forward, glancing to the rear to see if anyone followed.

  Frantic thoughts pulsed through Sarita as they galloped along. Surely they will know I am gone, know that Pierre has me, she thought. But what if they don’t know?

  Fear filled her, but her terror was forgotten as the steed stumbled, nearly unseating Mandel and Sarita tipped precariously to one side.

  Pierre let her fall to the ground and dismounted. Squatting by his mount, he ran his hand over the leg the horse refused to stand on. A string of French epithets burst from him as he worked with the animal.

  Hoping against hope, Sarita stumbled to her feet and began to run. In the dim light, she tripped over brush and stones and fell to the ground.

  Tossing the saddlebags he carried to his shoulder, Mandel pulled her roughly to her feet. “Do not attempt that again, ma cherie.” He twisted her arm, pulled her forward, leaving the horse behind. “We are not far from the boat.”

  * * * *

  Dunstan and Jervy reined in their lathered mounts, two of Pergrine’s best, as Mandel’s deserted steed hobbled away from them.

  “He’s headed straight for the boat, m’lord. ‘Tain’t too far. Much closer when mounted.” Jervy’s crooked teeth flashed in a wide grin.

  Dunstan spurred forward. Minutes later Mandel heard the thudding hooves. Yanking Sarita along, he hurried forward.

  “Mandel!”

  Dunstan’s voice broke over them as Pierre dragged Sarita to the crest of a slope above the point where the boat lay. He could see his men huddled around it.

  The Frenchman pushed Sarita aside and fired at the earl.

  The ball grazed Cris’ horse. It reared and plunged about wildly.

  Running and jumping over the rocks, Mandel yelled at his men, who had scurried to push the boat into the Channel. One grabbed Mandel’s arm and pulled him into it as they struck the oars.

  Forgetful of all but Sarita, Dunstan leapt from his horse and bounded over the rocks to her side. In one swift movement he lifted her and crushed her against his chest in relief.

  Safe, Sarita revived. “Might it not be better, Cris, if you untied my hands?”

  Her small voice broke through his thankful prayer. Setting her on her feet with a huge smile, he quickly undid the knots.

  Rubbing her wrists, Sarita turned to face him, her heart in her eyes.

  “Thank God,” he breathed and scooped her up once more. Her arms twined about his neck as their lips met, all else forgotten.

  “Not even a proper swoon,” he teased as Jervy approached, coughing loudly.

  “‘Tisn’t as bad as it might seem, m’lord,” the little man said. He pointed to the barely visible bobbing boat in the Channel. “Not that ye would notice.” Jervy coughed again.

  “Why didn’t our men prevent them from leaving?” Dunstan asked.

  Jervy shook his head, and then shrugged.

  “We’ll be happy with Finley and Pergrine,” Dunstan said, his arm wrapped protectively about Sarita.

  “They will never again give information to the enemy. Gerard will have learned a hard lesson.”

  “M’lord,” Jervy shifted his weight uneasily and tapped the earl’s arm.

  Dunstan paused as he leaned forward, intent upon kissing Sarita once more.

  Jervy grinned. “Like as not them papers won’t ever reach them French shores.”

  The earl peered questioningly from the small man to the boat on the water.

  A deep chuckle broke from Jervy. “You see, m’lord, the men I left behind, they decided that the boat needed some repair— of a hinderin’ nature
. Those coves’ll be swimmin’ ashore soon enough,” he added, waving towards the boat.

  Slowly a grin, then a beaming smile, spread over Cris’ features. “Repair, eh?” he repeated softly.

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  The two roared with laughter, but Sarita’s joy turned to consternation; her warm heart became ice. The strange begrimed little man knew Cris well. He had addressed him as “m’lord.”

  Chapter 23

  Three days after his rescue, his face still bore the marks of his ordeal. But with a new, complete confidence, Lin Sullivan sat among the dowagers and the Durhams. He explained what had been garnered from the constant stream of witnesses and government men that had poured in and out of the rectory’s library since that turbulent night.

  “All the men killed in this area during the past two years had stumbled across what Mandel was doing or realized that Pergrine was involved,” he said. “They were caught much as I,” he added, referring to how he had been lured to the woods by a flickering light, and subsequently knocked senseless when the men he spied on discovered him.

  Deborah, sitting at Lin’s side, shivered and tightened her hold on his arm.

  “I was more fortunate than they.” He smiled down at her and tenderly patted her hand.

  Sitting across the solarium, Sarita smiled wanly at the pair’s evident happiness. She pushed back her own misery. Cris had yet to speak more than a greeting since their return to the rectory.

  The solarium’s door swung open. Lord Dunstan walked in, his face grim. “Jervy has just returned. They have captured the last man to leave the sinking boat—the last to see Mandel alive. We can be certain now, with this man’s evidence, that the papers and documents as well as the gold are at the bottom of the Channel.”

  “And Mandel?” Lady Brienne asked.

  “He was apparently attempting to swim to the French shore,” Cris said, his sceptical look indicating his assessment of the man’s chances.

  The women, Lin, and Reverend Durham shook their heads. Their relief that the French had received no new information was tempered by the tragedy that the attempt had brought.

  “What of Lord Pergrine and Mr. Finley?” Lady Phillippa asked softly.

  “At worst, they face the hangman,” Dunstan answered. “Lady Pergrine has gone to stay with her family. She never knew what her husband was about.” He shook his head.

  “Lord Gerard has returned to London a good deal chastened by all this. For now, the matter is essentially cleared. All the men involved are accounted for—either pulled from the Channel or caught after they came to land,” the earl continued. “We’ve but a few more pages of testimony to complete for the War Ministry.

  “Lin, could you come and help?” His eyes were on Sarita as he spoke, but she stared down at her hands tightly clenched in her lap.

  “Of course. Bloody well glad to have this business finally done,” Lin said, rising.

  Reverend Durham also rose. “I must tell Monsieur Mandel the news about his son before he hears it from someone else,” he said sadly.

  “I will go with you, Father,” Sarita told him. “Let me fetch my bonnet.” She brushed past Cris without looking into his questioning eyes.

  * * * *

  “I am sorry,” Sarita told Monsieur Mandel in front of the greenhouse. She had remained for a time after her lather had left, helping the old Frenchman with his work as he doggedly carried on to cover his grief.

  “There is nothing anyone can do, mademoiselle.” He shook his head. “Pierre was always headstrong. He changed when the revolution struck—when we lost everything. He became violent. I thought that coming here would change that. I never understood. Perhaps if I had—”

  “No, monsieur, you mustn’t blame yourself,” she entreated.

  “I do not—most of the time. Do not worry,” he assured her.

  “What will you do now—with Lord Pergrine gone?”

  “Monsieur Sullivan—I mean Lord Dunstan. The change is difficile to remember, is it not?” The old man smiled wryly.

  “He called late last eve and told me he would sponsor my experiments. He assured me that others would be interested in my improvements in seed grains. Je rn’en lirerai—I shall manage it. I have my plants—my flowers.”

  Sarita brushed his cheek with a kiss.

  “Merci, mademoiselle, merci,” he mumbled, and shuffled into the greenhouse.

  Sarita daubed at the tears in her eyes. She knew that he had the courage to overcome this new sorrow, that his work would bring him happiness once again. Slowly she turned and began the walk home. When she reached the thickest part of the woods, a square figure approached her.

  “May I walk you to the rectory?” Cris asked.

  “I thought you had testimony to take,” she accused.

  “I left that to Lin. He is quite capable. May I?” Dunstan repeated softly.

  “As you wish—my lord,” she answered and walked past him with her eyes downcast.

  They walked on in silence for many yards until Dunstan finally reached out, took her hand, and halted. With his other hand he forced Sarita to turn to him, and pressed her chin up. Their eyes met. He read the pain, the doubt, and the love in hers.

  “I did not mean for you to learn the truth as you did,” he began slowly. “I meant no harm. I did not know that first day I saw you that it would matter—that I would find my love—my life, here with you.”

  A large lump welled in Sarita’s throat. “But why didn’t you tell me later—that night in the woods?” She met his gaze searchingly.

  “Lin’s life depended upon no one knowing he was not the earl. I had endangered his life; I had to risk even our happiness to save him.”

  “But the dowagers knew.” Her pain trembled in her voice. “And you have not spoken with me until now. Here. Alone.”

  Cris stiffened. “What can you have been thinking?” he asked in amazement. “Don’t you see why I’ve been closeted with these men for the past three days? It had to be—” He paused.

  “I beg your understanding, your forgiveness, if you feel I have done wrong,” he pleaded, calm and earnest. “Harden not your heart.”

  Sarita had heard that passage often and now the words echoed in her mind. She studied the earl’s features. She saw hope, love, and fear flicker in his eyes.

  Why aren’t you in his arms? Don’t you love him? her heart asked. Haven’t you avoided him these three days past? Isn’t it your pride alone that has been injured?

  A lone tear trailed down her cheek as the mist that had surrounded her heart and mind for the past three days evaporated. “I love you so,” she choked out and rushed into his open arms.

  * * * *

  Bright, joyous sunshine filtered through the stained-glass windows of Malvern Church in bright hues of red, green, blue, and yellow. Flowers of every kind, colour, and size, gathered from the fields and gardens as well as from Monsieur Mandel’s greenhouse, had been placed in the windows and along the aisles.

  Two brides stood before a proud and beaming Reverend Durham as they repeated the vows he pronounced over them.

  In her mother’s wedding gown of white and silver silk and lace, Sarita glowed with happiness; her burly Crispin beamed at her side. Deborah, a wisp of beauty in a gown of blue silk with pearls from Lady Phillippa, gazed lovingly at a proud and nervous Lin.

  The vows completed, the rings placed on their fingers, Reverend Durham watched with a bursting heart as his daughters accepted their first kisses from their new husbands.

  Then they walked down the aisle into the church’s age-old porch that had seen so many couples newly married. Well-wishers thronged about the tables laden with food and drink, which had been arranged beneath the large oak and in the gardens. A truly festive air reigned all day.

  Later, as the last farewells were said and the coaches, brought from London by the earl, were driven to the front steps to collect the happy couples, a rousing cheer arose. In a trice they were gone.

  “It was
lovely, so lovely.” Lady Phillippa daubed a tear away as the dowagers and the Durhams stood watching the dust billow in the coaches’ wakes.

  “Grandly done,” Lady Imogene agreed with a sigh.

  “Never thought I’d live to see him leg-shackled,” Lady Henrietta beamed.

  “Excellent young men, both of them,” Reverend Durham solemnly pronounced.

  The baroness alone stood to one side. She had returned to her cantankerous ways. Her hauteur shielded her emotions.

  “Brienne, surely you are pleased to see them wed,” said the marchioness. She put an arm about the stiff shoulders.

  The chin rose higher, quivered.

  “You know they said their firstborn shall be named after you—be it boy or girl,” Lady Imogene added, patting her on the back consolingly.

  The baroness tightened her lips. A tear coursed down one cheek, then the other. “I was thinking of—of Robert, recalling our wedding day.” Lady Brienne’s voice shook. “How happy we were. How brief our time seemed.”

  “Brienne, you’ve never let him go,” Phillippa said, realizing for the first time the reason for the baroness’s constant irritation and testy bouts. “All this time—”

  “But don’t you see?” Lady Henrietta took her sister’s hand. “He is still with you. Isn’t life memories? Memories and tomorrows? Remembrances.” She laughed gently.

  “No one can alter them or take them away.” Her voice hardened. “Just as Crispin and Sarita, Deborah and Lin, have their tomorrows before them, we still have ours.” Lady Henrietta laughed as the others gaped at her. “Think of the past few weeks—the past few days. Never have I had such experiences, such excitement, or such fear.” She rolled her eyes.

  Slowly Brienne extended her hand; the sisters formed a ring. “Will you travel with us, Henrietta?” she asked.

  “Do you want me?” Lady Dunstan asked in surprise.

  “Of course.” The baroness smiled, her sisters echoing her. “After all, you are now the Dowager Countess of Dunstan.”

  Everyone joined in her laughter.

  * * * *

  Lord Dunstan looked down at his new wife nestled in his arms and smiled.