Hell's Belle

by Annabelle Anders

  “Lord Blakely was just leaving,” Quimbly managed to gasp. “If you’d care to show him out.”

  Marcus’ arms were roughly seized from behind, forcing him to relinquish the grip he’d had on this bastard. Although Marcus knew logically that he could not defeat the two brutes, he resisted with a few tugs and then an elbow into one of the blighter’s guts.

  “You hurt her, and I’ll kill you!” Marcus promised as he was dragged from the room. “Do you hear me, Quimbly?”

  “You’ll honor that contract, Blakely, by God.” Quimbly showed less fear with Marcus contained and several feet away.

  “It’s void, you bastard,” Marcus seethed. “And God help your daughter to have been fathered by a devil like you!”

  And then more crashing from above.

  What the hell was going on up there? All eyes momentarily shifted to the ceiling.

  But Quimbly did not move to tug at the bell pull. He did not holler for his servants to have a care.

  Emily.

  Good God, Marcus realized it had to be her.

  At that moment, however, there was nothing he could do about it. The hulking men dragged him out of the study and hurled him out the front door.

  Emily felt her wrist begin to swell even as she tried to convince herself she’d not injured herself. “Dratted. Stinking! Be damned ducking Grddlehmph!” A stream of words she’d only read enthusiastically escaped past her lips as she attempted to rebuild the tower once again.

  She was speaking so much to herself that she nearly missed the sound of the door at the bottom of the steps rattling and being opened. “Be quiet up there!” someone ordered. Before she could lurch herself toward the open door, it slammed loudly, her captor having deposited a small tray on the bottom step.

  Previously unspoken words expanded her vocabulary further.

  After pounding on the door several times to no avail, she turned and stared at the offering of food left behind.

  Her stomach growled.

  Perhaps some sustenance would improve her strength and balance. If only she’d had a moment or two more, she might have been able to open that window.

  She lifted the lid off one plate and her mouth watered. Fresh bread along with some slices of cheese and ham. A small carafe had been filled with a hazy liquid, garnished with a lemon. Lemonade.

  She smacked her lips together. She’d become absolutely parched.

  Despite being physically tossed out of the residence, the earl’s other servants were kind enough—or simply efficient enough?—to have Lady freshly watered and waiting. Marcus mounted the proud mare with absolutely no intention of abandoning his mission.

  Emily was here.

  He was certain of it.

  Allowing the horse to walk leisurely along the drive, Marcus mentally considered his options as he approached the tree-lined country road. He would tether the mare to one of the trees and then double back on foot.

  Crandall would have called for the magistrate by now and likely some form of assistance would reach him any moment.

  But he could not afford to wait.

  Looping the reins loosely to a tree stump, Marcus plotted his next move. With a knife in his boots and considerable adrenaline coursing through his body, he stared back at the large residence. She’d been the one making the commotion overhead. On one hand, he was relieved to know she was able to do so. On the other hand, he feared that her tart mouth and naiveté might invite greater harm.

  “Where are you, Emily?” He’d barely murmured the words to himself when a sparkle of light winked from one of the highest windows atop the house.

  He’d experienced that before. Climbing out of the carriage, when the sun had caught her.

  The remaining lens of her spectacles!

  Her blessed benighted spectacles!

  She was peering from the window.

  It twinkled again, and relief flooded through him at the same time he was spurred into action.

  Foolish of them to think he’d leave so easily.

  As his legs pumped, moving him from one clump of trees to another, Marcus spied a way in through the servants’ entrance.

  Having taken note of the location of the window she’d peered from, Marcus made his way to the back of the house, expecting to have to break in. Ironically, not only was it unlocked, but the door had been propped open.

  Smells wafted from the kitchen, and Marcus pushed the thoughts of the white powder in Quimbly’s possession out of his mind.

  Quimbly had no qualms about slowly poisoning the duke. Would he have even fewer reservations when it came to killing one small lady he perceived was preventing his daughter from becoming a duchess?

  Not much arsenic would be required to pass her lips…

  Those sweet, soft, amazingly talented, and wicked lips.

  His throat tightened, urging him inside, around a corner and, luckily enough, into an arched door and behind it a narrow corridor. Taking two steps at a time, he arrived at the top landing within thirty seconds. Four doorways lined each side of the hall he found himself in. And on the far end, an alcove.

  With a locked door.

  Thump. Scrape. Thump

  Those were Emily noises.

  He’d bet his fortune on it. “Emily?” he called out and thumped three times on the door with his fist. No answer but more… furniture being moved about?

  Scraaape. Thunk. Thunk.

  Marcus removed the knife from his boot and went to work on the screws securing the door’s hinges. He took small relief in that she was obviously moving about. As his fingers fumbled at the small screws, he realized with relief that she’d not succumbed to poisoning.

  A film of perspiration formed on his brow. She’d not yet succumbed. She was well.

  She was alive.

  When he’d removed the last screw, he stepped back and leveraged the knife between the door frame and the door.

  “Come on,” he ground out between his teeth. “Emily!” he shouted louder. A few minutes had passed since he last heard the furniture moving.

  When the door finally slid out, he hefted it impatiently to the side. At the same time, a decisively feminine scream wrenched through the air and then thunderous crashing, breaking, and a final thump.

  Marcus dashed up the steps to find Emily on the floor amidst shattered plates, a broken carafe, and liquid.

  Her spectacles lay in the mess, one lens missing and the other crushed, beside her inert form.

  “Emily!” He threw himself onto the floor and bent over her in an attempt to check her breathing. God, no!!

  A sob threatened to tear through him.

  “Marcus?” Warm breath blew into his ear with the whispered word.

  “Love?” Marcus turned his head and gazed into her eyes. “How much did you eat? Tell me you didn’t drink it!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Rescue and Revelations

  “Love? Love? How much did you drink?” Marcus’ face was so close that even without her spectacles, she could see the worry etched in his forehead and the pain behind his gaze. Hints of new whisker growth.

  When she’d landed on the floor, the wind had been knocked from her lungs by the impact. She wasn’t sure if this was even real.

  Was she hallucinating?

  Was it really him?

  Was her husband calling her love?

  And then his hands were cradling her face and his lips were trailing kisses from the corners of her eyes to her jaw.

  At last, she could inhale. Air. Blessed air. “Marcus?” Her voice sounded weak in her own ears.

  Marcus clutched her against his chest. “Love, how much did you drink?”

  With her face tucked into the fresh masculine scent of his cravat, Emily vaguely shook her head. “Drink?”

  “Did you drink it?” He held her away from him, awaiting her answer as though it was a matter of life and death.

  Which, as she came to her senses, she supposed it was… sort of. “None. I’m not a fool, you
know.”

  She felt a tremor run through this man she’d never get enough of.

  “You’re certain? You’re quite sure?” His voice carried both relief and hope.

  “He poisoned it, of course. Although I was awful thirsty, Marcus, I couldn’t risk it.”

  And then his mouth was on hers. Claiming her. Reassuring them both. Perhaps she’d been knocked unconscious again. Marcus wouldn’t call her love.

  And then he removed the warmth of his lips.

  “We need to get you out of here.” Marcus stood and drew her up along with him.

  Emily blinked her eyes, doing her best to keep him in her sights.

  He glanced around the room and then turned back to her questioningly. “You were attempting to climb out of that window?” He shook his head and chuckled. “Only you, Emily. Even if you could have managed to fit through there…” Then he just smiled and took hold of her hand.

  “Ouch!” She winced in pain.

  He didn’t drop her hand as she expected, but instead cradled it tenderly and leaned his face into her neck. “God. Woman. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” And then, still holding her hand protectively, he led her down the stairs and out the opening where the door had once been. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Emily could hardly believe her ears.

  “Not so fast.” Quimbly’s voice drew them to a halt. Emily assumed the blurry form standing in their way to be Quimbly. “I won’t allow it to happen again.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marcus asked through clenched teeth as he stilled them both.

  “I won’t allow another betrothal to be broken.” What was Quimbly going on about?”

  “The old duke. Not your father. His father,” Quimbly supplied in a rasping voice. “He was betrothed to my grandmother. And nobody said a word against him when he jilted her on their wedding day. Not one word. I’ll not allow history to repeat itself. You’ll marry my daughter, Blakely. And the death of this homely chit will be on nobody’s hands but your own.”

  Had she heard correctly? He’d kill her over a grudge that was decades old? Did the man not realize that if the old duke hadn’t jilted his grandmother, he himself would never have been born?

  All the things she’d wanted to say to him before he’d had her dragged away from Candlewood Park tumbled unchecked past her lips.

  “You belong in Bedlam!” She pointed in his direction. “Better yet, Newgate!”

  “Emily.” Marcus attempted to pull her back, but this horrible, horrible man had taken it upon himself to attempt to murder another human being. And in doing so, was torturing the man. The Duke of Waters might not be the nicest man in the world, but he was Marcus’ very own father!

  Fury roared in her ears. And he would kill her even! Poison her! All so that his daughter could marry Marcus!

  “Do you really think your daughter would wish to marry the son of the man you murdered? How could any woman live with something like that on her conscience? I’ve seen her! Your daughter is a beautiful girl! She doesn’t require you to find her a titled husband! Likely you’ve ruined her prospects now, though!”

  She couldn’t see Quimbly but that wouldn’t stop her from delivering the brunt of her temper.

  “Emily.” Marcus’ arms wound around her waist. “He’s a pistol aimed at you.” His whispered words barely penetrated her anger and disgust.

  A what?

  “You’d best listen to your husband, Lady Blakely.”

  Now he calls me Lady Blakely. Emily let out a breath, blowing the curling tendrils of hair off her forehead, and attempted to focus on Quimbly’s hands.

  “Does he really?” she mumbled over her shoulder at Marcus.

  Marcus groaned and maneuvered so that she stood behind him. “Don’t do anything rash,” he told her, all the while placing his own body in the pathway of Quimbly’s bullet.

  “What are you saying over there?” Quimbly’s voice trembled with anger.

  “He’s saying that you have white powder on your mouth.” Emily peeked out from behind Marcus, even though she could not see more than twelve inches in front of her face. “Did you ingest the poison yourself?”

  The blur moved, as though he was wiping his mouth.

  In the flash of an instant, Marcus lurched at the blur. Apparently, her tactic had worked as she’d hoped. Emily could only pray the earl had been frightened enough by her suggestion that he’d let down his guard enough.

  Enough for Marcus to wrestle the pistol away.

  “Grab it, Emily. Grab the pistol.” Marcus’ voice reached through the blur of her reality. “It’s on the floor. Grab it, Emily!”

  Emily dropped to her knees and began feeling around frantically. “Where?” She held her face so close to the floor that she could see the individual fibers of the carpet.

  “Forward. To your left.”

  And there it was. Cold, black metal.

  Sure enough. Quimbly had been in possession of a pistol. Emily grasped it in her shaking hands and held it ominously in the direction of the kerfuffle.

  “Not at me! Emily! Good God, love, don’t pull the trigger!”

  “I won’t shoot you, Marcus. Just stay out of the way!” She could just make out Quimbly’s silver head and Marcus’ dark brown one.

  She thought.

  She wasn’t quite sure.

  “Are you winning, Marcus?” She couldn’t be certain. “Marcus!” More thuds and oofs.

  Frightened by the sounds she was hearing, and unable to stand by idly, she resolutely aimed the gun toward the ceiling, squeezed her eyes closed tightly, and pulled the trigger.

  The shock of the explosion in her hands caused her to drop the weapon onto the carpet. Her fingers vibrated painfully.

  Silence.

  “I’ve got him, love. Don’t move.”

  Multiple footsteps.

  “My lord.” Was that Crandall’s voice?”

  “Good Lord, Marcus!” And Mr. Nottingham? “I’ve always thought Quimbly seemed a little shady.”

  “I failed to consider that your cousin was the magistrate.” Several hours later, Marcus sat with Stephen Nottingham in his father’s study, ruminating on the events of the day.

  Seeing as Flavion Nottingham and Marcus had essentially hated one another for most of the past decade, Stephen and Marcus decided not to take Quimbly before him. Instead, they’d documented witness statements, along with the written testimony by the new doctor, and used it to “encourage” Quimbly to leave the country.

  Attempted murder of a duke was not something that would be taken lightly in England.

  Waters’ uneaten breakfast had been laced with enough arsenic to kill an elephant. Although he hadn’t consumed it, it was likely his life would be dramatically shortened by the poison he’d been consuming over the last month.

  Thank God Emily hadn’t touched her food.

  The weight of today’s events weighed heavily on Marcus’ shoulders.

  If only his damn father had told him the truth from the beginning. Marcus could have paid off the damn debts, and he wouldn’t have lost so much time with his family.

  But then he never would have married Emily.

  He would never have come to know her for the phenomenal feminine creature she was.

  Even now, he itched to go to her.

  He’d called her his love. Had she noticed? He’d almost lost her, and it had scared him to death.

  “Lady Blakely made a narrow escape.” Stephen stated the obvious. He must have read something in Marcus’ eyes.

  Worry. Confusion.

  “She wasn’t in my plan,” Marcus admitted. “And now.” He struggled with the words. “I can’t imagine my life without her.”

  Stephen nodded. “You love her then.”

  Love her? Love Emily Goodnight?

  By God, he did. “I’ve always considered myself an intelligent man.” He shook his head. “But.” Throwing his hands in the air, he struggled to find the right words. �
�I have no idea what to do.”

  Stephen laughed but then sobered quickly. “You might begin by telling her. Be willing to lay down your life. Bear your soul. Because I’ll share a secret with you, my friend.” Stephen spun the ring on his left hand. Marcus remembered how Stephen and Cecily had struggled to be with one another. He’d never known his friend so happy as he was now with his wife and their son. “If you wish to be content. If you wish to be happy, love her with everything you are.”

  Marcus swallowed hard. “So, I ought to tell her, eh?” He ran one hand through his hair.

  Stephen chuckled again and rose from his chair. “Might as well get it over with.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  And Now You May Kiss the Bride…

  Emily hated being without her spectacles. She lay on the huge bed she and Marcus had only shared the night before and wondered if she’d imagined his concern.

  She might have.

  Except.

  He’d called her love.

  He’d never called her love before.

  And he’d seemed dreadfully relieved when she told him that she’d not consumed any of the poison.

  But that might have been because Marcus Roberts, the Earl of Blakely, heir to the Duke of Waters was simply put, a good person, whom she’d manipulated into marriage.

  After the doctor confirmed she’d not broken her wrist but only sprained it, Marcus had insisted she lay down, keep her arm elevated, and then ordered a delightful meal brought to their chamber. He’d said he’d return to check on her later but needed to finalize matters with Mr. Nottingham first.

  As soon as Emily learned that the Earl of Kensington was the magistrate, she’d understood Marcus and Mr. Nottingham would have to be creative in how they chose to deal with Quimbly.

  The monster.

  Murderous fiend.

  She blew out a deep sigh.

  Here she lay, a married woman, unable to see any farther than twelve inches in front of her face, with the use of only one hand. She could hold a book but be unable to turn any pages. And what good was a book when you couldn’t turn the pages?