The Marriage Bargain

by Diane Perkins

  “Where is he?” he demanded.

  The stunned woman said, “In the drawing room, my lord.”

  Spence burst into Reuben’s drawing room, where his cousin sat comfortably in a chair sipping a glass of wine. Spence rushed at him, seized him by the front of his coat, and pulled him to his feet. The glass flew out of Reuben’s hand, spraying wine on Reuben’s coat, the chair, the carpet.

  “What have you done with her?” Spence growled.

  “With—with whom?” stammered his cousin.

  Spence lifted the shorter man until they were nose to nose and Reuben could not miss the fury on Spence’s face. “You know damned well who. Where is Emma?”

  “Put me down and I will tell you!” Reuben cried.

  Spence let Reuben’s feet touch the floor, but he did not let go.

  “She did not come with me, Spence.” Reuben’s expression was the picture of sincerity. “She made me drop her at her mother’s townhouse. She never left London. I came on alone.”

  Spence put one hand around Reuben’s neck. “Do not take me for a fool. I asked at the posting houses. You were seen. You are a dead man unless you take me to her.”

  Reuben’s eyes flashed with panic as Spence tightened his grip on Reuben’s throat. His face red, Reuben tried to pry away Spence’s hand, to no avail.

  Finally he nodded and Spence let go.

  “I will lead you to her.” Reuben coughed and rubbed his neck. “Let me fetch my hat and an overcoat.”

  “Bugger the hat and coat!” Spence said, pushing him out of the room. The housekeeper still stood in the hall wringing her hands.

  He pushed Reuben past her and out the door. “Where to?”

  “Follow me.” Reuben walked with mincing steps, turning around to Spence. “She’s come to no harm. You’ll see, Spence! This is all a terrible mistake.”

  He sounded as forthright as his father, acting as if Emma were lounging in some comfortable haven. In the church, perhaps. Spence tried to hope that was true.

  But instead of entering the church, Reuben led him around to the back.

  “Where the devil are you taking me?” Spence placed his hand inside his pocket and removed the pistol.

  “Not far now,” his cousin responded.

  Reuben walked to the gate of the church’s cemetery and opened it. Spence felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  Daylight had all but disappeared, leaching the area of any color. They passed tombstones standing like ghostly sentinels. They kept walking until, at the far end of the cemetery, set off in a copse of white willows, the stone edifice of the Kellworth mausoleum loomed a somber gray. Reuben headed straight for it.

  Cold fingers of panic raced up Spence’s spine. He pushed at Reuben’s back with the barrel of the gun. “Make haste.”

  Reuben tossed Spence a wounded look from over his shoulder.

  Once reaching the door, Reuben spent a great deal of time searching his pockets, finally removing the key and turning it in the lock. Reuben pulled the door open.

  Spence peered inside, straining to see in the gloomy interior. The scent of blood reached his nostrils. Just within the doorway there was the dark outline of a body lying on the stone floor.

  “No!” Spence cried, pushing Reuben inside.

  As Spence made his way over to the body and crouched down, Reuben sprang away and dashed to the doorway.

  “Bugger!” Spence jumped to his feet, but the door slammed shut as he reached it, plunging him in darkness.

  He dropped the pistol and flung himself against the door, banging on the thick wood. “Reuben! You bloody viper! You worthless cur! Open this door!”

  He heard the key turn in the lock, echoing loud against the stone walls. “Reuben!” he shouted again, but no sound could be heard. Spence groped in the blackness and felt his boots step in something sticky. Blood.

  Dear God. Emma.

  “Spence?” A spectral voice drifted from the recesses of the gloomy interior.

  He froze. “Emma?”

  “I’m over here,” she said, raising her voice.

  She was real. Alive. He nearly collapsed with relief. He cast about in the darkness, trying to follow the sound. “Emma!”

  “Here!” she cried. “I did not want to sit near that man.”

  Not caring what obstacles might lie in his path, Spence took bold steps toward the sound of her voice, until he bumped into a sarcophagus, one of the first of his ancestors to claim a final resting place here. Later relations lined the walls.

  “I am right here.” Her voice was very near. “I’m sitting on top.”

  He lurched toward her, hearing her crawling toward him. His hand suddenly caught hers, and he grabbed her, pulling her off the sarcophagus and crushing her against him.

  “I thought you were dead.” He buried his face in her hair, loose around her shoulders. “I saw that body and I thought you were dead.”

  “Oh, Spence!” she cried. “You came for me.”

  He kissed her and held her close. “Emma, my love.”

  Emma clung to him, rubbing her cheek against the wool of his coat. Hardly able to believe he was here, she thrilled at his words. She returned his kiss, almost missing his lips. If she could not see him, at least she could feel his arms around her.

  She eventually felt able to speak. “Reuben said he would leave me to die here. He said he would kill you, too, Spence, as soon as a decent interval passed.”

  “Emma,” he moaned. “Why here? Why did he bring you to this god-awful place?”

  His body warmed her. The scent of him filled her nostrils, taking away the smell of dank stone and death. “No one would hear my cries for help, he said. It served me right, he said, because I was the one who kept you from being buried here.”

  “Now he means for us both to be buried alive.”

  She shuddered.

  She felt his body tense. He released her. “The cursed viper. I am not going to let you die here. I promise I am not.”

  As he embraced her again, Emma smiled at the irony. This was another promise Spence was likely to break, but she would not fault him for it. She was only sorry he was with her to suffer the same fate.

  “Blake and Wolfe will come, Emma,” he said. “They are on to him.”

  Would it matter? Reuben would steer them away from this place, if he did not kill them, too. Reuben had told her of killing Ruddock. She’d seen him kill the groom, could still hear the shot of his pistol and its echo against the stone walls. She could still hear Reuben calmly discuss his intent to kill Spence and, later on, his own father if the man did not oblige him by dying of natural causes soon enough. Reuben would be earl and the people would love him because he would take much better care of the estate than Spence had.

  Reuben had counted on Spence dying in battle, he’d said. When Spence had not obliged him, he’d arranged for him to be killed in a duel. Emma had ruined it all. If only she would have let Spence die, she could have married Reuben and been his Lady Kellworth.

  The idea made her ill.

  There was a skittering sound.

  “What was that?” Spence asked.

  “Mice,” Emma replied. “That is why I climbed on top of this.” She patted the sarcophagus.

  “Let us get back on it.” He lifted her onto it and climbed on after her. The stone cover was carved into the sleeping figure of some long-departed Keenan. They sat on the legs.

  Spence tucked her close to his side and cocooned her inside his greatcoat.

  She rested her head against him. “The dead man is Reuben’s groom.”

  “Dear God.” His words came from deep in his chest and she felt as well as heard them. “Emma, I failed to protect you. I put you right into his hands.”

  His clothing was damp against her cheek. “It is not your fault.”

  “No,” he said fiercely. “I am at fault. If only—”

  She found his lips and covered them with her fingers. “Shh, do not blame yourself. He fooled
me, too. He fooled everyone.” She melted back in the comfort of his arms, until the hopelessness of their situation struck her anew. “I wish you were not here! I wish you were safe in London.”

  “No.” His voice was deep and firm. “I belong here with you. I will not leave you this time. You will not be alone.”

  When Reuben shut the door on her, she’d screamed and railed until almost too weak to stand. She’d crawled on the floor, trying to get as far away from the dead groom as she could, feeling the mice run over her fingers and get caught in her skirt. When she finally climbed atop the sarcophagus, she forced herself to think, to review her life. Rescue seemed impossible.

  “I was not as afraid as I thought I would be,” she told Spence. It was incredible but true. “And this is even more frightening than getting lost in Cairo.”

  “Cairo?”

  She laughed softly. “Never mind.” She turned, still unable to see him, but she put her hands on his face. “Spence, I want to tell you—I had much time to think—you must know that I have regretted nothing. Nothing. I do not regret marrying you, or struggling alone at Kellworth, or making you try to give me a baby. I do not regret loving you.”

  He cradled her again, his arms tightening around her. “I have many regrets, Emma. So many regrets.”

  “Remember, you rescued me from your uncle and gave me your home.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Besides, if you had not left me, how would I ever have discovered I could raise pigs?”

  He found her lips again and kissed her with a desperation only exceeded by their desperate circumstances.

  His arms were strong, and they sat quietly until he began to speak. “Emma, I know why I never wanted to return to Kellworth.”

  “Why?” She liked listening to him. It made the darkness brighter.

  “It was filled with memories of Stephen, my brother.” His voice was hushed and sad.

  “The one who died in an accident?”

  “The brother I killed by my recklessness,” he responded more harshly. “When my parents died, it was somehow bearable to be at Kellworth because Stephen was there. He was three years older and looked after me.” He became quiet for a moment. “Stephen is buried here. You would think his ghost would haunt me here, now, instead of around every corner of Kellworth.”

  “Haunt you?”

  He gave a soft laugh. “The memories haunted me, I should say. The worst was driving by the same stretch of road where Stephen died. Then to have you thrown from the curricle just as he had been—”

  She placed her fingers on his lips. “Reuben said it was the groom who cut through the curricle wheel. He said no one would discover it now because that man was dead, too.” Reuben’s voice had been cold as he held her wrists and told her everything. She’d been unable to twist out of his grasp. “It was not your doing at all.”

  “I know that now.” He expelled a breath. “No matter what happens, one thing I want you to believe, if you believe nothing else.”

  “What?”

  He bent his head down so his lips touched her ear. “I was coming back, Emma. And I was coming back to stay.”

  She thought she’d shed enough tears in this place of horror, but more sprang to her eyes.

  “I believe you,” she whispered.

  The claws of the mice skittered noisily on the stone floor. Spence must have heard them as well, because he tightened his arms around her.

  Emma refused to think what they might be doing, but the harder she tried to forget them, the louder they became, scampering and squeaking and scuffling. Even though she could not see them, she squeezed her eyes shut and wished they would go away, just go away, from wherever they came.

  Suddenly Spence released her. Her eyes flew open.

  “Emma!” His voice was breathless. “They come from the outside. The mice come from the outside. From a hole somewhere in this structure.”

  “Yes?” she said, puzzled.

  “If they can get in, we can get out!”

  Chapter TWENTY

  T he hole would be tiny,” she said. “A little crack.”

  Spence did not care. “Holes can be made bigger.”

  He forced himself to think, to plan. “There might be a place where the mortar is crumbling, like the loose stones at Kellworth. If we could remove a stone or two here . . .” He vaulted off the sarcophagus.

  “What are you doing?”

  He heard her move as if to follow him. “Stay where you are. I’m going to look for my pistol. I dropped it when Reuben locked me in.”

  He crawled around on the stone floor, trying to remember where the groom’s body was and hoping his pistol had not landed in the man’s blood.

  “What are you going to do with the pistol?” she asked.

  It helped to hear her voice, giving him an idea of where he was in the room. “I need something to serve as a torch. Something to burn.”

  “I could tear cloth from my shift,” she suggested.

  “That will do.” He inched his way, crawling on the floor, sweeping his hands ahead of him. “Long strips, Emma.”

  He heard the sound of fabric tearing.

  Tiny, clawed feet scampered over his gloved hand, squeaking as he reflexively shook it away. He paused a moment for his heartbeat to return to normal.

  “Keep talking to me, Emma,” he said. “It helps me keep my bearings.” And my sanity, he added silently.

  She talked. Talked of how she had fallen in love with him all those years ago. Talked of her girlish fears and how, because of all that happened to her, she now felt she could face anything. She talked of wanting a baby, of wanting to keep a piece of him with her always.

  Her words both filled him with melancholy and with hope. He still deeply regretted causing her suffering by not being with her. He supposed he would regret leaving her for as long as he lived.

  Which might not be very many more days unless he could find the pistol. He inched his way across the floor, hoping he would not just miss it in his blind sweep.

  Finally his hand hit something solid. “Got it!” he cried, stuffing it into a pocket.

  “Bravo!” She clapped.

  He groped his way back to Emma, feeling for her. “The cloth.”

  Her hand cast about for him and finally put the cloth in his hand. He stood and walked several paces from her to what he thought was the center of the room.

  “Now what are you doing?” she asked.

  “I am going to make a torch,” he responded. “Or try to.”

  Working by feel alone, he laid the cloth on the floor and bit off the end of one cartridge, scattering the gunpowder onto the cloth by feel. He unsheathed the dagger and wrapped the cloth around its blade, carefully laying it on the floor nearby. Then he fumbled in the coat pocket for the pistol. Tapping the barrel to remove the ball, he heard it clink against the stone floor and roll away. Breaking open another cartridge, he poured more gunpowder into the barrel, and took the patch from the ball, packing it alone against the powder. Feeling the floor for the dagger, he pointed the barrel of the pistol right near the cloth.

  “Emma, take heed,” he said. “I have to fire my pistol to light the cloth. I am afraid it will be loud.” He also hoped he would not set fire to himself in the process.

  He squeezed the trigger and the pistol created a flash of light that illuminated the room for a scant moment before the pistol’s report bounced off the walls. The mice screeched, and in the brief moment of illumination, he caught a glimpse of them scampering toward the wall to his right. Blinking his eyes to recover from the flash, he checked his makeshift torch. It burned, igniting small patches of gunpowder scattered on the floor. Smoke wafted toward the ceiling.

  Spence pulled off one of his gloves and wrapped it around the enameled handle for extra insulation. He could already feel the metal growing hotter. He lifted the torch and turned toward Emma.

  “It worked,” she said. He could see her smile.

  He stole a moment to gaze at her, to see sh
e was truly in one piece, to savor the sight of her perched on one of four sarcophaguses lining one end of the room. He turned slowly. One wall was honeycombed with six empty compartments, waiting for some Keenan to die to fill them. Two were checkered with the sealed markings of those already deceased Keenans. The last contained the bodies of his aunt, the baby who had died with her, and Stephen. Next to the space where his brother rested was the space intended for him.

  “Spence! There are rushlights!” Emma slipped off her perch and hurried over to him, pointing to the corners.

  He strode to one corner and lit the thin rush poking out of its wrought-iron holder. “I’ll not light them all,” he said. “We may need them later.”

  His hand felt seared from the torch handle’s heat even through his glove. The cloth was burning rapidly. He had little time left, but took a few moments to examine the body of the groom. Emma remained at a distance, her hand covering her mouth. As best he could with one hand, he searched the man’s pockets, but found nothing of use to them. He then walked to the wall where the mice had run, the wall where he would have been buried next to his brother. There was nothing to see but blackness.

  “I can see nothing. We had better wait until morning. With luck some sunlight will peek through.” If there was enough light. If the hole led directly to the outside.

  The torch sputtered and went out, leaving only the dim illumination of the rushlight. Spence scraped the remains of the cloth from the dagger and returned it to its sheath, feeling the still-hot metal warm him where it lay against his hip. He led Emma to the wall where the light burned, and sat on the stone floor with his back resting against the wall, nestling her against him so his coat and his arms could keep her warm.

  He relished the feel of her against his chest, vowing he would tear the building down, stone by stone, with his fingernails, if necessary to get her out.

  She was very quiet, but he suspected she did not sleep. “Emma?”