River of Fire: Book 6 in The Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  Her words were the final straw that snapped his control. He lunged at her furiously. She screamed at the top of her lungs on the chance that a shepherd or walker might hear. At the same time she lifted the water jug and hurled it at Frazier. It smashed into his face, water spraying into his eyes. As he howled with pain, she bolted from her sitting position and ran to the right, away from him. When she was clear of the rocky ledge she had been sitting against, she pivoted into the birch grove.

  She had barely made it to the first trees when he recovered and came after her. His long strides closed the distance in seconds. He grabbed and caught her shawl. She let it slither from her shoulders and kept running even though she knew escape was impossible. A moment later he caught her arm and jerked her around. Blood streamed down his face and his handsome features were distorted in a mask of rage. She screamed again and slashed at him with clawed fingers.

  "Damn you!" He slammed his fist into her midriff with stunning force, knocking her to the ground. Her head banged into the soil and her breath was blasted from her body, leaving her dizzy and incapable of movement.

  As he loomed over her, she lay eerily helpless, able to see and hear but without strength to resist. She was at the mercy of a madman, and in a few moments she would become the falling woman who had haunted her nightmares.

  * * *

  Sir Anthony pointed ahead. "This is Skelwith Hill. The crag is on the other side of that birch grove."

  A woman's scream cut through the air, followed an instant later by a masculine bellow.

  "Christ! Rebecca!" Kenneth kicked his horse into a gallop and bolted ahead of his companion. He entered the trees first and drove his mount through at a lethal speed, flattening along the beast's neck so he wouldn't be knocked off by a branch. As he wove through the trees, Rebecca screamed again.

  He emerged from the grove almost on the edge of the precipice. As he wrenched the terrified horse to a halt, he saw a scene that scorched his mind like a brand of fire. A bloody Frazier was half-carrying, half-dragging Rebecca toward the cliff. Her limp body hung like a broken doll, her red hair and blue dress whipping in the gusty wind.

  It was a tableau of death.

  He reacted instinctively, vaulting from his horse and shouting furiously to rattle his opponent. As he charged forward, he pulled his pistol from inside his coat and cocked it.

  Frazier took two long steps toward the brink and raised Rebecca before him like a shield. "Stay away from me, Kimball!"

  Kenneth stopped in his tracks. Then he lowered the pistol, his heart hammering with fear. If Frazier made one false step, he and his captive would both go over the cliff. "If you kill Rebecca, you're a dead man, Frazier. Let me have her. You can go free." He took a wary step toward the other man.

  "Stop or I'll take both of us over," Frazier said wildly. His eyes were crazed, like a cornered boar.

  Kenneth halted again, unsure how to deal with a madman. Frazier's facade of normality had disintegrated, and the first victim of his panic would be Rebecca. She was disheveled and seemed stunned from her struggle. But Kenneth saw awareness in her eyes. She knew how close she was to death.

  In the tense silence, Sir Anthony rode from the woods. He reined in his horse, his face white with horror when he saw his daughter. Dismounting, he said with attempted calm, "The joke has gone far enough, Malcolm. Bring Rebecca to me."

  A muscle jerked in Frazier's face. "This isn't a joke, Anthony. I had hoped to persuade you to return to real art, but I've bungled it. There is no going back." He glanced down at Rebecca, his face indecisive. "At least she'll pay for her part in ruining your work. You should have avoided becoming entangled with women, Anthony. They're good only for bedding and forgetting. Listening to them is poison to a serious artist."

  Sir Anthony shook his head. "No woman poisoned my work. Not Helen, not Rebecca, not Lavinia. Any failings are my own."

  "If you had been allowed to develop naturally, without the pressures of supporting a family, you could have been another Raphael!" Frazier said stubbornly. "Instead of a handful of great works, you have produced a mountain of rubbish."

  "We will never agree on this." Sir Anthony began to move cautiously toward Frazier. "For God's sake, don't take your disagreement out on my only child! If you must throw someone off this damned cliff, let it be me, not Rebecca."

  The other man said in an agonized voice, "I could never hurt you. You're my friend. My best friend."

  In Frazier's face was a dawning realization that he had already lost everything he cared for—his friendship with Sir Anthony and his position in the art world. He was a coward and a bully, and Kenneth knew with absolute certainty that in another moment, he would escape from his unbearable dilemma by jumping and taking his captive with him from sheer vindictiveness.

  There was no time to waste. While Frazier's attention was on Sir Anthony, Kenneth smoothly raised his pistol and sighted on Frazier's head. Though he ran the risk of hitting Rebecca, shooting her captor was her best hope.

  At the same instant Kenneth squeezed the trigger, Frazier made up his mind and took an ungainly step toward the precipice, changing the position of both him and his captive. Kenneth watched in horror as the bullet slammed into Frazier's shoulder so close to Rebecca's head that it might have struck her, too.

  Frazier gave a shriek of pain and spun around, dropping his captive. Rebecca fell farther down the slope, hitting the ground hard.

  Then slowly, inexorably, she began rolling down the angled brow of the cliff toward the final drop-off.

  Chapter 33

  As Sir Anthony gave an agonized cry that echoed across the rocky hills, Kenneth sprinted toward the cliff and dived down the angled surface. He landed hard on his belly with his right arm reaching for Rebecca. She was just beyond his grasp, her limp body on the verge of tumbling over the brink.

  He propelled himself forward and managed to catch her slender wrist. She stopped with a jerk that strained his arm. For an instant they were still, both of them flattened on the slanting surface like starfish. Then they began sliding slowly downward, drawn by the implacable force of gravity.

  As he dug his toes and left hand into the rough ground, the wind whipped her hair sideways and he saw with horror that dark crimson blood was saturating the auburn strands. If the bullet had struck her before hitting Frazier, she might already be dead.

  But he would not let her fall. He made a wide sweep with his left arm and caught a scrawny shrub. It pulled up in seconds but held long enough for him to grasp another stronger bush.

  Temporarily they were safe, but it was a precarious balance. The angle of the slope was so steep that they would slide downward without his hold on the bush, and already his left arm was shaking from the strain of supporting their weight.

  He glanced to his left. The next suitable handhold was a couple of feet beyond his reach. If he were alone he could probably have scrambled up to it, but that was impossible when Rebecca's weight was dragging him downward.

  Though he doubted she could hear, he said through gritted teeth, "Trust me, Ginger, we're not going over."

  But it was bravado. A tremor ran through the shrub that was his handhold. When it broke, they would both go over the edge. Perhaps Sir Anthony could help—but he was a light man. Unless he found a secure grip, he would be pulled down with them.

  Then suddenly the wind gusted violently, shoving against their prone bodies. It shouldn't have made a difference—but for an instant Kenneth was relieved of most of Rebecca's weight. At the same moment he got a burst of extra strength. He released the failing shrub and kicked against the sloping surface, driving himself upward until his clawing fingers caught a deep-seated rock two feet farther from the brink.

  Panting with exertion, he pulled Rebecca toward him until he could wrap his right arm around her. Then he dragged them both upward, the muscles of his left arm shaking with the strain of supporting two bodies.

  When he was as high as he could go, he rested for a moment, drawing g
reat ragged gulps of breath. Then he reached for another handhold. The angle was becoming shallower, and each foot was easier to achieve than the one before.

  It took half a dozen more moves up the rough slope to reach the safety of level ground. Too exhausted to stand, he lay gasping for breath, Rebecca's limp form cradled against him as if sheer proximity would ward off harm. But Christ, where was her pulse? He felt her throat and couldn't find it. Despairing, he sat up and laid his hand in the center of her chest. There he found the steady, blessed beat of her heart.

  Weak with relief, he looked up. Though it had seemed like a terrifying eternity, very little time had passed since he had fired his pistol. Sir Anthony was racing toward them while Frazier stood swaying in shock, his right hand pressed to his bleeding left shoulder.

  As Sir Anthony dropped to his knees by his daughter, he said furiously, "You'll hang for what you've done, Malcolm. Before God, I swear it."

  Frazier jerked as if he had been struck. Then his expression changed to cool arrogance. "I lived and painted in the Grand Manner," he drawled, "and I shall die that way as well."

  He turned, straightened to his full height, and walked off the cliff.

  He did not cry out as he fell. If there was a sound when he hit the stones below, it was carried away on the wind.

  "The fool," Sir Anthony swore. "The stupid, bloody fool. He had talent and wealth and a passion for art. Why did he become a murderer?"

  As Kenneth examined Rebecca's wound, he said tersely, "Frazier's real passion wasn't art, but imposing his ideas on the world."

  He had also loved Sir Anthony too much and in the wrong way, Kenneth thought, so his unadmitted resentment had been turned against the women who were close to his friend.

  Sir Anthony drew his daughter into his arms, her blood staining his white shirt. "Did... did the bullet strike her?"

  "No. She gashed her head when she hit the stone. Scalp wounds bleed like the very devil, but her breathing and heartbeat are strong. I think she'll be all right." Kenneth pulled out his handkerchief and folded it into a pad, then yanked off his cravat and bound the fabric tightly to her head.

  He stood, then bent and lifted Rebecca in his arms. She looked heartbreakingly fragile. Yet she had managed to fight off a man twice her size long enough to save her life. Indomitable Ginger. He brushed a tender kiss on her forehead. "Time to take her home."

  * * *

  When they reached Ravensbeck, Kenneth carried Rebecca directly into the drawing room and laid her on a brocade sofa while Sir Anthony shouted for medical supplies and for a doctor to be summoned posthaste. Chaos ensued, with servants running every which way, the more excitable ones weeping.

  Lavinia appeared and imposed order, then efficiently cleaned Rebecca's wound and put on a better bandage. Kenneth sat on the arm of the sofa and kept a hand on Rebecca's shoulder, unable to bear having her beyond his reach.

  Sir Anthony was pacing anxiously about the drawing room when a startled male voice said, "Good God, what has happened? Have you been shot, Anthony?"

  Kenneth glanced up to see Lord and Lady Bowden standing in the open door. Probably the front door had been left open and they had walked in. But why were they at Ravensbeck?

  As Sir Anthony stared at the visitors in shock, Bowden strode toward him, his alarmed gaze on the blood-soaked shirt.

  Sir Anthony ran trembling fingers through his disordered hair. "I'm fine, Marcus. My daughter has been hurt, but Kenneth says she should be all right."

  Bowden looked across the room to where Rebecca lay unconscious. "What the devil happened?"

  "One of my oldest friends went mad and tried to kill her," Sir Anthony said tersely. "He had already killed Helen."

  There was an appalled silence. Bowden's gaze went to Kenneth, who said, "It's true. Lord Frazier was the villain."

  Recovering his irony, Sir Anthony said, "To what do I owe the honor of this highly unexpected visit, Marcus?"

  Bowden said stiffly, "Margaret told me in no uncertain terms that I've been a stark-raving idiot where you and Helen were concerned and that it was time to make my apologies."

  "You know I would never use such intemperate language, Marcus," Lady Bowden said with gentle reproach.

  Sir Anthony smiled. "You haven't changed, Margaret. It's good to see you." He took her hand and squeezed it affectionately before turning to his brother. "She's made you a much better wife, you know. Helen was not at all biddable. She would have driven you mad."

  Bowden's face worked. "I'm a lucky man." He gave his wife a look of mingled love and apology. "And a thrice-damned fool for not having realized it sooner."

  "Things happen in their own time, my dear. Before, you were not ready to hear what I had to say." Lady Bowden touched his arm gently. Her expression made it clear that she was supremely content with her husband's new attitude.

  Bowden swallowed hard. "After the way I have behaved, will you allow me under your roof, Anthony?"

  His brother said quietly, "You would always have been welcome, Marcus. Always." He extended his hand.

  Bowden took it in a grip that started tentatively, but quickly became heartfelt.

  Thinking it was time to leave the brothers to become reacquainted, Kenneth said to Lavinia, "I'll take Rebecca to her room. She needs peace and quiet."

  Lavinia gave a nod of agreement. "I'll show you the way."

  Kenneth carefully lifted Rebecca. Still unconscious, she gave a small sigh and rested her head against his shoulder.

  Lord Bowden turned to study her pale face. "She is very like Helen," he said with a note of wonder.

  "Helen's looks, and my talent." Sir Anthony took the knee rug from the sofa and tucked it over his daughter. "Yet in temperament, she resembles you more than she does Helen or me. Strange how these things happen."

  Bowden smiled wryly. "My younger son is very like you. Charming. Clever. Maddening. I'm trying to be more understanding than Father was with you."

  Sir Anthony glanced at Lavinia and said with a challenge in his voice, "I believe you know Lady Claxton. We intend to marry when I am out of mourning."

  That might have been too much for Lord Bowden, Kenneth thought, but not his wife.

  Lady Bowden took Lavinia's hand and said warmly, "How wonderful. Helen once said that if anything happened to her, she hoped you would marry Anthony, since you were her best friend and the only woman she knew who would take proper care of him."

  Her husband said with horrified fascination, "You and Helen were in communication?"

  His wife's lashes swept enigmatically over her soft blue eyes. "Our paths sometimes crossed in town."

  Bowden shook his head, then said with determined graciousness, "Please accept my best wishes, Lady Claxton."

  "Thank you, Lord Bowden," she said sweetly. "And don't worry. I'm not half so wicked as you think." Then she escorted Kenneth from the room.

  He carried Rebecca up the stairs, his spirits lighter than they had been in weeks. An estrangement that had lasted nearly three decades had been healed.

  Perhaps there was hope for him and Rebecca.

  * * *

  Rebecca awoke to darkness and a throbbing head. She blinked muzzily and realized that she was lying in her bed in a room illuminated by a small fire and a lamp shielded to keep the light from her eyes. The faint, familiar scratch of a steel drawing pen came from her left.

  She turned her head and saw Kenneth sitting in an upholstered chair a few feet from the bed. He had a drawing board across his lap and was carefully adding detail to what appeared to be a watercolor. He looked tired, and the planes of his face were harsh in the dim light.

  She wanted to go to him and kiss the shadows from his eyes. She settled for swallowing against the dryness of her throat, then whispering, "Trust an artist to stop and sketch the flames when Nero is burning Rome."

  He glanced up with a smile that transformed his expression. "You sound remarkably clear-headed." He set the drawing board aside. "How do you feel?"

>   "Fragile." She ran her tongue over dry lips. "Thirsty."

  He poured a glass of water. When he brought it to her, she pushed herself to a sitting position and drank, sipping slowly until her mouth felt normal again.

  Feeling much better, she mounded the pillows into a backrest. "How long have I been unconscious?"

  "About ten hours."

  "What... what happened?"

  He took his seat again. "What do you remember last?"

  She thought. "Lord Frazier hitting me in the midriff so hard that I couldn't move. A very strange and unpleasant sensation. He was hauling me toward the cliff when you thundered up like a regiment of cavalry. You're a fearsome sight, Captain."

  "I've had a lot of practice," he said modestly.

  "Papa came, and a gun fired. You shot Frazier, didn't you? I don't remember anything after that." Gingerly she touched the bandage on her head. "Was I hit by the bullet?"

  "No, but Frazier was, and he dropped you on your head." Kenneth smiled a little. "Luckily, that's stone hard. According to the doctor, there is no serious damage. Frazier wasn't critically wounded, but when he realized that his sins were about to catch up with him, he stepped off the cliff."

  The image of a falling man crossed her mind. Her mouth tightened. "If I were saintly, I might feel sympathy for his madness. Instead, I'm glad he's dead. If I'd had a pistol and known how to use it, I would have shot him myself."

  "Personally, I would have liked to see him hang. Very publicly. But this spares you and your father the strain of a trial, so perhaps it's for the best." Kenneth glanced toward the fire. "There's soup warming on the hearth. Would you like some?"

  She nodded, and he went to ladle soup into two mugs. Only then did the realization sink in that her mother had been murdered. It hadn't been suicide.

  Helen Seaton had not taken her own life because of inner demons; Rebecca and her father had not failed her mother. The knowledge produced a rush of relief so intense that it left Rebecca shaky.