Ride the Wind: Touch the Wind Book Two

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  They slept but little, spending most of the time locked in the throes of passion, but in the wee hours of the morning, she’d needed rest more and he’d rocked her and their pagan-papist baby to sleep. Remembering the last time they’d stayed together in Annapolis and his room had been broken into, he’d wedged a chair against their door so they could at least rest soundly.

  The knock at dawn on the hotel room door roused him from his slumber. Beth was insensate, sound asleep and still worn out from their exertions. Ian slipped out of bed and pulled on his breeches and went to whisper through the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Open in the name of the law.”

  At first, Ian thought it was a bad dream. He’d just spent a fortune to clear his name and reclaim his identity, and this threatened all that he’d gained. He was Ian O’Malley, master of The Oaks, and the law was at his door demanding in.

  Beth jackknifed wide awake and as rattled as he’d ever seen her.

  “A minute,” he called through the door. “Let my wife get decent at least.”

  His wife. He had talked her into marrying in the chapel with her mother and a pragmatic if kind-hearted Jesuit who’d cut them a great deal of slack when assigning penance. She’d pretended to be a lapsed Catholic, and now there was hell to pay.

  “Open up.”

  Ian motioned to Beth’s clothes. “I’ll be there! Have mercy, please!”

  She was in her chemise and a petticoat and was pinning her dress’s stomacher when he unwedged the door and opened it. They let him get dressed, at least, before hauling him off, leaving Beth with a note and money and instructions.

  She went to the front desk. A messenger was found and took the missive, with delivery attempted first at the Atwood home, due to the early hour; failing that, he was to go to Barry’s office or any alternate address that Mrs. Atwood might supply.

  Barry was home and followed the Captain’s directive to see first to his wife. Barry had Beth gather their things and left her with Jane, while he went on alone. He came back, sadly, the same way.

  Captain O’Malley had been taken for questioning. Barry stressed that the Captain was not under arrest, but he could not promise when he would be free to come home. He refused to say more, not being at liberty to, even if he’d wanted. Considering Beth’s condition—the father of four had guessed from her glow, even before the Captain told him—and given the uncertainty of the situation, he suggested that he arrange a driver for the curricle they’d brought this time, pulled by a matched pair of shiny black geldings.

  Beth had needed the support that Jane offered and welcomed the diversion of the little Atwoods. She relied on Barry’s counsel, and wanted to believe him when he told her to trust that all would be resolved to their satisfaction. He knew the situation that had seen the Captain wrongfully arrested and imprisoned, and had worked diligently and successfully to see him cleared. It felt as if the same forces were at work, taking a different tack when the first had failed.

  Barry was tight-lipped. The things he’d heard, he couldn’t conceive it. Who would commit such heinous crimes? The pattern was set, sadly so. Ian had warned him it would be too much for Beth’s sensitive nature, but Ian and Barry had heard all the details. There had been a string of murders in ports where Ian, sailing as Jean Delacorte, had recently docked. Except for Lucy Knowles, the other women had been prostitutes, found near the water, usually on the beach, with signs of violent coitus, strangled, and their throats slit. Lucy alone had had a satanic symbol carved on her chest, using Ian’s stolen razor.

  Evil had followed in the wake of the Deirdre. Whoever did it knew about Beth, but Ian could say nothing of it. They still burned witches in Scotland. She was his wife, and he had vowed before God and man to safekeep her. He intended to do that as soon as he could get free.

  They turned Ian loose Sunday morning. Barry was there to give him a ride and let him know he’d sent Beth home yesterday in Ian’s curricle, driven by young Harry Maxwell. Leave it to Barry to see what anyone else would have missed, that Beth’s sensitive nature would be more at ease with someone known to her.

  Ian had not given up hope of buying Harry’s service. It was the next best thing for Barry to have called in another favor and secured Harry and an extra mount to tie to the back of the curricle for the lad’s return to Annapolis, and a greater relief to know that Beth had arrived home safely.

  Barry insisted on foregoing church in order to see Ian home safely as well. The drive to The Oaks gave them a chance to speak further on the danger that threatened. Ian told Barry what he had told no other, bound as Barry was by his oath of confidentiality, that Beth was not a practicing Catholic, that she followed the old faith and whoever had broken into his room and stolen his razor had known it. The sign carved on the body was a message to Ian, that they had been watched enough for the killer to know that Beth was his weakness, that she had been watched keenly enough for her secret to be discovered, and if he could not get to Ian directly, he would try to get to him through her.

  Barry could feel the rising tide of anger and anxiety in Ian, not knowing how she fared through the night while he was kept away. Unfortunate business, that. As if the man hadn’t suffered enough, the whole thing could have been another supreme travesty of justice, had not Barry’s reasoning and Ian’s unshakeable surety finally convinced them that they must look elsewhere for the culprit. Even though no other victims had been found here, there was little doubt an arch killer was on the loose.

  Beth had been so afraid for the Captain. She didn’t know how he would react to being held without reason, without cause. In his mind, he could have gone back to Jamaica, and then she’d be looking for pieces all over again.

  When she recognized the Atwoods’ carriage coming up the drive, she unbolted the front door and ran outside. Seeing her, the Captain jumped out while the wheels yet turned and caught her when she threw herself into his arms.

  Beth felt her husband, outside and inside, for chips and cracks. Finding none off hand, she breathed a vast sigh of relief and caught his hand and kissed it.

  “Oh, Captain!” she cried. “Ye are home!”

  He blessed her with his own, dear smile, full of Irish charm and unspoken promises.

  “Aye,” he murmured, pushing her wild curls away from her face. “You are well?”

  She didn’t know why she was crying, save that she was so very happy to have him with her, to see that he was safe and sound.

  “Aye. Édouard tossed a book now and then, but Philip was good company, even singing in the evening for me. And George—wait ‘til ye see it—George is smiling. Ye know, when we took him tae fetch Emily, I had my doubts, but it’s like he’s a whole new self.”

  Having finally found the Reynolds sister who liked relations and who baked.

  “And Emily is a dear heart,” she added. “Just what his children need.”

  Ian’s smile widened, as much at their old-couple conversation and Beth’s unspoken assessment as at finding her so well.

  “How are the wild strawberries?”

  “Blossoming.” Beth sighed. “They are so tender, and in such need of a mother’s care. Emily adores them, but then, who wouldnae?”

  “And the rest of the children?”

  Beth took his arm and urged him toward the house. “Worth has always been George, Junior. William keeps busy at every turn, because he’s old enough tae help with whatever work needs done. He’s been with Jason in the orchard, or staying close tae George, and although I believe in time he may go back tae the horses, that’s where India needs tae be for now, as soon as you approve it. George willnae let her go, otherwise.”

  “So you’d have India mending at the stables?”

  “She cannae go back in the spinning house. The floors are new, but the memories are still too fresh. And ye ken what it’s like tae be with horses, especially tae ride. If there’s anything tae help someone heal, it’s horses and music and water. She can sit by the river and sketch, o
r she can borrow the psaltery tae play in the garden, but the girl has a seat better than her brother, and ye hae a pasture full of pacers and racers tha’ need kept ready tae show and sell. It would be in The Oaks and India’s best interest if you hae Dylan Marshall gie her chores—for a while, anyway. Once winter comes, and the memories hae had time tae fade, she can go back tae spinning in the Knowles cottage, even if she cannae return tae the looms.”

  Ian lifted her hand and kissed it. “Ah, Mrs. O’Malley, what a wise woman you are.”

  “Rogue,” she blushed. “Hae a care. Those green glass eyes of yers read clear as a handbill, and there are people aboot.”

  “Don’t care,” he said. And he didn’t. He wasn’t in jail or prison, his bride was snug at his side, and George’s new wife made his farm foreman smile.

  “I want tae open the windows,” she said abruptly. “Exchange the air, now that ye’re here. This afternoon we’ll hae plenty of time tae close them up. I’ve kept the doors bolted, as ye wished.”

  Ian could see no harm in it, and he knew his pagan wife well enough, she’d be clearing out more than old air. He pulled the pins that Thomas had made and threw open the sashes, then kissed his wife and headed out to inspect his fields and stables.

  The corn cribs were filling up with fat yellow ears. The appointment that Dylan handled in his absence had yielded satisfactory results, although not what they were expecting. The client came to look at one of Zephyr’s yearlings, but chose a promising one of Zeus’s to take home. Beth had mentioned the appeal of a pretty dapple gray, and he believed that would be his next line to develop. It would please her little pagan heart to no end, and a happy wife made for a happier husband.

  He was surprised to see Sophie in the house, but glad, for Beth’s sake. She had to have been worried, because he damn well had been. Maintaining his innocence hadn’t meant spit in prison.

  He said hello to Philip and ducked into the library to see what books Édouard had tossed. French, to the last one of them.

  The atlas turned another page.

  One of these days he’d figure out what it meant. One of these days, Beth would find a way to help Édouard cross over. Unlike Philip, who was content staying at The Oaks where he’d been overseer, Édouard didn’t seem happy to be stuck this side of the Veil.

  His mother-in-law paid them a visit, still beaming that she’d seen her daughter wed in her parents’ true faith. From the hug Mother Gordon gave him, Ian got the feeling that he would forever be in her good graces.

  They settled into the front parlor, where Mother Gordon reported that Miss Denning had set up a small loom in her cottage while the floors were being replaced in the spinning house. The boards were new, but when she tried returning to the work she’d left, it would not do, and she’d been working from home ever since.

  Which meant that Miss Denning could make rugs and lengths of some cloth, but the large loom could only fit in the spinning house, and something would eventually have to be done. Swapping out the kitchen storehouse and drying shed was not a solution to be considered; it would create unnecessary hardship for whomever was cooking. He hoped it wouldn’t come to tearing down a structurally sound building, only to throw up another. Hopefully it was just going to take time, time and resolve to move past the trauma.

  Ian knew it could be done. Not easily. If anyone thought of something to facilitate the process, he was open to suggestions.

  “Paint.”

  Ian looked at his wife. Eavesdropping, Red?

  Beth smiled, properly, with her mother present and all.

  “Paint,” Ian repeated.

  Mother Gordon seemed to second the notion.

  “Change the color, shift things around. It might work,” Beth said. “Miss Denning favors blues, and a nice calm shade, the color of water or sky, could make the difference. Sky,” she decided. “I can get the wild strawberries tae help paint clouds on the walls. If ye can get glass, there’s room for Jason tae add another window or two. Aye, that might be all it takes.”

  Ian smiled at his wife, grateful he could afford to oblige her. “As you wish. Everything else is along enough, I’ll see that Jason gets on it. Blue for the walls, and white and gray and yellow and darker blue paint for your clouds.”

  That seemed to surprise both ladies, that he would know clouds were more than just white.

  “You married a sea captain,” he reminded Beth, “and a gentleman farmer, who must still keep an eye to the weather. Clouds are white and gray and blue and yellow—unless you want to paint a sunrise or sunset, then I’m afraid we’ll have an extended discussion on shading and palettes. For now, how about we stick to basics, and make it easier on yourself when little Harmon and Harmony get creative. You can help them do the white fluff, then add the extra colors that Miss Denning can appreciate, that may ease her way back to work. And later, if you want to tackle trees and flowers and shrubs and animals and such, you could paint a peaceable kingdom from the floor up and give us The Oaks edition of the Sistine Chapel.”

  He didn’t know if Beth could paint, but she’d never told him she could spin, either, and looked how that turned out. There was a basket of carded wool in the music room, and she planned to knit booties.

  Mother Gordon, as he could and should call her now, was kind enough to not overstay her welcome. Attuned to her sensitive daughter, she excused herself to help Emily in the kitchen so that Ian’s bride could have him all to herself.

  From across the room came his wife’s smile and words that played like the notes of a phantom fiddle, as brilliantly clear as sunshine through an opened window. A picayune fer yer thoughts.

  Cheeky girl.

  “If you must know, I’m checking that list of ‘to-do’s’ and feeling more married all the time.” He crossed the floor and pulled her into his arms. “Have I told you I missed you?” he murmured, and gave her a proper kiss.

  “Ye just did,” she said, smiling.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He sighed, thinking he should be grateful they hadn’t just kept him like they had on Tortola after he’d tried to pawn the stolen ring he’d won at cards. It could have gone so much worse, but Barry was brilliant, and Beth was brave and resourceful and not one to fall apart when plans got changed.

  “Changed? Shattered, I think, is a better description,” she said kindly.

  Ah, Red.

  They should have been on a honeymoon somewhere, or at least taken a scenic sojourn of some kind, but they had decided to be practical, with appointments to show horses and the orchard needing finished and the harvest in progress. Still, he should have been here to at least carry her over the threshold and spend their second night as a married couple together, instead of her, here, with Theo and Sean to guard her, and him, being questioned about the murders.

  She was feeling his beard—he had not yet shaved, since his kit had come home with her—and he moved that to the top of his list. Her hand went still. When she stopped breathing, he knew it was too late to un-think it, now that she knew.

  “Sit down, Beth.” He guided her to the divan, where he could sit beside her, so that she could feel him and he could feel her, if things got too hard.

  “You were right, exactly right, what you felt about the Deirdre, that evil followed in its wake. This last trip out, in half the ports where we docked, there was a woman found. Poor Lucy was the last, but the one who did it is still out there somewhere, and he wants me. He wants me, and I hate to say it, love, he’ll use you to get me if that’s what it takes. He knows how dear you are to me, even before the marrying.”

  He cupped her face and looked into her eyes and gave her the worst of it. “Bastard doesn’t know faery faith from Satanism, but he’s seen enough to know what you are. The only woman marked up was Lucy, and that done with my razor. It was a message to me, to let me know he’s been watching us.”

  Beth went ice cold, and shivered as if a bitter wind had blown in from the North.

  “You need to stay clear of the w
oods,” he told her. “Do your circles inside, where I can keep an eye on things and make certain you’re safe. It’s only for a time. Until they catch him. He’ll slip up. Monster like that, he won’t go too long before he’s looking for something to tide him over.”

  When he can’t get to us….

  Beth shivered again, and from the library came the sound of another book flying off the shelf.

  “We’ll keep the windows snug and doors bolted and stay in company. You’ll get through your full moon and Samhain and however long it takes to find him and put him away. He’ll be lucky to swing when they catch him,” he said grimly. “He deserves to be drawn and quartered.”

  Another book hit the floor.

  Ian wanted him caught. Wanted him stopped. It would simplify things, were he taken dead rather than alive. If he were dead, he could say nothing about Beth, what she was and what he’d seen her do.

  If he were dead, he could not try to convince authorities that Beth had bewitched him and driven him to murder Lucy Knowles.

  “Help me close the windows,” she said, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

  There was no need yet, but he humored her anyway, closing the downstairs sashes, then moving upstairs, leaving their bedroom for last. “Are you tired, wife? We can lie down.”

  “I would like that,” she said. “It’s been…dramatic.”

  Better that, than traumatic, he supposed.

  Aye.

  He tucked his eavesdropping bride into bed and him with her. Eventually they took a nap, only to awaken to the sound of another library book flying off a shelf, but beyond that was Sophie, crying and scratching at the back door, desperate to get in.

  Someone had dared to come near the woods.

  Someone who’d wanted to kill her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rage. Ian shook with it.

  Sick bastard.