Next to her, Brent slept soundly, breathing steadily and softly, and she didn’t have the heart to wake him. He had worked hard to see that everything at Windswept was in readiness for their move on the morrow; she felt very guilty knowing that all she had to do was step into the carriage, ride five miles, and step out again.
Besides, how could Brent understand what a mother feels when she’s separated from her child for the first time? Not that Brent didn’t love the baby—indeed, he seemed foolishly fond of his young son—but he didn’t have the same attachment to him, the feeling of being connected to the infant twenty-four hours a day and of being aware of everything that was happening to him. Brent would undoubtedly say she was foolish and would probably order her to get back into bed, but she just had to check on her son one more time.
She hoped Bridgit didn’t wake up because that tyrant would never let her forget this visit to the nursery. Summer felt surrounded by maddeningly practical, thoroughly prosaic Scots. It seemed to her that the dour, solemn Smith—she used to think he had no emotions—was the only one of them who had the least bit of romantic spirit. The rest of them were just as disgustingly stolid as the everlasting sheep that overran the countryside.
Summer eased out of bed, slipped into her robe, and tiptoed to the door, but just as she opened it far enough to slip through, Brent rolled over.
“Give the little fella a kiss for me,” he mumbled, and she could just imagine the cheeky grin on his face. Summer smiled to herself as she quietly slipped out, happy in the knowledge that no matter how oblivious Brent might be to anybody else, he was never unaware of even the most trivial thing she did.
The door swung open on silent hinges to reveal a dark hole beyond. For a moment nothing happened, then a head was thrust into the room, next an entire body. Finally a tall man in badly rumpled attire stood up and looked about him. Very little light penetrated the heavy curtains at the windows, but it was enough for Gowan to make out the crib where the baby slept and the open door that led to the small room off the nursery where his nurse snored softly.
Gowan crossed the room noiselessly. A smile of cruel satisfaction masked his face as he gazed on the sleeping infant. It seemed odd that this helpless child should represent the ruin of everything he had worked for, yet it had been so amazingly simple to reach his room undetected. It would be even easier to smother him without leaving a single sign that he’d been there; but Gowan wanted Brent and Summer to know what had happened to their child, he wanted them to live in fear of the moment he would come upon them unheard in the night. Death was not a sufficient punishment for those who had robbed and humiliated him, changed him in a few minutes from a powerful and feared aristocrat to a fugitive afraid to be recognized by even the meanest peasant.
He turned to look for something he might use to accomplish his black deed, and found that the room offered him a wide choice. He made his selection deliberately, deriving sadistic pleasure from imagining Summer’s reaction when she found her child lying dead. The babe was too young to struggle, too weak to offer any resistance; all he had to do was hold the folded blanket over its mouth until it breathed no more. Gowan bent over the crib and slowly lowered the deadly mask over the face of the sleeping infant; it was all so easy.
Summer opened the door slowly, taking great care not to wake the baby. She thrust her small oil lamp into the room before her, and the sight that met her eyes caused a bloodcurdling scream to erupt from her throat. The entire complement of the castle was on its feet in seconds.
Gowan, leaning over the crib, looked up just in time to see Summer fling the lamp at him and an instant later he felt the impact of her body as she threw herself at him in a desperate attempt to drive him away from her child. Gowan dropped the blanket and half turned to face her, but she was on him before he could do any more than raise his arms to fend her off. The force of Summer’s attack knocked him to the floor, and she tore into him with ferocious energy. Her teeth sank into the hand that tried to push her away, while her fingers clawed frantically at the face that would haunt her for the rest of her days. One of Gowan’s arms was momentarily caught in the voluminous folds of Summer’s robe and he was unable to throw her off or to effectively stem her assault.
Meanwhile, the lamp that had bounced harmlessly off Gowan had broken, splattering its warm oil all over the rush matting on the floor, and within seconds the nursery was engulfed in flame.
Suddenly becoming aware of the fire, Summer forgot Gowan and scrambled to her feet intent upon rescuing her child from the blaze. The nurse, awake now and running about screaming fit to wake the dead, reached the door just as Brent burst through it; she was knocked out cold. Smoke rapidly filled the room so that all Brent could see was Summer snatching her child from the flames.
“Get him out into the hall,” he shouted. Brent hustled Summer into the corridor, and leaving the footmen to drag the nurse to safety, he began to beat the flames with the blanket that Gowan had dropped. There had been only a small amount of oil in the lamp so, with the help of the servants who arrived quickly, the flames were soon out.
When it was all over, Brent found Summer still in the hall only a few steps away, clutching the crying infant to her bosom and shaking convulsively.
“There’s nothing to worry about now,” he said, taking her into his arms and holding her close. “It was only a small fire.”
“Gowan,” Summer managed to say despite chattering teeth.
“What?” exclaimed Brent.
“Gowan … in there … trying to smother the baby.”
“Merciful God,” exclaimed Bridgit who had thrown a blanket around the pair of them. “You don’t mean he started that fire to burn up the poor little tyke?”
“He was trying to suffocate him,” Summer managed to say at last. “The lamp broke when I threw it at him.”
“How did he get in here?” Brent demanded in a voice that captured the instant attention of everyone present.
“There is a door on the far side of the room that opens into an empty space,” Smith said, emerging from the smoke-filled room.
“But that’s just a closet in which we store things,” Bridgit said.
“Glenstal was rebuilt some time ago, and there are many such empty spaces throughout the castle,” Wigmore informed them.
“Then Gowan is still in the castle,” Brent surmised.
“He’s probably been here for some time, just waiting,” Smith added.
“Judas priest!” Bridgit sat down with a plop.
“I can’t stay in this awful place another minute,” Summer cried. She was terrified. “He could be any place.”
“I’ll find him,” Brent swore. The determined look Smith knew so well settled over his face.
“But you can’t go after him by yourself,” Summer protested. “He could be hiding anywhere, and you don’t know this house.”
“I will find him,” Brent insisted. “Smith will take you back to your room. Bridgit will stay with you, but arm yourself and be on the lookout. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.”
“Would you like me to come with you?” Smith asked quietly.
“No. This is something I must do alone.”
Summer started to protest again, but she knew it was futile. “Please be careful,” was all she finally said. It didn’t seem to be the time or the place to utter the other thoughts whirling about in her brain.
Brent waited until everyone had left the nursery wing, and then he entered the smoldering bedroom and made his way over to the still-open door. He held a lamp high above him until he could see the space that ran along the north side of all the rooms in the wing, probably giving access to every one of them. Gowan could move in and out of these rooms at will, and no one would ever know. He retraced his steps, and stood for several minutes, thinking, before he left the nursery and started down the hall.
The castle was silent, and Brent’s footsteps echoed through the halls, but he didn’t hesitate and he didn’t take any notice of t
he shadows that leapt and dived as his lamp played upon the walls and furnishings, though they danced like a thousand ghouls as the boards creaked beneath his feet.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the point where the corridor joined the larger hall leading to the main part of the castle. He could have sworn he’d heard bare feet moving swiftly along polished boards, but when no further sounds reached his straining ears and no flash of movement caught his eye, Brent moved forward, more cautiously this time. Someone was in the hall with him, someone who didn’t want his presence detected. Brent was certain that the sounds had come from somewhere behind him, but he neither flinched nor looked back.
The light of the small lamp seemed to contract abruptly when Brent reached the stairway descending to the great hall. He could see only the tiny flame before him; the rest was in total darkness. He realized that he made a perfect target for a waiting assassin, but he continued to move forward, pausing only now and then to listen intently for the man he was now certain was following him.
Brent reached the ground level and paused long enough to blow out his lamp. He waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the deep gloom; he and his pursuer would make the last of their journey in the dark. Brent knelt down and removed his slippers, then he moved forward with great care in his stockinged feet. Suddenly he crouched and pitched a slipper into the inky shadows around him. The soft plop was followed by the sharp report of a pistol, running footsteps behind him, and the barely perceptible closing of a door.
Then all was silent once more.
Brent waited, but no sound came to his straining ears. At last he rose to his feet and proceeded across the hall toward a door that had been imperfectly closed. For several moments he stood before it, but he could hear nothing before or behind him. He wasn’t sure of which way to turn, but after pausing to listen once more, he dropped to a crouch just as he reached for the handle.
Ever so slowly, Brent turned the handle, not making a sound, and began to open the door. He knelt, ready to spring into action, waiting only for a creak or any light noise that would betray the presence of his enemy, but the door continued to open soundlessly until Brent could see half of the room. He was in the library, the room where, ten years earlier, he had beaten Gowan into unconsciousness with a riding crop; he wondered if Gowan remembered that fateful night as vividly as he did.
Peering intently into the dark room, Brent was barely able to make out the small globe on the desk and he aimed his second slipper directly at it. The globe toppled, a second pistol shot shattered the dark, and Brent rolled behind a wing chair near a long heavy table.
“That’s your last shot, Gowan,” he said, addressing the dark shadows behind the door. “Now you’ll have to face me with nothing more than your strength and cunning. Are you sure that will be enough? You don’t have your men behind you now and the sheriff isn’t combing the countryside for me.”
Brent thought he could hear the sound of ragged breathing, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
“Come on out, Gowan, I’m not armed. I don’t even have a riding crop this time.” Gasping breaths again came to Brent’s ears and he smiled. “There are no more secrets to hide, there is now no reason to play hide-and-seek in the dark. This is where it ends, right here, tonight.” Brent could feel the tension in the room escalate. He felt about him, searching for anything to use as a projectile. He chose a book and slid it across the tabletop. The sudden whooshing sound, coming as it did in the dead silence, was quite startling and Brent saw a brief flash of metal across the room. Just as he’d thought: Gowan had a knife and was moving along the far wall in his direction.
Brent moved out from behind the table, headed toward the center of the room; he had to get Gowan between him and the sliver of light that came through the window. If he could just see the man’s outline, he wouldn’t need any cover, he would welcome Gowan’s attack.
“Come on now, Gowan. Surely you’re not going to let a coward—that was the word you used, wasn’t it—keep you crouching in the shadows like an animal. But then I guess it doesn’t take much to scare a man who preys on old men, boys, women, and now babies.”
Brent thought he saw a shadow move.
“Just think of what your friends would say if they knew you couldn’t even smother a helpless child without help. You could hear them laughing in London.” ;
The shadow definitely moved.
“Of course if it ever got out that you were knocked down and mauled by a woman, you wouldn’t be able to hold your head up, but I don’t think anybody will be listening by the time—”
“Fiend! I’ll kill you once and for all!” The words exploded from Gowan’s throat as he launched himself in the direction of the maddeningly calm voice that had taunted and mocked him; the voice of the man who had eluded him for ten years and who threatened to do so once more.
Brent only sensed the shadow’s movement, but he did see the glint of the knife as Gowan raised it above his head and he silently moved out of his path. Gowan stopped, confused when he found nothing solid in the darkness; he paused, panting from exertion, and waited, expecting the maddening voice to come at him from another part of the room.
“Your sense of direction is a little off. I’m over here.” Brent was ten feet from where he’d been when Gowan had charged him. Gowan twisted sharply about and made painful contact with the leg of a heavy table.
“Maybe you can see me now,” Brent called as he moved the curtain enough to allow a thin shaft of light to enter the room. Gowan immediately charged in his direction, but again he found only empty space, and the taunting voice, now coming from another part of the room, baited and mocked him until he was aflame with rage.
Twice more Gowan launched a murderous attack only to come up against ambient air and then to be driven to fury by soft, mocking laughter.
“It appears I will have to light a lamp for you,” Brent jeered, “or you’ll drop from fatigue before you find me.”
“Come out and fight like a man, you slippery coward,” Gowan roared. “You’re the one who’s afraid.”
“No, only prudent.” Brent had moved again, and Gowan whirled to face him.
“Stand still!” he shouted, half-mad.
Suddenly the library door opened, and Summer stood framed in the shadowy light.
“Brent, are you in here?” With a cry of triumph, Gowan rushed toward her, but a hand suddenly reached out and drew her into the safety of darkness.
Brent had been just as stunned as Gowan when she had appeared, but he had instinctively launched himself at Gowan’s shadowy form, like a cat whirling to face danger from an unexpected quarter. Now reaching out in the darkness for a body he couldn’t see, he brushed against Gowan’s feet. He was unable to get a grip on him, but he struck out firmly enough to bring him down. Brent rolled into a ball and tumbled past Gowan just as a knife was driven into the floor where he’d been.
Gowan yanked his knife out of the wood and turned to face Brent; they grappled in the dark, the knife slicing into the warm flesh of Brent’s arm and sending excruciating pain through it. But Brent barely noticed. He had located Gowan and the deadly knife at last. With terrifying strength, he twisted Gowan’s arm until it threatened to break. Gowan dropped the knife and brought his knee up into Brent’s stomach; then he drove his clasped hands down on Brent’s neck in what should have been a stunning blow. He whirled to find the knife, but he had underestimated his foe. Brent was up and bringing him down from behind. With a powerful wrenching movement, Gowan turned over on his back and brought up both feet, intending to drive them into Brent’s groin, but in a display of control and agility, Brent twisted away from the feet and threw himself upon Gowan, his hands seeking his foe’s throat in a death grip. Gowan fought with the desperate strength of a man who sees death coming to meet him, but the hands did not relax their pressure until Gowan’s body fell away, limp and unresisting.
Chapter 50
Summer poured the tea and then
handed cups of it to Smith and her husband. The lawyers and representatives of the King’s justice had taken up all of Brent’s time this past week, but at last he was now free of the complications resulting from Gowan’s death. Everything had turned out to be rather simple in the end, if not quick to settle, because of Gowan’s passion for keeping records. It was easy to prove that his entire fortune had its beginnings in property and monies that belonged to either Brent or Summer. “It’s all yours or your wife’s,” the lawyers had said, “so there’s really nothing for us to do.”
“It seems Gowan hoarded every cent he got his hands on,” Brent said to Smith and Summer. “He only spent money on you, and then he let you slip right through his fingers into my arms.”
“I can recall when neither of you was very happy about that,” said Smith.
“We’re happy now, and that’s what’s important.” Summer was settled contentedly beside her husband.
“It seems that you have quite a considerable dowry after all,” Smith remarked. “Young Lord Robert Frederick is going to be a very wealthy man someday.”
“Young Robert will have lots of brothers and sisters with whom to share his good fortune,” Summer promised. “I’ve discovered I like babies.”
“Which brings us around to you,” Brent said to Smith.
“To me?”
“To your help.”
“All I did was wait comfortably in camp, only to find you didn’t need me after all.”
“I notice you don’t mention following me down to the library and then pulling Summer out of Gowan’s path when he tried to kill her.”
“Did you know he was there all the time?” Summer asked.
“I never thought for a minute that I’d get one step past the end of the corridor without Smith dogging my footsteps.”
The Captain's Caress Page 39