by Stacy Reid
“Get in the coach,” one of the men said, pointing at a nearby parked vehicle.
Daphne stiffened. He released her hand and stepped away from her. “I’ll come, but the lady will return to her carriage.” Their equipage was out of sight, but they hadn’t walked far.
The two nastier-looking men leered at his countess, the lust in their eyes disgusting him.
“By even looking at her, you threaten all that you hold to be precious,” Sylvester said with icy smoothness, shifting his thoughts from the crooked, bloody, and dangerous path they wanted to merrily dance along.
Grudging respect flared in the man’s eyes before he lowered his lids. This one was clearly more intelligent than the rest and was perhaps their leader. “She will come with us.”
The other two moved in with menacing purpose, and Sylvester stepped forward and smashed his forehead into the man closest to him. He cupped the back of the man’s neck and yanked him forward, tripping him so he fell into the two men who lunged at his back. The large brute rushed at him, and Sylvester twisted, taking the blow on the side of his ribs rather than the center of his chest. The man threw a right hook, and Sylvester ducked beneath the attack, angling himself to the man’s side, and caught the arm, which he placed in a lock, forcing the man to his knees. Without hesitation, Sylvester broke the man’s arm.
The man screamed, and the other ruffian froze. Clearly, they hadn’t expected him to be schooled in the art of self-defense, nor had the person who employed them informed them of their predecessors’ failures.
“Sylvester.” The soft voice of his wife halted him as nothing else could have.
The leader had a pistol pressed into her side. His blood iced over, and he felt as if it were a beast and not himself that stretched inside and assessed the best way to put down a threat to her. Over the years, he’d grown remarkably proficient at defending his life and limbs. After the third mysterious attack that had been blamed on footpads, he had rightfully concluded that he threatened the interest of those who founded their wealth on the suffering of others. He hadn’t expected it to embroil his countess in any way.
The man’s eyes were flat and devoid of emotion, and Sylvester sensed he would not hesitate to hurt her to force his compliance. He barely nodded, showing he would comply, for now. The man lowered his weapon, and Daphne rushed toward him. They made their way over to the parked carriage, the crest hidden by a black cloth. He entered and assisted her in, and the carriage door was shut.
A carriage lantern was lit low, and inside was spacious and comfortably appointed. It belonged to some well-to-do bastard. But then, they were the ones whose profits he threatened.
His countess took a tentative breath, bracing herself as the carriage lurched precariously. “I presume we have been kidnapped.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Who could be so frightfully bold?”
“Enemies.”
“I forgot we had enemies,” she said drily.
We. What a strange moment to feel a burst of pleasure. The flush along her cheeks was barely noticeable in the flickering lamplight in the carriage. Other than that small tell of heightened senses, she was otherwise remarkably composed. Still… “Are you going to swoon?”
His wife scowled, evidently offended that he’d even considered the notion. “Do not be absurd!”
He should have known—his wife seemed far too sensible to descend into hysterics. Then he noted her fingers clenching the squabs. “It’s quite normal to feel frightened. But I promise, no harm shall come to you.”
She did not look terribly reassured. “There are three of them.”
“I know.”
She regarded him with an expression of deep concern. “And they have weapons.”
“I know.”
“Where do you think we are traveling to with such speed?”
“To the bounder who commissioned the deed. If they had wanted to kill me, they would have done so before we boarded the carriage.”
His wife paled and swayed alarmingly. “Dear God, kill you? Do you believe that is what they want?”
“No, of course not,” he said soothingly. “Come here, Countess.”
With a soft sigh of relief, she scrambled over, and instead of allowing her to sit beside him, he tugged her onto his lap. It wasn’t wise, for he needed to be free to defend her when the doors opened. He was less uncertain because she was there. Sylvester would have waded into the fray from the onset, but the pistol pointed so menacingly toward her heart had made him feel a fear that he had never felt before. “I cannot hold you for long, I need to be ready for when the door opens.”
She stiffened, and he could feel the frantic beat of her heart. He rubbed soothing circles over her shoulder. “What can I do to be ready?”
He wanted her nowhere near the danger, but from the fiercely protective light in her eyes, she would be hard to deter. “Your sole job will be to run, wife. Any opportunity you see, you escape. Watch and listen. Move slowly at first, gauge how close each man is to you, and create as much distance as you can. Then when the time is right, you will flee.”
Her throat worked on a swallow. “Without you?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not,” she whispered fiercely.
“I will worry less if I know you are safe.”
She seemed to think about this for several seconds. Then she pushed from his lap and returned to her seat. She reached up to her elegantly dressed hair and withdrew a long golden pin. “My weapon,” she murmured. “I will not hesitate to use it.”
Her eyes were luminous when they peered at him, and there was an emotion he could hardly identify, but the promise of something soft and tender made his heart clench.
“Sylvester—”
“Now is not the time, Countess.” For he had a notion of what she would say, and it was not required.
“You cannot know my thoughts, and I feel I must tell you.”
“What is it?”
Silence. Then…
“Do not die. I couldn’t bear it if you were to perish.”
“You would be free,” the devil in him said.
Her eyes flashed with beautiful fire. “Never at the expense of your life.”
A knot formed in his gut. “So you admit to still wanting us to be separated?”
Her eyes widened, and she glanced away from him for several seconds, then she leveled a very intense stare at him. “I fell in love with you that day by the river,” she said with stark simplicity. “I cared nothing for your rank and consequence when I married you. I was young, and despite the ridiculous nature of it, my admiration grew, even when I hated that you did not give me…or our marriage, a chance.” The angle of her chin hinted at a deep core of pride. “Do you have any tender feelings for me, my lord?”
Sylvester jolted, his mouth drying. “I’ll allow our present situation can tangle with our emotions and will let you feel emotions keener and—”
“I’m neither stupid nor overwrought. Please answer the question.”
“This is neither the time or the place.” He needed to be ready and her declaration was wreaking havoc with his resolve to not hold her close. Sweet mercy, never had he wanted to touch her or kiss her so badly. He was conscious of how wildly his heart was thudding, and it wasn’t only in fear for her safety. There was a desperate need inside to offer her tender words, the urgency of it burned through him, but he wanted them to be honest, and he was at a loss to explain the feelings he had for her.
“I disagree. When the carriage stops, we won’t know what is waiting for us on the other side of that door. Now is the perfect time to discuss our feelings, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap and lacing her fingers tightly together. His wife was nervous.
Before he could respond, the carriage jerked to a stop. They hadn’t traveled long. The pulse fluttered at her throat, and he wanted to say something, anything to reassure her, but could not find the words. Sylvester swore savagely. There was
a shadow in her eyes he did not like, but now was definitely not the time to be assessing hearts and emotions.
“I will not die, and I swear on my life and honor you will not be harmed.”
Then the carriage door opened and there was no more to be said.
…
There was a predatory grace evident in the way her husband waited for whoever should open the carriage door. The dangerous aura about him made her reflect on the kind of life he had led for the past few years. She could not imagine how much courage it must have taken to keep fighting for those enslaved when it threatened his own life. Daphne braced her emotions as the door was opened by one of the dastardly men who had been in the scuffle with Sylvester. She gripped the hatpin firmly, ready to defend their lives if necessary. Not if, when it proved necessary, for if these men had been like those who’d attacked her husband in the past, they were in a frightful bind.
A cold knot of fear sat heavy in her stomach, and it took an incredible amount of effort to present a serene mien, like kidnappings and villains pointing a pistol at her were an everyday occurrence.
“We’re here, get out,” the man with the pistol commanded, waving it in a decidedly discomfiting broad arc.
Her earl dismounted, and as she made to push from her seat, he sent her a warning glance. She remained seated, her heartbeat steadily increasing.
“You, too,” the man snapped, his beady eyes whipping back and forth from Sylvester to her.
“My countess will remain inside while I meet with your employer,” Sylvester said with icy firmness.
The man hesitated. “I’ll leave one of my men with her, in the carriage.”
Her husband stiffened and, without speaking, held his hand out to her. Daphne eagerly escaped the confines of the carriage, preferring to stand by his side as they faced whatever danger lay ahead and not in the coach with that leering blackguard.
They were in a secluded section of a park. There was barely any visibility and from the small moonbeam peeking through the overhead branches, she discerned they were in an area surrounded by chestnut and sycamore trees. The manner in which they had been isolated sent a fresh wave of fear pounding through her heart. Though she wanted to cling to Sylvester, she didn’t. Instead, she stood with her spine stiff, her hatpin hidden in the folds of her dress, waiting for the opportune moment. Daphne prayed she would be able to recognize it.
The three men positioned themselves at their front, seemingly unconcerned that she and her husband might turn and dash through the underbrush.
“Why have you brought us here?” she asked, feeling thoroughly vexed with the ominous silence. How could Sylvester seem so unperturbed?
Soft footfalls had her turning to face whoever approached. The figure halted, and then a savage curse rode the air. Daphne’s hand flew to her mouth as she recognized the familiar tone. “Lord Redgrave?”
“Why have you brought her here?” he demanded.
The leader of his band of villains stepped forward. “We’ve been following him for days, and she seems to be with him at all times. We saw the opportunity tonight and took it.”
Her husband stepped to the left and turned slightly, and she realized it was so he could keep each person in his line of sight. Daphne hurriedly did the same, and a peculiar warmth shifted through her when his lips twitched.
“What is going on, Lord Redgrave?”
Surely, he had not brought her husband here out of some misguided notion of jealous love? They hadn’t had an opportunity to converse since Sylvester’s return, and guilt darted through her, for she had forgotten the viscount and all his declared affections.
He stepped closer, and it was then she saw the pistol in his hand, and it was pointed at her husband. Her mouth went impossibly dry. “Why are you pointing a gun at my husband?” How she hated that her voice trembled, but she moved again, so very slightly, and prayed the lack of light hid her movements.
“How concerned you seem, my darling,” Redgrave murmured. “It was only last month you told me you wanted a divorce from him and damnation to the consequences.”
Sylvester went so still it scared her.
“Making you a widow would give you the freedom you desire and serve my purposes rather well.”
She glared at him. “Are you afflicted?” She moved another two steps away from the men, and no one seemed to notice.
And create as much distance as you can. Then when the time is right, you will flee. How would she determine what was far away, and how could she leave him alone with men—no, not men, beasts—who wished him harm? Perhaps even his death? “Why would you do this?”
Sylvester answered, “Because he is the worst sort of a human being, raping women who are helpless against him and his power, women who would never see justice for they are property, whipping their children and hanging their men in the name of profit…and sport. And because I have helped liberate over one hundred slaves from his plantations. In fact, his plantations are no longer his, and he hates me for it.”
Bile rose in Daphne’s throat. She could not believe the man who had appeared so sweet and good-natured could be so despicable. “That is why you wanted Papa’s letters.” Of course he’d needed leverage on her husband. “You have no notion of my earl’s honor if you thought those letters would have forced him to abandon those who need him.”
“Those letters forced him to marry you,” Redgrave said. “Please spare me your modest outrage.”
She managed to take another several steps away from them and toward a pocket of darkness.
Redgrave lifted his weapon. “All that is moot now. The only reason I had them bring you here, Carrington, is because I wanted to see your face when I put a bullet in your heart. I won’t kill Daphne. What I will do instead is marry her.”
“You are a disgusting excuse for a man,” she snarled. “Nothing would persuade me to marry you, not even the threat of death.”
She made another step and was swallowed by the darkness. Sylvester exploded into motion, a flash of silver in the dark alerting to the fact he had a knife. His movements were too fluid and quick for her to make out what was happening. But she heard the grunts, the shouts, and the screams. The report of the pistol echoed, and she screamed his name.
Strong arms grabbed her, and she recognized the viscount’s scent.
“Stop, or I swear to God I will shoot her,” he yelled.
She was dragged from the shadows and from the faint moonlight she saw that the three men were on the ground. One was unmoving, and the other two were groaning but seemingly unable to get up. Daphne lifted shocked eyes to her husband, who was barely winded. The knife held at his side dripped. She sucked in a breath. It was blood. Dear God. The sudden lightheaded feeling left her sharply disoriented.
“Drop your dagger,” Redgrave growled. “And go to your knees, or I swear by all that is holy, I will shoot her.”
Sylvester didn’t hesitate, simply opened his palm and allowed the knife to fall. Daphne took a steadying breath, trying not to think where Redgrave had the gun pointed, and stabbed him in the thigh with the hatpin with all the strength she had.
His scream of pain echoed in the park, and she wrenched away as her husband lunged at the viscount. There was the slightest of a scuffle, a gurgling sound, and Daphne faltered when she realized Sylvester had the viscount’s head in a merciless grip at the oddest angle.
Sylvester’s expression appeared stark and dangerous in the moonlight. She knew at that moment that he was wholly capable of killing. The knowledge shocked and distressed her in equal measure. How little she still knew of her husband.
“Please,” she said, taking even breaths. “Release him.”
Her earl expression did not shift, yet the menace palpably increased. “You plead for your lover.”
“Do not be absurd, Sylvester. I do not care about him! I beg for your soul, and you know he was never my lover.”
Redgrave made another choking sound, and for a terrifying moment, she thought Sylves
ter would snap his neck. Then he released him, and the viscount slid soundlessly to the ground, gasping harshly for air.
“You will leave England, permanently.”
Sylvester needn’t make any threats—the consequences of the viscount staying were quite evident, even to her.
“And take your trash with you,” he said, not sparing a glance at the men on the ground.
Then he took her hand and led her toward the parked carriage. He assisted her into the equipage, and before he closed the door, he stared at her. His face was shuttered, his eyes devoid of all emotions.
“Do you have them?”
The letters. “No, I do not.”
He watched her with impenetrable eyes, and it was then she sensed the terrible tension in his powerful frame. His gaze roamed her face, searching and probing. Her heart lurched. “You do not believe me,” she whispered faintly.
He made no answer, simply closing the door. She settled against the squabs, the carriage rocking gently as he evidently seated himself in the driver’s position. It was as they rumbled off she realized her hands were shaking quite violently. How she would have been comforted if he had hugged her or offered soothing words. A lump formed in her throat that he had done neither, and she was suddenly glad she hadn’t confessed earlier that she was once again falling hopelessly and irrevocably in love with her husband.
Chapter Twelve
That night, for the first time since he’d planned to seduce his wife into giving their marriage a chance, Sylvester decided to sleep alone. Pushing away from the connected door, he made his way over to his bed and lowered himself, lying back and staring at the canopy overhead. He could not identify the why of it, but he was unable to open that door and sleep with his countess tonight. He was too on edge. He would probably damn the consequences, mercilessly seduce her to his bed, and slake the tempest rising inside him within her body. It had taken a couple hours to settle, for he had written a detailed account of what transpired tonight, which he would see delivered to the proper authorities. Redgrave was a coward and would perhaps flee to the continent, but Sylvester was taking no chances.