A Night of Forever

by Bronwen Evans

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a slight movement. Isobel’s hand was inching toward the pipe. He needed to keep Victoria’s attention fixed on him.

  “Boldier was a means to an end. At least I got out and put those years behind me. But you…you kept reliving the past over and over.”

  It worked, for she walked closer, the hand holding the gun, shaking with rage.

  “Put those years behind you? Don’t make me laugh. It was so easy to set you up to kill Isobel because you don’t trust women. My plan would have worked if bloody Fullerton hadn’t come to the rescue. Boldier and her deviant games destroyed your ability to form any attachments with women, long before that silly bitch in Brazil got your partner killed.” At the look of disdain on his face she added, “I know you better than you know yourself. Your soul is as black as mine. You were Boldier’s plaything, her toy to do with as she liked, and even though you killed her, your biggest fear is that your friends here will learn what you did in those lost years, rather than the fact you’re a murderer just like me.”

  “He’s nothing like you.”

  They both looked toward where Isobel now stood upright. A look of utter contempt filled her gorgeous face, and it was all directed toward Victoria.

  Victoria swiveled her aim to Isobel.

  “He’s a good man, whereas you’re just pure evil. And he does trust.” She smiled at him, a smile that rivaled that of an angel. “He trusts me. He never would have found us so quickly if he hadn’t. He looked for the clues I’d left. He would not have done so if he’d thought for one moment I’d gone with you willingly.”

  Arend wasn’t stupid enough to refute her claims. He hadn’t been one hundred percent certain of her. How ironic that he was now, just as they both might die. What a fool he’d been to keep her at a distance.

  Victoria’s mouth curled in a sneer. “More like one of the other men searched for the clues.” She must have seen the flash of guilt on his face, for she cackled, “Ah! I’m right.”

  “You rave like a madwoman.” He tried to think of something else to say to draw Victoria’s attention so that Isobel would have time to use the blowpipe he saw her holding behind her back. “Just because you cannot trust anyone in your world, don’t presume to know my mind.”

  “I know you, all right,” she said, turning the pistol back toward Arend. “A kindred soul. Nothing will ever wash away the things you did, or the things I did. I made peace with my black soul years ago. But you? You’re riddled with guilt that will keep you ever warm in the fires of hell when I kill you.”

  With that, she raised her arm, still looking at him. He waited for the shot to burn into him, but at the last moment she shifted and pointed the pistol directly behind her—at Isobel.

  Fear threatened to throttle him, but he cried out, “Don’t. It’s me you want to kill, not her.”

  Arend’s roar as he launched himself at Victoria mingled with the loud report of a gun, but to his surprise she put up no resistance and crumpled to the floor at his feet. Only then did he see the dart sticking out of her neck.

  He rocked back on his heels, slumping down on his haunches as the euphoria at seeing the bitch dead made him feel light-headed. He pumped his fist in the air and let out a cry of victory. He couldn’t wait for Maitland to arrive—his friend would be upset that he hadn’t been here to see Isobel’s excellent shot with the dart.

  Isobel. All he wanted to do was pull Isobel into his arms and kiss her, but he could hear the fighting still raging in the outer cavern and knew he should get Isobel out of here before someone like Dufort arrived.

  He looked across to smile at her, full of pride at how she’d handled Victoria. Then his heart stopped. She had sunk to her knees, a look of surprise on her beautiful face, and he saw a crimson stain spreading on her left shoulder.

  Behind her he saw Dufort standing with a smoking pistol in his hand. Arend watched as if in a nightmare as Dufort lifted a second pistol and aimed it at Isobel’s head. Time stood still. Arend cursed the precious seconds it took him to pull his own pistol free of his breeches.

  He fired, and heard a second shot ring out almost simultaneously. He rose with a strangled cry to see Isobel fall sideways and Dufort slump to the floor, two bullets in him.

  Maitland stood in the entrance of the tunnel, the barrel of his gun smoking.

  Isobel! Arend raced to her side, relief flooding him as he heard her say, “I never knew…being shot…would hurt so much.” She tried to smile through her pain. “You’re not hurt?”

  Here she was shot and in pain, and she was worried about him? How had he ever doubted her? He couldn’t reply, though, as he was too focused on ascertaining how serious her wound was. The bullet had passed right through, but he was pretty sure it had broken her collarbone. Blood was still flowing, so he tore off his cravat and stuffed it into the wound.

  “I need to get her to a surgeon,” he said, addressing Maitland.

  “Go! Victoria and Dufort are dead. We have this under control. Can you also send a missive to Grayson and Christian to let them know?”

  Arend nodded and bent to scoop Isobel into his arms. He cringed at her scream of pain as she was jostled. “I’m sorry, darling, but carrying you is going to hurt like a bitch. Be brave.” Then he kissed away her tears and hardened his heart to her pitiful whimpers. To Maitland he added, “Be careful. I’ll send one of the men to alert the revenue officers, but I suspect you’ll have this wrapped up before then.”

  Isobel put her hand out. “Maitland, please look after my father.”

  “I’ve already sent him with one of the men to Mrs. Clarke’s. He’ll be safe there.”

  With that, Arend gritted his teeth against the agony he felt twinge in every muscle of the woman he held in his arms.

  “I’ll be fine,” she murmured. “I think this will hurt you more than it will hurt me.”

  Isobel was trying to be brave. He kissed her once more as he entered the tunnel. Her nails dug into his arm. “You might be right.”

  Chapter 23

  Isobel could hear Arend pacing the corridor as the doctor Mrs. Clarke had summoned dressed her wounds. Mrs. Clarke patted her hand where she gripped it against the pain as the doctor stitched.

  “I think Lord Labourd will wear a hole in the floor if I don’t go and let him in soon,” the housekeeper said.

  “I don’t want him to see me crying. You know men can’t stand tears.”

  Mrs. Clarke smiled indulgently. “Especially from the women they are in love with.”

  Was he in love with her? Isobel wasn’t so sure. She’d seen the guilty look on Arend’s face when she’d bragged to Victoria about his trust in her.

  The one thing she was sure of was that she loved him.

  Regaining consciousness only to see Victoria standing over him, her pistol pointed at his heart, Isobel had known she could no longer deny what she felt. She’d have gladly given her life for him.

  Would he have done the same for her?

  She knew Arend was in the hall waiting to see her, but, whether from the large dose of laudanum, the shock of finding out her father was still alive, or being shot, she didn’t want to see him just yet.

  She needed to have a clear head. Otherwise she might very well say or do something she’d regret.

  Like plead with him to trust her. To love her…

  She had more pride than that.

  She’d thought they could have a life together, but their future was far from certain.

  She was so deep in thought she hadn’t noticed the doctor had finished his stitching. He liberally sprinkled the wound with basilicum powder and then wound an awkward bandage over one shoulder, binding her arm tightly to her chest.

  “It is uncomfortable but necessary,” he explained when she objected to the restriction. “The arm must remain still while the collarbone mends.”

  The doctor replaced his instruments in his bag while Mrs. Clarke cleaned up the bloody cloths and the bowl of blood-tinged water. Wh
en the doctor left the room Isobel called the housekeeper to her.

  “I’m very tired,” she said. “Please keep any visitors away until I’ve had some sleep. The laudanum is muddling my wits.”

  Mrs. Clarke looked doubtful. “What about his lordship?”

  What indeed? “Especially his lordship. He’ll worry if I keep falling asleep. Tell him I’m fine, and ask him to look in on my father.”

  Mrs. Clarke looked even more uncertain, but agreed to do as Isobel bid her.

  As soon as the housekeeper slipped from the room, Isobel feigned sleep.

  She wished she could really drift away. The throbbing in her shoulder felt as though an enthusiastic drummer boy were using her as his drum.

  She heard Arend enter the room. Sensed him tiptoe to her bedside. It took an enormous amount of self-control for her not to open her eyes and drink in his beloved face. But she was terrified that if she did so, if she gave way now, she’d be lost.

  She deserved a husband who loved her unreservedly. She’d never thought about wanting a love match until she’d seen what the wives of the Libertine Scholars had. They had husbands whose worlds would crumble without them. Husbands who would lay down their lives for their wives, their families.

  She wasn’t sure what Arend would lay down his life for.

  A featherlike brush of a finger on her cheek almost undid her. Had she fooled him? She wasn’t sure.

  “Sleep well, ma cherie. We have much to discuss later.” He placed a brief kiss on her lips before walking quietly from the room.

  A tear slid down her cheek. How did a woman know if a man loved her? Or if he loved her enough? She’d trusted Arend with her suspicions. She’d trusted him with her body. And now she longed to trust him with her heart.

  As the drugs and pain mingled, Isobel tried to think through the fog in her head. What had Victoria said about Mademoiselle Boldier? That Arend had been her lover. That he’d killed her.

  If Arend wanted to have a life with her, he would have to share his past.

  She fell asleep knowing that a life without Arend would be empty and lonely, but that a life with only part of him would leave her devastated.

  —

  Her throbbing arm woke her. It hurt like the devil. She needed more laudanum.

  When she forced her eyes to open, it was to find her father sitting by her bed. He looked as though he’d aged years in the eighteen months since she’d seen him last.

  He handed her a small vial of blessed laudanum. “I thought you might need this about now.”

  He helped her sit up enough to drink the sickly sweet liquid.

  Once she was settled back in the bed, her father lowered his head into his hands. “I’m so sorry, my dear child. This is my fault. I let that woman into our lives. But I swear I had no idea she would plot to kill your friends.”

  Isobel agreed, but she had to be just. “If Victoria hadn’t used you, she would have found another way to hurt the Libertine Scholars.”

  His head jerked up. “I don’t care about the Libertine Scholars. I care about you. You would not have been involved. You would not have had to agree to an engagement with Lord Labourd.”

  She could not argue with that part, and her father’s shoulders slumped further as they sat in silence. She didn’t know what else to say.

  Yes, she did. “Why, Father?”

  His eyes turned bleak, and his head dropped into his hands once more.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Victoria? If I had known that you were unhappy with her as your wife, I would have tried to help.”

  “It was too dangerous for you to know.” His knuckles turned white, and his jaw clenched and unclenched. “Look what happened to Taggert.”

  “That’s not the only reason, is it?” She thought of Arend and his shame about those five missing years. Her father was ashamed.

  “How could I tell you that I’d gotten myself into this situation by being a fool? I got so deep into debt I saw no way out. She bought up my notes. All she asked in order to forgive my debt to her was to make her my wife. To give her a title, a place in society, seemed very little to pay to keep us from debtor’s prison. I had no idea of her grand plans for revenge,” he said quietly. “If I had, I would have found another way.”

  “I would have given you my dowry money.”

  “How could I tell you? You looked up to me. You were all that was good in my life. I was afraid I’d lose you if you found out how flawed I was, learned of my mistakes,.”

  What was wrong with the men in her life? Did all of them think she was some kind of judgmental monster? “You didn’t trust me enough to be understanding. I would not have judged you. I would have helped you.”

  “I—I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk losing you. You’re all I have.” His eyes came back to her face and settled there, full of tears. “Have I lost you?”

  She took his hand and squeezed. “Of course not. I don’t—didn’t—expect you to be perfect. I just wanted you to love me.”

  He blinked. “I do love you,” he said. “But have I lost your respect? I couldn’t bear you to look at me with pity or derision, or—God forbid—have you despise me.”

  He paused for a moment before adding, “Then there was another consideration. If society found out what I had done, the truth about who I had married, you would have been ruined. I could not let that happen. So I played the doting husband even though she made my skin crawl.”

  Isobel looked at her father, the revelation having shaken every part of her body and taken her breath away. It was all very well to expect people to share their past, their mistakes, and to bare their very souls, but it could—and would—change everything. If someone wanted the right to know the bad things in a person’s past, that person had to be willing to be there to lend support. They couldn’t judge or blame. That wasn’t fair.

  Everyone was flawed. No one was perfect. What was important in life was that the people around you loved you. Cared about you. Would give up their world for you. Were they good at heart and trying to make a decent life for themselves and those they loved? She loved her father and always would. Nothing would change that.

  Her future relationship with her father would change. It would be deeper, more honest, because now she saw him as a man, not a saint who could do no wrong. Her hero-worshiping eyes had been opened, which, she decided, was not a bad thing. She didn’t want perfection. She wanted something real.

  Even though her father had married this evil woman, she admired him for trying to protect her from his mistakes.

  “I love you so much, Father, and I’m so thankful and happy you are alive. Nothing else matters.”

  Her father wiped tears from his face. “I love you too, sweetheart. So much that I will do anything it takes to ensure you walk away from this betrothal unscathed.”

  But did she want to walk away? The idea made her heart break. Arend had a past that he kept hidden too. He must have a very good reason for holding it so tightly inside him. What would happen if he revealed it? Would it heal? Or would it divide and destroy?

  More important, did it matter at all?

  Not to her. Only to him.

  She couldn’t walk in Arend’s skin, so she could not comprehend the pain he felt. Yes, she had to help him overcome that past. But that didn’t mean he had to reveal things he didn’t want to. She should simply prove her love by accepting him as he was. She’d love him no matter what he’d done.

  Here and now, he was a good man. An honorable one. One who was desperate for love—the love of his friends, and perhaps hers.

  She lay back and closed her eyes. The laudanum had only dulled the ache to a slow throb.

  “I love him, Father.”

  “Lord Labourd? But I thought your engagement was merely a ruse.”

  She tried to shake her head and got dizzy.

  “Does he love you?” he asked gently.

  “I have no idea.” She tried to move to a more comfortable position. “It’s a ve
ry long story, and I’m not up to the telling right now.”

  “He hasn’t left. Lord Coldhurst, the Duke of Claymore, and Lord Cumberland have returned to London. They have taken Victoria’s body. She is to be buried at our country estate.”

  “No!”

  At Isobel’s gasp, her father nodded. “Yes. Society must never know the truth. It would ruin you, and reignite the scandal surrounding the Libertine Scholars’ fathers.”

  She understood that, but there was one thing she would not budge on. “Not near Mother,” she managed through gritted teeth. “And not in the family plot.”

  “No,” her father agreed. “She will be buried near the moor, at the edge of the wood. It’s a wild, rugged place. Perhaps she will find some sort of peace there. Her mind was so twisted by what had happened to her.” He sighed. “That’s what seeking revenge can do to you.”

  “Very true.” She would never have to walk in Victoria’s shoes, but Isobel could empathize with her need to punish the men who had abused her. What she could not condone was punishing the sons for their fathers’ crime, or hurting innocent parties like Marisa.

  But there was still one big problem. “How will we explain your resurrection?”

  Her father’s mouth tightened. “That might be more difficult. His Grace is going to put it about that I was injured in the fire and lost my memory, wandering off not knowing who I was or where I lived. I was discovered with a bunch of smugglers who were trying to extort money from me, and that’s why you all raced to Deal. Unfortunately, when the men tried to rescue me Victoria was killed.”

  Her teeth clamped tight together. Victoria would end up a hero?

  “It’s almost over,” her father said. “Marisa and Maitland are staying until you can travel back to London. Marisa sat with you for most of last night, until I sent her to get some sleep. She’s a lovely young lady.”

  “Yes, she is.” Her heart clenched for her friend’s loss, Marisa’s pain mingling with that of her own throbbing shoulder. Being unable to have a child was difficult for any woman to endure, but for the wife of a duke it held an extra grief. “She will be relieved Victoria is dead. Although I suspect Marisa is feeling decidedly empty. Victoria’s death won’t give back all that she has lost.”