by Mary Campisi
Releasing his hand, John stood back and raised his right hand in a salute. “Good luck, my boy.” One last smile and he was gone.
Chapter 15
Cyrus tapped on Emily’s door once more, a little louder this time. He considered calling her maid to check on her, but decided against it. If Emily were under the weather, he wanted to see her himself. Perhaps she had a case of the ague. What else would keep her in bed so long?
“Emily.” He tried to keep his voice raspy but not too loud which proved a difficult task. If he could just borrow Noah’s deep drawl, it would have Emily throwing the door open posthaste. With open arms or a poker in hand? John’s words pounded in his head, beating through his thoughts like Ian’s fist had beaten his body. She loves you. Was it true? Did she still love him, despite his desertion?
Cyrus heard a groan from behind Emily’s door, followed by running footsteps and horrible retching sounds. Emily was ill! He threw open the door and burst into her chambers to find her huddled in a corner, kneeling over a chamber pot, her golden mane a tangled mass falling down her back.
“Emily.” He knelt beside her, stroking her hair from her pale face. “Let me help you.”
She shook her head and threw up again. Her forehead was warm and sweaty. A cool cloth might feel good. “I’ll get you a cloth,” he said, scrambling to his feet. By the time he had the damn thing ready, she’d been sick two more times. He knelt and pressed the cloth to her forehead.
Emily hunched over the chamber pot, her breathing quick and shallow. The cotton of her batiste nightgown clung to her in a white sticky mess. Cyrus rotated the cloth between her forehead and the back of her neck. Wisps of damp tendrils escaped the limp mass that Cyrus held in his hand. Long moments passed with nothing in the room but the sound of their breathing. When it seemed as though the worst had passed, Cyrus ventured a word. “Emily?”
Nothing.
“Emily?” he persisted. “What happened?” She didn’t even try to lift her head. Was she dying, right before his eyes? “Emily!”
“What!” She flung back her head and eyed him with wild gray eyes.
She seemed to be quite alive now, not on the verge of death as he’d feared a moment ago. Actually, she appeared almost angry.
“Are you all right?” She didn’t look all right. Not at all. She watched him as though she wanted to pounce on him and scratch his eyes out. And then do some other bodily harm to him. “Emily?” He kept his voice soft and even, as though talking to a child.
Her brows creased into a straight line but she said nothing.
“Do you think you ate something that disagreed with you?” His words were gentle, patient.
“No.” She looked away.
“Perhaps some sort of stomach upset?” He wiped her mouth with the wet cloth.
“No.” Her eyes squeezed shut.
He was running out of possibilities. “You seem so sick. What could have made you so ill?”
No answer.
“I’ll call a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
He shook his head. “You’ve been ill twice in the last five minutes. You’re extremely warm and sweaty. You say you didn’t eat anything that turned your stomach. Someone has to tell us what’s wrong.”
“I know what’s wrong.” Her words were faint, as though she couldn’t muster the energy to speak them.
“Then dear God, woman, tell me. What’s wrong with you?”
Emily closed her eyes and slumped forward. “I’m going to have a baby.”
Cyrus stumbled back. A baby? He tried to make sense of what she’d just said, but the thought of Emily with child scattered his logic.
“A baby?” he croaked. His baby! He was going to be a father.
“Yes,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands.
“You’re not…pleased…about the baby,” he said. He had no experience in this area, none at all. Should he tell her that her husband would be thrilled with news of a child? Or should he not mention her husband at all? Or, perhaps he should just offer her another cool cloth and not say a word.
A huge sob escaped her. She looked up at him, eyes rimmed in red, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My baby has no father.”
Cyrus rifled a hand through his thick hair. “Of course he has a father.” To hell with watching his words. “And when he finds out, he’ll be delighted. You’ll see.”
She shook her head, fresh tears spilling from her sad eyes. “He doesn’t even want me. He’d never want a baby.”
The words twisted his gut. Did she really believe that? “Do you want the baby?”
Emily swiped at a stray tear. “Of course I do.”
He forced out his next words. “And do you love him?”
“That has nothing to do with it,” she hissed.
“It has everything to do with it,” he growled. “Answer me, Emily. Do you love him?”
She pushed the hair from her face and sat back on her heels, staring at him for a full minute, before her head dipped a fraction of an inch. It wasn’t a full nod, just a little movement downward and then up again, but for a man as desperate as he was for another chance, it was enough.
“You love him.” The words spilled out before he could stop them.
“Cyrus! I really do not want to discuss this any further.”
He had pushed her too far and forced her to admit something she probably kept locked away from everyone, even herself. He shouldn’t have pressed her in her weakened state, but desperate men took desperate measures and he was well past desperate.
His heart lightened. He longed to take her in his arms and pledge his eternal love. They needed to strengthen their fragile bond as husband and wife, before time and circumstance got in the way. He would shed his disguise along with his pride and go to her tonight. And then he would show her just how much he loved her and their unborn child.
His gaze settled on Emily as she leaned against the wall, eyes closed, long lashes caressing her pale skin. He thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, even in her weakened condition. With great care, he scooped her limp body into his arms and carried her to the bed where he laid her down as though she were more fragile than the finest piece of china. Folding the covers about her shoulders, he traced a pattern along the slender column of her neck, ending at the delicate hollow of her cheek. Soon, very soon, she would be his again.
****
He pressed Speed Demon on, eager to set his plans in motion. Penworth loomed before him in the distance, cold and unwelcome. Not a splash of color anywhere; no flowers in the beds, no blooming trees, no shrubs on the lawn. Everything was the darkest green or the dullest brown. Drab. Oppressive.
Speed Demon trotted along the circular drive, ears perked, head high. A huge, darkly clad figure appeared from the side of the house and stopped several feet from Cyrus.
“I’m here to see Mr. Kleeton,” Cyrus said, studying the big man. Big was not the proper term for this person. Neither was tall. Both were drastic understatements. The man staring at him as though he’d just as soon crush him with his bare hands rather than look at him was twice the size of Big Tom and several times meaner if the snarl on his face was any indication.
“Is Mr. Kleeton in?”
The giant crossed his burly arms over his chest and planted his feet. He said nothing.
Perhaps he’d had his tongue ripped out too. Another prison escapee? What other creatures of misfortune inhabited the walls of Penworth? Before he could consider the matter further, the front door opened and Andrew Kleeton stepped out, dressed in black from cravat to boot.
“Ah, Mandrey,” he said, smiling. “What a pleasant surprise.” Neither the smile nor the words contained a hint of warmth.
“Did I interrupt something?” Cyrus cocked a brow. “Looks like you’re headed for a funeral.”
Kleeton ignored the question and posed one of his own. “Why is it when someone dresses in black, people think of death? Or evil? I find the col
or quite soothing to my senses, calming actually.”
“Is that why the inside of your house looks the way it does?” Cyrus decided not to tell him Penworth reminded him of a dungeon he’d seen in Morocco once, cold and dark, a place where death lurked in every corner, waiting for the opportune moment to snatch its next unsuspecting victim.
“Penworth suits me,” Kleeton replied without answering Cyrus’s question.
Cyrus didn’t ask for elaboration. If his plan were to work, he needed this bizarre man with the black-gloved hands to believe he trusted him enough to help him trap Noah Sandleton.
“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” Cyrus said, his gaze darting from Kleeton to the monster on the lawn.
“But of course. Gerald, please take care of Mr. Mandrey’s horse.”
The monster approached Cyrus and waited for him to dismount. He said nothing as he took the reins and turned away. Cyrus noted a large chunk of his left ear was missing. “Was his tongue ripped out too?”
Kleeton laughed as they entered the house and headed down the hall. “Hardly. Gerald, for all his size, is quite shy. He rarely speaks.”
“Is he another prison escapee?” He’d bet his last coin on it.
They entered the study and Kleeton headed to the sideboard, his back to Cyrus. “Not actually an escapee. His time was up and he had nowhere to go. I happened to be doing research at Newgate and took pity on him.” Kleeton poured two whiskeys and handed Cyrus one. “He’s very loyal, Mandrey. He’d kill anyone who tried to harm me.”
“I’d say that’s a little more than loyal. More like mad.”
Kleeton smiled, his white teeth gleaming, in obvious contrast with his dark attire. “Some still believe in ‘an eye for an eye,’” he said, lifting his glass.
“Do you?”
He shrugged. “In certain cases.”
Cyrus noted the slight flare of nostrils, the twitch on the right side of his jaw, the slow inhalation of breath. The man wasn’t as nonchalant about the whole matter as he’d like Cyrus to believe. “What kinds of cases?” he pushed on.
Kleeton drained his whiskey and headed back for another. Cyrus sipped his, curious about this man in black who shone like the radiance of the sun one moment and hid like the blackness of night the next.
“There’s no formula, no exact rule by which one decides when retribution must be taken into one’s own hands. It’s a knowing that justice must be served in a certain manner without the protection of the law. Nothing will satisfy until the punishment is delivered because in these instances, the law is powerless, hiding behind its laws and dictates, trying to preserve the rights of individuals who do not deserve to have those rights protected.”
Cyrus eyed him over the rim of his glass. “You sound as though you speak from experience.” If he was Crowlton he had more blood on him than a leech during a blood letting.
Kleeton’s gaze narrowed. “Do you really want to know, Mandrey, or are you making polite conversation? Because, if we start to drag out our battle scars, things could get ugly and we’d both have to take off our masks.”
“Touché’.” Cyrus raised his glass in mock salute and drained his glass. The man might present himself as nothing more than a reserved country gentleman, but underneath the well-groomed façade, Cyrus sensed the edginess and determination of a man with a mission.
“You said you had something to discuss?” Kleeton changed the subject with the finesse of one long accustomed to evading personal questions. Not that Cyrus would have pressed the issue. He hadn’t missed the challenge in Kleeton’s voice, warning him not to dig around in his past unless he wanted a few of his own skeletons unearthed—which Cyrus did not.
“I think Sandleton has returned.”
Kleeton raised a brow. “Oh?”
“I saw footprints beneath two windows.”
“It could’ve been the gardener.”
“Could’ve been,” Cyrus agreed. Plant the seed. “But the figure running from the house at five this morning was not.”
That got Kleeton’s attention. “Did you follow him?”
Cyrus shook his head. “He disappeared before I got my second boot on but he couldn’t have known I’d seen him.” Time to dangle the proverbial carrot. “He’ll be back.”
“How can you be so certain?” Kleeton balled his left hand into a fist.
“He thinks our guard is down. All these weeks have passed without a sign of him. Sandleton expects us to get careless. He’s going to strike soon and take Emily away.” Cyrus toyed with his empty glass, waiting for Kleeton’s response.
“Then we’ll have to get him before he gets her.” Simple words, spoken as a vow.
Cyrus almost smiled. It appeared Kleeton needed little prodding to join the cause against Noah Sandleton. If indeed he were The Serpent, then he’d waited years for this confrontation, living and breathing hatred and revenge as a form of daily sustenance.
“Good. I’ll count you in.” Better to work with the enemy than against him.
“What do you want me to do?” Kleeton asked.
“I need someone to monitor the perimeter of the properties. He might enter from your end, since Penworth is closer than any of the other properties.” Cyrus rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to keep my eyes on Emily. Keep her close to the house. No more horseback riding, at least for the next few days.”
Kleeton’s lips quirked into a smile. “She won’t like that.”
Cyrus shrugged. “I’m sure she won’t but she’ll have no choice.” His gaze darted to Kleeton. “You were in the military?”
“For a short time.” The smile flattened.
“Do you know anything about surveillance?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
“I’ll start tonight.”
Cyrus nodded. “If you catch him, bring him to Glenview Manor. Immediately. Lord Kenilworth will deal with Sandleton.”
“I can’t guarantee his safety, Mandrey. Accidents happen all the time. Surely you know that in your line of business.” The gleam in his eyes made Cyrus more determined to end this whole scheme as soon as possible. A gnawing in his gut warned him Kleeton was a powder keg waiting to explode at the hint of a spark. If he captured Noah Sandleton he wouldn’t deliver him to Glenview Manor as ordered. At least not alive.
“He’s not a criminal, Kleeton.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“You have no quarrel with Sandleton. You don’t even know the man.”
“He’s committed a crime against Emily. That’s reason enough to want the man punished.”
Cyrus ignored Kleeton’s response and said, “I think it best if we don’t discuss our plan in front of Emily. No need to cause her undue concern.”
“Agreed,” Kleeton said. “I’ll begin my duties this evening.”
Cyrus’s lips twitched. “I see you’re already dressed for the part.” He gestured to the other man’s black attire. Who was Andrew Kleeton? Predator? Enemy? Traitor? Murderer? Standing before him like a dark angel, a strange gleam in his eyes, Cyrus found it easy to believe he could be any or all of these.
****
The stone was cold against his fingers as he edged along the narrow passage. The lantern dangling from his hand provided a flickering pathway, permitting no more than a few paces of illumination before him. Just enough so he wouldn’t stumble. It had been years since he’d explored this passage, with nothing on his mind but adventure and curiosity. Tonight, as he traveled the dimly lit path, all he could think of was his wife.
What if she turned him away? What if the hurt she’d suffered had frozen her heart? He ran a shaky hand through his tousled hair, glad to be rid of that damned bushy mop. He imagined Emily’s fingers twining in his hair, sweeping that ever-errant stray lock from his forehead. Such thoughts proved tortuous because they elicited images that were quite carnal in nature and had nothing to do with the forgiveness he sought. He must push them aside.
But the
floodgate of sensuality burst open, and Noah grew hard at the very thought of making love to his wife. It had been such a blasted long time. He tried to push away the vision of her sweet, supple body as it responded to his touch, writhing beneath him, above him, beside him. She was inside him, pulsing, teasing, and he couldn’t extinguish her heat.
Noah reached the small door that led to the master bedroom. He fitted the key in the lock and rested a hand on the knob, waiting for his breathing to steady. Emily was a mere room away. So close. All he need do was step over this threshold and walk the ten steps or so to her door. How many times in the past several weeks had he wished she’d see him as her husband and not a bushy-haired protector by the name of Cyrus Mandrey? Obviously, she’d grown quite attached to Mandrey, but he couldn’t say she felt the same about her husband. He had the feeling she would have rather emptied her stomach again than profess her love for him, but he’d persisted and forced an answer from her. Not that a little half nod of the head was any great proclamation of love, but it was a start.
And then there was the baby. His baby. Strengthened by the thought of his unborn child, Noah opened the door and stepped into his chambers. His gaze fell on the small strip of light beneath the adjoining door.
She was awake. He stepped closer. The scent of lilac drifted to him and he pictured her unbound hair, her naked skin. Another few steps and he pressed his ear to the door. He gave a light rap and waited. Nothing.
Inching the door open, he peered inside. Emily was asleep, propped up with two pillows, an open book resting in her left hand. Her golden curls cascaded about her shoulders, a plump lock falling onto the swell of her breast. The white nightgown she wore was prim and proper, though the laces at her neck had come undone and revealed a glimpse of skin. Her breathing was slow and even. Peaceful. Perhaps he should leave her with her dreams and return tomorrow night. His thoughts and desires jumbled together, making it difficult to sort out the best course of action. Logic told him to leave. Emotion forced him to stay.
He had to get closer to her, had to touch her, breathe in her scent. Setting the lantern on the bedside stand, he leaned over and lifted a locket of her hair, caressing its silky texture as it spilled through his fingers like spun gold. He’d forfeit everything he owned to be with her again.