Unexpected Danger

by Lisa E. Pugh

  She was not going to bring trouble to her mother’s door. That left only one place. She had to go back to Christopher’s. Even if he thought she was a snake, he would not let someone attack a guest in his home.

  Teresa stood in Margaret’s front garden, pacing and swearing. The bitch escaped! How the hell did that happen? Housemans never lost their quarry. What should I do now?

  The sudden sound of hooves clattering down the road froze her in her tracks. The riders slowed as they approached the garden gate. She dove into the shrubbery to avoid detection. From there, she watched Lord Yawron and Mr. Brenlaw dismount from their horses and walk up the path.

  “Lord Yawron!” She hissed.

  Brenlaw led the way. “This is her house, my lord.”

  The earl looked around. “No sign of her car.”

  “She probably parked it in the back.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Brenlaw opened the gate, and his lordship entered with a quick nervous step. He seemed upset about something. His little whore, no doubt, Teresa thought.

  They passed the bushes that were Teresa’s hiding place and knocked on the door. No answer. After a pause, they tried again. Nothing.

  “She's not home,” the young man sighed, defeated.

  The butler shrugged. “She could have gone into the village, or even to the City. After what happened, she might need a little motherly advice.”

  “I only hope she’s coming back.”

  “I’m sure she will. Why don’t you leave her a note? That way, she’ll know you tried to meet with her.”

  “Very well. We'll do as you suggest.” His lordship certainly did not sound very hopeful. He drew out a small notepad and began writing.

  In the shrubbery, Teresa was forming a plan.

  It’s so ingenious, she thought to herself. Simple, but ingenious. Goodbye, your lordship. I’ll be seeing you very soon. She crawled out of the underbrush and raced for the road.

  “What’s that?” Christopher’s head snapped up.

  Brenlaw listened carefully. “What, my lord?”

  “I thought I heard someone in the bushes.”

  “It was probably just a cat, my lord.”

  “It must have been a very large cat. I distinctly heard branches snapping.”

  “It could have been Mr. Logan’s fat tabby, my lord. I’ve often said that beast could bring down a tree.”

  “Perhaps.” Shrugging, his lordship returned to his writing.

  Margaret’s Morris motor screeched to a halt outside the manor house. Leaping out of the car, she ran to the doors and pounded on them. “Brenlaw! Brenlaw, it's Miss Taylor! Please let me in! Brenlaw?”

  No answer. Where could he be? Resting her head against the carved wood, Margaret pushed down the panic welling inside her again. With her potential protector gone, what was she going to do? She took a deep breath, wrestling with her emotions to regain some semblance of control. She must think.

  She tried the French doors but found them locked. She tried the kitchen door, but there was no answer. From the noise she heard within, there were people in there. Yet they were making supper and probably could not hear her over the din of the pots and pans.

  Should she break a window and get their attention that way? The possible repercussions appalled her. What would Christopher think if he found out she had tried to break into his house? He already thought she was evil and untrustworthy. She had to find another way.

  “As long as I stay within the grounds I should be fairly safe,” she reasoned. “And as long as I keep a straight path from the house, I shouldn’t get lost.”

  She stopped at her car and grabbed a tire-iron. Not a great choice for self-defense, but it was better than nothing. Then, keeping the sun on her left, she hurried into the woods. She hoped the cool air, peaceful surroundings, and soft light shining through the trees would help her relax and reason more clearly.

  Teresa hurried home. Collecting an article from there, she dashed out of the house and jumped into her car. She sat there a moment, deciding where to go next.

  “Now where would she go?” she thought aloud. “Not London—it’s too far and she’d only have her mother for protection. Thanks to our earlier friendship, I know where her mother lives. And she wouldn’t go anywhere in the village. She knows I've got the advantage here.”

  Smiling, she mumbled, “There is one place she wouldn’t expect me to follow, but she thinks his lordship is there. I know differently. Perfect!” She started her vehicle and pulled into the street.

  Slipping inside the estate through a rarely used gate, Teresa followed the road until she saw the huge mansion and the abandoned car. She sat in her vehicle for a moment, staring at the darkened house.

  “My God,” she muttered with disgust. “Some things just don’t change.”

  A little farther on, she stopped her car on a side path. Then she walked to the deserted Morris motor, looking for footprints. The bonnet of the car was warm, indicating the engine was still giving off heat. She was not that far behind her prey.

  An excellent hunter, she followed Margaret into the timberland. The tracks were clearer here in the damp woods with the trees so close together. Smiling, she increased her pace. She was very close.

  A snapping twig alerted the prey to her pursuer. She jumped and spun around. Terror rose, and she began to run blindly. Stumbling over roots and fallen branches, she pushed herself farther into the woods. She had to get away.

  Suddenly, Margaret broke into the open. Brightness dazzled her, halting her movement. She blinked to clear her sight.

  Glancing across a plot of young wheat, she realized where she was. This was the field where she had raced his lordship over the London road. There was nowhere to hide here.

  She obviously could not go back, and she could not skirt the field without being seen. Even staying inside the treeline would just slow her down. Teresa had the advantage of knowing the land around here and knowing where every path led. Margaret would have to chance crossing open country.

  If she were lucky, she would reach the ditch border before Teresa caught up to her. Houseman was fleet of foot, but maybe she would not be able to leap the ditch. Then she would have to climb down and up again.

  Once over the road, Margaret knew that she would have to head for the village again. Hopefully, her petite frame and simple clothes would make using an overland route through the hedgerows an advantage. With a deep breath, Margaret dashed diagonally through the rows of grain.

  The new wheat slapped her calves. The growth obscured the ground. She could not see where she was stepping. Running was a risk, but she had no choice.

  Margaret was within a few yards of the paved road when her foot slipped into a rabbit’s burrow, and she crashed to the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of her. She heard a loud snap like a branch breaking from a tree. For a split second, the shock jolted her, leaving her numb. Then excruciating pain crashed down like a huge ocean wave, and she knew she'd broken a bone.

  She shrieked and swore. Glancing behind her, she saw Teresa rushing across the field at a full run. The gap between them was closing quickly.

  She had to get away. Gritting her teeth against the flood of agony, she pulled her leg free. Her vision went dark for a moment as her bones ground together, and a feeling like serrated knives stabbed her ankle. Panting and shaking, she scrambled toward the ditch’s edge.

  Even as she struggled through the mud, she knew it was hopeless. Teresa might be older than she was, but she was not decrepit. She kept herself in good shape, and Margaret was crawling and dragging a bum leg. It was not even a contest.

  Margaret's hand just reached the lip of the culvert when her attacker pounced. As she was flipped over and dragged away from the edge, she kicked out with her good leg. Her opponent did not even flinch. Instead she hauled her flailing prey off the ground.

  “I got you!” Houseman declared triumphantly, an evil grin twisting her face into a demonic parody.


  Margaret brandished her weapon frantically. She hit her captor in the thigh and the side. Teresa merely flinched and tightened her grip. Then when they were face to face, Margaret swung at the woman’s head.

  Her opponent was ready for the blow this time. Catching her captive’s flailing wrist, she dug in with her nails. Margaret yelped as the sharp daggers pierced her flesh. The older woman wrenched Margaret’s arm backwards. The tire iron fell from useless fingers into the soft earth.

  With a growl, Teresa backhanded her viciously. Margaret blinked, reeling. Stars flashed across her eyes. Fire flared across her cheek.

  A heartbeat later, the madwoman clouted her on the jaw and threw her face down to the ground. A heeled foot pressed against Margaret’s back, forcing her into the soil. Mud clogged her nose. She gagged as dirty water oozed into her mouth.

  “You dirty little hussy!” Teresa sneered in disgust. “Did you really think you’d be able to best me at anything? You little jumped-up slut!”

  “Shut up, Teresa, you maniac!” Panting, Margaret stared over her shoulder. The twisted mask of hatred she saw made her shiver, but she refused to shrink under its blaze. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why should you care whom I see?”

  “You?” she scoffed. “I couldn't give a damn who you see, spend time with, or fornicate with—as long as it's not him.”

  “Him?” Margaret's eyes widened as understanding dawned. “It's Christopher? He's the one you're obsessing over?”

  “Christopher!” The older woman flipped her captive onto her back. She dropped down and sat on her victim’s chest. Punctuating each word with a blow to the face, she snarled, “You. Have. No. Right. To. Call. Him. By. That. Name!”

  Margaret gasped, her head spinning. Dirt coated her face and her tongue. The taste made her retch. Her vision seemed dazzled with light, her mind bursting with pain. She wanted to throw the older woman off her, but the soft ground made it impossible to create enough leverage to move. She glared at her attacker who grinned back, knowing she had the upper hand.

  Grabbing her by the hair, Teresa pulled out a long thin blade—a fillet knife. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? You had to interfere. You had to be nice to him. Well, you won’t be upsetting things ever again.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” What had she interfered with? What could Christopher have done to provoke such hatred? Am I going to die here?

  Teresa gazed around them and smiled. “I wanted to do this on the village green as I said in the letter, but this location has other advantages. It's out in the open, yet somewhere we won't be disturbed. And I can’t think of a more deliciously ironic way to bring down the perfect Lord Yawron than on his own land and with his own whore.”

  “How?” A fraction of a second later, Margaret realized what her newfound enemy intended. She mentally cursed herself for a fool. “No!”

  Given their location and the weapon, the plan was obvious. This madwoman was going to kill her on Christopher's land and let the village's prejudice do the rest. It was diabolical and practically perfect.

  In a last-ditch effort, Margaret tried to reason with the raving woman above her. “Don't do this, Teresa. I'll go away. I won't see Chr… him ever again.”

  “Too late. You should have heeded my warnings.” Reacting to the look of horror on Margaret’s face, Teresa replied, “Don’t worry. You’re not going to die. Right away, that is. This will have to look just right—a crazed attack and a slow lingering death. It must create the greatest public outcry possible. There can't be any sympathy for his lordship at all. In the end, you're going to provide excellent, albeit silent, testimony against him. For now, I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Teresa pinned her more firmly into the mud. She grinned with glee and triumph. Madness burned in her eyes like a torch. The blade came down slowly.

  Margaret thrashed and flailed. She cursed and pleaded. Her struggles only made her foe more elated. Teresa clasped the young woman’s jaw to hold her still.

  The knife sliced Margaret’s cheek with deliberate precision, leaving hot, stabbing agony in its wake. Blood ran warm over her skin, cooling in the early-Spring air. With a scream of frustration and rage, the quarry struck out at the horrible grinning face above her.

  Chapter 19

  In the late-afternoon sunshine, Lord Yawron and Brenlaw trotted their horses down the lane. It had taken them longer than they had planned to begin the ride back to the manor house. Mr. Logan, who noticed their initial trip through the village, waylaid them on the way back.

  He insisted on speaking to his lordship for quite a while before allowing them to continue on their journey. It was a hellishly long and frustrating conversation. The last thing the earl wanted to do was discuss village business.

  On the ride home, his lordship slouched in his saddle, dispirited to the point of moroseness. He was not in any mood to speed their travel, so they let their horses saunter along the road. As far as he was concerned, there was no reason to rush home.

  As his mood blackened, Lord Yawron pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyebrow with a thumb. He sighed heavily and shook his head. Marcus reflected his rider’s mood, its majestic head lowered and its gait almost a funereal pace.

  For a long time, Brenlaw left his master alone with his thoughts. Their failure to meet with Miss Taylor in town only fed the depression that sat on his master’s shoulders like a demon. After an afternoon of desperation and disappointment, the young man deserved some time to himself.

  The butler waited until they reached the part of the London Road where it passed through the estate's wheat fields. Being on manor land provided a sense of privacy. It may be an illusion of refuge, but it was better than nothing.

  Finally, Brenlaw made an attempt at encouragement. “Don’t look so disheartened, my lord. I’m sure Miss Taylor will come back.”

  “I hope so, Brenlaw.”

  He certainly did not sound convinced. The servant recognized the tone of bitter self-recrimination. After he had botched their last meeting, Lord Christopher Tobias did not think he deserved such luck as his friend's return.

  “If she is the woman I gauge her to be, she won’t let any act of pique ruin a promising friendship.”

  “You may be right. Don't know why she'd bother though.” Suddenly, the earl stopped his horse and pointed to a distant shape in the field. “What the devil is that?”

  Brenlaw looked where his master pointed. A dark mass lay in one of the estate’s wheat tracts. “I don’t know, my lord. A dead deer?”

  “Better find out.” His lordship kicked his horse into a canter. Brenlaw stopped his mount to watch.

  As his lordship approached the figure on the ground, he suddenly struck Marcus into a gallop. He rode at full speed, leaped the ditch, and hauled on the reins to stop the horse beside the motionless form. Jumping down, he turned it over.

  “No!” The soul-splintering cry echoed across the field. “No, no, no!”

  Appalled at the despair in his lordship’s voice, Brenlaw kicked his horse into a run. Reaching the edge of the road, the servant crossed the ditch and forced the beast up the other side. He did not slow until he halted beside his master.

  When he dismounted, the butler found the younger man kneeling bareheaded in the mud. His shoulders hunched, the earl heaved in deep uneven breaths. The wind ruffled his hair and blew it across his face. He made no move to clear his view. Instead, he stared at the pale still figure of Margaret Taylor lying on the ground next to him.

  “What the bloody hell happened here?” Brenlaw declared, losing all decorum in his shock.

  “Maggie! Good God, Maggie!” Christopher gasped, shaking violently. He gripped the woman's pale hand in both of his. He seemed unable to move or think clearly. He wept and could not stop himself.

  The servant stared, shocked at the carnage before him. The soil around the motionless woman was churned up in a wild mess as if a war had taken place—or a struggle for one's life. />
  Margaret’s frock was ripped from neck to knee. The material had been spread like wings around her. Her free arm lay loose at her side, the wrist striped with incisions. Posed in this way, she looked like an injured angel… or a pagan sacrifice. Brenlaw shivered at the last thought, a little sick.

  He saw discolored skin and tiny bleeding cuts through smaller tears in her sleeves. Most of the blue fabric had been stained purple with blood. The edges of the sopping material were already turning brown.

  No coat lay nearby. Aside from the remains of her spring dress, she was completely naked. Her wounds steamed in the cooling air.

  Long gashes carved grooves down her arms and across her ribs and stomach. Smaller cuts sliced her shoulders, hands, and chest. Dark bruises marred her wrists and slender neck. Red drops dripped down her battered face into her wet hair. As if to highlight the brutality and repulsiveness of the attack, several thin incisions maimed her round breasts.

  An especially dreadful slash stretched from one hipbone to the other. Though the area was covered in bruises, it was not a deep cut. Nevertheless, there was something about the damage that Brenlaw couldn't quite grasp, but it left his blood cold. It seemed somehow deliberately placed to separate it in position and manner from the rest of the injuries.

  Her left foot was twisted at an obscene angle. Her face was mottled with bruises. A dark pool of blood spread from the back of her head.

  “My God, my lord!” the butler hissed. “Is she…”

  “I haven’t had the courage to find out.” His lordship paused for a shuddering breath and muttered, “I dare not, lest… lest…” He lowered his head and covered his face, muffling an anguished howl.