Margaret’s shoulders sagged. She looked to the house her husband had entered. Some emotion Matthew’d never seen on Margaret’s face flitted over her visage. It was more than sadness. It was regret.
And all because he’d had to have grand ideas about patriotism, turning into the fool that Margaret had claimed he was. The well of self-hate swept over him so intensely he almost reached back and forced Patrick to shoot him. Only he knew if he did that, Margaret would be dead too.
Somehow, he was going to keep her alive.
• • •
James charged into his home, fear pummeling through him. “Father,” he shouted.
The house was seemingly empty, save for a housemaid, who stopped to stare at him, her mouth agape.
James skidded to a halt. “Have you seen her ladyship?”
The housemaid’s brown eyes widened, and she shook her head wildly. “No, my lord. Not since this morning.”
“Thank you,” James managed before running up the stairs. He stormed to her room and threw the door open.
Nothing.
Not even the bed was mussed.
“James?”
He whipped around.
His father stood several feet away, his brows furrowed with confusion. “Whatever is amiss?”
“Margaret.” James grabbed the doorframe, fearing he might sink to the ground. “She’s missing.”
“Missing?” his father scoffed. “Surely she’s simply gone for a walk.”
James’s mouth dried as his fear deepened. “She came with me to the Fairleighs, and she was just to wait until I’d finished my meeting. I left her waiting in the park.”
The meaning of his own words sank in, lacerating his heart and soul with terror. Every step home had been one filled with terror that something had befallen Margaret. And yet he tried to convince himself that she’d simply returned home without him.
His father lifted a shaking hand to his mouth. “You didn’t find her?”
“No. And you know Margaret. She’d never be so cruel as to leave us in such doubt. She’d have left word with someone. Even if she’d been furious—”
“Was she?”
James stopped himself. He tried to think. He knew he’d upset Margaret, but she’d hurt him too. God, the pain of it, discovering that she still couldn’t be free with him.
He didn’t believe he had asked too much, but whatever it was, she was unwilling to open herself. And if something had happened to her, their disharmony would be the last thing he’d have to remember her by.
He blew out a harsh breath. He refused to accept such a thing. The fates wouldn’t be that cruel.
“Did she tell you about her brother?” his father demanded.
He thought back. There had been hours they’d spoken when he wasn’t fully alert, but he couldn’t recall anything about a brother. She’d spoken much of her parents, but never a sibling.
It was another blow.
She’d not trusted him enough to tell him. And all he could do was curse himself. She hadn’t shared with him because he’d been in no state to help her. He’d been full of self-pity and arrogance. But now he could. He would.
“No,” he admitted. “Could he have put her in danger?”
“The boy’s in rather dire straits. And he’s in London, I believe. He’s wanted by the police.”
“Do you think her brother took her?” James didn’t want to give credence to such a thing, but the cold truth was that anything was possible. A brother could easily hurt his sister.
His father gave a desperate shrug. “It’s a place to start. He’s hiding somewhere in the East End, and given his political leanings, he is associating with a rather dangerous bunch of rebels, I believe.”
For once the old man’s controlling need to know everything about his family members would prove useful. James nodded, then strode back to the stairs, knowing exactly where he needed to go and who could help him.
Chapter 31
Margaret twisted against the restraints binding her wrists and ankles tightly to the straight-backed chair. All to no avail.
Matthew sat across from her, his bindings made of heavier, denser rope. His cheek had also burst open like a ripe plum. As soon as they’d descended into the dark room, Patrick had belted Matthew.
The blow had been strong enough to knock her brother out.
She bit at the thick cotton wrapped around her mouth. The fabric cut at her cheeks. Rolling her eyes in frustration, she pulled against the bonds once more.
Stopping, a muffled cry of dismay rang in her ears. If anything, she was likely making her bindings tighter.
There was no telling how long they’d be left alone. Not long, if she had any guess.
And the painful fact was, she wasn’t likely going to be able to fight her way free.
Panting now at the exertion and pain of the welts already forming on her flesh, she forced herself to calm.
Details. Observing them would at least distract her.
They hadn’t blindfolded her. A fact that only caused her stomach to twist in apprehension. They didn’t care if she witnessed their criminal activities or saw their faces. Not a good indication that they intended to keep her alive.
Allowing her breath to slow, she glanced about.
It was a cellar stretching far to the back with crates strewn about. And all along the wall to her right stood tall casks.
Were they in the cellar of a pub?
The oaken barrels might indicate that.
But as she studied them, she realized it was highly unlikely. There was no trap leading up to the street, where vendors could deliver barrels of beer and other goods. And if it had been a public house, there’d be far more liquor about.
She dug her toe into the floor.
Dirt. It yielded easily, sending up a puff of acrid dust.
The moldy, dust smell indicated how old the building was.
And it was easy to assume they were in the East End.
At least, that was where the coach had driven when Patrick had herded her and Matthew inside.
She craned her neck, searching for the stairs or a ladder.
Though her muscles screamed with protest, she angled far enough to the right that just out of the corner of her eye she spotted a rickety-looking flight of steps leading upward.
The lone gas lamp threw shadows over the old wood and stone walls.
A harrowing thought occurred to her. She might die here. In this little room, with her brother.
And she’d never see James again.
A sob tugged at her throat. She blinked, trying to keep herself calm. Why had she been such a fool? She’d placed so much on maintaining her dignity, her calm, even in the face of James virtually begging her to share herself with him.
She’d allowed fear to rule her heart. For years now. She’d thought herself in control. In fact, every move she had made had been dictated by the threat of losing herself. And because of that, she’d never been able to give herself.
Poor James. He’d given so much. Now she might never be able to do so in return.
Holy God, she’d be lucky if she lived until the next morning.
How far she’d come since girlhood, crossing the fields, searching out those dying of the famine, doing whatever she could to help them.
Then she’d been surrounded by wind, the salt air, and the most beautiful land she’d ever seen, even if misery had ruled the day.
That was where she had grown up. That was where she’d always thought she would die. Oh, she’d never let herself think too closely on the matter, but she’d assumed she’d return to Galway and the orphanage, buy a small farmer’s cottage, and live out her last days amid her people.
Recently she’d allowed another dream to form. A dream of a husband who loved her and happiness with him.
Instead she was going to die in a filthy little room in the cruelest part of London.
And she’d never be able to tell James how deeply he’d touched that untouchable heart of hers. What an idiot she was, trying to convince herself to keep that wall high around her heart. She was as bad as her patients, who refused to face the tortures of their pasts.
The only difference was that she’d never turned to the bottle or the pipe to mask her memories. Oh, no. She’d cloaked herself in self-righteousness instead.
Not once had she let anyone get close to her, not since her father had given up, dying a broken man. She’d been so afraid of the pain of loss, she’d not even let herself acknowledge it.
Her brother groaned. His black eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks.
He groaned again but opened his eyes. His head bobbed up and down before he lifted it. For an instant, panic seized his features, and he threw himself against his ropes.
She grunted against the rag in her mouth, desperate to get through to him.
He stopped for a moment and locked gazes with her.
Tears filled his eyes, and a great shudder ran through him.
Every ounce of her longed to tell him it would be all right. That she’d take care of him as she’d always done. But she couldn’t. Because this time, she wasn’t sure that they’d find a way out of death’s punishing grip.
• • •
James banged on the small wooden door. “Elizabeth.”
The small lamplight in the window flickered, and a face peered out from a thin linen curtain.
Little Bridget’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.
He crouched down and spoke through the cracked window. “Tell your mother I need to speak with her immediately.”
Bridget eyed him warily, clearly and wisely untrusting of men, even men known to her.
“It’s James.”
She nodded slowly.
“Please, I need help,” he said, filling his voice with the importance of his simple plea.
“She’s in the back. Mam. Mam, that funny man we met the other day is here.”
Elizabeth’s voice filtered through the brick wall, and he prayed harder than he’d prayed in a lifetime that she’d answer.
The bolt slid against the door, and a crack formed between the panel and the frame. “My lord, it’s a strange time of night, it is, to be paying your call.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry for the imposition, but Margaret has gone missing.”
Elizabeth’s slender face tensed. “Margaret?”
“Yes,” he said simply, willing her to care.
The door inched backward. “Come in, then. Lady Margaret’s been good to us.”
He stepped into the tiny room, his head nearly hitting the chipped plaster ceiling.
A broken chair sat drunkenly in the corner, and two stools stood before the potbellied iron stove throwing off the miserliest of heat.
His boots scuffed along the dirt floor. But everything was spotlessly clean, including Elizabeth and her daughter.
“I’d offer you somewhere to sit but”—Elizabeth glanced about the small room and then shrugged—“there isn’t one.”
“Thank you, but I haven’t time in any case.” He paused, hoping that she believed what he was about to say. “I believe Margaret has been abducted.”
Elizabeth gasped.
Little Bridget shuffled up to him and grabbed his leg. She tugged hard. “What does that mean?”
James’s heart spasmed at the little girl’s fear, but he couldn’t spare her now. He needed any information he could find. Crouching down, he looked Bridget in the eyes. “It means she’s been taken away.”
“By who?” Bridget asked.
James looked up to Elizabeth. “I think it might have been her brother.”
“Young Matthew,” Elizabeth said so quietly it almost wasn’t audible. Then she shook her head, her blond hair spilling from her bun. “No. He’d never. He’s a good young man. He stands up for what’s right.”
“And all the men he knows?” James challenged. “Do they stand for what’s right? Please, Elizabeth,” he begged, throwing pride and arrogance to the wind. For Margaret, he would crawl on the ground if necessary. “Please help me find my wife.”
Chapter 32
The door creaked open and footsteps thudded down the squeaking stairs.
Margaret tensed, every part of her painfully alert.
It was just one set of steps from the first floor to the basement. If she had to make a run for it, it was good to know how far she’d actually have to go.
“Well, now, none of the other lads wanted to face this, and I can’t say that I blame them.” Patrick sauntered before Margaret, stopping halfway between herself and her brother. “You’re a beautiful woman, my lady. It’s a shame, it is, to mar such beauty with a bullet hole.”
Matthew bellowed against his gag.
Margaret chewed on her own, furious that she couldn’t respond. Terror should have been her first emotion, she knew, but shock or disbelief let anger rule her.
Patrick bent over, the spicy scent of his cologne wafting toward her. “Did you have something to say, then?”
She glared at him.
Patrick smiled, a cold smile. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
To her astonishment, he reached forward and untied her gag.
As soon the fabric slipped away, she opened and closed her mouth, stretching her cheeks and jaw.
The foul taste of the cotton coated her tongue, but that didn’t silence her. “You’re the leader, are you not?”
“It’s rather obvious,” Patrick replied.
“Then you’re a bad one,” she stated.
Patrick hauled back his strong hand but paused in midair. “What makes you say that?”
She licked her lips, buying time. “Killing me won’t help your cause.”
He lowered his fist. “In truth, it wasn’t my plan for you. I’d hoped to blackmail you into assisting us. But time is growing short, and I find that I just don’t have the energy for it.”
She silently cursed. She wasn’t surprised. It would have been nigh impossible to convince him she’d help him now. But she had to distract the man. To do anything to buy a few more precious minutes or hours. “And what about money?”
“Money?” Patrick straightened. “How do you mean?”
“My husband is a very wealthy man.”
“We’re all aware who your husband is.” Patrick spat on the ground. “You’re a traitor. And so you and your brother will die, executed, traitors’ deaths.”
“You could ransom us,” she cried, her own sense of confidence dimming with talk of execution.
“I could.” Patrick rubbed his thumb along his jaw. “But then I’d be no better than yourself. You know, you must think me a brute. And once I would have cared, a fine lady like yourself. But I’ve come to see the world needs its brutes to do the jobs no one else wants to. Otherwise justice will never be done.”
Margaret scoffed. “Justice? What justice do you speak of?”
“The suffering of our people. You saw it. I know you did. Your brother made that all too clear, which was why he and I were shocked when you married your English lord.”
Patrick crouched down, leaning his forearms on Margaret’s knees. “I just want them to suffer as much as we have.”
“That won’t ease your pain,” she said softly, realizing that once, long ago, Patrick might have been a good man.
“My pain will never be eased,” he said just as softly. “Have you forgotten, Margaret? The bodies, the babies crying, the English calling us too lazy to even go fishing to feed our families . . . Even after the Quakers proved the waters had run dry. They forced men and women to work themselves to death for a bowl of soup at the end of the day.�
�� Patrick’s lips twitched. A grimace. “I can’t forget that. It’s a shame you have.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Her breath came now in hard and fast pulls as her anger turned to a bitter sadness. Grief did this to people. Grief turned men into monsters if there was no one to ease their sufferings. “I was there. I lost my mother and father to the famine, though not starvation. I’ve seen the bodies of young boys torn to pieces from a ridiculous war, and I’ve seen the broken minds and hearts of those who survived. The difference between us, Patrick, is that I am not ruled by my pain. You are.”
His dark eyes flashed with anger, and as he started to stand, a rope swung over his head and latched about his neck.
Patrick’s tongue jutted out of his mouth, and his eyeballs bulged. He reached back desperately with his hands, batting at his attacker.
Margaret stifled a scream.
Matthew stood behind Patrick, his face grim as he twisted the rope harder and harder.
Patrick yanked a blade from his coat pocket, turned it in his palm, and drove it backward.
“No,” she cried.
Matthew’s face twisted with shock, but he didn’t let go. Not even as Patrick stabbed again.
Horror-struck, she scrambled against her bonds, but nothing would give. Nothing would let her go to her brother.
Patrick flailed but couldn’t turn or gain purchase. His movements slowed, but that didn’t stop Matthew, who jerked the rope even as the color drained from his face.
Patrick’s jaw slackened, as did the muscles of his face. He dropped the now dripping blade and slumped to the floor.
Grunting, tears streaming from his eyes, Matthew let go of the rope and then ripped his gag out of his mouth. “Oh, Mag Pie,” he wailed. “I’m sorry.”
Margaret couldn’t draw breath. She’d been so certain she was to die and so focused on Patrick she hadn’t seen Matthew work his way free. And now her brother was slipping away from her.
Blood darkened his shirt, slicking it to his chest.
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