Rakehell's Daughters

by Gayle Eden

  There was nothing sinister or crazed about Leland, which made him all the more dangerous. She hesitated a split second, first came a surge of terror that brought bile to her throat, then rage, absolute loathing and rage. However, that second made all the difference.

  Leland’s gloved hand lifted and covered her mouth, at the same moment he grasped her hair, in a painfully brutal hold.

  “My betraying bitch of a wife. I suspected all along that Archard was hanging about our home to get into your bed.” His smile was chilling. “Although why— escapes me.” He turned and began shoving her up the path he had emerged from. His hold on her hair made her eyes water.

  She tried to drag his hand down.

  “Do that and I will shove my fist in your throat. And you will be hard pressed to breathe at all,” he said coolly before he shoved her to the ground, on her stomach.

  Panting, drawing a breath, Val’s hair was twisted in his fist, head bowed painfully back. His knee dug into her spine. He used his neck cloth to tie her hands behind her.

  “I was never unfaithful to you. Nor was he a betrayer. It was you who—”

  He yanked the tie hard enough to bring a moan, nearly snapping her wrist bone. “He stole my wife and cut me off from everything! It was his plan all along, the bastard. He deliberately set out to ruin me.”

  “I am his wife, now,” Val said through her teeth, the twig-strewn ground stabbing into her hip and stomach, before he pulled her to her feet again. “He’ll kill you if you harm me.”

  “I doubt that. I won’t be around,” Leland said smugly. “And I’ve no plans to harm you—yet. I want what I always wanted from you, Valerie. The only bloody thing you were good for. Money.”

  “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  He forced her head around and smiled at her, his sapphire eyes not showing that smile, but pure contempt. “Ah, but will Archard give me what I want? Will your father pay—to keep you alive?”

  “Of course they will. But you don’t have to do this…I thought you were in America?” Val was in pain, afraid, yet judging the distance she could run without him catching her. She had seen Leland in a rage, and this was simply the buildup. A prelude. If he did not get what he wanted, he would kill her, and not fast.

  “I was. Some stupid cow I bedded robbed me in New York.”

  Val wished she could have laughed in his face at that. The path out of the woods, she had to get on it. She had to break his hold from her hair.

  “I bloody slit her throat for it. Quite ruined my best gloves and shirt. And of course, I had to leave…”

  “Of course,” Val murmured glancing at him. She tried to move her head, hoping to keep him talking enough to get free. “She’s not the first you killed, is she Leland?”

  He shrugged. “No. However, I do hate a mess. Poison works so much better. I do not mind cuffing my woman around, one has to, you know. And you of course, tried my patience to no end…”

  “I know that, all too well. You nearly killed me. You killed our child. Your child.”

  He frowned slightly and sighed. “It wasn’t even born yet. It is not as if it felt anything. Women are so bloody stupid about such things.”

  Chills crawled up her spine. This was the Leland Val knew, one capable of anything and shrugging it off. There was some kind of disconnect in Leland. He had no compassion for any living thing. It made him unpredictable.

  Val coiled her body to run. Her tied hands were smarting, her clothing covered with twigs and leaves, her hair still too much in his hold. All she could hope for was the element of surprise.

  She said, “Why didn’t you simply ask me to get money for you this time. I would have gotten it, just to be rid of you.”

  “I’m not a fool—”

  She sprang and took off, feeling a painful chunk of long hair rip free as she did so. Desperate for her life, Val ran—cursing her skirt—wishing she had worn trousers. She had known somehow in her frantically beating heart and sick stomach that she would not get far. So—she screamed. Screamed—with her fear and fiber, hoping someone would hear at the house or stables…until Leland plowed into her from behind.

  He covered her mouth. Then wadded a handkerchief to stuff in it, and brutally jerked her to her feet.

  Panting, gagging, being dragged toward the path, Val saw him drop two letters on the ground. He forced her to run then. When Val did not, he kicked her, hit her so hard in the stomach, she moaned while black waves washed in front of her eyes. She ran.

  There was a horse not far. After hauling her over, so that she lay across, he climbed on behind. Out of the woodlands, an unmarked coach waited. He shoved her off the horse. Landing on the ground, Val got a taste of how he intended to treat her. He may keep her alive—who knew. However, he was going to make her wish she was dead.

  The last she recalled—before he backhanded her, knocking her into the coach floor, was kicking him as hard as she could in the face. Even as pain exploded in her, Val felt the satisfaction of seeing that perfect nose break and blood spew out. Her last conscious thought was if he was going to kill her, now or after he collected ransom, she was not going to make it easy for him.

  She would likely die doing it, but she was going to fight back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Van Wyc knew something was off—terribly wrong. He knew it when he reached London and Aric was not there. In fact, the servants had not seen him.

  It had all gone well up to that point. He had met the ship, his cousin Ingrid—not much grown over the petite height she had been at sixteen, a five feet and three now. She was hale and hearty despite the voyage, and eager to get on their journey. In her “fashionable” skirt and jacket of jade green, matching saucy hat, her straight white blond hair was clasped back and her green eyes sparkling. She had looked different on that score because the last time he had seen her she had been dressed like a male farmer, two braids in her mane and her face red from arguing with the elders.

  She had hugged him and said to his suggestion they head on to London, “Yes. I’m eager to see it, and to meet your wife.”

  “She’ll join us in a few days.”

  The trip was pleasant, filled with amusing conversation about the elders, discussions about the homestead, which hands were running for her—kinsmen of course—watching that classic face go through various expressions as Ingrid tried to understand the “locals” when they stopped for fresh horses. Moreover, seeing men’s reaction to her as she boldly asked questions, shook hands, and talked manure, hay and the price of sheep and cattle.

  He spoke a lot about Val, finding himself confiding more than he meant, although the family knew about Leland and that mess of a marriage. Archard also talked of her sisters, and the Marquis, the circle that made up Hawksmoor’s closest friends and cronies.

  At the townhouse, he had every intention of relaxing and settling in to await Val. Expecting Aric to already be there, they would stay busy with business and showing Ingrid around. His cousin was already given a room and had her bath—but Archard paced the study in his shirtsleeves, having made up a dozen logical reasons why Aric would not have arrived. However, it simply was not like him.

  “Dinner is served, Sir.”

  Archard turned and stared at the housekeeper. It took him a moment to nod, and then he went to the dining room, joining his cousin, who was dressed in another gown, this one a light bottle green and summery, her hair was up in a twist.

  “I believe Aric can take care of himself,” she said cutting her meat and attempting to soothe his worry.

  “I know he can. It is not that. Even though, it is not like Aric to say he will be somewhere and… I don’t know.” He shook his head, chewed and swallowed. “It’s a feeling, an instinct.”

  Two hours later, that instinct paid off. Archard left his cousin to go up and nap. He had his bath and was in his leathers and linen, sitting and brooding in his coffee. First, one of the chore boys brought a missive from Aric; it said he would be joining Archard and
Val at Whitestone—which meant the first missive, announcing he would go to London, was not authentic. London, was not even mentioned. The second missive came a scant 10 minutes later. The housekeeper entered the study, looking flushed. “A coachman brought this, Sir. Said it was passed on from the Marquis of Hawksmoor via one the mail coaches. They have gone out all over, sir. And it is urgent.”

  He snatched it out of her hands, aware she was wringing those hands and hovering by the doorway when he cracked the seal. There was another inside and something about that dark scrawl made the hairs prickle on his nape. When it dawned on him—Archard’s knees went weak.

  He read the Marquis’s first, and muttered with every muscle and sinew in his body wishing himself northward already, “Have my horse and the coach prepared. Immediately!”

  “Yes. Sir. Right away.” The housekeeper ran out.

  Archard left the study, his boots pounding on the stairs as he ran up them to his rooms. He threw clothing into a bag and after drawing on his leather coat, added his pistols and short sword to the pocket and a sheathe just inside the lining.

  Aware of a sheen a sweat on his body—cold sweat, he tried to focus on murdering Leland, and not what may be happening to Val. He should have killed the worthless bastard years ago.

  “What’s amiss?” Ingrid suddenly threw open his door. Her hair down and mussed. Her robe wrinkled where she had slept in it.

  “Leland has kidnapped Val. He is demanding ransom. I’m sorry—I don’t have time to explain everything.” He shook his head and moved her out of the way, as he headed down the stairs.

  Running in bare feet behind him, she asked worriedly, “What can I do? Is there anything…”

  At the bottom, he handed the bag off to a waiting boy and glanced at her, knowing his face likely showed the cold rage he was in. Archard was an intelligent man. He knew he had to calculate his moves to see his wife again. He knew Leland. However, that coolness of mind did not erase the very rage in his bones—nor the fear. A gut sick fear—that Leland would pass his time tormenting Valerie.

  “Come to the study.” He strode there. When she joined him, he leaned over the desk and grabbed the implements to write information down for her. “Here is my man of business. Take this note to him. When he gives you the money, return here and dress in your male duds….you did bring them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. You will come by horse back. Bring the money with you. It will take him hours to get this much from the banks, and I need to reach Hawksmoor. I am writing the route to Whitestone. I want you armed, cautious. Although it is robbers too you’ll have to look out for.”

  “You’re going to pay that bastard?”

  “I’m going to kill him.” Archard handed her the papers. Meeting her eyes.

  “What about Aric?”

  “The Marquis will have sent a note to Whitestone by now. Likely they went out to everyone in the county.” Archard was hurrying to the entry.

  “Be careful.”

  He turned and looked at his cousin. “And you. Make speed. I will have Harding saddle you a stud. The Marquis will have already paid Leland by now. He has indicated as much. As well as offering to pay, what Leland demands of me. He refused. It seems Leland insists I bring it myself. I shall.”

  “I can ride better than most men. I won’t be long behind you.” She turned and ran toward the stairs.

  In a moment more, he was out the door and in the coach. It tore out of London at a breakneck speed. Archard stared at the opposite seat. Leland wanted it understood that it was personal. He could assume his cousin had twisted things up in his mind in the usual way, to make himself appear the victim. Under the circumstance, nothing pleased Archard more, than a face-to-face exchange.

  “If you harm her…” Archard felt his gut cinch. The terror alone of being with the man, whom she knew was capable of the worst, must be horrifying for Val.

  He had promised her—promised himself that Leland would never get to her. Damn it to bloody hell. Archard shoved a hand through his mane. He reached in his coat and fingered one of the pistols. Do not hurt her you bastard. Don’t you harm a hair on her head.

  The journey was agony.

  Agony, in a whole new way, since Archard was haunted by images of the past, those months and years living in Leland’s house—and the best memories, too. The ones since Val became his wife—his lover. When the coach stopped to refresh the horses, he rode ahead, having his mount tied to the back.

  A storm began around nightfall, and Archard, his oilcloth over his coat, rode through the wind and lightening, the mud. The stallion blew a hot mist out its nostrils and steam emitted from the beast’s body while the deluge struck down on them.

  Every mile closer to Hawksmoor, was slower than he could scarcely stand, but killing his horse would do him no good. He was forced to let the stallion walk on and off. He prayed. He cursed. He raged silently, and screamed at the storm a few times, when it slowed his progress. Was she warm, and dry? Was she terrified or in pain. She was his wife. He had not protected her from Leland. How could he have forgotten that? He should have never gone off—

  Archard passed the main marker to Hawksmoor. He spurred the stallion, knowing with the hour and storm; he would be forced to wait until morning—as would Leland. And Val, she would spend one more night with the man who made her life a living nightmare.

  Archard pulled up at the entry to the drive and jumped off his horse. He whistled long and piercing through the sound of thunder. In moments there were lads running from the stables to take his mount.

  The front door of house was pulled wide. Dripping wet, muddy from head to toe, Archard strode into the foyer. A drawn faced Marquis of Hawksmoor stood there dressed his linen shirt and black trousers, boots.

  The men’s eyes met. Held. Archard let the footman take his wet oilskin cape. One of them was wiping his boots and a servant handed him a toweling for his dripping hair and face.

  Archard discerned from Alexander’s expression, that they had not found Val yet.

  “We tracked him through the woods, but there was apparently a waiting coach,” Alexander supplied. He looked at the maid who was passing. “Bring fresh coffee and brandy, Sara.”

  The maid hurried off and Archard followed him into the library. He scarcely scanned Alex and Edmund, who were seated on a far sofa, near the fireplace. Jo was by the window. His brother though, came to his feet.

  “I take it you never sent a missive saying you were going to London?”

  “No. I’m bloody well, sorry, Archard.” Aric pulled a cheroot out of his pockets, went as if to light it, then put it back. He looked as tense and drawn as Archard felt.

  Tersely Van Wyc supplied, “It is my fault. I left her. I knew better than to leave her alone.”

  “Nonsense,” Alexander’s voice cut through the room. “You thought he was in America. We all did. It does no good to anyone to self-blame. I had people watching out for her. But here, at Hawksmoor—I thought her safe.”

  “As I did. That is not your fault either. As her husband, it was my duty to protect her. I promised—" Archard took the coffee laced with brandy when it came. He drank the first cup and took another to stand by the window. The black storm raged outside. “I swore to her…”

  “Don’t.” Alex came to her feet and said it. Her voice raw, her face as strained as the expression they all wore. “Let’s keep focused on getting her away from him, before he kills her.” Her hand fisted. Edmund stood and put his hands on her shoulders. However, she scarcely noticed, her eyes were on Van Wyc. “I don’t care a bloody damn that did what, or promised whatever…he has her now. He’s had her long enough to—”

  “Alex!” The Marquis cut her off.

  “Father…” Alex’s eyes were shimmering with tears.

  The Marquis crossed to her. Jo joined them in an embrace.

  Edmund went to lay a hand on Archard’s shoulder.

  “There are hundreds of men out there searching for her. As
soon as we know where he is holding her, she can be rescued, and he will have no bargaining power. Alexander has discovered where he hired the coach. It is only a matter of time—if he demanded to meet you face to face, he will show up.”

  “And I can’t bloody kill him until we know she’s safe…”

  Edmund nodded. “The only good thing we have going for us, is that he said he’ll send instructions—that gives us time—the searchers time, and it gives you the opportunity to reply that he must prove to you Val is alive.”

  Archard’s fingers nearly crushed the cup.

  The Earl murmured, “She is. You have to believe that. These women do not give up or quit. Moreover, I do not believe her life turned around, only to be snatched from her. I believe—a man would know, would feel it, if his heart stopped beating. That is what they are to us…aren’t they? Our heart and soul. She will come through this.”

  Archard said, not aware that everyone in the room was quiet and hearing their conversation, “I loved her the moment I laid eyes on her. It did not matter that she was wed to Leland. I knew—I knew in my bones, that she was mine. She would be mine.” He stared at the storm without sight. “With every slur he heaped on her, every bruise and abuse—I wanted to kill him. Yet, she would not leave nor hear or even see me. When she lost the babe—when he nearly killed her—she was…as a ghost…lifeless.”

  Archard looked down at his hands. “I remember that night and all the blood…when it stopped flowing, she just…gave up.”

  “But you didn’t let her, give up—”

  “No.” Archard raised his eyes back to the storm. “I couldn’t lose her—I couldn’t let him destroy her.” He sighed deep and long, his voice rough, “I waited so long, so long. Yet, it was like a blink, a flicker, once she was mine. I have never felt so…..But what have I done, letting him get to her once more?”

  “No one would have believed he’d come to Hawksmoor,” The Marquis said from across the room.

  Aric, thus far sitting broodingly in a leather chair, said, “I promised you, I’d protect her too, as to that.”