Heart's Desire (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 2)

by Cheryl Holt

  But their arrival would be over the border in Scotland, at Gretna Green for a quick marriage. She was a rich widow now, and Roland first in line to wed her. He would once again own Greystone by becoming her husband. He was smarter and shrewder than his father had been, and he’d never surrender Greystone to anyone.

  He whirled away and climbed into the box as she shouted, “Roland! Stop this instant. You’re not making any sense.” She tried the door and found it barred, and she leaned out even farther, calling up to him. “Roland! Let me out!”

  “In a minute, Clarissa. Just relax.”

  “Roland!”

  He clicked the reins, and the horses raced away.

  * * * *

  “Where is my brother?”

  “Your brother? Isn’t he in London?”

  Angela stared at Rafe Harlow and told the lie, hoping she looked innocent and perplexed, but she couldn’t quite manage it. They were in the main parlor at Greystone, and she was seated at her writing desk, catching up on her correspondence. Rafe was across the room, a specter that had materialized just when he shouldn’t have.

  When she and Roland had plotted Captain Harlow’s murder, they’d worried about how to deal with Rafe Harlow. Angela had wanted Roland to slay Rafe too, but once the annoying oaf had trotted off to London, she and Roland had hardly pondered him again.

  Now he’d returned when he wasn’t supposed to have, and his inconvenient appearance had her on edge. She wasn’t prepared to answer his questions, wasn’t prepared to fabricate and deceive. She’d assumed she’d have more time to get all her stories straight.

  “My brother is not in London,” Rafe said. “He left for Greystone hours before I did. He should be here.”

  “He’s not. We haven’t seen him.”

  “Then why is his horse in the barn?”

  Dammit! It was the pesky details that would give them away!

  “I have no idea. Are you certain it’s his?”

  It was a stupid comment. Rafe Harlow was a soldier, so he practically lived on a horse’s back. He’d know one animal from another, and he’d specifically know his brother’s.

  “Am I certain?” Rafe scoffed. “You’re joking, right?”

  “It can be difficult to tell. Horses all look alike to me.”

  “I must speak with Clarissa. Where is she?”

  “She’s probably at the Dower House.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s decided to open it and move over there.”

  “To the Dower House?”

  He was puzzled by the news, and Angela said, “I agree it’s a mad plan, but when she returned from town, she seemed distraught. Why was she so upset?”

  Angela gnawed on her cheek, working to hide how she was gloating. Of all the endings Angela could have conjured, Clarissa’s being betrayed by the Captain—and so quickly too—was the best of all.

  Rafe glowered, his temper bubbling up, and for a moment, she thought he might actually confide juicy tidbits about the Captain and Clarissa. Instead, sounding imperiously conceited, he said, “Assemble the servants.”

  “The servants? Whatever for?”

  “I wish to question them.”

  “About what?”

  “I intend to ask them if anyone saw my brother riding in.”

  “I told you he’s not here.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  They engaged in a visual standoff, with Rafe—being male and overbearingly pompous—expecting she would back down. But she wasn’t about to take orders from him. She didn’t have to. The Harlow brothers had marched into Greystone and seized what never should have been theirs. And it no longer was.

  Captain Harlow was dead, and Clarissa a widow who would soon be married to Roland. Rafe was naught but an irritating loose end. With his brother deceased, and Roland about to own the property through his bride, Rafe Harlow had no more influence or authority at Greystone, and Angela relished the chance to get even with the accursed flirt.

  “Assemble the servants, Angela,” he repeated.

  She pushed herself to her feet. “Private Harlow, you’re laboring under the mistaken impression that I have to listen to you.”

  “Listen or not. I don’t care. I can talk to the servants without your help or permission.”

  He spun away, and she stomped her foot. “I forbid it.”

  He whipped around, his expression sinister and scary. “You forbid it? You imagine you can?”

  “I can’t guess as to what’s happened to your brother, but as you mentioned, he appears not to be in residence, and I’m hoping he never returns. If he doesn’t, then I am happy to inform you that you’re not welcome at Greystone. I insist you leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “Yes. Pack your bags and go. At once.”

  He rolled his eyes as if she were a child, as if she were a bothersome gnat he could swat away.

  “I’ll leave when my brother tells me to and not a minute before.”

  She yearned to shout at him, to apprise him that his bloody Captain Harlow was buried in a shallow grave behind the gamekeeper’s cottage. She wanted to preen with malice, to describe how shrewd and brave Roland had been, how cleverly they’d planned.

  Ha! Some hero Captain Harlow was! Shot in the back and vanished off the face of the Earth without a clue as to what had become of him.

  Yet she couldn’t say any of that, and with Roland away, she hadn’t the means to force Rafe Harlow to depart.

  “Roland will be home shortly,” she blustered, trying to frighten Rafe, but of course she didn’t.

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “He’ll make you go.”

  “I’m trembling in my boots, and why is he still loitering anyway? Isn’t he supposed to have moved away?”

  “My brother and I owe you no explanations.”

  “You might not think so, but if I see him skulking around ever again, I’ll chase him off with a stick. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to speak with the butler.”

  “You will not speak to him!” Angela bellowed, her voice shrill. “I am mistress here, and I am ordering you not to do it!”

  “You’re not mistress here, and the fact that you presume you are only indicates that you’re as deranged as I always deemed you to be.”

  Angela was ready to hurl a furious retort when Edwina hastened in.

  “I can’t find Clarissa,” she told Rafe.

  Rafe pointed a condemning finger at Angela. “This witch says she’s out in the Dower House.”

  “No, I talked to a housemaid who just walked back from there. Roland stopped by and dragged Clarissa into his carriage. They were quarreling too. The servants heard Clarissa yelling at him as they pulled away.”

  His glare terrifying, Rafe marched over to Angela. He loomed in, trying to intimidate her, and she had to admit he was succeeding. He looked positively ferocious.

  “Where has Roland taken her?” he hissed.

  “How would I know?” Angela blithely replied.

  No one was to have observed Roland kidnapping Clarissa. As with the Captain, she was to have vanished, with no one realizing she was missing until it was too late and her fate decided.

  Clarissa would wed Roland—whether she agreed to or not. Roland had wanted to wait, to let the months pass, to let Captain Harlow’s situation be noted, investigated, but unsolved. Then, once people were no longer interested in the Captain, Roland would propose to Clarissa.

  But Angela had understood Clarissa, had recognized that Clarissa would never consent to be Roland’s wife despite how they dithered, so there was no reason to delay.

  Roland had absconded with her and would force her into marriage. If she didn’t cause them too much trouble, she’d be allowed to stay at Greystone and carry on as she always had. But if she nagged or complained or moped, she’d suffer a mishap, just as her dead husband had suffered one.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time,” Rafe threatened. “Where is Clarissa?”

  “If
I don’t have an answer, then what?”

  “I shall beat you, lock you in your room, and starve you until you tell me what I wish to know.”

  “Private Harlow, you’re obviously trying to scare me, but you can’t. Again I must remind you that you have no further authority at Greystone. You need to leave.”

  “You keep saying that, and I can only wonder why. What makes you so sure my brother won’t be back?”

  He narrowed his gaze, actually appearing as if he might strike Angela. She would have stepped away, but before she could, a ruckus erupted out in the foyer. There was some shouting and exclamations of outrage, then boots pounded down the hall.

  Suddenly Captain Harlow burst in, looking hale and fit and very much alive. Other than a bit of a bruise on his cheekbone, there was no sign of a wound, no sign he’d been shot and had perished.

  He wasn’t wearing his uniform, but he was armed to the teeth, pistols in holsters on both hips, a large knife in his hand, a sword strapped to his back. He might have been a bandit or pirate bent on committing mayhem.

  He started toward her, and she yelped with fright.

  “Matthew!” Rafe Harlow said. “Where have you been? I thought this shrew had done you in.”

  The Captain didn’t glance at Rafe, didn’t respond. He simply kept coming, and Angela stumbled away. She shook with dismay. “What are you doing here?”

  “Surprised to see me, are you?” the Captain asked her.

  “You’re dead! What aren’t you dead?”

  “Dead!” Rafe barked, horrified.

  “I’m fine.” The Captain held out his arms. “I never felt better.”

  He reached for her, and she skittered behind a sofa, hoping to use it as a barrier, but it provided no protection. He stomped after her.

  “This can’t be,” she wailed. “This just can’t be!”

  “Why is that?” the Captain demanded. “I’m guessing—if you shoot a man in the back—you expect that man to pass away.”

  “She shot you in the back?” Rafe choked out.

  Angela quickly insisted, “It was all Roland’s idea.”

  “You’re innocent as a lamb?”

  “Yes! I told him he was mad to think he could kill you, and I begged him not to try, but I couldn’t stop him.”

  Then, though it was very strange, Captain Harlow turned to Rafe, and he studied Rafe as if he didn’t know who Rafe was, as if he’d never seen Rafe before.

  “Who is Roland?” the Captain asked Rafe. “Is he her brother? Is he the one who lost the property to Matthew?”

  Rafe scowled. “Well…yes. Are you all right, Matthew? Were you hit in the head? You know who Roland is. You shouldn’t have to ask.”

  “I’m not Matthew.”

  They all gasped, their eyes growing round as saucers. Was Captain Harlow insane? Had the bullet scrambled his wits? Was he suffering from amnesia?

  “Matthew”—Rafe spoke calmly, as if he was facing down a wild animal—“would you sit, please? I believe you might be ill.”

  “I’m not Matthew,” Captain Harlow said again. Bizarrely he declared, “I am Michael Blair, Matthew’s twin brother.”

  Rafe frowned. “Matthew doesn’t have a twin.”

  “Yes, he does. He’s always had one. Who are you?”

  “I’m Rafe Harlow.”

  “His brother? From his adopted family?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am his brother too, but I am his blood kin. My sister is Lady Run, and we’ve been searching for him.”

  “He can’t have a family besides me.” Rafe appeared stricken by the news. “It can’t be true.”

  “Trust me, it is.”

  The man sounded, looked, and acted just like Captain Harlow, but he claimed he wasn’t the Captain. How could he not be? There was nothing about him that was different from the Captain except that he wasn’t wearing his soldier’s uniform.

  When Roland had murdered the Captain, they’d been alone on the road and there had been no witnesses. If this man was Michael Blair, and not the Captain, how could he possibly know that Roland had shot Captain Harlow?

  Rafe and Mr. Blair gaped at each other, and with them being distracted, it was the perfect moment to flee. She raced to the door, even though Edwina was blocking her way. Angela fully intended to knock Eddie to the floor and run out, but Mr. Blair was on her in a thrice.

  He grabbed her and yanked her around so forcefully that her teeth snapped together. He tossed her to Rafe, saying, “Find something to bind her with, and tie her to that chair.”

  “Unhand me!” Angela fumed, trying to wrestle away from Rafe, but he was very strong and very angry and wouldn’t release her.

  “I would love to tie her,” Rafe replied. “It would give me great pleasure.”

  But apparently he was too disconcerted and confused to proceed, so Eddie walked to the drapes and removed the cords. She pushed Angela into a chair and bound her wrists and ankles as Michael Blair had commanded.

  “What is your name?” Mr. Blair asked Eddie.

  “Edwina, sir. Edwina Edwards.”

  “Can you watch this viper for me? Can you be sure she doesn’t escape until I return?”

  “Yes, I’d be happy to watch her…ah…Captain…ah…Mr. Blair.”

  He motioned to Rafe and said, “Let’s go.”

  “To where?” Rafe asked.

  “To get Matthew.”

  Rafe was astonished. “You know where he is?”

  “Yes, I know.” Michael Blair flashed a particularly ominous glare at Angela. “And he’s not dead.”

  Angela couldn’t abide his superior smirk, and she retorted, “Yes, he is! He’s very, very dead.”

  “No, he’s not, but you can take it up with him once he’s back. I’m certain he’ll be eager to discuss it with you.”

  Angela blanched with alarm, terrified of being confronted by Captain Harlow, of having to explain what they’d done. How would she?

  Mr. Blair and Rafe left, their booted strides swiftly fading down the hall. Then the room was eerily silent. Angela yearned to call for the servants to aid her, but they’d conveniently vanished. Roland was gone too. She was alone to face her fate.

  Eddie glowered menacingly. “Well, well, Angela, it’s just you and me for now.”

  “Bugger off, Eddie.”

  But Eddie didn’t listen, and with Angela lashed to the chair, she was helpless. Eddie went over to the fireplace and retrieved the poker, then she came over and waved it at Angela.

  “If you try to loose yourself,” Eddie warned, “I’ll whack you with this until you stop.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Yes, I would. I’d enjoy hitting you—very hard and several times—and you should be aware that no one who’s ever known you would mind.”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “First of all, this isn’t your house. It’s the Captain’s, who it seems is still very much alive despite your best efforts.”

  “He’s dead,” Angela blustered. “You’ll see.”

  “And second of all, I can’t leave. I have to stay until he arrives to ask why you and Roland murdered him. It’s a scene I absolutely refuse to miss.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  At first when Matthew opened his eyes, he was extremely bewildered. He couldn’t figure out where he was or what had happened. It was completely dark. Was it night? Was he blind? There was dirt in his mouth, and he coughed and spit, which only made him swallow a huge gob of mud.

  He raised a hand to swipe the dirt away, but the minimal gesture brought on a wave of pain so intense he was nearly paralyzed by it.

  Ah…Roland.

  He remembered it all. He’d been in a dazed stupor, his brother, Michael, distracting him from the danger lurking in the woods. Roland had shot Matthew in the back. He felt as if every bone was shattered, as if his entire being, down to the smallest pore, had been pummeled by hammers.

  But…where was he now? And how had he gotten there?


  He lay very still, trying to reason it out. His ribs ached, providing a new layer of agony, so he took shallow breaths, but even so, each inhalation drew muck into his lungs. If he wasn’t careful, he’d suffocate.

  He pushed with his arm, clawing with his fingers until he could force himself to a sitting position. His torso protesting, his thoughts confused, a few minutes ticked by before he fully grasped what had occurred.

  He’d been buried alive!

  He was in the remnants of a shallow grave that must have been hastily dug. Through the trees, he could see the rear of the gamekeeper’s cottage. It was raining lightly, a factor that might have saved him, as it had washed away some of the soil covering his face.

  He knew he should jump up and run after Roland, that he should bluster into the gamekeeper’s cottage, find Roland, and wring his scrawny neck. But he was a tad discombobulated.

  He’d suffered many awful mishaps in his life. He’d almost died in the fire when he was three. As a boy, he’d experienced all the usual accidents, falling out of trees and toppling off horses. As a soldier, he’d been wounded twice and stabbed once with a saber.

  So he was accustomed to pain and injury, but no one had ever deliberately murdered him. He’d always viewed himself as a very lucky fellow, like a cat—but with more than the customary nine lives. He had twenty or thirty at least.

  He’d been killed, buried, and resurrected, and as soon as he could gather his wits and his physical strength, Roland Merrick was a dead man.

  Matthew wondered how much blood he’d lost, how many ribs were broken. As he took stock of his reduced condition, he vaguely realized someone was calling his name. Initially he assumed it was a hallucination, but no. The shouting became clearer and moved closer. No doubt about it, two men were searching for Matthew. They were hollering, pausing, hollering again.

  He heard Rafe, but he heard another man too, and it was a voice he definitely recognized. It was a voice from his childhood, from his adolescence, from his adult years. It was the voice of his dreams, the voice of his guardian angel.

  He was feeling too poorly to yell back, so he shut his eyes and reached out with his mind, painting a mental picture of where he was. Michael would see. Michael would know.

  They located him quickly enough, but as they marched out of the foliage, they stumbled to a halt. They looked shocked, and Matthew could certainly understand why.