by Cheryl Holt
He announced it with such pompous confidence, his rugged, annoying personality shining through, and she decided she needn’t worry about him. Her dashing, smug captain was still lurking in there somewhere.
Michael handed a knife and pistol to Matthew.
“I don’t expect you’ll have trouble on the way,” Michael said, “but you never know.”
“I’m surly as a bear,” Matthew replied. “No one would dare approach me with malicious intent. They’d get a good look at me and steer clear.”
“No doubt.” Michael laughed. “Are you sure you can do this?”
“I’m sure,” Matthew snapped.
“Do what?” Clarissa inquired, but they didn’t answer.
Roland had regained consciousness. He scowled and peered around, and when he saw Clarissa, he glared at her with such hatred that she was startled by it.
Suddenly Matthew’s stoic expression bothered her. “What will you tell Roland that you don’t want me to hear?”
“It’s between him and me. We’ll be along directly.”
Clarissa gestured to the interior of the carriage. “Couldn’t you toss him inside and bring him now? Wouldn’t that be easiest?”
Matthew and Michael shared a furtive glance, a secret message relayed as if they could read each other’s minds.
“Matthew and Mr. Merrick will be fine,” Michael insisted. “Don’t fret about either of them.”
“I’ll follow you to Fox Run,” Matthew said. “I’ll need you to doctor my wound.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Michael sounded positively gleeful.
“I’m not,” Matthew muttered with a grimace.
Michael clicked the reins, called to the horses, and they pulled away. Clarissa stared over her shoulder, watching Matthew until they rounded the bend, and he vanished from view.
She shifted and groaned, every bone in her body beginning to ache and throb.
“I feel as if I’ve been trampled by a herd of wild horses,” she confessed to her new brother-in-law.
“You’ll probably be miserable for a few weeks.”
“I’m concerned about Matthew. He didn’t seem all that hale and hearty. He’ll be all right won’t he? He’ll be able to handle Roland and make it home?”
“Of course he’ll be all right.”
“You just met him. How can you be so certain?”
Michael grinned. “You’d be surprised what I know about him. He’s as tough as I am, and that’s pretty darn tough.”
* * * *
Matthew waited until Clarissa disappeared. She’d been in shock and not thinking clearly. If she had been, she’d have realized she shouldn’t have allowed Matthew to be alone with Merrick, and Matthew hoped Clarissa wouldn’t miss her cousin too much.
She was too kind, too forgiving. At the moment she was shaken and angry, but as time went by her memory of the incident would fade. She’d recall that Merrick’s kidnapping hadn’t been all that dangerous. She’d feel sorry for him.
But she would never get to that point in the future. Matthew wouldn’t let her get to that point. He was returning to his regiment, and if Roland Merrick was alive and loitering at Greystone, Clarissa would never be safe.
Once she was out of sight, he marched over to Merrick. Michael had bound his feet and hands, and Matthew untied the rope at his ankles.
“Stand up, Merrick” he commanded.
“Bugger off, Harlow.”
“Stand up,” he repeated. “I won’t tell you again.”
“I’m trembling in my boots.”
Merrick was displaying much more courage than Matthew would have imagined he’d exhibit. Yet with nothing left to lose, what else could the man do but bluster and rant?
He was a mess, blood soaking his hair, face, and coat. Clarissa had clocked him a good one, and he had a gaping wound on his scalp. It had to hurt like the dickens. Michael had inflicted additional damage, so Merrick was beaten and battered, an eye swelling shut.
“Some hero you are,” Merrick taunted. “I shot you in the back, and you didn’t even see it coming.”
“You’re a tricky devil, Merrick,” Matthew sarcastically agreed.
“Yes, I am. Don’t you forget it.”
“I won’t ever forget. As I draw my last breath, I’ll likely think of you.”
His ribs would always protest that brutal kick. He’d broken plenty of bones in his life, and on cold or stormy days his body ached relentlessly. The injury Merrick had delivered would be one more in a long line of injuries that had never completely healed.
Currently it was his shoulder and back that plagued him. The ball had to be extracted—and soon. With each passing minute, he was losing stamina, losing strength. He could barely lift his arm, but he could lift it enough for what he had to accomplish.
He reached into his coat and took a slow drink of the brandy in his flask, then he bent down and yanked Merrick to his feet.
Merrick turned toward the horses as if he actually presumed they’d climb on them and follow Clarissa. Could he truly be that thick-headed? Didn’t he understand what drove Matthew? Didn’t Merrick grasp why Matthew was so powerful?
“We’re not getting on the horses,” Matthew said. “Walk over into the woods.”
It finally dawned on Merrick that he was in trouble. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you should walk over to the woods.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d rather slit your throat over in the trees so we’re away from the road, but we can finish it here. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Slit my throat!”
“You put your filthy paws on Clarissa. What did you assume would happen when I caught you?”
“It never occurred to me that you’d catch me. You’re supposed to be dead. I buried you! Why aren’t you rotting in the ground?”
“I’m contrary that way.”
Merrick’s gaze grew shifty, his eyes darting about, searching for an escape route. Yet his hands were fettered, and there would be no escape.
“But…but…you told Clarissa we’d be right behind her.”
“I lied.”
“She’ll expect me to ride in with you.”
“I’ll tell her you headed for London, that I chased you away with orders not to return to Greystone. I’ll tell her I gave you a chance to leave, and you took it.”
“She’ll never believe you.”
Matthew shrugged. “So?”
“If I’m harmed, she’ll be upset.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“She won’t. We’re very close. She’ll be devastated.”
“No, she won’t and besides, I’m not about to harm you. I’m about to murder you.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Merrick huffed. “You can’t just…just…kill a man.”
“It’s what I do for a living. It’s what I’ve always done. I won’t even break a sweat.”
For a moment, Merrick looked as if he’d run after all, and Matthew hoped he wouldn’t. He didn’t feel hale enough to pursue the fool. Instead Merrick tried to call out, and Matthew swung a fist and hit him under the chin with such force that he collapsed with a bone-crunching thud. He was dazed and befuddled, but he didn’t attempt to rise. Maybe he couldn’t.
“Get up,” Matthew said.
“Sod off.” Merrick spat a wad of blood. “I demand you turn me in to the authorities. I demand you have me arrested and taken to jail, that I be allowed to retain an attorney.”
“No attorney can help you. You dug a hole for yourself, and I plan to bury you in it.”
“You are the one who’s supposed to be buried.” Merrick peered up at the sky and wailed, “Why can’t anything ever go right?”
“You’re possessed of a bad destiny, Merrick. Your entire life has been a string of awful decisions, and your decision to kidnap Clarissa was the worst one of all.”
“No, it was brilliant,” Merrick claimed. “If you’d perished as you were meant to, I’d be
fine.”
“You’re deranged, Roland Merrick. Now stand up and die like a man. I hate to execute a fellow when he’s groveling in the dirt.”
“You don’t have the balls to kill me.”
“You really don’t think so?”
“No, I really don’t.”
Matthew reached down and hauled Merrick to his feet again. Merrick wobbled and swayed, and Matthew had to hold him up.
“You made a grave mistake, Merrick,” Matthew said.
“How?”
“First and foremost, you didn’t confirm that I was dead.”
“You seemed to be.”
“And second, no one hurts the people I love. Not Rafe. Not Clarissa. No one ever gets to hurt Clarissa.”
“You love Clarissa?” Merrick laughed, the sound an eerie cackle that raised the hairs on Matthew’s neck. “That’s the most ludicrous comment I’ve ever heard.”
“In light of your perfidy, there’s only one possible ending.”
“What is that?”
“You know what it is.”
They stared, a lethal silence festering. Up until that instant, Merrick hadn’t thought he would suffer any consequences. He’d thought he could escape or talk his way out of punishment, but he didn’t fathom how grievously he’d erred in going after Clarissa.
“Have you any last words?” Matthew asked.
“You’re being ridiculous. You’re not killing me.”
“Yes, I am. Have you any final words?”
“You’re not killing me!”
“Have you any final words for your sister?”
“Of course not. I’ve always loathed her.”
“I’ll tell her for you.”
Matthew had slain many men in his life. Roland Merrick’s death was no easier or harder than any of the others. Matthew lifted his pistol and shot Merrick right through the center of his cold black heart.
Merrick dropped like a stone, Matthew releasing his coat, letting him fall. He watched for a few minutes to be positive Merrick was deceased, that Matthew’s shot had rung true. But Matthew was an expert at killing and much better at it than Roland Merrick could ever have dreamed of being.
Matthew grabbed Merrick’s coat and dragged him into the woods. He riffled in Merrick’s pockets, delighted to find his medal for valor. He stuck it in his own pocket, then murmured a quick prayer for Merrick’s wicked soul.
If Matthew had been kinder or more considerate—or if he hadn’t felt so horrid—he’d have dug a shallow grave, would have shown Merrick the same courtesy he’d shown to Matthew.
Yet Matthew wasn’t kind or considerate, and Merrick would be left to the elements. The crows would pick out his eyes.
Matthew whipped away and went to the horses. His energy was fading, and it took a bit of maneuvering to hoist himself up. He gripped the reins of both animals, glanced around to check that he hadn’t forgotten any details, then he trotted away, needing to get to Fox Run while he could still stay in the saddle.
* * * *
Clarissa had been deposited in the front parlor at Fox Run. She was dawdling, nervous, out of place, and confused as to her role and how she should be behaving.
Lady Run wasn’t at home, and a footman had been dispatched to locate her and bring her back. Michael Blair had assumed control of their situation, barking orders to the servants, having laudanum and whiskey poured, knifes sterilized, and a room readied for a surgery.
Then he’d rushed off again to meet Matthew out on the road, to escort him the rest of the way, which Clarissa deemed a very good idea. Matthew shouldn’t be on his own, and Clarissa should have put her foot down, should have insisted Matthew travel with them in the carriage. But how would she have accomplished that precisely?
Matthew had been determined to speak with Roland alone, and if Clarissa had learned anything at all about Captain Harlow, it was that he only did what he chose to do and naught else.
Apparently Michael Blair was competent to treat Matthew’s wound. Again though, Clarissa wondered if she shouldn’t have demanded they send for a physician. She’d mentioned it once after their arrival, but Michael had scoffed and claimed Matthew would receive much better care from him.
Clarissa couldn’t figure out how to intervene, or if she should intervene. She was Matthew’s wife. Should she tell Michael Blair to stuff it and begin making decisions? Would Matthew want her making the decisions instead of his brother? Clarissa had no expertise in medical surgeries and didn’t trust doctors any more than Michael Blair.
What if she took charge but bungled the whole affair? Michael Blair appeared to know exactly what had to be done. Wasn’t it best to let him proceed?
She was in a desperate state. Her clothes were dirty and torn, her face and hands filthy, scraped, and bruised. With the drama of the afternoon waning, she was extremely weary too, her limbs like lead weights. Her movements were sluggish, her thoughts scattered and befuddled. There was a sideboard in the corner, and she went over and poured herself a whiskey. She gulped it down, then wished she hadn’t.
She wasn’t a drinker, and with her stomach empty the libation gurgled and left her nauseous, and her lethargy was even more pronounced. She staggered to the sofa and eased herself down.
It seemed as if an enormous amount of time had passed since Michael Blair had departed, but according to the clock, it had only been forty minutes. How could that be? She’d been waiting an eternity.
Suddenly there was commotion in the driveway. Servants were running, people shouting. Clarissa hurried out to the foyer as Matthew and Michael entered the house. Roland wasn’t with them, but at the moment she was too distraught to be concerned about him.
Matthew looked wan and pale, and he was limping, his pain more evident. Michael had an arm around Matthew’s waist and was carrying most of Matthew’s weight, as if Matthew couldn’t manage on his own. As they crossed the threshold, Matthew stumbled and nearly collapsed.
Clarissa cried out and raced over to him, but he’d regained his balance. Michael lugged him along, hastening toward the room at the rear of the mansion where the bullet would be extracted.
Clarissa fell in behind them, but Matthew pulled up short. Michael stopped too.
“I don’t want her here,” Matthew muttered to his brother.
“Don’t fret about her now,” Michael replied. “You have bigger issues to worry about.”
Matthew glared at her over his shoulder and snapped, “Get the hell out.”
“What?” Clarissa stammered. He was angry and incensed, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her.
“I can’t bear to have you hovering and clucking like a mother hen.”
“Oh.”
“Go to Greystone at once.” His voice was cold and hard.
He was being very direct, very blunt, yet still she persisted with arguing. He was injured and couldn’t be thinking rationally.
“I shouldn’t leave, Matthew. I should stay with you.”
“I don’t need you!”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. I need Rafe. Tell him what’s happening and that he must attend me immediately.”
“I guess I can do that.”
She didn’t move, and he bellowed, “Go! And send Rafe to me.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll send Rafe.”
He and Michael were already rushing away, Michael dragging him down the hall. Matthew was totally spent, as if he’d used every ounce of his energy to make it to Fox Run, and he had nothing left.
She blinked, and he and his brother slipped around a corner and vanished. She tarried, feeling stupid and foolish and completely irrelevant as a woman, friend, and wife. But why be upset?
When she’d fled London, abandoning him to his mistress, she’d been clear as to her feelings about him. He was being clear now. He was in a dire condition, and he didn’t need her. He wanted his two brothers, and while she didn’t mind so much that he’d called for Rafe, it galled her—just a tiny bit—that he’
d picked Michael Blair over her.
Clarissa didn’t know Captain Harlow all that well, but Michael Blair hadn’t seen him in twenty-seven years.
But…so be it. His brother, Michael, was by his side, and Rafe would be too. Wasn’t that best? Clarissa actually had no claims on the Captain. Certainly she could probably assert some legal ones, but there were no emotional ones. She and the Captain had spoken vows, but they were mostly strangers and barely married.
The house had grown quiet, and Clarissa was anxious to depart. She’d arrived in a carriage, but it had been taken to the barn, the horses unhitched, and it would be a huge effort to have it prepared. Briefly she considered walking home, but it was several miles to Greystone. She was exhausted and battered and—if she dared admit it—a tad heartbroken by Captain Harlow’s renunciation. She hadn’t the stamina to make it on her own.
A housemaid hustled by, and Clarissa said, “May I bother you for a moment?”
“It’s no bother, Mrs. Harlow. How may I help you?”
“I have to get to Greystone Abbey right away, but I’m incredibly weary. I don’t think I could walk.”
“Of course you shouldn’t walk. If I let you, Lady Run would never forgive me.”
“Could someone drive me?”
“Yes, absolutely. Please sit down, and I’ll have the stable boys assist you.”
“Thank you.”
The woman hurried off, and Clarissa lurched to a nearby chair and plopped down. She listened intently, keen to hear Matthew and Michael talking, to have a footman come by so she could ask how the surgery was proceeding.
Then again, there likely wouldn’t be any news so soon.
A niggle of doubt crept in.
What if Matthew dies? What if he dies and I never told him I was sorry?
Gunshot wounds were often fatal. What if Clarissa flitted off and tragedy struck?
As rapidly as the prospect arose, she shoved it away.
He was with his brother—as he’d demanded to be. He yearned to be with his other brother too. Clarissa would head to Greystone and fetch Rafe, then she’d have carried out the Captain’s wishes.
He’d be surrounded by the two people he loved most in the world. She tried to tell herself to be glad he’d have his brothers with him, that she should be glad he cared about someone—even if it wasn’t her. Yet the realization was cold comfort indeed.