Flynn reached the landing and raced along the corridor to Althea’s chamber. Empty. Doors banged back revealing empty rooms as he ran, calling her name. No answer. His heart beating, he threw open another door, his mind dealing with the facts as he found them. She’d had time to strip her bedchamber of her possessions and arrange a signal to alert them when Crowthorne was on his way to the house. Therefore, she would’ve had time to choose a hiding place. But where? The oubliette. Would she go down there? She’d turned away in horror when he’d shown it to her. Hardly daring to breathe, Flynn ran down the winding stone stairs. The dungeon door was locked, the key gone. Did Quinn have it? Damn, he wished he’d thought to check him for it. He would have to go back.
Flynn spun around.
The loud blast of a gunshot echoed hollowly around him. Surprised, Flynn crashed back against the wall. When his legs failed to hold him up, he slid to the floor. A dark mist began to blanket his sight, and he could just make out Crowthorne aiming a kick at his side as he stepped over him. The key in his hand, Crowthorne laughed and stood at the dungeon door. Flynn felt his blood drain from his body, his pistol wavering in his weak arm. He raised it in Crowthorne’s direction while he fought to make his useless fingers work. Then he knew no more.
*
Had she heard gunshots? Not knowing what was happening made her bite her lip in frustration. Althea feared for Quinn and the other servants. Crowthorne wouldn’t care who he shot. He could hold them for ransom and demand to know where she was. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
She shivered violently, her clothes damp, the dank air filling her lungs. Goosebumps sprung up on her arms. At the bang of the trapdoor, she started. It was too dark above her to make out who was at the top of the ladder. She didn’t dare cry out for it could be Crowthorne. Had he tortured poor Quinn to find out where she was? Not able to stand it a moment longer, she jumped up from the chair dropping the blanket. She edged backward and came up against hard cold stone. Please let it be Quinn! All they need do is light a lamp and they would discover her here. There was nowhere to hide. She removed the safety catch from the pistol and waited.
At the clank of the grill, she held her ground, taking huge breaths to steady herself.
A dark shape appeared on the ladder.
She stepped forward and raised the gun.
“That’s quite far enough. Declare yourself, or I’ll shoot you,” she said, forcing the words out with a gasp.
“Please don’t shoot, Lady Brookwood,” a pleasant voice said. “It would be an embarrassing way to die.” The big, fair-haired man came swiftly down the ladder. “And I’ve no doubt you want to leave this cursed place.”
“Lord Strathairn!” She choked the words out. He reached her as her legs crumpled.
She gripped his arm. “Just as well I didn’t shoot you,” she said with relief. “I thought you were Crowthorne.”
“I’m glad to hear it wasn’t something I’d done to upset you,” he said. “Allow me to assist you up the ladder.”
It should’ve been Flynn. “Where is Lord Montsimon?”
“He has been injured, but he lives, my lady.”
“What happened!”
“He was shot. We have sent for a surgeon.”
Althea gasped. “Take me to him, please.”
Strathairn’s strong hands pulled her out through the hatch. When he led her out the dungeon door, Althea stumbled. A crumpled body lay against a blood-spattered wall. Crowthorne’s head had sunk onto his chest, his eyes blank.
“Flynn shot him,” Lord Strathairn said in a brisk tone. “Made a dashed good job of it in the circumstances. It appears Crowthorne took him by surprise.” He hurried her past Crowthorne’s body.
They reached the stone stairs leading upward. “How badly hurt is he? Tell me the truth, please.”
“I have every confidence he will rally. Hard to keep a man like Flynn down. He’s been taken to his chamber,” Lord Strathairn said in a calm voice.
Was he merely placating her? Gasping, she hurried ahead of him.
In his chamber, Flynn lay still in the four-poster bed, his face far too pale. Althea was relieved to find his hand warm when she held his palm to her cheek.
“I’ve bandaged him the best I could until the doctor comes.” Lord Fortescue drew a chair up beside the bed for her. “Fortunately, there’s no need to dig for the ball. It passed right through his shoulder.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“We gather that Crowthorne forced his way in. Flynn will tell you everything when he wakes.”
She studied the neat strapping binding Flynn’s shoulder and chest. “You have some expertise, I see, Lord Fortescue.”
“I had much practice during the war.”
“You’ve had a trying time, Lady Brookwood. Can I order tea for you, or something stronger?” Strathairn asked.
“Thank you, but I’m all right. Where is Quinn? Are the servants safe?”
“Quinn was injured when they broke in, but he’ll recover,” Strathairn said.
Althea’s eyes filled with tears. Quinn had tried to protect her. “But he will recover?”
“He will. Just a bad headache.” The baron placed a light hand on her shoulder. “And try not to worry about Flynn.”
She bit the inside of her lip so hard she tasted blood. Flynn’s dark eyelashes fluttered on his cheek. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. She placed her hand on his forehead. “You are sure?”
“As I say, I’ve tended many wounded. For you to be here when he wakes will be the best medicine.”
“He is fortunate indeed to have such friends by his side.” Althea gazed up at Strathairn. How grave he looked. Was the baron merely trying to ease her worry? “I shall take care of Flynn,” she said. “I’m sure you both could do with a drink. There’s Irish whisky in the drawing room.”
Strathairn bowed. “An excellent idea. I’ll endeavor to get tea sent up. The servants are rushing around like headless chickens, I’m afraid. Lord Fortescue and I will await the surgeon downstairs.”
Still holding Flynn’s limp hand in hers, Althea sat in the quiet room, her eyes remaining on his face. He couldn’t die. She loved him. God would not be so cruel.
A flustered maid brought in the tea tray. Althea sipped the brew to moisten her dry throat. Barely tasting it, she put the cup in its saucer.
Flynn’s eyes opened. He peered dazedly at her. “Althea!”
“Oh, my love.” She impatiently swiped at the tears beginning to cloud her vision.
His face twisting in pain, Flynn struggled to sit up.
“Please don’t move, darling. The surgeon will be here soon.” She poured a half-glass of brandy that Lord Strathairn had sent up with the tea and added a dash of water to it from a jug on the dresser. She supported Flynn, adding a pillow behind his head. He drank a little, and color flooded back into his face.
He laid his head back on the pillows. “Crowthorne?”
“Dead. You shot him.”
Flynn’s brow lifted and his eyes widened. “I did?”
“According to Strathairn.”
His smile became a painful grimace. “I have you here, safe, that’s all that matters.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“I will later. I love you, Althea.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I have for a long time. You must forgive me for my tardiness. I’m a slow-witted fellow.”
She smiled as hope warmed her. “That you are not.”
“I want to marry you, for us to share our lives together…but the king’s grant was not a financial one. I remain a very poor bargain.”
Althea raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed your mind then? You wish to marry an heiress?”
“No!” He huffed out a painful laugh. “Good God no!”
“Then we shall manage.” She would wear rags and starve just to be with him.
“The king wishes me to become ambassador to Spain.”
Her heart lea
pt. “Then we will go to Spain.”
“Spain remains far too dangerous.” He frowned “Will you wait for me?”
“No, I will not. I shall come with you. You shan’t get rid of me that easily.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” he said, smiling slightly.
“I mean it Flynn. You’ll not leave me behind.”
He sighed. “I expect you’ll wish to live in England. Not here in this shabby place which is impossible to clean and heat.”
“I love this house. You haven’t had a chance to appreciate my improvements.”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “What have you done?”
She told him of her small touches and her plans for further improvements.
He ran a finger along her cheek. “How lucky am I?”
“I love you, Flynn.” She leant over him and carefully pressed her lips to his. Flynn’s good arm came around her and, with a soft moan, he deepened the kiss.
“Begorra!” The door had opened to admit the surgeon carrying a leather case. “I was called to attend a man at death’s door. That cannot be you, my lord?”
Lord Strathairn, who followed the doctor in, grinned and nodded at Flynn, then left the room again.
“How are you Dr. O’Leary?” Flynn smiled. “It’s been a long time.”
“I’m in fine fettle, but what about you?” The surgeon approached the bed. “I would’ve preferred our meeting to be under better circumstances.”
“This is Lady Brookwood, doctor. My betrothed.”
Dr. O’Leary bowed his head. “My felicitations, my lady. Now let’s see to this wound, or you will make for a sorry bridegroom.” He removed his half-hunter from his waistcoat pocket and took hold of Flynn’s wrist. “I won’t need to bleed you. And I see someone who knows a thing or two has strapped you up. A shame I must remove it.” He opened his bag.
“Will he be all right, Doctor?” Althea watched him cut away the bloody bandages.
The doctor leaned over Flynn, examining the wound. “He’s a strong, healthy specimen. A clean wound by the look of it, so, baring infection, I believe so.”
“Do you need my assistance?”
“No, my lady. All is well.”
“Then I’ll leave you to treat his lordship,” Althea said, the relief making her voice tremble. She left the room before she cried again. She hurried down to see how Quinn fared. Flynn loved her. He had asked her to marry him. He must get better. He must!
Chapter Thirty-One
Early spring, County Wicklow
A month had passed since Flynn had been shot and their lives rid of Sir Horace Crowthorne. As the days grew warmer, Flynn recuperated in the sheltered walled garden, drowsing with a book in his lap while the new inhabitants, Jet and Spot, having sorted their differences, stretched out at his feet and Althea fussed around him. He liked being fussed over, he discovered, and suspected he’d become a bit of a fraud. He was well enough now to ride and intended to take Althea over the estate later today.
Flynn looked up and smiled as Althea crossed the stone paving toward him. She was so beautiful in a blue and white spotted gown and flowery straw hat she took his breath away. “I bring your mail.” She took the chair beside him as he sorted through the correspondence.
“John writes that he and Sibella will be here for the wedding,” Flynn said. “As will Guy and Hetty.”
“And Aunt Catherine. How absolutely perfect,” Althea said with a sigh.
“The house will be filled with guests again.” Flynn’s concerns for his finances returned to plague him. He hated that he couldn’t afford to take Althea to Paris for their honeymoon. And if the king decided to visit, Flynn would be hard strapped to put him up in fine style. And then there was Owltree Cottage. He knew it meant a lot to Althea. She would want to spend a part of the year there. He desperately needed the funds to restore it.
“What other news does John have?” she asked, moving her chair closer and leaning against him.
“His sister, Eleanor, is returning to London from Devon and his younger sister Georgina intends to find her a husband.”
“I hope she does. Eleanor is a wonderful woman. She should not remain a widow.” Althea smiled at him. “No woman should miss what marriage has to offer.”
He grinned, recalling their earlier time spent in bed. “And a mutual friend of ours, Andrew Hale, Duke of Harrow, is to return to England from Vienna. He was posted there some years ago after his wife died.”
“I remember. He has two children.”
“Yes. He was heartbroken to lose his wife. Quitted England and has seldom returned.”
Althea stood. “I’ll send for some coffee.”
He studied a letter from Italy. “No, wait a moment, Althea.”
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter. “Good lord.” Flynn read in silence, almost disbelieving its contents.
“What does it say?” she whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s from my mother’s solicitors. Apparently she left a will which has now passed through probate.” His voice shook with disbelief. “I knew she’d gained a divorce from my father after leaving Ireland. She then married Timothy Keneally. What I didn’t know was that after Keneally died, she wed again, this time to an Italian baron and became Baroness de Mondroni. Her husband died a year before she did. Because the baron had no issue, she has left me property in Florence and rather a lot of money.”
“My goodness!” Althea’s lovely eyes widened. “Only fancy, she became a baroness. Perhaps her life was an agreeable one.”
“I like to think so,” Flynn said. He pulled her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her.
Althea leaned against him. “Your mother loved you, Flynn.”
He felt her tremble in his arms and turned up her chin to kiss her. “I do believe she did, my love.”
After breakfast, Flynn took his first ride and relished every moment as he escorted Althea around the estate. The tree branches were painted with green buds, the air sweet with blackthorn covered in white blossom, and the first daffodils buds had sprung up in the hedgerows. The fields would soon be a mass of wildflowers.
“Let’s ride to the cliffs,” Althea said. “I often walked there when you were away.”
They trotted their mounts over the pastures, skirting bramble and wild broom. At the cliffs, they dismounted.
His arm around Althea, Flynn nodded toward the horizon. “We shall have to go back to England soon to settle things, Owltree Cottage among them. I haven’t forgotten how much you love it. We can spend part of the year there if you wish.”
“I still love Owltree Cottage, because it was the one thing I had to sustain me through the difficult times. I clung on believing I’d find peace there, but my life is with you, wherever that takes us.” She laughed. “And perhaps it wasn’t perfect peace that I really wanted.”
Flynn cupped her chin and bent to brush a kiss against her lips. He felt so tender and protective toward her. “I can’t guarantee our lives will ever be peaceful. There are great changes ahead here with the dissolution of the Irish Parliament.”
“I know how much you wish to be part of it, Flynn. We’ll face together whatever life levels at us. As we did Crowthorne and his cronies.”
She slid an arm around his waist and they stood for a moment watching the gulls soar overhead, their shrill cries almost lost beneath the sound of pounding waves, before mounting and riding back to the house. Soon, guests would begin to arrive. Sunday was their wedding day.
Epilogue
Sunday, the wedding
The rain clouds had drifted out to sea and the day dawned fine. A sign of good luck for the beginning of their life together.
When Althea came down the stairs, Flynn’s heart warmed with pride. How exquisite she looked in her Indian muslin gown wrought with silver, a wreath of wildflowers in her hair. She held a horseshoe bound in white satin ribbon that one of the maids had given her for luck.
In the small Greystones vill
age church, Althea’s loving gaze told him everything as he spoke the words he never expected to utter. “By the power that Christ brought from heaven, mayst thou love me. As the sun follows its course, mayst thou follow me. As light to the eye, as bread to the hungry, as joy to the heart, may thy presence be with me, Oh one that I love, ’til death comes to part us asunder.”
After signing the registry, they emerged to find their friends and a determined crowd of villagers waiting outside the church, their hair and clothes whipped about by the fresh sea wind. They stopped to greet each one of them in turn before climbing into the landau. “Take the long way home from the church, Gaffney,” Flynn instructed.
Her brows knitted. “Why the long way?”
“For good luck.”
“It won’t be good luck if the rain clouds return.” She laughed. “You are teasing. I doubt you believe in such things.”
“I do.” He pulled her close and lowered his voice. “But I have a quite different purpose in mind. Everyone awaits us back at the house, and I wish to kiss my bride in private.”
She shook her head, but her smile broadened in approval.
That evening, Flynn stood with Althea at the front door, his arm around her waist as they waited to welcome more guests. The glow of braziers curved along the driveway to where the first of the carriages appeared. He glanced up at the night sky. Thin clouds veiled the waxing moon. “A growing moon, another sign of good fortune.”
“You Irish are so superstitious.” Althea’s voice was tinged with laughter. “Brigit told me I was not to wear green and that I must never take both feet off the floor when we’re dancing. It’s because of the fairies, apparently.” Joy bubbled up in her laugh. “I might be spirited away by the little people.”
He chuckled. “I’m not about to risk that happening. You are more persuaded by these superstitions than you pretend. What about the satin horseshoe?”
“Brigit meant well. I didn’t wish to offend her.”
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 25