She barely had time to take a breath before she heard another hum of air. This time, she didn’t react fast enough. The club struck against her lower back and glanced off her contused scalp. The pain was incredible, and her sight narrowed to tiny pinpricks of light. She fell to her knees, dazed and barely able to catch her breath. She blinked, trying to regain her senses. Bile roiled in her stomach and threatened to rise into her throat.
Marcel walked around her as if he were a gladiator in the great Coliseum, sizing up his foe for the killing blow.
Where was Valère? She needed to scan the area, but her muscles refused to cooperate.
“Knock her out.” Valère said from behind her. “We must be away.”
“With pleasure, monsieur.” When Marcel drew back his arm, Cora willed her shoulder to tuck and her body to roll. But neither followed her command. Her body seemed disconnected from her head, swaying in the breeze like a bedsheet draped across a line. All she could do was stare as Marcel’s fist slammed down toward her temple.
Then a shot rang out, and the henchman collapsed beside her on one knee before his fist connected. He held his shoulder, panting from the pain of the bullet’s impact. His eyes bore into hers with such malice that she felt their evil across the short distance separating them.
“Stop the earl,” Valère said to someone she couldn’t see. “You two, help my man and the other.”
“Are we not bringing her, monsieur?”
“Not this time.”
Marcel was lifted away by his compatriots, and they disappeared from view.
Cora found the equilibrium to turn and look behind her. Valère stood at the edge of the woods. The sight of him sickened her. There were so many things she wanted to say to him, rage at him. He had not only abused her body, but he also tortured her soul. At that moment, however, her fear for Guy and her servants and the awful image of Scrapper’s tiny body flying through the air plagued her mind far more than words of retribution.
“Very nice, little spy.” He stared at her almost calmly in the face of the chaos around them. “Perhaps your lover won’t be around to save you next time.”
Still disoriented, she swiveled back to locate Guy, but could see nothing beyond the green foliage. When she tried to stand, her knees buckled like a newborn calf’s.
“I fear Marcel hit you too hard,” Valère mused. “Before I leave, mon coeur, I wonder if you would be so kind as to answer something for me.”
Cora slid her hand into her skirt pocket.
“Is your brother as terrified of rats as you?”
His not-so-gentle reminder of Ethan’s circumstance was more than her fractured mind could handle. She released an agonized wail that sent birds rushing from treetops. “What have you done with him, you bastard?”
A cacophony of sound crashed through the brush not far away. “Cora!” Guy called.
Valère’s gaze flicked behind her then back. “I will keep him safe for you, Raven. Come to me when I call.” He stepped into the woods.
“No, take me now,” she demanded, stumbling to her feet.
“Too late, little spy.” A burst of wind carried his laughing reply to her ears.
His threat to Ethan still rang in her ears. “You’re not going anywhere.” Her hand tightened on the knife, and she moved forward, intending to protect her brother from this monster.
“No!” She tripped, and her knife went flying from her grasp.
“Cora,” Guy said again, pulling her upright and shielding her with his body.
Cora strained against his hold, at once relieved and irritated to be in Guy’s arms. “I’m fine. Let me go.” She stared into the woods, terror crushing her heart. Ethan. Dear God, what have I done?
“In a moment.” Guy rubbed soothing circles on her back. “Where are the damned guards?”
Disheveled and panting, Bingham broke through the underbrush. Blood smeared one side of his face. “Bastards are gone, m’lord.” He ducked his head. “Pardon, Miss Cora.”
“Dammit,” Guy fumed. “How is this happening?”
“Somerton suspects the French got to someone in the Foreign Office.”
“Indeed.” His hold around her tightened. “Still doesn’t explain how four guards disappear in the middle of skirmish. How the hell could they all turn tail?”
“I must check on Bingham.” Cora pushed out of Guy’s arms. She yearned to take off after Valère, but one look at Guy’s face told her he was ready for such an attempt.
She spread her hands out to the side to check her balance before approaching the coachman. “Let me see.” She turned his grizzled head from side to side, ensuring he sustained nothing more than the slash to his skull. “Looks like you’ll live. Dinks?” she asked around a lump of guilt. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to the open wound on his head.
“She’s fine.” He wiped blood from the corner of his eye. “Take more than a clubbing to hold that harridan down. She set off to find Jack and the other guards.” A note of admiration edged his gruff words.
Knowing her friends were safe sent a wave of relief rushing into her limbs. She coiled her fingers into a taut fist to stop their trembling.
“You’re going to need a few stitches, Bingham. I’ll see if Dinks is up for the task.”
He stiffened. “I’ll not let that woman within a league of my wound.”
“She has a much better hand for needlework than I, old friend.”
“No need to worry about marring this mug, Miss Cora. It didn’t start out pretty, so there ain’t no sense in worrying about it ending pretty.”
Cora squeezed her coachman’s brawny hand, her mind shifting to Scrapper. She hadn’t liked the lifeless quality to his body when he tumbled through the air.
“Let’s get you inside,” Guy said. “I don’t like having you out in the open like this. Valère or one of his men might double back.”
She understood Guy’s concern, but she also knew Valère was long gone. Come to me when I call. The bastard knew what the wait would do to her. He knew his taunting words about rats would slam her back into a hell of his making.
“He’s gone,” she said simply. “I must find S-scrap.” Her throat closed around the kitten’s name. The thought that he might be dead—by her hand—was tearing at her chest.
On feet heavy with dread, she strode toward the cluster of bushes that held Scrapper, with Guy at her side. She focused on the lone yellow leaf dangling from an otherwise bare limb. As she watched, the dying leaf broke free and drifted to the ground, joining the fallen remains of its brethren.
The air inside her lungs strained for release, and her heart pounded at a jarring rate. The truly alarming realization was the utter absence of warmth in her body, inside and out. Her limbs felt frozen and brittle, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.
“Cora, allow me,” Guy urged.
“No.” She could manage no more, for this was her burden to bear.
As she knelt near the dark hollow, blocked by briars and spindly branches, images of Scrapper attacking Guy’s boots, swiping the quill, and cradling her face with his tiny paws pelted her mind. Like all those close to her, Scrapper was a valiant warrior. Brave, fierce, and protective. And in a few short days, she had grown to love the little ankle-biter, as she did all her warriors. Please, dear Lord, don’t take him, too.
The ache in her throat grew so sharp she couldn’t breathe. By the time she peeled back the branches to see within, all thought, all feeling, had withered away with the sure knowledge that she had killed her kitten.
Fighting a wave of dizziness, she bent low to peer into the gloomy interior of the underbrush and saw the kitten’s big green eyes staring back.
Tears clogged her throat, and her vision blurred. “Hello, Scrap.” She peered up at Guy, overwhelmed with relief. “He’s alive. I didn’t kill him.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Guy kissed her forehead. “Now move aside, sweetheart, so I can pull him free.”
&n
bsp; She shifted to the side, and Guy reached in. And froze.
He sat back on his heels, not looking at her, and Cora felt her joy splinter. Then Guy settled his empathetic gaze on her briefly before bellowing, “Bingham.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take your mistress to the house.”
The coachman grasped Cora’s arm. “Come with me, Miss Cora.”
She shrugged him off. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Why aren’t you pulling him out of that hole?”
Guy’s voice was harsh. “Go with Bingham, Cora. I’ll see to Scrapper.”
“No! He’s alive. I saw him staring at me.” She tried to shove Guy away, but it was like pushing against the side of a mountain. “Move.”
“He’s gone, Cora. There’s no need to subject yourself to the sight.”
“You’re wrong.” Panic seized her body, and she dug the pendant from her bodice and clutched it in her fist. She needed to see Scrapper, needed to show Guy the kitten was simply injured. Not dead. Not like her mama and papa.
Guy glanced behind her. “Get. Her. Out of here.”
Strong hands grasped her shoulders and lifted her into a standing position. “No, Bingham. Let me go. I must see him.” Somehow she broke free of the coachman’s iron clasp, and she threw her body into Guy’s, catching him by surprise.
“Cora, no!”
Her hands burrowed into the darkness until her fingers wrapped around the kitten’s reassuringly warm body. She pulled him onto her lap and smiled when Scrapper’s gaze locked with hers. “You see?” She glanced at Guy, certain he would share in her elation, but his face was blank, emotionless.
The kitten moved, drawing away her attention. Cora stared in horror as his head cocked back at an unnatural angle, and his sightless eyes stared into the distance. Sightless. Not staring, but sightless.
For the second time in the span of a quarter hour, Cora lost her mind. “No. No. Noooo!” She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears to block the voices and images screeching through her skull. The madness moved from her head and channeled its way into her chest, squeezing with all its might. “Not Scrapper, too.”
A yawning white tunnel formed in her mind’s eye, bright and swirling, beckoning her inside. Blood drained from her face, and her fingers turned to ice. The tunnel started to close, swirled tighter until her eyes strained to see it. She swayed, feeling the blackness closing in on her. “Oh, Scrap. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry for failing you, too.”
Someone removed the small body from her lap as she rocked back and forth in her grief. Then warm arms pulled her into a solid chest, bringing her back from the edge of darkness. Distantly, she recognized Guy’s unique scent. He lifted her onto his lap and resumed the gentle rocking. “Cora.” His voice cracked. “You did not cause this, sweetheart.”
“I used him as a weapon, Guy. If not me, who? Who else would do such a disgusting thing?”
He shook her. Hard.
“Valère killed Scrapper. No one else. Certainly not you.”
“You don’t understand,” she cried.
He clamped his hands around her jaw and shoved his face to within inches of hers. “I understand more than you know. When we’re fighting for our lives, we act on instinct. Would you do anything different, Cora? If you could turn back time to the second Valère attacked you, would you act in any other way?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Really?” Guy prodded. “How would you change your reaction to the threat? In that moment, when your mind recognized the danger and your training took control, how would you deflect Valère’s assault?”
She could hear the panic in her sharp, staccato breaths. Desperately, she searched for an alternative reaction, something that would save both her and the kitten. She went through scheme after scheme, discarding each one. “My mind is too muddled to think right now. There must be—”
“No there mustn’t.” His voice was calmer, reassuring. “Your training guided you down the correct path. If you hadn’t followed, we would be mourning your death rather than the kitten’s.”
She released a slow, defeated breath. Now that the first rush of emotions had withered to a trickle, her head reminded her of the knock it had taken. Again. Rubbing her temples, she said, “May we go inside?”
“Of course.”
When she made to rise, Guy’s arms tightened and he rose with her in one smooth movement. She didn’t know if he was right or wrong about what she had done. All she could think about was closing her eyes and not opening them again for at least a sennight.
“Little mite,” Dinks said, rushing up to them. Her hair stuck out at various angles and contained bits of leaves and twigs. “Are you injured?”
“No, Dinks.” She snuggled deeper into Guy’s arms. “Did you hear about Scrap?”
Matching tears welled in the older woman’s eyes. “Yes. Just spoke to the old goat. We’ll give him a proper burial, we will.”
“Thank you.”
“Did the wee rascal get in a good swipe?”
A tear spilled over Cora’s cheek when she smiled. “More than a swipe, Dinks.”
Delight shined in the maid’s eyes. “That’s my boy. How much more?”
“Skewered his right eye.”
Dinks squealed, and Cora glanced up to see Guy’s smile. Although the terrible guilt remained, warmth flooded her chest.
Guy started toward the house. “Put on some hot water, will you, Dinks?”
“Right away, sir.”
“Dinks?” Cora called over Guy’s shoulder.
“Yes, Miss Cora.”
“Bingham’s head needs stitching. Will you see to it?”
A short pause. “I’ll tend the old goat, don’t you worry none.”
“And Dinks?”
“I promise not to poke him too hard.”
Cora shared a look with Guy. “That’s not what I wanted, but please do.” She swallowed. “Don’t bury Scrapper without me.”
“Are you sure, little mite?”
“Never more so.”
Guy kissed the top of her head. “Rest first, sweetheart.”
Cora didn’t think she would ever rest again. Her mind sped through recent events with an almost inhuman speed. However, somewhere between the front lawn and the grand staircase, her body began to relax and her thoughts slowed. With Guy’s arms supporting her and his scent surrounding her, she began to drift into slumber before her head ever touched the bed.
Twenty-Three
When he heard a tentative knock on his bedchamber door, Guy paused in the act of removing his stockings. Having just extracted his timepiece from the pocket of his discarded waistcoat, he knew it was a few minutes before eleven. To have a visitor at such a late hour generally meant the deliverance of unpleasant news or the appearance of a delectable evening companion. Since Cora was presently fighting a horrible megrim in her room, Guy steeled himself for the disagreeable news.
Glancing down at his untucked shirt, bare feet, and loose hair, he briefly considered throwing on his silk banyan but discarded the notion. He wasn’t feeling particularly civilized at the moment and, besides, it was much too warm to wear the voluminous dressing gown. He braced his left hand on the door frame and opened the door wide. “Yes?”
Cora stood on the other side, looking lost and heartbreakingly frail in her wispy cream nightdress and with her sleep-rumpled hair. His heart dipped into his stomach. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Am I disturbing you?” She took in his dishabille with a mixture of chagrin and avid interest. “Please tell me if I am… I don’t wish to bother you, but I—”
He grasped her hand and drew her inside. “Nonsense. How is your head?”
Guy’s chest expanded at her slow response. From the way her gaze stayed affixed below his chin, he did not think she minded his current state of dishabille. When awareness softened her features, he was suddenly glad he did not take the time to draw on his banyan.
Closing the door, he led
her to one of the two high-backed chairs curling around the low-burning fire. Instead of sitting anxiously on the edge, she sank into the depths of the soft cushions and folded her legs to the side. She looked so young and vulnerable in that moment. He liked the fact that she felt so at ease with him. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who had spent three years bedeviling the French with her wit, beauty, and keen observational skills. Her ability to adapt to her ever-changing circumstance was nothing short of remarkable.
She brushed her fingers over her forehead and along her temple. “Down to a dull ache. Thank you for asking.”
“Dinks showed me how to make her megrim concoction,” he said. “Shall I mix you another dose?” As always, the maid’s special brews contained a healthy measure of brandy.
She shook her head. “I’m tired of sleeping and do not wish to have a fuzzy head any longer.”
The subdued quality of her voice unnerved him. He knew how to deal with her anger, her fear, and even her stubbornness. But the hint of defeat he heard slipping between syllables was a sentiment he knew not how to manage.
An uncomfortable feeling of helplessness kept him silent and watchful. He studied her like a naturalist studies the mating rituals of a puffin. But she gave no sign or provided any clue as to how he could help her cope with her most recent setback. He realized then that it had always been thus with Cora. At an early age, she had experienced the staggering loss of her parents, and later, the loss of a young lady’s come-out ball. But she had not allowed those events to destroy her, although her parents’ murders had come close.
The scene of Cora digging a small grave for Scrapper seared through his mind. Although the somber ceremony had occurred several hours ago, the knot in his gut seemed as tight as ever. Other than accepting a shovel from Bingham, Cora had refused all other offers of help. So her servants and he had stood quietly by while she labored over the hole, sweating and growing weaker by the moment. They had all breathed a collective sigh of relief when the last shovel of dirt was carefully spread on top of the small grave.
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