“I am glad you are here, Uncle,” Chrysanthe said quietly. She sent her mother a worried look. “And you, Mama. I need to tell you something.”
Lady Sinclair sighed in resignation. “I suppose I am about to hear what you, Annalise and Daphne have been up to, aren’t I?”
Chrysanthe’s jaw dropped. “You knew?”
“Please, Chrysanthe. I did not spend eighteen years raising you without learning when you are trying to hide something. I did not believe it could possibly be dangerous. That is why I never tried to stop you.”
Chrys sighed. It was so hard to fool her mother.
Uncle sat down comfortably. She sent him a curious glance. He appeared to be amused.
“Well?” he urged her, smiling. “I’m waiting, Chrysanthe. Captivate your audience.”
This was it. The moment of betrayal.
She twisted her fingers in her lap. “It began on Daphne’s birthday…”
She told them everything. She told them everything they had thought of and assumed ever since Baron Davernay had died, what they had done, and what they had not. She told them about the attempted murders. She told them about Daphne’s tears. In addition, she told them about the Duke.
“Mama, she loves him so much,” Chrysanthe whispered. “She is going to marry her cousin, all because of some stupid notion that they could never be together because…” She trailed off, sniffing. It upset her each time she thought of it.
“Daphne told me there was no truth to the rumors,” Lady Sinclair noted.
“I am sure there is none at all,” Chrys cried. “Well, at least not with the Duke.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Chrysanthe choked back a laugh. “Daphne admitted she did sleep with Annalise.”
Her uncle burst into raucous laughter. “The minx!”
Even Mama managed a small smile. “We are fortunate your father is not here.”
Uncle was still laughing.
“Mama, we have to stop her somehow,” she begged.
“Chrysanthe dearest, I have no right to even try to intervene.”
“But you don’t understand!” Chrys cried out. “Ever since we were girls, Daphne talked about how her parents loved one another. All those years, and her father had never even considered being with another woman. No matter what she says, it was her dream to find that same kind of love. She loves Anna’s brother, but because of some stupid idea that it is forbidden—”
“He is her protector,” Lady Sinclair hissed. “Such things are taboo. Think, Chrysanthe, if, after living together all this time, they were wed, the scandal would be immense. Not even his title could protect them.”
Chrysanthe glared. “Mama, you always taught me that more than greed or envy or hate, love is the most powerful thing in all the world. Love fights. Love conquers. Love cannot be destroyed.”
“I meant every word,” Lady Sinclair snapped.
Uncle was studying them quietly, waiting for the best moment to attack.
He chose the lull for his offense. “Chrysanthe, I now understand all the peculiar questions you asked me, although I must ask why you no longer trust my judgment.”
Chrysanthe flushed. “I do trust you, Uncle.”
He tilted his head and gave her the look. Grown men had confessed, weeping all the while, to all manner of treacheries beneath his daunting stare. Not Chrysanthe.
The criminals could learn a few lessons from his niece, he thought with wry amusement. She glared right back.
“There is something about that Elliot Morton that I don’t trust,” she insisted. “He seems quite wicked.”
To her surprise, her mother nodded her agreement. “I would never trust my daughter with him,” she said quietly.
Mama’s brother lifted a curious brow. “Oh?”
Mama laughed. “Elliot Morton simply oozes blatant sensuality. Oh, Chrysanthe, you would be right never to trust him. You would offer him your virtue and do any manner of terrible things, all without him ever asking. He may not be a particularly foul creature, however, but I do believe him to be one of the most dangerous animals in all of England.”
To Lady Sinclair’s annoyance, her brother laughed. “Spoken like a true woman.”
He stood then and peered out the door. He slowly turned back, frowning at his little, precocious niece.
“Do not fear that Mister Morton is a danger to your friend, not in the way you think,” he added when Chrysanthe opened her mouth to object. “One of your theories rings true, Chrysanthe. Someone has been trying, with increasing carelessness, to kill your friend for over a month now. It is also obvious that someone tried to kill her cousin.”
“But—”
“A man is innocent until proven guilty, my dear. I will do my own investigation into these matters. Rest assured, Chrysanthe, I will get to the bottom of this.”
Lady Sinclair stood, resting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Is Daphne Davernay in danger now?”
Her brother shifted uncomfortably. “Most likely. Her maid will know by now that she failed. Whoever these killers are, they are tenacious. It is only by mere chance they have not been discovered by now.”
“Mama—”
“Not now,” Lady Sinclair murmured. She had eyes only for her brother. “So, she could be attacked at any time, is that correct?”
“The probabilities would suggest she is never safe,” he agreed simply.
All three turned towards the doorway when there was a sudden banging on the front door. Servants came running past, helping two, bedraggled young women inside. Daphne ran forward to embrace a sobbing Annalise.
“Dear heavens,” Lady Sinclair whispered. She came forward. “Eton, bring them in here,” she ordered.
The grim-faced butler helped a limping woman to a soft settee, murmuring soothingly all the while. The young woman, obviously a servant, was coated in dried blood. Her face was an abstract of deep, purpling bruises. Her nose was crooked and continued to seep blood, even as she wept.
Chrysanthe drew Annalise back, taking her hands in her own and squeezing support. “Anna, what has happened?”
Lady Sinclair poured a snifter of her husband’s finest scotch. Her eyes were riveted to the young, broken servant. Quietly, she ordered her manservant to bring warm water to bathe her wounds.
“Daphne,” Annalise gasped. She took a long, deep breath. “He has Daphne.”
“Who?” Chrysanthe cried out. “Elliot?”
“Brentwood.” She promptly fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands as she sobbed.
“Brentwood?” Chrysanthe murmured, frowning. Nothing at all had pointed to the foul man.
“Kenneth?” Chrysanthe’s uncle muttered. “The Earl?”
Weeping still, Anna nodded. She lifted her tear-stained face to look at all of them. “James kept refusing his offers, but he would not give up. And now…now…” She could say no more.
Lady Sinclair sat by the young maid-servant. She brushed back blood-caked hair, surveying the damage. She took one shuddering breath, then another.
“He is capable of this?” she asked at last.
Chrysanthe helped Annalise to her feet. She wrapped a supporting arm around her waist. Anna leaned heavily, struggling to bring herself under control. The moment she once more looked at her trusty maid, she began to weep with fervor once more.
“Edith said she tried to deny him,” she managed around her tears. “When she came to, he was gone. No one saw a thing.”
“Where is your brother?” Chrysanthe worried.
“James went after them. But what if she’s already dead? What if—”
“He will be headed to Gretna Green,” Lady Sinclair said simply. “He will not dare hurt her more than necessary until he has what he wants.”
&nb
sp; “Mama, nothing pointed to him at all,” Chrysanthe wailed. “I never even suspected him.”
Annalise stared at her, shocked.
“I told them everything,” Chrys admitted sadly.
Anna sagged, whether with relief or fear, no one could say.
“A man can be foul and treacherous without being guilty of every crime ever committed, Chrysanthe,” he uncle told her simply.
“D-do you think he will hurt her?”
Chrysanthe shared a panicked look with her mother.
“No more than necessary to gain his ends.”
Lady Sinclair came to embrace the two girls. “He may not even have to touch her,” she murmured. “He could threaten to hurt someone she loved, or a pet. He could threaten to burn down her home. It would be lies, most likely, but if he thought she may go along with him just to protect that she loved—”
“She would,” Chrysanthe whimpered. “Daphne would die to protect a stranger, much less…us.”
“James said you would not turn us away,” Annalise whispered. “He said you would help all you could.”
Lady Sinclair smiled sadly. “James has a good memory. Come, girls. No more can be done tonight.”
“What will he do when he finds them?” Annalise wanted to know.
“Oh, he will likely kill him,” Lady Sinclair announced quite cheerfully.
Chapter Nineteen
Gretna Green was nothing like Daphne had ever imagined it would be. She had heard of lovers coming here when their parents denied them, and imagined a pretty little white chapel with flowers everywhere.
In reality, it was a small patch of muddy earth. An old, rusty anvil, or at least she thought it was an anvil, stood as the altar. Perhaps it was not quite as bad in the daylight, she thought unhappily. In the dark, with the rain pouring, it was a miserable spot, only made worse by the man who thought he was going to force her to wed him and the incessant throbbing in her cheek.
The village itself was surely not quite that bad. She glimpsed old, shabby looking buildings and in the dark, wet twilight, she could almost make out the inviting tendrils of smoke rising from chimneys. She would do anything for dry clothes and a warm fire.
Well, almost anything, she thought with an angry glare at the bloated man dragging her towards the local church.
“Be reasonable, my Lord Brentwood,” Daphne complained. “I cannot marry you in a wet nightrail and bare feet.”
“I thought I told you to shut up!”
Daphne sneezed. Great, she thought unhappily. On top of everything else, she was getting a cold.
Her toes sunk in a deep puddle. As she stumbled, struggling to lift her foot, there was a great twucking noise. She moaned.
“My Lord, be reasonable. I am—aahchoo—cold and—aachoo—wet and—”
Brentwood turned around and slapped her hard across the face. She fell on her bottom in a huge puddle. She tasted blood in her mouth.
“I told you to shut up,” he roared.
“A-aa-aaachoo!”
A nearby door opened, obviously someone curious about all the ruckus. She glanced at the minister in a silent plea.
“My lord,” the man wheezed in surprise.
“I need to get married.”
So much for gentlemen, Daphne thought mulishly. The minister had not spared her the merest glance. She gingerly struggled to her feet, only to slip in the slimy mud and fall to her knees. Grumbling about men in general, she managed to stand up. She would have brushed at her ruined dressing gown, but it was pointless by now, anyway. Besides, there was no one around she had any need to impress.
She sent Brentwood a wooden glare. Oh, if she had a gun… She sighed. She had to find a way out of this mess. There was no way she was going to marry the man. During the two-day journey into Scotland, he had made constant threats if she did not go along with him. Among them had been the threat of taking her into an inn before the ceremony. He seemed positive that she would marry him if they had their wedding night before the marriage. He also made more meaningful threats, of course, threats against James and Anna and Chrys, threats about her person. Indeed, she did not believe he’d missed a single one.
The moment she got back to London, she was going to the authorities about the man. He was obviously quite mad. The streets weren’t safe with him loose. Kidnapping innocent women, hitting them, threatening them. Forcing marriage and, if her guess was not wrong, taking a woman to bed without her permission or willingness.
No matter what he said or tried to do, she would never marry him. She would never allow him to touch her. Just the thought of it made her feel sick. She let loose a deep sigh.
“My Lord, I refuse to take one more step until you find a proper priest to hear my confession,” Daphne announced.
Her abductor sent a disbelieving look.
She nodded just to ascertain he believed her. “I am Catholic, don’t you know? If a priest does not hear my confession before our nuptials, my soul will be forever bound to eternal hellfire.”
Somehow, both men seemed to believe her outrageous lies. Obviously, neither of them knew all that much about the church. This man was just an ordinary cleric. Ordained enough to marry a couple, but hardly enough to hear, she thought with pride, a true confession.
“I don’t give a blasted damn about your soul, woman!”
She let loose a dramatic sigh and promptly burst into tears.
Apparently, the minister did have some redeeming qualities. He came over and led her to the brief overhang of his small, boxed dwelling. “There, there,” he cooed while absently patting her shoulder.
“How can he say he loves me when he doesn’t care about my soul?” she cried.
The minister sent Brentwood a disapproving glare.
“My dear lady, I may not be a priest, but I would be glad to hear your confession,” he soothed.
With that, the minister promptly led her into his small little dwelling, leaving Brentwood out in the rain.
Wonderful, she thought. She was going to get help and get warm. Things were looking better already.
She was sadly mistaken, however. There was no warming fire in the small little chapel. It was cold and bleak, as cold and as bleak as this muddy little cesspit of a village. The man was watching her expectantly.
“Help me,” she said quietly.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?” He blinked at her.
“Please, help me. The man is a monster—”
He acted as though he could not hear her at all. His eyes found the bruise on the side of her face.
“Did you walk into a wall, my dear lady? I am certain your handsome lord will have a midwife repair it after the ceremony.”
Daphne’s lips thinned. She stared at him, unable to believe his treachery. It was there, completely obvious. This was a man of God, she thought furiously. Surely he could tell precisely what had happened. Brentwood was a kidnapper, a villain of the most vile sort. Did this man not see that, or did he simply not care.
Her eyes moved past him, staring at an open purse on the table. She saw the unmistakable glitter of gold coin. She snorted. Well, apparently it did seem a man of God could be bought. At any price.
Her eyes implored him. “Can you not at least see that I get dry and warm first?” she begged.
“I will give you a moment to compose yourself, my lady. I suggest you join your beloved.”
She watched him walk through an open doorway. So, she was not allowed to ask for help; she was not allowed to trust in the decency of people. She thought, briefly, of knocking on every door until she found someone who would welcome her and help her. What if they were all like this man?
Just how many men successfully kidnapped unwilling women and forced them into marriage here? In her opinion, such a wretched place had to b
e shut down. Shaking with cold and anger, she turned towards the door. Brentwood was out there, just outside that door, waiting to brutalize her into submission. There was no way she would go through that door.
There were two windows on the left side of the hut, however. Not large, she thought, but surely wide enough to let her through. If she had to run around all night to keep away from him, she would.
Grunting slightly, Daphne lifted the window.
* * * *
Breathless, Daphne hunched down in front of a miniscule dwelling she judged, by the overpowering smell emanating from beneath the soaked wood, to be a garderobe.
Luckily, it was still pouring the rain. Great clouds hid the moon and stars. Although she had cursed the wet when she had first arrived, it had been to her benefit. Two hours past, she had managed to slip right past her ardent suitor without him seeing her at all.
He was in better shape than she had given him credit for. He had been running after her for hours. Soon, the chase would have to end, however. Dawn was quickly approaching. She had to find a way out.
She had hoped to steal his horse and leave him stranded while she rode back to England. Not much chance in that, she had quickly learned. The stable boy had apparently been alerted to the chase and was standing guard. He had almost caught her then, but she had managed to slip out the back entrance.
What the devil was wrong with these people? All she wanted was help against a vicious, bestial man. She shoved wet, mud-caked curls out of her face with an annoyed huff of breath. Oh, when she got back to England…
Her heart thundered madly. What if she never returned to England? What if Brentwood thought to kill her for giving him such a chase? What if he simply wed her and killed her, all for the sake of her inheritance? She cursed vehemently under her breath. Not for the first time, she desperately wished her father had not to left her so much.
“Alone at last, my love,” a raspy voice growled in the darkness.
Daphne jumped up and shrieked. He had found her! She tried to run, but it was no use. Her feet were stuck in the mud again. She felt his hands grasp the front of her robe.
A Kiss to Remember Page 19