She would rather die protecting them than to lose them.
Breathing deeply of this knowledge, she felt courage rise within her, and she clenched her weapons with assurance. Ash and the twins were worth whatever happened next.
At the first flicker of fire near the privy’s base, she signaled the men waiting in front. Then lifting her skirt, she gracelessly ran to the back as if she were Boudicca heading to war—if war goddesses carried large paint buckets.
Celeste’s voice rose in a compelling scream just as Christie reached the rear yard and set down her paint pail. Determinedly holding her branch ready, she braced herself.
Moments later, a rough looking man clattered out the back door. With no compunction whatsoever, Christie stepped out of the shadows and bashed the branch over the back of his head, then slapped him with a brush full of paint.
“Take that, you blackguard!” she cried as he staggered and hit the ground.
31
Snapping off a piece of the rotted window frame with his bare hands, Ash halted his demolition at a feminine voice crying for help in the yard several stories below. “Who is that?” he demanded, gut clenching and panic rising.
The twins stopped sweeping the shattered glass aside with their feet to listen.
“A lady is in trouble.” Hartley said anxiously. “We need to help her.”
His boots hit the bare wood floor in the direction of the locked door.
Ash already knew the door couldn’t be budged. His shoulder was sore from trying. Hartley pounded and kicked at it anyway, irrationally consumed by the need to help a lady he didn’t know and couldn’t see.
Hearing the sound of breaking glass, Ash hoped Hugh was using his coat sleeve to clear the glass clinging to the frame. “It sounds like Aunt Celeste. She’s in trouble. I can get out now—”
Celeste—and her damned haunting voice. He’d have to start believing in her compulsion if she could drive the twins to irrationality. Even he had almost fallen for that cry. Now that he listened, he could hear the lie in her call.
Ash grabbed his son’s coat and yanked him back into the room. “If she’s here, then so are the others. Look before you leap. What do you see?”
“The privy is on fire! Hart, come see.” Hugh leaned past Ash, apparently shaking off his need to leap from tall windows with this new distraction. “Look, isn’t that Miss Chris mashing the smelly man on the head?” He laughed in delight as if watching clowns at a circus. “She got him good. Look, he’s out for the count!”
Ash sensed that Hugh was nearly jumping up and down with excitement. Ash, on the other hand, thought he might swallow his tongue in terror, and his gut turned to stone. What the devil was Christie doing out there? And Celeste. He was almost glad he couldn’t watch.
“Do you see anyone else?” he asked, praying the women weren’t alone. He’d counted at least six hired thugs, plus Bryght, Montfort, and of course, the dastard Lansdowne. Nine armed men against two defenseless women would be bad, but he hoped Christie wouldn’t be that foolish.
“Uncle Jacques is twirling a swordstick at the bald one,” Hartley cried gleefully, pressing up to the broken window. “Can we climb down now?”
Ah, if Jacques was here, then Christie had been smart enough to seek aid.
Angry voices erupted in the rooms below—followed by a pistol shot.
“Damnation.” Now that he needn’t be quiet, Ash booted out the remainder of the frame. He didn’t want any of his family shot by anyone other than himself. “Climb onto the porch roof and guide me when I come out. I can tell where the edge is but not what’s below.”
The boys scrambled out, disturbing old roof tiles and sending them clattering to the ground. More shouts erupted. A hound—or a mastiff?—howled. Heavy feet, accompanied by shouts, thudded through the downstairs.
Christie’s triumphant voice yelling, “For England!” offered some relief. He would have laughed, but if he climbed out this window, he was in serious danger of breaking his fool neck.
“Uncle William!” Hartley crowed. “He has a ladder. We don’t need to jump.”
A ladder was marginally better than jumping. He’d still prefer stairs and a wall to guide him.
“What is that yellow I’m seeing?” Ash leaned over the sill to follow the motion. Thank all the heavens, the sun was actually shining for a change.
Hugh laughed in delight. “Miss Chris is smacking them with a yellow paint brush—after she bashes them with a wrench. She broke her stick on the fat man. No one can come near her.”
She was marking the culprits so Ash could find them—he laughed at her ingenuity. His remarkable bride was making a cake of herself while risking her neck for him. Despite his fear of falling and cracking his head again, his heart swelled two sizes, and he couldn’t prevent a grin from splitting his face.
“Isn’t that Baron Montfort?” Hartley cried. “Look, Miss Chris is so mad, she can’t stop slapping him with the brush! He’s waving his arms and shouting at her, and she keeps dipping the brush in the pail and smacking him again. He’s all over yellow and spitting paint, the coward!”
“One should not hit an unarmed gentleman with a brush,” Ash intoned formally, holding back his laughter at the image conjured. This, he really wished he could see.
“What light in yonder window breaks?” Jacques called from below, slapping the ladder against the roof loud enough for Ash to hear him.
“Ladder is up. Let’s go. You first, Father,” Hugh said in concern.
Ash rumpled his unruly curls. “Go down and help Christie. I hear a key in the lock and prefer a more civilized exit.”
He lied. Only one person had that key, and he fully intended to throttle him, earl or not. Ash located the piece of window frame he’d set aside. They’d taken his other weapons, but even his fists would do once he had Lansdowne in range. He hadn’t spent a lifetime boxing out his frustrations for nothing.
The boys scampered down the ladder. Groping his way across the small room to stand beside the door as it opened, Ash smelled the earl’s sweat through the deteriorating scent of last night’s brandy and pipe smoke. Lansdowne evidently had never gone to bed in his effort to build this trap.
Waiting until he could see the shadowy motion entering, Ash swung the broken frame as hard as he could. He connected with a skull and cracked the rotten wood.
A body sprawled across his boots.
From the hall, Zack called, “Thanks, Cuz. I didn’t think a peasant was allowed to hit a lord, and I wasn’t about to step through that door first.”
“Peasant.” Ash snorted at this description of his educated cousin, son of a viscount. He shoved Lansdowne with his toe. “The stick was rotten, Pill-Face. Get up and fight like a man.”
“Not with a gun at my back,” the earl said furiously. “I’ll see all of you hang for assault and invasion of my property.”
A gun? If Zack was armed, that gave Ash a nice wide safety net.
“I’m surmising the bank owns the property now.” He reached down to grab the earl’s collar, contemplating strangling the bastard. “And by the time I have you held on kidnapping and assault, you won’t have a lawyer to stand on.”
“That wasn’t me! That was Montfort!” With a lunge, Lansdowne twisted free to tackle Ash’s legs.
Ash toppled like a felled tree, cracking his head on the floor.
A pistol shot reverberated from the open window above Christie’s head, the one the twins had emerged from—the one where Ash was no longer standing. Gripped by terror, she shouted a warning that brought everyone running.
A moment later, a stranger garbed in gentleman’s clothes scrambled out of the window over the porch roof.
Where was Ash? Terror clutched her heart. She set down the useless paint brush and wrapped both hands around the deadly wrench. The man on the roof had the distinguished mien and expensive attire of an aristocrat but was clambering precariously down the roof without an ounce of dignity. Did she dare strike him when he cam
e down the ladder? Should she?
“Lansdowne,” Aster murmured beside her in a tone of horror. “He must be—”
Her scream joined Christie’s as the earl tripped on a broken tile and lost his balance. He slid toward the edge of the slanted roof, flailing his arms in search of support. Finding none, he tumbled off the edge, falling head over foot to the crushed gravel drive. He landed with a bone-crushing thud.
Christie screamed in shock, but panic had her searching the empty window above. Where was Ash?
If this was the earl who had caused her family so much grief, she could easily disregard his pain. Remembering the gunshot, hysteria set in. If Ash was up there and alive, he’d be at the window right now. He had to know she was here. The twins would have told him.
“Ash!” she shouted frantically. When he didn’t appear, she couldn’t contain herself any longer. Letting others tend to the earl, she ran for the ladder.
Zack’s broad frame filled the broken window. “He’s been injured. I need help carrying him out.”
Oh God, oh my Lord, help her in this hour of need. Injured? But alive.
Realizing it was safe to go inside now, Christie lifted her skirt and raced for the back door with the twins on her heels. The men were still tying up or chasing the earl’s hired thugs, but Aster and Celeste joined her.
Zack met them at the top of the stairs. “Women can’t carry him,” he cried, appalled. “Fetch the berlin and the driver.”
Christie shoved past. The twins dodged around. Aster and Celeste turned about to do as commanded.
Ash lay sprawled, spread-eagle, on the barren floor. His tailored frock coat was torn, dirty, and exhibited other signs of struggle. Christie ached at how he must have bravely fought to protect his sons, even though he couldn’t see his assailants. Terrified, she fell down on her knees beside him and slid her hand beneath his waistcoat, hoping for a heartbeat.
Sighing in relief that he breathed normally and his heart still pounded, she lifted his poor head to see if he’d cracked it again.
Dark eyes snapped open, and a slow, dazed smile spread across his face. “Viking goddess,” he murmured in satisfaction, before grimacing and closing them again.
“Oh, thank all the heavens!” Weeping, Christie fell across his broad chest. “I thought I’d lost you. Don’t ever do this to me again, you beast, or I shall beat you senseless. I swear I will.”
Ash’s strong arms wrapped around her, and she was almost certain she felt a chuckle rumble.
“She means it, old fellow,” Zack said with amusement. “I’ve never seen a more ferocious woman. Don’t ever teach her to use a pistol or you’re a dead duck.”
“Do I look like a simpleton?” Ash grumbled, not moving. “Having a Valkyrie at my back is dangerous enough without arming her.”
Terror turned to fury that he’d risk his neck so stupidly. Christie sat up and smacked his shoulder. “You arrogant monster! You didn’t tell anyone you were driving a curricle!” She almost screamed this last. “You didn’t even stop to ask for help. Do you think you are a god? I ought to . . .” She stopped to think of something bad enough.
“Kiss me?” he suggested.
“Kick you,” she said firmly. “In the shins. As soon as you are up again.”
“Make it my left leg, please,” he said, almost penitently. “That one still aches when it’s damp. It’s easier to limp on only one leg.”
Zack laughed, and Christie nearly wept at his humor when she could feel his pain. “You will not ever, ever do anything so arrogantly insane ever again, promise!”
“I promise I will try not to crack my head again,” he agreed, deliberately missing the point. “Hartley, Hugh, come here a minute.”
Christie was reluctant to release him, but the boys needed reassurance. Now that she knew he was whole and not the least bit addled—or no more so than usual—she sat back so Ash could hug his sons.
He ran his big hand over their faces in wonder, as if memorizing them, then hugged them both at once. “I’m proud of both of you. Now go feed the dogs and let me talk to Christie. You, too, Zack, begone.”
“We need to take you to a physician,” Christie protested, wiping her eyes. “Can you stand?”
“Out!” Ash roared when the others heeded her and not him.
“At your command, lord and master,” Zack said wryly. “C’mon, boys. Your father’s hard head has overcome worse knocks.”
“The vote,” Christie whispered anxiously. “We must return in time for you to lead your guests and friends.”
“The Commons won’t give up speechifying and shouting at each other until they’re all starved and ready for bed,” Ash predicted after the others left. Opening his eyes, he ran his hand over her cheek. “Before anything else happens, it’s more important to say what I’ve never said to another. You are a woman above all others, my beautiful Miss Chris, and I worship and adore you beyond measure. I have little experience at love, but if what I feel now is anything at all like love, it terrifies me. My heart feels as if it might explode. You make such a splendid marchioness that I’m afraid that I don’t deserve you, and you’ll realize that sooner rather than later. Don’t ever leave me, or I think I shall perish of a broken heart. That’s a rather daunting admission for me, so don’t expect to hear it often.”
Tears poured down Christie’s cheeks, even as she choked back laughter at the erudite marquess’s impatient—not impassioned—speech. She yanked his ear in retaliation, then rained kisses on his bristled jaw. “I’ve nearly suffocated my heart trying not to love a man I know will make me miserable. I have to accept that you’ll trample me into the dust as you race about, saving and exploring worlds I can never imagine. But if there is any hope that you might love me back, I’ll love and admire you even when you’re flinging inkpots and behaving like an arrogant . . . donkey. You are so strong in the face of adversity . . .” She choked on all the emotion attempting to pour out at once—words she almost hadn’t had a chance to say.
“I have been a miserable tyrant.” He pulled her down to kiss her again. “But if a woman as indomitable as you can love me, I know I’ll learn to be a better person.”
She covered his face in laughing kisses at this foolishness. “Don’t pretend to be what you are not. I know you don’t understand and probably can’t accept that I can feel your love right now. It’s pouring out, as if it’s been imprisoned for too long. So even when you’re at your worst, I won’t doubt you, as long as your love runs true. No one but my mother has ever loved me, but I remember what it feels like, and it’s glorious.”
“Then I shall try very hard never to look at another woman,” he said fervently, “Or I’ll expect to be murdered in my sleep. You are the only woman I shall ever love, and the only person I’ll allow to see me flopping around like a babe.” The towering marquess wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Now that the others are gone, help me up, my love. I feel weak as a newborn lamb.”
Laughing with joy, she helped him to regain his feet.
He could see his wife.
Ash held his breath as he struggled to stand, terrified his narrow bit of vision would disappear when he shifted position and all the blood rushed from his head. It was rather like looking through a crack in the wall. He had to tilt his gaze to see anything more than her nose, but he could see Christie!
His head pounded worse than he could remember, feeling as if his brain matter sloshed around inside his skull. Only Christie’s words of love held the frayed strands of his hope together. For this goddess he’d been granted, he would climb mountains naked. He was well aware that he’d played the part of fool—and she not only forgave him, but loved him for the selfish arrogance that had driven every other woman away.
She understood that was who he was—and still claimed to love him.
He clung to her soft shoulders, studying each perfect feature that appeared in his limited vision as he painfully found his feet.
His wife had hair the color of ripe
wheat. Fine strands had escaped the confinement of her braided chignon to tumble around a complexion of pale rose and cream. And her eyes . . . Ash fell into the depths of the blue sky over his fields in summer. She was the embodiment of the rich, fertile land he loved, all sunshine and roses and promise.
No, she wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t use cosmetics, so her lush pink lips matched the faint blush in her cheeks. And her lashes were as light as her hair, which made him wonder about lower parts. He hid his grin as he staggered upright and kept her possessively in his grip. His life contained enough drama for a dozen people. He needed Christie to be just as she was—a thorny English rose all his own.
He was terrified of telling her he could see her. She had threatened to run away if she thought he could see again.
She had deliberately lied about the danger his sons were in—to protect him. A woman as independent and courageous as that might think it necessary to leave—so he wouldn’t have to look at her supposedly plain, statuesque self.
Women took insane notions that he had little chance of comprehending, especially with his head pounding torturously. So he limped along beside her and down the stairs without saying another word. The stairs were dark. It strained his narrow glimpse of the world to see where to place his foot . . . but if he concentrated, he could see the motion of his boot as he set it down. He couldn’t see anything else while doing so. In another time and place, he’d roar his frustration, but for this moment . . . seeing the dirt on his boot pleased him enormously.
She led him outside where the winter sun opened the world to him again. Ash could hardly keep from falling to his knees in gratitude as he carefully turned his pounding head and saw the concerned expressions of his brothers, cousin, and uncle, one by one. He refrained from wincing at the glimpse of Lansdowne’s body sprawled face first in the drive, his neck at an angle that left no doubt of his condition.
Theory of Magic Page 27