My Darling Caroline

by Adele Ashworth

  “The war is over, Philip,” he ridiculed in utter contempt. “The English have won, the French have fallen. You have nothing to fight for now that Bonaparte is exiled for good, the troops are disassembled, the money gone. Why did you come here to continue this game of tactical illusion when you could have stayed on the Continent and become a new person?” He grinned cynically and sneered. “Perhaps you should have given up on me and centered your time on something constructive like…learning to please a woman well enough to keep her in your bed for an entire night.” He chuckled mildly. “Now there’s a novel thought.”

  Cords of hard muscle in the killer’s neck stood out against his starched shirt, his side whiskers flared with the tightening of his jaw, and Brent was encouraged.

  “You are a fool, Raven,” he spat in abhorrence. “But I should have understood your stupidity because of what you are—an English bastard who still, with all his education and deductive reasoning, cannot clearly grasp why I’m here.”

  For the first time since walking into the greenhouse, Brent was uncertain. Philip despised him and wanted him dead, but it was also quite true that in coming to England, to Miramont, he took an extreme risk in never returning to his homeland. They were equally skilled, but he had the advantage this time by being on his ground. Philip knew this.

  As if reading confusion in his hesitation, the Frenchman laughed. “It was the woman.”

  For several seconds he remained unsure, then slowly the fog began to clear. “Christine.”

  “Christine,” Philip repeated through an arrogant grin, “the woman who spread her legs for you but whose heart belonged to France.”

  He reached for a lock of Caroline’s hair again, intertwining it with his fingers, and it took every ounce of strength Brent possessed not to lunge at the man for touching her, frightening her, using her to enrage him. He placed his hands on the table, beside each hip, and squeezed it for control.

  Suddenly and without provocation, Philip yanked her to her knees with his fist in her hair.

  “Brent!”

  Her scream of terror and pain consumed him, and he jumped to his feet, eyes blazing in fury, face contorted in absolute hatred.

  “Leave her alone,” he warned in a whisper.

  Philip’s eyes turned as hard as dark, gray marble, piercing his, defying him to attack, keeping his tight grip on Caroline, waiting.

  But Brent refused to look at her, knowing instinctively he’d lose what self-control he still maintained, and she would die before he even reached her. She whimpered softly, her hands in her lap, eyes closed, tears streaming down her cheeks; that much he could see without dropping his gaze. He remained where he was, erect and challenging in his stance, legs spread wide, hands on hips, facing them.

  Philip slowly shook his head and switched tongues once again in an attempt, he was certain, to upset and intimidate Caroline with his English words as they became rough and crass.

  “You thought you were so clever fucking her, learning about me and my talents from her, but it never once entered your mind that she knew you were an English pig, that she was using you, hating you.”

  Brent clutched his hips with his hands as it all finally began to sink in.

  “She told you of me on purpose, Raven, to win your affections, your trust—”

  “She never had either,” he said almost inaudibly.

  A nerve in the killer’s cheek twitched as he gripped Caroline’s hair even tighter around his hand. “I came to this filthy island, to your home, my old friend, understanding the risks, just so I could look you in the eye when I told you it was Christine who betrayed you to the French.”

  Slowly Brent whispered, “I know.”

  Philip’s eyes widened just perceptibly enough for Brent to realize he’d startled the man with that disclosure. In truth, he didn’t know this at all, but it did make sense. He’d often wondered how Philip had learned he was English when not one other soul in six years had ever suspected, why Christine had not only disowned Rosalyn but despised her as well. She’d dropped their daughter on his doorstep as if she’d never existed—not in England when she was seven months old as he’d originally told Caroline to keep her unaware of his secret life in France, but days after her birth and at the only residence about which the courtesan knew—his home on the Rue de la Politique in the center of Paris.

  In all the years he’d bedded the woman, she’d received her own pleasure from the couplings when she so desired, but she’d never wanted closeness, never wanted to really talk, only asking questions of him when it pertained to Napoleon, his court, his government, things that should hold very little interest for a woman of her profession. She’d been spying on him without his awareness, had probably been planted in that position purposely because Philip suspected him from the moment they’d met, and although he’d never divulged information or the fact that he was English, Christine had discerned the truth over time. She was the perfect informant, and he’d never suspected she was anything other than what she appeared.

  Brent remained calm as he laughed softly, pathetically. “I knew about Christine from the beginning, Philip, my old friend,” he returned pointedly, allowing just the slightest trace of sarcasm to creep into his voice, dropping his gaze to the table and brushing stray dirt off with his fingers. “I understood who you were, what game she was playing when she took me to her bed, and I was the one who laughed inside each time she spread her legs for me. I used her, and you would have saved your life by confronting me with such old information when you attacked me at Waterloo.”

  He looked back to the killer’s face, into cutting gray circles of rancor now conveying fire instead of ice, rage instead of confidence.

  Cautiously, quietly he added, “You were the one she betrayed in the end, because you are here, Philip. Christine was your weakness. She made you a fool, and your devotion to a whore has killed you.”

  The Frenchman’s body became rigid, his eyes glassy, and in a strained voice he contended, “But I will not die until I kill yours, mon ami.”

  Stillness descended on the greenhouse, the air thick and tense, the room filled not with the scent of flowers, but with the smell of sweat and fear. Although Caroline kept her eyes tightly shut, she knew she was going to die in seconds. Her husband couldn’t save her; he had no weapon, was too far away to simply attack Philip, and she was held firmly in his grasp by her hair. He would break her defenseless neck before she had time to realize it was happening.

  So, with resolution and in a surge of courage and love, she raised her lids to look at her husband one last time. In the same slice of time, she felt a whoosh of movement, heard the madman at her side grunt heavily; then he slowly released her, stumbling back a foot or two before he fell against the back wall of glass and slid to the ground.

  She gulped for air, shaking violently, heart thundering wildly as she forced herself to look back at him.

  He stared at Brent with eyes wide in horror, his expression incredulous, and the slender, ivory handle of a knife sticking out from his chest. She watched him reach for it, desperately attempting to pull at it, but his strength waned as blood, thick and ruby red, quickly seeped from the wound and into his stark, pristine shirt.

  Suddenly Brent was beside her, grabbing her under her arms and lifting her to hug her against his chest.

  “Don’t look, Caroline,” he demanded in a tender whisper of sweetness, cupping her head with his palm.

  She buried her face in his shirt, trying to stand on weak, shaky legs, to calm her breathing and her tears as they flowed from her tightly shut eyes of their own volition. She felt the tenseness in his arms, heard his heart pounding rapidly beneath her ear, and with the knowledge that he had been just as frightened, the shock overwhelmed her and she began to sob uncontrollably.

  “He—he hurt me…My h-head—”

  “Shh…I know, sweetheart,” he cut in brokenly. “I have you now. I have you.”

  He held her tightly for minutes, allowing her to
cry openly, kissing her temple, weaving his fingers through her hair, rocking her gently.

  “H—how did…How did you—”

  “Rosalyn told me,” he answered soothingly, understanding her need to know and the numbness created by talking about it. “She found me, agitated, and with a little deduction I figured it out.” He brushed his lips against her forehead. “I grabbed the first weapon I could find, ran here faster than I’ve ever run before, stopped outside to catch my breath, and when I felt it was the right moment to confront him, I tucked the knife into my breeches and moved in to rescue my beautiful wife who foolishly stood up to a killer.”

  Trembling again inside and shaking her head in negation, she squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her hand to lightly cover her mouth. “You saved my life,” she whispered against her palm.

  With those words he buried his face in her hair, tightening the strong, comforting arms encircling her waist and back. “I would never let anything happen to you, Caroline.”

  From the tenderness in his voice, she wanted to mold herself against him, to become a part of him and never let him go as she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “I’m so sorry.”

  Gently he raised his hands to cup her cheeks, tilting her face to his. Brushing her tears aside, he waited until she steadied herself with a long, full breath and opened black, damp lashes once more.

  “Listen to me carefully. You need to return to the house quickly, find Harolds or Cressing, or even Davis for that matter, and have one of them send for the authorities. Then send Carl here alone. Nobody else.”

  “I don’t want to leave without you—”

  “You have to,” he insisted. He read uncertainty in her expression and shook his head. “I need to stay here to assure that nothing is touched or moved until the magistrate arrives. There will be questions and a full inquiry, I expect, and I’m afraid I’ll be in the middle.”

  After a moment of indecision, she nodded negligibly.

  “It’s all right, little one,” he consoled with a grin. “You defied my authority as your husband, and now I’ll have to punish you. That will give you something to think about until I return.”

  She stared into his softened gaze, reaching up to touch his jaw with her fingertips. “Brent—”

  “I know,” he whispered, kissing her palm, acknowledging each intense emotion gracing her features and radiating from deep in her eyes. “I know, Caroline, but not here. Tell me later.”

  Her throat ached as she nodded in understanding and reluctant agreement, and slowly he released her. She walked to the door and, with one hesitant glance back in his direction, swiftly left the green house.

  Brent waited, watching her until she disappeared into the thick foliage and growing darkness of late afternoon, then turned back to Philip.

  The man had died in stunned awareness that he had been beaten by the Raven, by the English, on their soil. How ironic for him. Even with the shock of death on his face, he appeared cold, remote, his steel-gray eyes like a lifeless doll’s as they gazed blankly into nothingness.

  Brent wouldn’t close them, wouldn’t touch the man again, and suddenly, filling with an almost sublime sense of serenity, he realized that what had remained of his violent past of destruction, of death and blood, resentment and loneliness, was finally put to rest. The war was over, the fear was gone, and eventually, finally, the nightmares would cease to exist as well. The best of his life was only just beginning.

  With such a calming thought filling his mind, and with every intention of walking to one of the benches and collapsing, allowing the lingering tenseness to drain from his body as he waited for the questions to begin, he turned and saw the small, folded sheet of paper.

  He probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all had it been sitting on the desk like the rest of Caroline’s innumerable notes, but it had fallen, conspicuously white against the dark floor. Without thought, he lifted it and gently placed it where it belonged. This, however, was no note but a letter, lying open to his eyes, and the strangeness of it immediately grabbed his attention. Frowning, he began to read.

  November 20, 1815

  Dear Mr. Grayson,

  We were pleased to receive your most recent letter informing us of your plans to attend Columbia this winter. Enclosed is a study schedule and a list of American botanists with whom you may wish to independently correspond. Naturally, we regret you won’t be joining us sooner, as originally planned, but we also understand entanglements that must be addressed before one embarks on new studies. I hope you’ll not have any further delays in leaving England, since we’ve been anxiously waiting to combine your experiments with ours for more than a year now.

  By the way, Mr. Grayson, we’ve finally been able to produce the lavender species; however, they’re unstable, and the purple tips don’t always breed into them. We’ll certainly be thankful to have you with us on a permanent basis.

  Until January,

  Walter P. Jenson

  Professor of Botanical Science Columbia University

  Brent finished reading each word for a third time and slowly, meticulously, folded the letter. Then, staring vacantly ahead, mind numbed from enlightenment and acceptance, emptied of all thought and feeling, he sat heavily on the cold, hard floor of the greenhouse and leaned his head back against the glass to watch the growing darkness as it fell within the quiet jungle surrounding him.

  Chapter 21

  Caroline slowly opened her eyes to the light of morning, her body aching and drained, lids sluggish as her vision gradually adjusted to the brightness of day.

  It was unlike her to sleep so late, for it had to be after ten. Surely Gwendolyn would have attempted to rouse her by now, but as the memory of the previous afternoon came flooding back in dismal waves of clarity, perhaps the events of the last eighteen hours had stirred the entire staff for the worst and everyone was a bit on edge.

  After returning to the house late yesterday and blindly carrying out Brent’s orders, she’d doused herself in a long, hot bath, calmly answered grueling questions from as many as twelve different men in authority, picked at a late supper she didn’t even remember tasting, then succumbed to the softness of her pillows, awaiting the return of her husband. He’d evidently been involved until the early hours of the morning, since he hadn’t gone to her bed or carried her into his, undoubtedly letting her sleep off the shock of the night before.

  That was so like him, she considered with a tug to her lips as she slowly pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. She’d likely received ten hours of slumber and yet she had to force herself to respond, even with a pounding headache and a gently throbbing cheek telling her otherwise.

  Quickly rinsing her face with ice-cold water and running a comb through her hair, she donned a morning gown of dark-blue bombazine with long, straight sleeves and a modest neckline, tied her dark-brown locks with a white ribbon, and took one fast glance in the mirror for confidence. At least she looked presentable, although her top lip was cracked and her right cheek scratched, swollen, and dusted with blended shades of purple.

  The house seemed deserted compared to the chaotic night before, but finally, as she wandered into the dining room, she came upon their housekeeper taking inventory of newly purchased crystal.

  “Morning, Nedda. Have you seen Lord Weymerth?” she pleasantly asked.

  Nedda turned to her, her chubby face crinkling in a smile. “I haven’t seen him in hours, but before he left this morning he asked me to have you meet him in his study at noon.”

  “He left?”

  Nedda nodded. “Rode out at sunup, alone I think, telling me nothing but to have you waiting for him when he returns.”

  “I see…”

  Her housekeeper frowned in thought, starting toward her. “Actually, the house has been quiet. Davis was in for breakfast, and I know Rosalyn is playing outside. The Beckers have yet to come down this morning, so perhaps they’re still sleeping. I know Mr. Becker didn’t return from the gr
eenhouse until very late.” She leaned toward her, brows furrowed. “Nasty bruise, that. I could get you a cold cloth, Lady Caroline.”

  She touched her arm affectionately. “That won’t be necessary. It doesn’t hurt really. I think I’ll just visit the garden.”

  For nearly two hours, Caroline busied herself with a little work, trying to keep her mind from confusing, even troubling thoughts. It seemed strange that Brent would leave without seeing her first. She certainly needed to see him, to be held by him, to tell him everything. Finally, as she waited on the settee in his study, absorbed in questions and staring into the roaring fire in front of her, she began to feel almost irrationally scorned by his sudden departure.

  The door clicked open, and she smiled in an attempt to dismiss her irritation. But with one look at the blank, hard expression on his face, she knew something was horribly wrong. He should be smiling in return, relieved to see her, wanting to take her into his arms. But as he moved across the room toward his desk, he stared at two sheets of paper he carried in his hand, not even bothering to glance in her direction.

  Slowly standing, she gazed with uncertainty to his expressionless features, his strong and imposing stance. His face looked very tired, and rightfully so since he’d probably been awake most of the night, but he walked with ease, dressed comfortably in navy trousers and a plain, cream silk shirt.

  “I’m sorry I missed you earlier. I overslept, and Gwendolyn didn’t—”

  “I dismissed her this morning,” he interjected immediately, still looking to the desk as he placed the two pieces of paper side by side on top of it.