Midnight Bride

by Marlene Suson

  The ball whizzed over Jerome’s head and splashed into the water a few feet beyond him, sending up a spray. Had he not knocked Rachel out of the way, it surely would have hit her.

  He poked his head above the water in time to see a burly man dart from behind the rock with the musket in his hand and run without a backward glance around the shoulder of the hill.

  No doubt he thought he had hit his target and decided against staying around to make certain.

  Jerome pushed himself to his feet on the slippery rocks in the creek bottom and lifted Rachel out of the water.

  As he did so, he heard the sound of a horse galloping beyond the hill. The attacker was making good his escape.

  Rachel sputtered and choked from the water she had swallowed. When she was able to talk again, she eyed Jerome as though he were a lunatic. “What on earth did you think you were doing?”

  “Saving your life.”

  “Really? I thought you were trying to kill me.”

  “Did you not hear the shot as I knocked you into the water?”

  She gaped at him. “I heard a noise, but surely, you are mistaken.”

  “I wish to hell I was.”

  Jerome carried her from the stream and laid her on the cloth spread beneath the alder tree.

  In that moment, he at last admitted to himself how much he had come to love her.

  Chapter 26

  “The bastard has vanished,” Jerome said to Morgan. “He has clearly fled the neighbourhood.”

  The two brothers were in the library at Royal Elms, discussing the man who had fired the shot at Rachel two days earlier.

  “If he had not, I am certain that he would have been drawn and quartered by now,” Morgan said.

  That was the truth, Jerome had been surprised by the anger and outrage the attack on his wife had generated. Word had travelled like wildfire, and he had been swamped with volunteers for search parties that had beaten the bushes in vain for her attacker.

  “People love Rachel,” Morgan was saying.

  Yes, they did. Jerome had been deeply moved by the secure spot his wife had won in the hearts of his people in the brief time she had been at Royal Elms. She had turned out to be exactly the kind, caring wife that he had wanted, and the thought of losing her to a stalking murderer terrified him.

  Morgan rubbed the back of his neck. “They are incensed that anyone could mean Rachel harm.”

  “I wish she could believe that someone does,” Jerome grumbled. “She still thinks the shot must have been a mistake even though I have pointed out to her repeatedly that it could not have been. Nor could it be accidental that two shots have been fired at her in the past three months. But she cannot believe that anyone would want to kill her.”

  “You have not told her about the kittens?”

  “No. I know I should, but she will be so distressed to learn they are dead.” And the thought of causing his wife any upset was repugnant to Jerome. His mouth curved downward. “Given her reaction to the shots, I am not at all certain she would believe that it was the milk meant for her that killed them.”

  Morgan rose and went over to a mahogany tripod table that held a decanter of brandy. “I gather you have not told her of our suspicions about George either?”

  “If she cannot believe the clear evidence that someone is trying to kill her, do you think she would accept our theory that her brother, whom she loves dearly, may be responsible?”

  “No,” Morgan admitted. He held up the decanter. “Do you want some brandy, too?”

  Jerome nodded absently as he pondered the problem of how to get Rachel to accept the serious danger she was in.

  As Morgan poured the liquor into two glasses, he said, “You need to use your influence to have George brought back to England where Griffin’s men can shadow him.”

  Jerome frowned. “That would require me to go to London. I will not be separated from Rachel.” Since the shot had been fired at her, he could hardly stand to have her out of his sight. He worried about her constantly. During the night, if she rolled out of his arms in her sleep, he would wake up and reach out to her to assure himself that she was still there.

  Although he had acknowledged to himself how much he loved her, he had not been able to tell her. A nagging fear that she would eventually disillusion him when he took her to London held him back.

  “Take Rachel with you.” Morgan handed his brother one of the glasses of brandy. “Why does that suggestion bring such a scowl to your face?”

  “I am afraid of what will happen once she is in London. You know that every damn rake there will be after her, and they will not give up.” Jerome had tried to tell himself his apprehension that Rachel would betray him was ridiculous, but he had not been able to banish it. He had seen too many sweet girls whose exposure to London society had changed them into something far less admirable. “For most of the rakes, the pursuit is the game. How long will Rachel be able to resist such a determined onslaught?”

  “You underestimate your wife.”

  “You underestimate those reprobates’ determination and charm.” The thought of Rachel succumbing to their lures filled Jerome with bitter, intolerable pain.

  “You are wrong about Rachel. Nor can you keep her hidden away here.” Morgan took a sip of brandy. “Remember when I was a child and the horse I was riding threw me? I would not get back on him, and you insisted I must. You told me it was better to confront my fears for it was the only hope I had of defeating them.”

  Jerome smiled at the memory of how Morgan had gotten back up on the horse and showed him who was master.

  “Well, now I am giving you that same advice, big brother. Take Rachel to London and learn the truth instead of hiding here, worrying about what might happen. Once you are there, stay as long as it takes to convince yourself that your worries about her are foolish and unwarranted.”

  Morgan was right. Better to find out the truth rather than speculating about what it might be. Jerome did not even have the excuse that he was needed at Royal Elms. The past fortnight had proven to him that he should have no qualms about leaving his brother to run it. He would take Rachel to London, and they would stay there for as long as it took to banish his apprehensions.

  “You must be here for the annual feast,” Morgan was saying, “but that is only two days away. You and Rachel can leave the next morning.”

  “Will you manage Royal Elms for me while I am gone?”

  Jerome’s request brought a look of pleased pride to Morgan’s face that would remain in his brother’s memory for a long time. Rachel had been right about what Morgan needed.

  As she had been right about so many things.

  Morgan said, “You will not regret your trust in me.”

  Jerome raised his brandy glass in salute to his brother. “Believe me, I have always trusted you, but I felt guilty about burdening you with my responsibilities.”

  Two days later, Jerome looked out at the preparations on the broad, green sward for the annual feast. Long tables had been set up. Soon they would be groaning beneath the weight of great platters of food. Games and contests would be held around the perimeter for both children and adults. Later there would be dancing on the large flagstone terrace overlooking the sward,

  All of Royal Elms—-servants, tenants, workers, and their families—were invited. That meant the number of attendees, swollen by all the extra people Jerome had hired in recent months, would be staggering.

  Rachel had thrown herself into preparations for the festivities. Her enthusiasm had been contagious, and even Jerome, who had always abhorred the feast, had been a little infected by her excitement.

  He did not know which of his ancestors had started the tradition of the annual feast. It dated back at least to the fifth duke, perhaps earlier. Jerome had been to his first feast while still a babe in arms.

  In all those years, the ritual had never changed:

  The duke, dressed in his richest clothes, appeared on the terrace to welcome his guests, who
then stood about stiff and respectful and uncomfortable until he disappeared back in the house. Then their fun began.

  No wonder Jerome dreaded the event. He sighed and tinned away from the window. It was time to dress. Peters had already laid out his most elegant and elaborate habit a la francaise in red burgundy velvet.

  Rachel entered, clad in a simple gown of violet muslin and a gauze apron edged with bobbin lace. Jerome’s breath caught at the way the gown’s colour accentuated the brilliance of her eyes.

  “Oh pray, do not wear that!” she exclaimed when she saw the suit he was about to put on.

  “Why not?”

  “It is too, too—,” she paused, searching for a word-”too off-putting.”

  “But this is the sort of thing the duke always wears,” he protested.

  “Not today.” Rachel was already selecting from his wardrobe a pair of buff breeches and a coat of blue broadcloth. It was one of his plainer coats, its front and wide cuffs unornamented with the embroidery that was so fashionable.

  She thrust the garments at him. “You will be more comfortable with these and so will your guests.”

  Certainly he would be. If the truth be known, he hated dressing up in those elaborate clothes to meet his tenants. His father had insisted it was what the duke must do, that the people expected it of him, but Jerome always felt like a peacock on display.

  As they went down to the feast, he said, “We need stay but a few minutes, only long enough for me to give the welcoming speech.”

  She stopped, her face indignant. “After all the work I have done for today, I do not intend to miss the fun.”

  What fun? he wondered to himself.

  They strode out upon the terrace. He stopped at its edge and welcomed his guests, inviting them to partake heartily of the food and the games that had been provided for them. When he finished, he would have turned and gone back into the house.

  It was what his father had always done, and Jerome had followed his sire’s example, staying only long enough to give his welcome.

  But now Rachel was urging him in the opposite direction, and they stepped down on the sward. People drew back to make way for them. Jerome felt the opening of the gulf that always separated the duke from his people.

  Little Tommy Taggart propelled himself across the sward toward Jerome, shouting “Jer’m, Jer’m.”

  The toddler was clearly so delighted to see him and had such an excited look on his face that Jerome could not resist swinging the boy high over his head. That was clearly what Tommy wanted, and he shrieked with glee.

  When Jerome would have put him down, he protested and wrapped his little arm around the duke’s neck, saying, “Me wants to stay as tall as you, Jer’m.”

  Jerome laughed and let him stay, carrying him with one arm.

  Billy ran up and held out his hand. Jerome took it with his free one. “Me’s gunna be in the sack race, Jer’m. Will you help me put it on?”

  Jerome forgot his stiffness, forgot the chasm between him and his tenants, forgot everything but Billy’s eager, trusting expression. No child had looked at him quite like that before, and Jerome grinned. “Of course I will help you.” He glanced toward Rachel. She was beaming proudly at him.

  As Billy led him toward the spot for the sack race, stunned faces gaped at this unlikely trio.

  “Where’s your father, Billy?” Jerome asked.

  “O’er there.”

  The elder Taggart, recovered from his illness, was standing a little apart from the crowd of people, trying to comfort his squalling infant. Maggie was at his side. Jerome went over to talk to him.

  Rachel, who had followed her husband, said to Bill, “Let me take the baby.” She held out her arms, and he handed over the crying infant with obvious relief.

  As Jerome talked to Taggart, Rachel made nonsense sounds at the baby who stopped crying and began laughing at her.

  A wave of pleasure, warm and sweet, washed over Jerome at the sight of his wife with the babe. He had never thought much about children, although he had known he must beget an heir, Now, however, he discovered that he was eager for the day when she would hold their own child in her arms.

  Remembering his boyhood, he made a silent vow to be a better father than his own. He smiled as he thought of all the things that he wanted to do with his son of Rachel’s making.

  After talking to Taggart for a few minutes, Jerome went with Billy to help him into his sack.

  After the race, in which Billy finished second, Rachel took Jerome’s arm and led him through the crowd. They made slow progress as she stopped constantly to talk with one or another of the guests. Jerome was amazed at how many people she called by name and how much she knew about them and their families. He found himself drawn into her conversations, and he soon forgot his awkwardness in his genuine interest in what was being said.

  At least a couple of hours had gone by, and people were filling their plates with food when Jerome saw Rachel whisper to Morgan. He nodded and disappeared into the house. When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying Jerome’s guitar. He handed it to him, saying, “Time for some music while people are eating.”

  Jerome was taken aback. He had never played for anyone but his own family before. For an instant, he thought of refusing, but Rachel’s dimples flashed in such a beguiling, expectant smile that he began strumming the instrument.

  Jerome led off with a lively song. Rachel and Morgan joined their voices with his. The crowd fell silent.

  When the song was finished, spontaneous applause burst from the audience. “More,” someone cried, and Jerome complied.

  After a few more songs, Morgan urged the crowd to join them in an impromptu musicale. As he played, Jerome realized that for the first time in his life he was thoroughly enjoying an annual feast.

  He glanced over at his wife who had brought so many happy changes to his life. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, but still he had not told her. His bedevilling fear that she would disillusion him once she was in London had kept him silent.

  But Rachel deserved to hear of his love for her, to hear how happy she made him. A hideous thought clawed at his heart. What if the killer who stalked her were to succeed, and he had never told her how much he loved her?

  Tonight Jerome would remedy that.

  Twilight was creeping over the lawns, still crowded with people. Rachel watched her husband moving easily among his guests, talking, joking, and laughing with them, all the stiffness and reserve that had been his father’s curse having melted away.

  How she loved it here. Royal Elms had become her home now. She hated to leave tomorrow for London, but Jerome had said they must go because he had urgent business there. Rachel had another reason for not wanting to go. Ever since her husband had told her about the journey, she had been plagued by a strange, disconcerting premonition that their visit to the city would end unhappily.

  The lively strain of a country dance started, and Jerome led her on to the terrace to begin it.

  “It is the first time we have danced together,” he remarked. “It has been a day of many firsts for me, thanks to you, my love.”

  A thrill went through Rachel at the endearment that he had never used with her before. Did he mean it?

  Soon the terrace was crowded with dancers. Rachel quickly discovered that her husband danced as well as he played the guitar.

  After several vigorous dances, she begged for a rest, and Jerome led her off the floor.

  A footman came up to him with a letter, saying that a messenger from London had just delivered it. Jerome opened it and scanned the contents. His smile disappeared and his face turned grave.

  He took Rachel’s arm and led her silently into a small anteroom that opened on the terrace.

  “What is it, Jerome?” she asked in concern. “Who is the letter from?”

  “Neville Griffin, the investigator that I hired to discover what happened to Stephen.”

  Fear gripped her. “Is it bad news
about Stephen?”

  “I fear so. The Sea Falcon has returned to England. Its captain confirms that a man matching your brother’s description was impressed aboard the frigate on the night Stephen arrived in Dover from Calais. The man even claimed that he was Lord Arlington, but no one believed him. It was thought to be a lie designed to escape impressment.”

  “If the ship is back now, where is Stephen?”

  “In a desperate attempt to escape, he dived from the ship before dawn one morning off the coast of America. In the mist, he apparently mistook the lights of a another ship for land, which was actually several miles away.” Jerome paused and drew her into his arms. “I am sorry, my love. Stephen was drowned.”

  “No!” Rachel cried. “Was his body recovered?”

  “Not that Griffin could discover.”

  Rachel clung to that slender thread of hope. “Then, I do not believe he is dead! Stephen was an excellent swimmer.”

  “I am sorry, my sweet, but he could not possibly have made it to shore. It was too far.”

  Tears spilled down Rachel’s cheeks. “I cannot believe it.”

  Jerome held her to him for a long time, comforting her with soothing murmurs, gentle caresses, and the warmth of his body.

  Memories of Stephen, of the bright, laughing boy, of the sometimes maddening, sometimes tender, big brother tormented Rachel’s mind. “He cannot be dead. He was my family.”

  “You have another family now,” Jerome gently reminded her. “Me.”

  Her chin quavered. “But Stephen loved me.” Jerome’s lips lowered toward hers. When they were only an inch away, they hesitated, and he whispered, “And so do I. God, help me, so do I love you, and so very much.” His mouth came down in a kiss that was simultaneously demanding, arousing, and comforting.

  Happy as Rachel was to hear his confession, she had not missed its undertone of reluctance. She had won his love, but not his trust.