by Candace Camp
“I think it is clear enough. She has left me. She is running away.”
“No! Bloody hell, Rawdon, Damaris is not Jocelyn.”
“I would have sworn not.” Bitterness laced Alec’s voice. “And yet, she is gone. I seem to have a peculiar effect on women.”
He had not felt the pain yet. Not really. That would come later, Alec knew, alone in the dark in his room, as the full measure of what he had lost swept through him. Right now he was numb.
“Don’t be absurd! I have seen Damaris with you. If she isn’t madly in love with you, then I know nothing about women. And I must remind you that I have a whole brood of sisters.”
Alec swung his ice-cold gaze to his friend. “You have the letter in your hands. I do not know how you could doubt it.”
Footsteps sounded on the marble behind them, and they turned to see Genevieve hurrying along the long side gallery toward them. “Alec!” Her eyes went to the paper in Myles’s hand and back to her brother’s face. “You have seen it.”
“Yes. I have seen it. When did she leave?”
“A little less than an hour ago.” She came closer, her light eyes intent on Alec’s face.
“You knew?” Alec’s eyes flashed, and color sprang up along the sharp edge of his cheekbones. “And you did not stop her!”
“What was I supposed to do?” Genevieve shot back. “Hold her here against her will? She is a grown woman.”
Anger and frustration flared bright in his eyes. “Why? Did she deign to tell you, at least, why she felt impelled to run?” He snatched the letter from Myles’s fingers and crumpled it in his fist. “Heaven help me, why am I such a fool about women?”
“She said she did not want to live her life as your mistress,” Genevieve replied. “It—it is hard for a woman. She could never be accepted by the ton if everyone knew. Even if you were discreet—which, I must point out, you have not been—for someone like her, born on the wrong side of the blanket, to be dallying with a gentleman… well, she will be snubbed. You must see that.”
“I would have their hide if some old cat dared to cut her!” Alec snapped.
“If you were there,” Genevieve replied, putting her hands on her hips and not backing down. “But you would not always be with her.”
“Damaris does not care about the ton,” Alec said almost sulkily, turning aside.
“No woman wants to be a pariah.” Genevieve hesitated, studying her brother’s face. “Alec… it is probably better this way. I know you are upset right now, but…”
“Upset?” He let out a hollow laugh, not looking at her or Myles. “No. Never. I am a Stafford, am I not? We do not indulge in emotions.”
Genevieve cast a worried glance at Myles and turned back to her brother. “I—perhaps you should sit down and rest. I’ll ring for some tea.”
Alec let out a wordless roar and swung around sharply, raking his arm down the hall table and sending a vase of flowers, the silver tray, and two ornate candelabras flying. “I don’t want any bloody tea!”
His companions jumped back as the vase crashed spectacularly, scattering water and long-stemmed flowers and shards of ceramic everywhere.
“I will not have it!” Alec swung toward them, and Myles stepped quickly between Alec and Genevieve. “I will find her.”
“Alec, think,” Myles began reasonably. “You cannot carry Mrs. Howard back here by force.”
“The hell I cannot!” Alec glared at him. “I am going to bring her home, and she is going to tell me, face-to-face, why in the hell she doesn’t lo—” He broke off and strode away.
“Alec! Wait!”
He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring his sister’s voice behind him. Rage and pain boiled within him, flooding over the dam he had built with painstaking care for so many years. He charged down the hall to his room and flung himself down on the ottoman to pull off his walking boots. He jerked at the bellpull; then, too impatient to wait, he stuck his head out into the hall, shouting to the startled housemaid to have his horse saddled.
How the devil had Damaris left? he wondered as he took the riding boots from his wardrobe. Had the grooms saddled a horse for her? He’d have their hide if they had. Surely she hadn’t set out on foot. Was it possible that she had arranged for a post chaise from the village? Had she been planning this for days? The thought that she might have deceived him, pretending to be happy while all the time plotting to run away, sent pain lancing through his chest.
He curled one hand around the bedpost to steady himself, and at that moment his sister hurried into the room. She let out a small cry of distress and reached out toward him with both hands, as if she could catch him even though she stood several feet away. It was no wonder, he thought; he, too, felt as if he were falling, no matter how upright he was standing.
“Alec, please…” Genevieve walked toward him, her forehead knotted with worry. Myles came up behind her, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “What are you doing? You cannot mean to chase after Mrs. Howard.”
“I mean to catch Mrs. Howard,” he replied flatly, and sat down to pull on his boot.
“For what purpose?” Genevieve’s voice squeaked in a way it never did. “You cannot force her to remain.”
“I refuse to allow Damaris to slip through my fingers.” He looked up, his eyes so bright and fierce that Genevieve took an unconscious step backward. “I will talk to her, make her see… I will convince her to stay.”
“Alec, she left with a man!” Sympathy and sorrow mingled in his sister’s face as she visibly braced herself for his response.
The boot slid from Alec’s fingers and he stared at her for a long moment. “What? What do you mean?”
“She ran out the back into the garden, which I thought very odd. So I went up in the tower and looked out. There was a man in the garden waiting, and she joined him. They left together.”
His face looked frozen in ice, only his light eyes shining with fury. Alec stood up and went to the dresser, opening a drawer and pulling out a case. He opened the case to reveal a set of pistols, which he methodically, silently, began to load.
“Alec! What are you going to do? You cannot just shoot Mrs. Howard!”
“I have no intention of shooting Mrs. Howard,” he replied in a deceptively mild voice. “I intend to shoot him.”
“Alec! No! Myles, stop him.” Genevieve swung toward Sir Myles.
Myles raised his eyebrows. “You expect me to stop Rawdon with a gun in his hands?”
Genevieve let out an exasperated breath. “I expect you to be of some use!”
“I am of use,” Myles protested and turned to Alec. “I’m going with you.”
“Myles! I meant stop him from killing someone, not help him to do so!”
Alec shook his head. “No. I shall manage it alone.”
“But what good will it do? Why must you go after her?” Genevieve cried.
Alec looked at her, his eyes dark and empty. “I cannot breathe without her.”
Genevieve let out another cry of distress, and tears sprang into her eyes. “Oh, Alec…” She twisted her hands together, watching him as he finished loading the pistols. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin, saying, “Very well. If that is what you want… I watched them leave. I took the spyglass and went up onto the battlements and watched them. There was a post chaise waiting on the road, all bay horses. They drove west.”
“Then I know they aren’t going to Newcastle. I imagine they’re headed to London. Or perhaps to Chesley.” He gave her a tight smile. “Thank you.”
Genevieve sighed and stepped back, still frowning. She hesitated for a moment, then added, “She was crying.”
Alec looked at her sharply. He turned away and went to the dresser, opening the narrow drawer on the left. A puzzled frown formed between his eyes, and he thrust his hand into the drawer, pawing through the neatly arranged socks.
“My knife is gone.” He turned toward Genevieve.
She stared at him blankly. “Well, I haven’
t got it. Perhaps one of the maids moved it.”
“They opened my drawer and moved the knife and scabbard I’d put in there?”
“You mean the sticker you wear in your boot sometimes?” Myles asked. “Are you sure that is where it was?”
“Of course I am sure.” He frowned, the bright blaze of anger in his gaze muting and turning thoughtful. “Could she have taken it?”
“Mrs. Howard?” Myles asked in astonishment. “Why would she take your knife?”
“I’m not sure…” Alec sat down and thrust his feet into his boots, his movements quick and purposeful. The red-hot rage inside him had changed, turning into something cooler, sharper, and more determined, threaded through with a new, faint note of hope—and, with it, fear.
He picked up the pistols and thrust them into the large pockets of his hunting jacket as he strode from the room past his sister and Myles. He marched down the hall to Damaris’s chamber, ignoring the others as they trailed after him. He cast a comprehensive glance around. A couple of drawers in the dresser stood open, empty. A single stocking lay crumpled on the floor.
“What did she take with her?” he asked.
“Just a small bag. One of the ones I brought from London.”
He looked at the dresser. The top of it lay empty. There was no sign of the plain comb that he had purchased for Damaris in Gravesend. “Genevieve, did you bring Mrs. Howard’s brushes?”
“What? Yes, of course. I saw the maid pack them myself. It was a lovely silver-backed set of brush, comb, and mirror.”
Alec slid his fingertips across the smooth surface of the dresser. It was no surprise that Damaris had packed her elegant silver vanity set. But why, then, he wondered, would she, as she eloped with another man, pause to take along the cheap, ordinary comb Alec had given her?
Why, indeed?
He whirled and left the room. By the time he went through the front door, he was running.
Damaris ate her supper in stony silence. The truth was, she had no desire to eat anything, but she knew she should keep her strength up and her wits sharp. She needed to be ready, though she was not sure what she was going to do. She had no intention of staying with Barrett, she was certain of that. She had spent all her time in the post chaise going over her options. She had no intention of allowing this scoundrel to acquire her inheritance in two more years, but she had to do something about him before then. She could not bear the thought of living with him, and there was no possibility of divorcing him. She would have gladly borne the time and expense of pursuing the act of Parliament necessary for a divorce, but if she did, Barrett would pull Rawdon into it, as he had threatened, and she could not allow that.
The solution, she knew, was to make sure Barrett did not leave this trip alive. It was why she had taken Alec’s knife and hidden it in the scabbard on her leg. Now and then, as the chaise jolted along, she had laid her hand on her leg, reassuring herself that the instrument of her delivery was still there. The question, unfortunately, was whether she would be able to wield the weapon. She hated Barrett Howard with everything in her, and she was certain that the world would be a better place for not having him in it.
But did she have it within her to kill him in cold blood?
In that moment when she had picked up the knife, resolved to give up her happiness with Alec, she had thought she could. But as her blood cooled, she had grown less certain. She tried to imagine slipping into Barrett’s room while he slept and plunging the knife down into his chest, and the idea sickened her. Damaris believed that she was capable of killing someone to defend herself or someone else, but the idea of plotting out a murder and following it through with icy purpose was another matter entirely. She wondered if that meant she was a good person… or merely a coward.
“Decent roast pork,” Barrett said now, taking a bite from his fork. “Though the duck was dreadful, and that soup was thin as water. What one would expect, I suppose, in an out-of-the way place such as this.”
Damaris took a sip of her drink, not answering him or even glancing in his direction. Barrett had kept tossing out similar conversational bits all through their drive, as if he thought she would simply fall in happily with him and act like a normal married couple. She could not decide if he was that much of a fool or if he was doing it to aggravate her. Either, she supposed, was possible. She did not know the man, had never known him, really, even during those exciting weeks when he had pursued her so ardently. Everything about him had been a lie.
“I wonder what they have in the way of rooms here,” he went on lightly. “Though I suppose we really should get farther along. Just in case, of course, your jilted lover takes it into his head to pursue you.”
A quick, yearning hope sprang up in Damaris at the thought of Alec riding to her rescue, but she sternly quashed it. He would not have any interest in finding her after the note she had written him. Doubtless he would toss her letter in the fire and label her the same sort of fickle female his fiancée had been. Besides, she could not want Alec to follow her. Not with Barrett armed and ready to shoot him.
When Damaris again made no response, Barrett heaved an exaggerated sigh and tossed his napkin on the table. “Really, Damaris, do you intend to keep up this silence for the remainder of our married life?”
She turned her glare on him, finally goaded into speaking. “It is my devout hope that our married life will last a very short while.”
His lips thinned. “I should not wish for that if I were you, since it would mean that you would be resting cold in the ground.”
“What I wish for is your demise.”
Barrett stood up swiftly, the heavy chair scraping over the stone floor. “Not bloody likely. I think it is time that you were reminded of your situation, wife.”
His heavy emphasis on the word Alec had teased her with time and again sent a spear of pain and anger through Damaris. She fought it down, rising from her seat with unhurried dignity.
“I am going to get a room here and go to sleep,” she said with icy calm. “I have no interest in traveling any further tonight.”
“You’ll go to bed when I say you will!” Barrett stepped forward and wrapped his hand tightly around her wrist. He jerked her to him, his other arm curling around her waist. “But since you are so eager to climb into bed, I shall agree.” He brought her up hard against him and bent her backward over his arm, looming over her. “Though there’s no need for a room; here should do well enough.”
Damaris threw her arms up between them, pushing against him with all her strength. “Are you mad! Do you think that I would sleep with you?”
“I think that you will if I want you to. It is your marital duty, after all.”
Damaris squirmed and twisted, trying to free herself and avoid his suddenly questing lips. “Let go of me! What is wrong with you? You don’t want me; you told me so yourself!”
“Of course I don’t want you, you shrew! But you clearly need to be taught your place. And it occurs to me that a babe might be just the thing to keep you docile.”
The thought that he would take her, intending to impregnate her, with the motive of making her easier to control, that he would use something as sweet and longed for as a baby, sent red-hot rage pouring through Damaris. She let out a shriek and swung at him, raking her nails down the side of his face as she struggled to break from him. Barrett cursed viciously and slammed her back against the table, setting the crockery to rattling. He bore her back over the table, planting one arm across her chest and pressing her down with all the force of his weight and strength.
“Bitch,” he spat out, panting. “You’d best think: once I’ve gotten a babe on you, I’ll have no more need of you alive. Your money goes to your child, does it not? And who but the father would be her guardian? It would behoove you not to displease me.”
“You’ll never get your hands on any child of mine!” Damaris began to kick and fight, but her struggles only seemed to excite him. She could feel his manhood swelling against her
, and her gorge rose in her throat at the thought of him touching her, forcing himself into her.
He grinned, his eyes lighting up nastily. “Go ahead. Scream all you want. The door is locked. And who is to gainsay a husband teaching his impudent wife a lesson?”
He reached down with his free hand and shoved her skirts up, then began to unbutton his trousers. Damaris contorted, reaching down until her hand touched the hilt of Alec’s knife. She pulled it free and swung as hard as she could, stabbing it into Barrett.
Unfortunately the knife did not plunge in deeply but slid along a rib. It was enough, however, to slice a long furrow through his flesh, and he let out a howl of pain and staggered back, clutching at his side. The knife caught in his jacket and tore from her hands, clattering to the ground. Damaris did not waste time trying to find it but jumped to her feet and ran for the door. She reached it and was fumbling at the key, when Barrett slammed into her from behind, knocking her to the floor.
She scrambled backward, trying to pull herself away, but he sat astride her, pinning her to the floor, and dragged her arms above her head, holding them immobile. She struggled, but he just grinned down at her.
“Go ahead,” he said, wriggling a little against her hips. “Squirm. I rather like it.” He secured both her wrists in one hand and hooked his other hand in the neckline of her dress. “Now, I think payment is in order for what you did to me.”
He ripped downward, tearing the dress, and Damaris screamed.
Twenty-three
Alec rode as if the hounds of hell were after him, driven by an inchoate mix of rage, hope, and fear. Questions bombarded him. Why had Damaris taken his knife? What did it mean? Why would she take that cheap comb with her when she had a far better set of her own?
Because he had given it to her.
He told himself he was being a fool. Taking the silly comb meant nothing. Nor was the fact that she had been crying any proof that she did not want to leave him; her tears could have just as likely meant she was unhappy at Castle Cleyre. And perhaps she took his knife simply because she wanted a little protection with her. But if she was meeting a lover, why would she need protection? On the other hand, who was to say that the man was her lover?