‘‘Ian! What happened to you?’’
He took a moment before answering, fingers clutching the back of Rachel’s cloak. When she tried to lift his face to her, he kissed her hands and shut his good eye.
Rachel crouched before him. ‘‘Please tell me what happened.’’
‘‘We were attacked. There were two of them. One had a gun, the other a fishing knife. The jagged kind we use to gut the catch. They dragged us onto the moor.’’
A queasy sensation rolled through Sophie’s stomach. Two men. The moor. She leaned closer to speak to the young man. ‘‘Who did it? Did you know them?’’
He nodded. ‘‘I’ve seen them before. In the village. They come sometimes on market day, and go into the Gull for a pint. But I don’t know who they are. They don’t belong in Penhollow. Not like the rest of us.’’
Rachel took gentle hold of his face, raised it and gasped at the sight of his blackened eye.
‘‘I’m all right,’’ he assured her. ‘‘But Dominic . . .’’
‘‘Where is he?’’
‘‘Where they left us. I couldn’t move him, not on my own. Rachel, they had come for him; I’m sure of it. I demanded to know what they wanted, and their reply was a pistol butt to the back of my head.’’
Rachel ran her fingertips through his hair, pulling back when he winced. ‘‘You’ve a lump the size of a raven’s egg.’’
‘‘It doesn’t matter. Dominic needs us.’’
‘‘Take me to him. Can you walk?’’ When he nodded, she gripped his forearms and helped pull him to his feet. He teetered, and she steadied him with an arm around his waist. ‘‘Is it far from here?’’
Ian pointed to where the moor rose to a craggy peak some quarter mile beyond the road. Beside it a thin stand of rowans stood bent against the wind. ‘‘Just past there.’’
Rachel turned to Sophie with a calm fortitude that raised every bit of Sophie’s admiration. ‘‘Go to the vicar. Tell him my brother and Ian have been injured. Ask him to drive here in his carriage, and direct him to the other side of that hill. Please hurry!’’
Chapter 19
Through the drizzle, Chad cantered Prince into the village, sending up a spray as he veered into St. Brendan’s. Collar upturned to the weather, the vicar’s manservant lumbered out from the carriage house to take the reins.
‘‘Is the vicar in?’’ Chad asked as he dismounted. Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the house.
‘‘He is, milord,’’ the servant called to his back. ‘‘Shall I announce ye?’’
‘‘I’ll announce myself, thank you.’’
‘‘He’s not alone. . . .’’
Chad didn’t care if the vicar was presently entertaining the Archbishop of Canterbury. He’d not be announced because he intended granting the vicar precisely zero time to think before he fired off his barrage of questions. As his father’s onetime friend, Tobias Hall surely harbored a great deal more information than he had been willing to divulge when Chad last saw him.
Such as, how much had Franklin Rutherford truly known about Penhollow’s smuggling activities? Tolerating a tunnel beneath the church was one thing, but the passages beneath Edgecombe were quite another.
Chad pushed his way into the little house. ‘‘Hall? I need to speak with you.’’ The sight he met in the parlor brought him up short. ‘‘Sophie. What are you doing here? Is the vicar home?’’
Shivering beneath a dripping cloak, she looked pale and bedraggled, half-drowned.
Chad’s stride swallowed the distance between them. He grasped her hands; they were cold and trembling between his own. She seemed about to speak, but her throat convulsed and she pinched her lips together.
She could only be thinking of their parting words at the hothouse. The memory tore at his conscience. Their lovemaking had been a first for her—for him as well. With Sophie there had been no sense of sport, none of the triumph he had felt with the other women he had lured into his bed over the years. With her there had been only passion and need and a heart-gripping sense of rightness.
Even so, he had not been honest, and his omission of the truth hovered between them like a double-edged rapier. With uncanny perception she sensed his secrets, enough to confront him outright. His denials had hurt her; one look at her revealed to him how deeply. But how much more acutely would he hurt her with the truth?
‘‘I’ve gathered bandages, splints and medicinal herbs.’’ The vicar entered the room, a leather sack dangling from his hands. His gaze shifted from Sophie to Chad, and to their clasped hands. A twitch of his thin ferret’s nose betrayed his surprise and speculation. ‘‘Lord Wyclffe. I didn’t realize you were here. Have you come to help?’’
Chad supposed that with Hall looking on, he should have released Sophie. He held on tighter. ‘‘Is something amiss at the farm?’’
‘‘Not the farm, but my cousin Dominic has been attacked.’’ Sophie’s voice shook. ‘‘Rachel’s young fisherman, Ian, as well. It happened on the moor near the road.’’
‘‘How badly are they hurt?’’
‘‘Ian is sore and bruised.’’ Her forehead puckered. ‘‘I don’t yet know about Dominic. I left Rachel and Ian to tend him and came straight here.’’
‘‘Do you know who did this?’’
Her eyes were huge, tempestuous. She shook her head.
‘‘I’ll return there with you,’’ he said, and followed her and Hall outside to the carriage yard, where the vicar’s curricle stood waiting.
As they readied to leave, a voice hailed them from the road. Kellyn made her way across the churchyard, her vivid red hair hidden by a thick shawl draped over her head and shoulders. Other than that she seemed as oblivious to the weather as a seasoned deckhand.
‘‘Tobias, before you leave, may I trouble you for a few sprigs of sage? We’re all out, and Reese is stewing some . . .’’ She trailed off and stared into each of their faces in turn, Chad’s atop Prince, the vicar’s and Sophie’s through the rain-smeared carriage window. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’
Hall opened the carriage door. ‘‘There’s been another attack, this time on land. The Gordon youth and his friend, Ian Rogers. We’re on our way to them now.’’
‘‘Good heavens.’’ Kellyn ducked her head inside the carriage to speak to Sophie. ‘‘Are you and Rachel all right?’’
‘‘We’re both fine. We weren’t present when the attack occurred.’’
‘‘Thank God for that.’’ Kellyn pushed out a sigh of relief. ‘‘I’ll tell Reese what happened. He’s Rachel and Dominic’s uncle,’’ she explained to Chad. ‘‘We’ll meet you at the farm in a little while.’’
As she turned to go, a notion prompted Chad to call her back. He dismounted from Prince and said to Sophie and the vicar, ‘‘Go on ahead. I’ll catch up in a few moments.’’ Sophie regarded him with puzzlement, but said nothing as the vicar rapped on the ceiling for his servant to drive on.
‘‘I’ll walk you back to the tavern. I’ve a question to ask you.’’ He and Kellyn fell into step together, hunching slightly against the rain. Prince followed close at his shoulder. ‘‘It’s about Grady.’’
Lifting her skirts, Kellyn picked her way over the stream of rainwater running along the edge of the road. ‘‘He sailed up to Mullion yesterday, didn’t he?’’
‘‘So he told you that too? I don’t understand it, and I was hoping you might supply an explanation. Grady couldn’t have sailed to Mullion. His boat is tied up in an inlet not far from Edgecombe.’’ He hated the two most likely possibilities that had sprung to mind upon finding Grady’s sailboat outside the tunnel: either the affable mariner had met with foul play, or for unknown reasons he had never intended to go to Mullion at all. ‘‘He didn’t mention a change in plans?’’
Kellyn stopped short and faced him. ‘‘He said nothing to me. How do you know this?’’
‘‘I saw the boat.’’ The surprise in her pale blue eyes reminded him that offering up too
much information would only encourage more questions, ones he might not wish to answer. Behind him Prince snorted, and Chad rubbed a hand down the length of his damp muzzle. ‘‘It was just visible from the cliffs, but I’m fairly certain it was his.’’
‘‘Really. From the cliffs?’’ They reached the door of the Stormy Gull, and she moved into the sheltering overhang of the second story. ‘‘I told you Grady is a bit on the barmy side. I’ll keep an eye out for him and let you know if I learn anything.’’
Was Grady simple-witted, and therefore an easy mark for someone wishing to do him harm, or was the Irishman more astute than anyone guessed? Frustrated at his lack of answers, Chad nodded his thanks and swung up into the saddle. As he did he glimpsed a face staring out at him from one of the upper windows. The hair on his neck bristled as he recognized a pair of close-set eyes above a slightly hooked nose.
‘‘Kellyn, wait.’’
Halfway through the door, she turned.
He gestured with a lift of his chin. ‘‘Who is that man staying above the common room? The one who dresses like a fisherman but carries himself as though he were something more.’’
Kellyn glanced up at the building. ‘‘I hadn’t thought of him that way. I don’t know who he is, really. Name is John Hayes, and he came in off one of the traders a couple of weeks ago.’’
‘‘What’s he doing here?’’
‘‘Hires himself out as a deckhand. Other times he does odd jobs about the farms.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘I assumed he might be hiding out from someone. He wouldn’t be the first. But he pays his bills, so I don’t ask questions.’’
As Chad set off down the road, he felt the man’s gaze following him, prickling his back.
‘‘His arm is fractured, and he appears to have sustained several broken ribs as well,’’ said the vicar. ‘‘We must convey him home immediately. I dare not attempt to set his arm here.’’
Kneeling at Dominic’s side in the sodden heather, Sophie held on to Rachel’s hand, feeling the other girl’s fingers convulse as the vicar gave the diagnosis. Ian crouched at Dominic’s other side, looking as though his world were crumbling. His eye was blacker now, with a stormy purple hue blossoming around the upper lid. Between his hands he clutched a green woolen cap he’d retrieved from the ground.
‘‘We’ll wrap him in these blankets and lift him into the carriage seat.’’ Mr. Hall cupped his hands around his mouth and called to his servant, waiting near the base of the crag. ‘‘Bring the curricle in from the road.’’
Moments later the vehicle came into view, jostling over the moor’s bumpy terrain. Sophie’s pulse gave a lurch at the sight of Chad following the carriage on horseback. She pushed to her feet, walking a little distance away from her cousin’s prone form.
As she watched Chad dismount she felt a stab of guilt and thought perhaps she had been too hard on him at the hothouse, issuing demands she had no right to make. What business of hers were his secrets, if he actually harbored any? Perhaps she only imagined them. A guarded look in his eyes, a misunderstanding about when he had arrived in Penhollow—did that constitute evidence enough to distrust him?
But as he made his way toward her, her doubts persisted. He hadn’t denied her accusations. He had only urged her to go home.
‘‘How is he?’’ he asked when he reached her. The rain had slicked back his hair and rendered his white lawn shirt nearly transparent, displaying the smooth skin and rugged muscles beneath. Lacking both coat and neck cloth, he looked not like an earl born to luxury and privilege, but like a dashing, half-wild rogue who had lived his entire life on the moors and sea cliffs of Cornwall.
Her heart fluttered. She swallowed and cleared her throat to gain control of her voice. ‘‘Mr. Hall says his arm is broken. Some of his ribs too. His face is all welts.’’
‘‘Christ.’’ Chad’s hands fisted; his jaw hardened. ‘‘When I discover who did this I’ll see that they pay.’’
Behind her Dominic let out a moan.
‘‘He’s coming to,’’ the vicar said.
Chad took her hand—or had she been the one to reach out to him, an instinct formed these past days that simply refused to die? Together they returned to the others and knelt beside her cousin.
Dominic’s discolored, bloated lids quivered, then opened to slits. His cracked, bleeding lips parted. ‘‘Rachel?’’
‘‘I’m here.’’ The girl placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
‘‘Are you . . . Did they . . . ?’’ His fingers fisted on the edge of her skirt.
‘‘I’m fine.’’ Rachel skimmed her palm across his brow. ‘‘I was home waiting for you as promised.’’
‘‘And Ian?’’
‘‘He’ll be fine too.’’
Dominic gave a weak nod. His hand uncurled and fell limp on the ground.
‘‘Miss St. Clair,’’ the vicar said, ‘‘please find the smallest of the vials in my sack. The one with the brownish liquid.’’
Sophie rummaged through the contents and found the corked vessel.
Instructing Rachel to raise her brother’s head, the vicar uncorked the vial and held the rim to Dominic’s lips. ‘‘Drink this. It’ll dull the pain.’’
Dominic’s bruised forehead creased in response. He compressed his lips. Rachel bent over him, wisps of black hair trailing to frame his face.
‘‘Don’t be cheeky. There’s no call for sham heroics. Now drink it down, ox.’’
Sophie’s heart gave a twist at the girl’s brave humor, and at Dominic’s attempted smile. The effort contorted his face in a grimace, which worsened as he swallowed Mr. Hall’s concoction. Less than a minute later his head lolled back in Rachel’s arms.
‘‘Good Christ, Hall.’’ Chad made a sound through his teeth. ‘‘What the devil did you give him?’’
‘‘A tincture of laudanum and valerian root. With the dose I mixed a cart pony could trample him and he shouldn’t wake up. Now let’s lift him into the carriage and get him home before he catches his death in this rain.’’
When they arrived at the farm the men brought Dominic into the parlor and laid him out on the settee. He did a fair bit of groaning along the way, but mercifully didn’t fully regain consciousness.
‘‘We’ll need to get his coat and shirt off,’’ the vicar said in a take-charge manner. He set his leather sack on a table and took out bandages, a splint and more herbs.
Sophie’s stomach clenched at the thought of what was coming. Her brother had once dislocated a shoulder. She cringed at the memory of his scream when the physician had manipulated the arm back into the socket. She caught the vicar’s eye. ‘‘Will it hurt much?’’
‘‘He shouldn’t feel a thing. Lord Wycliffe, will you assist?’’
Chad crossed the room to the vicar’s side. ‘‘What do you need me to do?’’
‘‘Hold him still while I work the fractured bone into place.’’ Mr. Hall gestured for Chad to lean over Dominic and hold his shoulders down. ‘‘And if anyone is of a mind to pray, you might consider asking the Almighty to guide my hands. It’s been rather a long while since I’ve had to do this.’’
Sophie said a quick, silent prayer.
Dominic groaned when Mr. Hall ran his fingers over the arm to feel for the break. At the click of the splintered bone realigning, he let go a raw cry and then slumped into deep unconsciousness. Sophie’s stomach flip-flopped.
Rachel wiped away tears with her sleeve and held out a roll of bandages to Mr. Hall. ‘‘Thank heaven that’s over. I’ll help you bind his ribs.’’
Reese and Kellyn arrived at the Gordon farm soon afterward and listened with stoic calm to the scant facts Ian could supply about the assault. His description of the two attackers fairly well matched what Chad remembered of the two men at the moorland farmstead, and as each violent detail fell into place, the conviction grew that this was not a random occurrence, but part of an ominous net tightening around Penhollow, these people and himself.
Kell
yn poured out a round of brandy from the bottle she and Reese had brought with them from the Stormy Gull. ‘‘Drink it down. ’Twill do you all a world of good.’’
Sitting in a corner, Ian nursed his slowly. The vicar took a perfunctory sip, then continued searching through his bag for more herbs. Rachel and Sophie wrinkled their noses but gulped small portions. With a shudder Rachel set down her cup and returned to the chair she had placed close to her brother’s side. Sophie went into the kitchen. Taking his largely untouched brandy with him, Chad followed.
He watched as she made tea. Upon arriving home she had changed into a dry frock, a pale blue muslin that accentuated the roundness of her bosom and the graceful sweep of her shoulders. A bosom he had kissed . . . shoulders he had caressed. . . . Had it been only this morning?
His loins tightened around a yearning to take her in his arms, tip her backward and crush his lips to hers; not a kiss tainted with the desperate uncertainty of what the future might bring, but one imbued with laughter and the simple, unthinking happiness of two people who belonged together.
In the warmth of the kitchen her cheeks had resumed their glow, and her lips had lost that bleak, pinched look he’d witnessed on the moors. A look that would haunt him from now on, because he knew it would return, would be aimed at him.
For now she looked . . . beautiful, elegant and poised. A sudden image flashed in his brain, one of a dark-haired, gray-eyed countess, smiling as she stood at his side.
A hollow dream, one he’d do best not to dwell on.
The family’s dog, an aging bearded collie that had been asleep in the corner near the stove, limped over to him and with an inquisitive whimper rested its graying muzzle on Chad’s knee. He stroked between the animal’s ears and focused on a new resolve.
Only by discovering Penhollow’s secrets could he guarantee Sophie’s safety. He had been going about his investigation all wrong—acting with stealth, poking about, asking leading questions but rarely coming right out and demanding what he needed to know.
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