Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1)

by Jennie Marsland

  “I never guessed,” Louden said. “As true as you live, I never had an idea. I can’t think why. I’ve worked for him for ten years.”

  Martin shrugged. “Some folk you can never really get to know. Let’s get in out of the cold and wait. I don’t expect it’ll be too long.”

  They kept watch from the hall windows. Within fifteen minutes, a group of men appeared on the road. Martin shrugged into his coat. “Louden, it’ll be best if you stay here with Miss Rochelle. The sight of you won’t calm them any.”

  Louden nodded. Martin shot Chelle a stern look when she threw her cloak over her shoulders. “You stay here, lass.”

  “No. Don’t bother arguing with me, Martin. There isn’t time. They’ll be less likely to forget themselves in front of a woman. Let’s go.”

  Short of getting Louden to restrain her, there was nothing Martin could do. He stalked out the door with Chelle at his heels. They met the group of nineteen or twenty mill hands at the end of the drive.

  Ben Thompson, the man who’d spoken at the pub, faced them with his feet planted in the snow, fists clenched.

  Martin held his gaze. “Go home, Ben. You’ve come out here for nothing. Westlake and his daughter are gone. They’re in their carriage, and they’ve got a head start on you.”

  “You warned them!”

  “Aye, I did. Westlake’s caused enough misery here already. I wouldn’t see him be the cause of more.”

  “Damn you, Martin, he’s got it comin’!”

  “True enough, but at what price? Do you want to go to prison or hang because of him?”

  “That’s fine for you to say. You’ve got your farm. He hasn’t harmed…” Ben’s voice trailed off.

  Martin nodded. “I’m scarred for life on his account, and I still say he’s not worth it. Now that the truth’s out, Westlake will likely sell the mill quickly. I have a feeling Miss Westlake will still want to help folk here in the meantime.”

  “She will,” Chelle put in. “Her father doesn’t deserve any sympathy from you, but she does. Any harm you do here tonight will hurt her as much as Mr. Westlake.”

  Ben flashed Chelle a scornful look.

  Maggie Tate’s father stepped up beside him. “It’s easy for you to talk forgiveness. My daughter died of the hurt she got in that sod’s mill. Why should his daughter get away scot-free?”

  Martin shook his head. “You’ve never seen the day you’d harm a lass, Ephraim, and you know it. And if you did, is that what Maggie would want?”

  The mood of the crowd was changing. Martin looked at each man in turn as he spoke. “I’m the last person to blame you for being angry. I’d like to give Phillip Westlake a taste of my fists as much as you would, but that won’t bring your jobs back. I think that when Westlake’s business associates in London find out about this, he’ll suffer enough. Now, I’d prefer the fireside at the Crow to standing out here in the cold. If anyone cares to join me after I see Miss McShannon home, I’ll buy a round.”

  Ben glanced at the Westlakes’ home, then turned away with a shrug. “We’ll do naught but hurt ourselves here, Martin. You’re right about that. I’m going home. Maybe I’ll see you at the Crow later.”

  In twos and threes, the mill hands turned back toward the village, leaving Martin and Chelle standing in the snow, surrounded by an awkward silence. Chelle’s eyes were downcast, her hands wrapped in her cloak, her shoulders tense. Martin lifted a hand to take her arm, then halted the motion halfway. “Come, lass, let’s get you home.”

  After telling Louden the danger was past, they set out. Twilight had faded to a clear, moonlit winter night.

  Chelle fell into step with Martin as they started down the road. “What do you think will happen now?”

  “I suppose Mr. Westlake will spend a few days in London, waiting to see what happens here. Ben and the others will probably get around to asking for some legal advice. They might sue Westlake for compensation. I expect the magistrate will give them some help.”

  “But there’s no evidence. It’s only Drew’s word against Mr. Westlake’s.”

  “Aye, but everyone in Mallonby knows the truth. Westlake won’t come back here permanently, I’ll warrant.”

  “I wonder what Maria’s fiancé will think of this.”

  “Who knows? Depends on whether or not he really cares for her.” Martin turned and looked at Chelle’s face in the cold moonlight. She was too young, too bright and vital to look like that, so sad and defiant at the same time. Words tumbled out before he could check them. “Like I care for you. Chelle, I can’t tell you how much it hurts me to see you so unhappy.”

  Chelle met his gaze, her eyes wide and dark. She started to step back, but Martin had reached the limits of his self-control. He gripped her arms through her cloak to hold her still. A shiver ran through her and into him.

  “Martin, please don’t do this.”

  “Chelle, the Paxtons can go hang. This isn’t about them. It’s about you and me. Looking at you now, I think you lied to me the day you made that bloody fool agreement, and I was just as big a fool to believe you. I think you care for me as much as I do for you.”

  Color flamed in her cheeks, and Martin knew he was right. Chelle spoke in a choked whisper. “I told you I cared for you, Martin. I cared for Rory, too, but it wasn’t enough. Now he’s gone. You and Leah deserve someone who can give you more than I can.”

  Temper flaring, Martin gave her a sharp shake. “Chelle, I don’t know what you’re afraid of. It isn’t the Paxtons, that’s for sure and certain. I would have told them to do their worst if you’d given me the chance. Tell me.”

  Chelle jerked herself free. “Martin, I was completely honest with you that day at the jail. If you can’t accept that, I don’t know what else to say. Now, please, for Leah’s sake, leave me alone.”

  She ran from him, disappearing from view along the riverside path. Bloody hell. All he’d managed to do was make a fool of himself.

  You’ve lost her for good and all this time, lad. When will you learn to let well enough alone?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Drew finished packing his duffle bag and looked around the cold, sparsely furnished main room of his cottage. He’d never bothered to make it comfortable. He hadn’t grown up with comfort and didn’t miss it. A good thing, as he had a harsh, new beginning in a foreign country ahead of him.

  It wasn’t the prospect of toil that filled him with rage. He’d never been afraid of hard work. It was the injustice of it. When he thought of the contempt his former workmates had shown him when he told the truth about the fire, he longed to hit someone, anyone.

  No, not just anyone. Martin Rainnie. Drew had one last call to make before he left Mallonby behind, to make Martin pay for turning the crowd at the pub against him, and for Martin’s blows back in the summer. And this time, he was prepared. He felt in the pocket of his coat for the brass knuckles he’d bought a few years ago on a trip to York, and smiled as his fingers closed around them. Time to get a bit of his own back.

  Drew walked through the village, quiet in the dim winter morning. He’d find Martin at chores and deal with him away from the house. He’d stop short of killing the man, but not too far short.

  As he neared the forge, Drew caught a glimpse of movement in the fenced yard. A flash of blue. Rochelle stood at the well, turning the windlass. She filled a bucket, set it on the kitchen step, then picked up a basket and disappeared around the side of the small stable.

  Right, then, he’d teach her a lesson as well. Drew knew Rainnie cared for her. They’d created enough of a stir in the village with their doings at the harvest dance. This would make Drew’s revenge all the sweeter.

  With an eye on the house, Drew stepped inside the gate. She’d gather the eggs and feed the chickens. He had fifteen or twenty minutes before anyone would think about looking for her. More than enough time. The snow muffled his footsteps, and if the girl heard anything, she’d assume it was someone from the house. He reached the side of th
e stable in four quick strides and moved along the wall. No need for brass knuckles here. He was going to enjoy this.

  * * *

  Chelle had just finished gathering the eggs and turned to latch the door to the chicken coop when an arm snaked around her waist, and a rough hand clamped over her mouth. A man’s voice hissed in her ear. “Make a sound and I’ll kill you.”

  Chelle bit him, but before she could scream a heavy blow to the jaw sent her reeling into the snow. Then Drew was on top of her, slamming his fists into her body, forcing the air from her lungs. Chelle couldn’t fight him. Her head swam with pain and lack of oxygen. Then another blow connected with her jaw, and she blacked out.

  * * *

  Martin looked up from his milking at the sound of Gyp’s sharp bark. He saw no one in the yard, but something must have set the dog off. He left his bucket of milk in the aisle and walked to the door, with Gyp at his heels.

  Drew Markham stepped into the byre doorway, smiling. Before Martin could get set, cold metal slammed him in the belly. He toppled backwards into the aisle as Gyp shied back into a stall. Drew followed Martin down, punching with both fists.

  He saw stars as his head struck the barn floor, but he managed to roll away from Drew’s next blow. The third struck Martin’s ribs, but his surprise had worn off. He caught Drew’s wrist and jerked it to the side, hoping to snap it, but Drew rolled with the motion and broke free. Martin realized he was facing an experienced fighter. Drew swung his metal-clad fist again and opened a cut on Martin’s cheek.

  “You’ll look as pretty as the McShannon girl when I’m finished with you. I gave her a taste of the same on my way here. I wanted to give you both something to remember me by.”

  Martin had never felt such rage, but he didn’t launch the flurry of punches Drew clearly expected. Instead, he scrambled to his feet, took a step back and smiled. “Is that a fact? I’m going to enjoy making you wish you’d never been born.”

  Breathing heavily, Drew got up. Martin sensed doubt in the man like a predator smelling blood. The initial assault had left him still standing, and he outweighed Drew by at least thirty pounds.

  Keep your eye on his right. Martin began circling his opponent, buying time while he caught his breath and his head cleared. When Drew feinted with his left and swung a right, Martin ducked and drove his head into the man’s belly. As Drew fell, Martin caught his right wrist and twisted it. He felt the bones snap, heard Drew scream, and sailed in with both fists, battering his face and body until he flopped like a rag doll with each blow.

  Enough.

  Martin drew a bucket of cold well water and bathed his face and hands. He felt like he’d been trodden down by a horse, but the rush of the fight kept him moving. When Gyp came whimpering out of his hiding place, Martin picked him up and held him close. “It’s all over, old lad. Come on, we’d better get this bit of filth to town.” He carried Gyp out to the cart and set him on the seat, then lifted Drew and tumbled him into the back. He didn’t know if he’d fatally injured the man or not, and he didn’t care. The bastard had hurt Chelle. Martin hitched Major to the cart and headed for the McShannons’.

  Colin met him in the yard, his face a mask of worry. With his heart thudding against his sore ribs, Martin jumped to the ground. “How badly is she hurt?”

  “We don’t know. She’s still unconscious. Brian’s gone for the doctor. Christ, Martin, look at you. Has the world gone mad?”

  “No, only Drew Markham. He’ll need the doctor, too. I may have done the bastard mortal harm. He came out to my place and jumped me. He told me he worked Chelle over. How long ago did you send for Doctor Halstead?”

  “Only half an hour ago. Come in and sit down, you’re about to keel over. Leave the garbage in the cart.” Colin’s troubled expression lightened a bit as he looked over Martin’s shoulder. “There they are now.”

  The doctor hurried upstairs with Caroline. Jack and Brian brought Drew in and laid him on the kitchen sofa. When he started to stir, Colin leaned over him and grabbed him by the throat. “Lie still and keep your mouth shut, you son of a bitch, or I’ll put a knife between your ribs and call it good riddance.”

  Drew obeyed. Martin tended to the cut on his face, then joined the McShannons at the table. “What’s taking Doctor Halstead so bloody long?”

  Colin tried to look reassuring. “Patience, lad. While we’re waiting, why don’t you tell us exactly what happened the other night out at Westlake’s? Chelle wouldn’t say much for all my badgering, and every person we talk to has a different story.”

  Martin briefly gave Colin the facts. “When it was all over, I tried to talk to Chelle again about us, but—” He broke off as Doctor Halstead appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “She regained consciousness while I was working on her. She has a broken rib and another that’s likely cracked, her kidneys are bruised, and a few of her teeth have been loosened. I gave her a healthy dose of poppy. She’s in for a miserable time, but her injuries will heal. We’ll have to watch her for pneumonia. That’s my main concern. Now for this one.”

  The doctor made no effort to be gentle as he set Drew’s wrist and stitched a cut on his jaw. Martin smiled grimly at the news that Drew had broken ribs as well. At the very least, Chelle wouldn’t suffer alone.

  After patching Drew up, Doctor Halstead volunteered to drive him to the jail. When they’d gone, Martin faced Colin. “I need to see her.”

  Chelle’s father held Martin’s gaze for a moment. An unspoken message passed between them. They would get Chelle through this together. “Aye, come along.”

  Caroline and Jean came out of the bedroom as Martin and Colin got to the top of the stairs. Martin wouldn’t have thought quiet Jean could look so angry. Then he stepped into the bedroom with Colin.

  Rage swept all thought of his own hurts from Martin’s mind. He wouldn’t have known her. Chelle’s face was bruised and swollen, her breathing shallow and ragged. He wanted to run down to the jail and choke the life out of Drew, as slowly and painfully as possible.

  Deep in a laudanum-induced sleep, Chelle didn’t respond when Martin touched her hair, spun silk between his fingers. Its scent wafted up to him, cool and subtle. God, he loved her. He would gladly have taken her pain on himself if only he could.

  “Rest well, lass. Drew’s paid for this.” He lifted Chelle’s hand to his lips. “You came to me when I was hurt. I’m going to stand by you whether you want me to or not.” He sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at her father. “I know she cares for me, Colin. I’ll stay by her for as long as it takes to make her see it.”

  Colin joined him and rested a hand on Chelle’s shoulder. “I thought you’d feel that way. She’s a luckier lass than she knows, Martin.”

  * * *

  She was in the playhouse at home, building mud pies with Cathy Sinclair and Clara Hughes. She heard her mother’s voice reading. “O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being.” The rest of the poem flowed from her memory, Maman’s favorite work by Shelley. But Leah was crying, and Chelle couldn’t listen any longer.

  No, Martin would take care of the little one. He was right here beside her, holding her hand, his touch warm and comforting.

  * * *

  Dreams blended seamlessly with reality until Chelle surfaced in the muted light of a snowy morning, the lamp burning low on the nightstand. Pain knifed her in the side with every breath, her head throbbed, and her mouth tasted abominable. The bedroom door opened, and her father stepped in. He sat in the chair by the bed and touched her cheek. “You’re awake. How do you feel, lass?”

  “Awful.” What was the matter with her voice? She didn’t sound like herself at all. “Dad, what happened?”

  “You were badly beaten, Chelle.”

  It made no sense. Her mind felt too thick and sluggish to follow the words. “Beaten? When?”

  “Three days ago. You’ve a broken rib, and your kidneys are badly bruised. Do you remember anything of it?”

  “No.
Who would—?”

  “Drew Markham. He decided to take out his spite on Martin before leaving town, but he came across you first. There’s one consolation, though. He looks a lot worse than you do. Martin beat him within an inch of his miserable life. Drew’s in the village lock-up, still punch-drunk and with a broken wrist and ribs. Martin took a couple of blows himself, but he’s healing. He’s been here most of the time.”

  “He has?”

  Her father took her hand and leaned close. “Yes, he has. Chelle, if it’s escaped your notice, it’s obvious Martin loves you.”

  What had he said? Something told Chelle it mattered, but she couldn’t stay awake to puzzle it out. Something about Martin. He’d been here. That wasn’t a dream. Would he come again?

  She fell asleep waiting for him.

  * * *

  Two days later, early in the white and rosy winter afternoon, Chelle sat up in bed worrying down some of Aunt Caroline’s chicken soup. The doctor had decreased her dose of laudanum, leaving her sleepy but coherent. She’d just finished eating when Jean knocked on the bedroom door. “You have a visitor, Chelle.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?” Jean grinned.

  Martin. Chelle steeled herself against a tumult of feelings as he came in. He wore a collarless gray linen shirt that set off his strong neck and the breadth of his shoulders, the stormy color of his eyes and the fire of his hair. Her heart beat painfully against her strapped ribs, responding to his presence, his voice.

  “You look better today, lass.”

  “I look a fright, and you know it.” Chelle’s gaze fixed on the healing cut on Martin’s cheek, the bruises on his jaw. Could anything be dearer than his face? “You look a little the worse for wear yourself.”

  “Aye, well, you’ve seen me like this before.” He smiled, and her heart did another painful flip.

  “Yes, and on my account. I seem to keep giving you occasions to come to my defense, and you seem to keep stepping in to defend me.”