by Gaelen Foley
Moving with brisk efficiency, she made a swift search of the room and located the keys to his manacles hanging near the door in the outer room. Striding back into his cell, she approached cautiously.
Becky showed him the key with a warning look. He closed his eyes with an expression of complete obedient desperation, then turned, giving her his hands. He smelled awful, and the raw condition of his wrists was appalling.
Her hands shook as she fumbled to free him.
The second he was free, he took the candle and instantly blew out the flame. Becky backed away from him, mistrustful in the dark. He grabbed her elbow and turned her toward the door with an order that she couldn’t understand.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, then obeyed his belated hush as she heard the distant sound of male voices. Someone’s coming!
The Cossacks.
No doubt coming to check on their prisoner. Becky glanced toward the window as the color drained from her face; the Russian’s angular countenance filled with murderous intent. She did not understand the words, but his questioning murmur was enough of a cue: Where do we go?
They had to get away.
She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him with her, leading the dazed man out of what had been his prison. Once more she stepped out into the blowing woods. The Cossacks’ voices were growing louder. She glanced around with her pulse pounding. If she could get him to the house, she could hide him inside the secret passageways, but when she tried to urge him in that direction, he refused.
He pointed, indicating the approaching Cossacks, not yet visible. He shook his head and backed away from her.
“Fine,” she muttered. They could make a run for it. One of her neighbors down in the village would have to help them. Big Samuel, the blacksmith, or Mr. Haskell, the apothecary. He used to be an army man, he would not be too frightened of Mikhail.
“Come on,” she whispered, leading the pitiful creature deeper into the woods. Barefooted, he stumbled on the rough ground, thanks to his weakened condition. In his strength, he would have been a formidable man.
As they disappeared into the woods, behind them the Cossacks must have found the gatehouse empty, for they sent up the alarm, harsh male shouts ringing throughout the area they had just evacuated. She could imagine them running through the gatehouse, and knew that in another moment they would be on their trail.
Becky and the captive ran faster, thorns and branches tearing at them as they rushed by. They hit the open moors and ran full out, though the Russian’s steps were already flagging.
“Come on, you can do it! I know these moors like the back of my hand!”
He seemed to grasp her meaning as she urged him on. Past the woods, the treeless heath with its low scrub and gently rolling ground provided their pursuers an easy mark when they finally spotted them. Becky screamed when the bullets started flying over their heads, but the Russian was cool, putting her ahead of him.
A lord, a gentleman, no doubt.
The Cossacks must have summoned Mikhail himself, for she now heard her cousin’s voice far behind her barking orders at his men in Russian.
Then his voice carried to her on the night, a long, echoing howl.
“Rebeccaaaaaa! Rebecca! Get back here!” Mikhail bellowed after her.
Their captive let out a garbled cry as a massive report from a rifle ripped through the air, bounding off the moors’ gentle rises. The man she had just freed went sailing facedown into the turf, shot in the back.
She let out a shriek and jolted down to her knees beside him. “Oh, my God! God!”
He could barely lift his head, and she knew he was dying as he pointed furiously to the horizon, needing no English to make his order clear: Go!
He tore off the small silver religious medal that hung around his neck and pressed it into her hand. Weeping, she closed his blankly staring eyes, then clenched her jaw and rose again, staring in tearful rage at the armed men by the treeline.
A glimmer of moonlight showed her Mikhail’s outstretched arm, gesturing to the men to hold their fire. Some of the other Cossacks were just leading their horses onto the scene.
“It’s too late, Rebecca!” he shouted over the moors. “Come back now of your own will and nothing will happen to you. Don’t make me chase you!”
You monster, she thought, her eyes burning as she turned her back on him.
Two of the Cossacks mounted up but she was already in motion, running faster than she had ever moved in her life. She had a fair head start on them and knew this terrain much better than they did. The boggy ground and countless holes made by the various animals of the brush gave a person on foot the advantage over any rider who did not wish his horse a broken leg.
She leaped over a large stone and dashed down the familiar dip of a gully, following the fold of the landscape and using the cover of darkness to escape. Every pounding footstep reverberated from her ankles all the way up to her teeth, but she raced on, her legs pumping furiously beneath her.
“Rebeccaaaa!”
She ignored him, barreling on.
Her cousin’s voice grew fainter, but his final threat chilled her to the bone: “You make one move against me and I will burn your village to the ground!”
As she came back to the present and the stillness of the little church, Becky felt the dark shadows of those memories still clinging to her.
Alec watched her with a brooding stare, mulling over her words. She glanced at him sorrowfully and searched his face, trying to gauge his reaction. If he didn’t believe her, she did not think she could go on. She bit her tongue, however, and waited for him to break the silence. Rather than speaking, he slowly reached over and took her hand between both of his.
Tears rushed into her eyes.
She moved toward him, and he pulled her into his arms. Trembling with soul-deep gratitude, she closed her eyes and took strength from his embrace.
“Oh, Alec, I feel so awful. That’s why I didn’t want to bring you into this, you see? I’m already responsible for that man’s death.”
“No, sweeting, you tried to free him!” he exclaimed in a tender whisper. “You tried to help. They’re the ones who took his life.” His hold on her was firm yet gentle, and she could feel the fierce protectiveness in his touch as he stroked her hair. “You probably gave him the only chance he could have had to get away. You did the right thing.”
“I tried, but it wasn’t enough.”
“Most people would have run. You stayed despite your fear and got him out of there.”
She shook her head. “How could I have been so blind? I can’t believe it was going on right under my nose. I still have no idea who he was or why they were holding him. Do you know what the worst part is? I dropped the medal he gave me somewhere out on the moors. Whoever he was, now his family will have nothing at all to remember him by. I tried to find it, but they were coming after me so fast . . . I had to run. It’s probably still out there somewhere, rusting. I just feel so awful.”
“You did all you could. You mustn’t blame yourself, Becky.” He kissed her head. “Everything’s going to be all right. We’ll get your home back for you, and then we’ll get everyone in your village, if need be, to help scour the moors until we find it. Your cousin’s not going to get away with this. I promise you that.”
Struggling against tears, she hugged him tightly. “I’m scared, Alec.” She buried her face against his neck.
“I know, sweetheart. But you’re not alone in this anymore, do you understand? Whatever happens, we will face this together. And I’ll tell you something else.” Cupping her cheek, he leaned closer and kissed her forehead. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is resolved.”
“You’re not?”
“No.” He shook his head slowly, trying to coax a smile from her. “I am appointing myself your royal bodyguard, my lady. I trust that you are pleased.”
It worked. She succumbed to a hapless smile and blushed, dropping her gaze. “I am.” Reliving t
he still vivid nightmare in the telling of her tale, she was all too happy now to accept his protection in lieu of his forced, dutiful offer of marriage.
“Good.” Turning away with a resolute nod, Alec stood and took charge, climbing out of the pew to prowl restlessly across the chapel. “Very well, then. We must determine the best way to proceed.”
Watching him, Becky could not think of anyone she would have rather had as an ally. “Mikhail has come to London now, as you’ve seen, but I’m sure some of his Cossacks are still stationed in the village or even at the Hall in case I try to come back.”
“Well, you’re not going back until it’s safe.” Alec shrugged the tension out of his shoulders. “First off, you’re sure the property is not entailed?”
“Certain of it,” she answered, nodding as the creaking of the great church doors alerted them that the faithful had begun drifting in early for the noon service. “It can be purchased—if my cousin can be induced to sell it.”
“Or tricked into losing it somehow, hm?” he murmured wickedly.
“What do you mean?”
Alec was already onto the next thought, still pacing. Arms folded across his chest, he tapped his lips with his finger in thought. “But . . . if we prosecute him first and succeed in getting him convicted of a felony, his property will be forfeited to the Crown, and then it will be even more difficult for you ever to get your home back. Either the royals will keep the Hall for their own private use or will put it up for auction, where you will surely be outbid and outspent. After all, an ancient manor near a grousing heath would no doubt prove quite appealing to the shooting set, also given its historical significance. Best not to call attention to the place, or that’ll drive the price straight up.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” She frowned. “So, what should we do?”
“Seems to me we should work on getting your house back first and then bring your cousin to justice. The sooner we get the house away from him, the sooner his troops will clear out of your village. It shouldn’t be too difficult, since it sounds like he’s not that keen on the property, anyway. We just have to figure out where to hide you in the meantime and how to get the best price for that jewel. May I see it?” he asked respectfully.
She nodded and withdrew it from her bodice, handing it to him with greater confidence this time and a slight smile of contrition. Alec accepted it with a gaze that assured her there were no hard feelings for her earlier doubt.
“I hate for you to have to sell your family heirloom,” he mused aloud as he took it from her and sauntered over toward the stained-glass window to inspect it by the light. “I have a great many friends in the aristocracy who are obsessed with collecting such baubles. Who knows? For the sake of gallantry, even Drax or Rushford might keep it in trust for you—”
“No!”
He looked over in surprise.
“Forgive me, Alec, I know they are your friends, but they are not the sort of men a girl would like to be indebted to.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I am certain Lord Rushford hates me after I kicked him, anyway. Please—I don’t want the whole world knowing how Mikhail threatened me or how my own family cast me off. I am . . . a rather private person, if you hadn’t noticed. It was hard enough to share it all with you. I was only going to tell the Duke of Westland out of necessity. Please promise me you won’t get anybody else involved.”
“Well, that makes it more difficult, but . . . very well. If that’s how you feel.” That sturdy male pride gleamed in his eyes again. “I’m sure I am perfectly capable of handling this on my own, in any case.”
“Thank you,” she said in relief.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He slipped the ruby out of its little leather pouch and took it between his fingers, holding it up to the light. “I’m told I have quite an eye for beautiful things.” He sent her a suggestive half smile.
“Who told you that?”
“George.”
“George who?”
“H.R.H. Prince of Wales. You know—” His brief glance brimmed with droll humor. “Prinny.”
“The Regent?” she exclaimed, then quickly reminded herself to lower her voice while Alec chuckled. They were, after all, in a church. “You know the Regent?”
“Oh, sure. We’ve played cards on many occasions. Daresay I’m one of the few people who actually likes him.”
She was still marveling at this revelation when the church door creaked open again. She glanced over nervously and saw more parishioners coming in. “We’re going to have to leave soon. The service will be starting any minute. Well?” she prodded, unable to resist her impatience. “Any idea how much it might be worth?”
Alec did not answer; he had not moved.
Standing in profile to her below the stained-glass window, he continued scrutinizing the ruby by a single shaft of sunlight.
“Oh, dear,” he murmured.
Becky did not like the sound of that. “What is it?”
Without explanation, he pivoted and walked out of the chapel into the brighter nave.
She followed, bewildered. “Alec?”
He still did not answer.
Ignoring the people taking their seats for the service, he walked over to one of the colorless windows and studied the jewel again for a long moment, his chiseled face etched with intense concentration.
“Alec, what’s the matter?” she demanded.
Slowly lowering the ruby, he turned to her with a dazed look. “Uh, Becky—I’m not sure how to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?” she exclaimed, her heart pounding.
He put the jewel back in her hand with an apologetic wince. “It’s a fake.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
“It can’t be!”
“It is,” Alec said, chagrined to have to be the one to tell her.
“But the Rose of Indra has been in my family for centuries!”
“Shh!” an old lady hushed them as the scant congregation rose and began singing the entrance hymn.
Alec took Becky’s arm and led her out of the church. “It’s not an uncommon situation,” he explained in a low tone as he opened the heavy door for her. “One of your ancestors must have gotten into a scrape, sold the original for ready money, and then replaced it with this in hopes the family would never find out. Trust me, this sort of thing happens every day.”
“But it’s just not possible!” she insisted as they went back out into the dappled sunshine of the churchyard, the heavy door slowly creaking shut behind them, muffling the opening strains of a familiar hymn. “I’m sure you’re wrong!”
“I know I’m right. I’m sorry, Becky. I know about jewels and such. I’ve been around the finer things my whole life, and that,” he said emphatically, “is a fake. It’s paste—a form of glass. If you were to hit it against something hard, it would shatter into bits.”
“Well, we’ll just see about that!” A blazing light came into her eyes as she turned away, but he was too slow to stop her.
“Becky, don’t—”
Bang!
She smashed it against the stone balustrade and cried out in shock as it crumbled into a few fractured pieces and a handful of strawberry-colored dust in her palm.
She stared at it in horror.
“Oh, Becky,” Alec said wearily, setting his hands on his waist with a sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t have done that.” She really was a rash and impetuous creature, he thought. Not so unlike him.
As the sandy remains of the fake jewel sifted through her fingers, she lifted her stricken gaze to Alec, utterly at a loss.
“It wasn’t entirely worthless,” he informed her in a rueful tone. “Even as paste, we still could have sold the thing for twenty, thirty quid.”
“Thirty quid?” she cried, her face ashen. “That’s not enough to buy my house back! It’s going to cost at least five thousand pounds!”
“No, but it would have been enough to get me into a respectable g
ame of cards.”
“Cards?” she gasped. “You intend to gamble for the money?”
He shrugged and held her in a blunt stare. “Got any better ideas?”
A short while later they were in a hackney coach, headed where, Becky neither knew nor cared. Her cause was lost already. She was sure of it.
She was ruined. She was broke, cast upon the charity of her ravisher. She could not get to Westland, and her only hope now of saving her village from Mikhail and his Cossack army was a rakehell gambler without any luck. She was doomed.
Outside the carriage window, London went high-stepping by with its usual crisp self-importance, but she could only gaze unseeingly out the carriage window, still numb to discover that the jewel she had been guarding with her life was just a bit of glass, exactly as the first jeweler had tried to tell her when she arrived in the Town.
So much for her inheritance. She felt like such a dimwit. Of course her kin would never have left her anything of real value. Who did she think she was fooling? Men like Mikhail always got away with their crimes. He was a prince, boyhood friend of the Czar. He had all the resources of her grandfather’s title and fortune at his disposal, not to mention his own barbarian horde. She was no match for him, even with Alec’s help.
“Becky?”
She realized he had been staring at her when he squeezed her shoulder in a gentle offering of comfort. “Are you all right? Talk to me. You’re too quiet.”
She shrugged. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? You pretend to be rich when you’re not; I pretended to be a harlot to secure the food and shelter you offered; and now the Rose of Indra has turned out to be something it’s not, as well.” She started laughing dully, shaking her head. “Glass!”
“It’s going to be all right, Becky. I won’t let you down.”
“Oh, Alec, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I truly don’t, but how can this mad plan possibly work—gambling for the money to buy my house back? At my grandfather’s death the property and its three hundred acres were assessed at over five thousand pounds, and you said yourself you’ve been on a losing streak.”