But he could still see Taff’s face. The stunned confusion as he realized his life was now bubbling up and trickling away onto the pale brown rocks and rough grass beneath them.
“You. Shot. Meeeeee,” Taff gurgled, coughing out a stream of dark red blood as he grabbed a fistful of Stephen’s jacket. “Bas…tard…die…”
Stephen wrenched from his grasp and Taff’s hands dropped limply to his sides. Minutes later he stopped moving altogether.
Panting hard, so cold his teeth were chattering, Stephen shoved Taff’s blood-soaked body out of the way and crawled to the cliff edge. “Caroline…Mama…”
“Darling! Can you lift us up?” said his mother.
“I’ll try,” he rasped, glancing over his shoulder. Sir Albert still lay on the path, yet his arms and feet were twitching. Fuck. The baronet was waking up.
Shuffling sideways on knees and elbows, every movement causing fiery pain to tear through his body, Stephen rolled onto his back and braced his feet against the stump. As black spots danced in front of him and a roaring sound grew louder in his ears, he began to pull the first rope. Inch by agonizing inch he tugged on the coarse fiber until after what seemed like a thousand years, his mother’s head appeared above the grass.
“Hold. Ground. Mother,” he slurred and she grabbed some fistfuls of vine and swung her legs up onto the top.
“Stephen! Oh my God!”
“Help. Get. Caro.”
Yanking the rope over her head and heaving it away, Jane kicked off her heeled slippers and dropped down beside him. Together they pulled on the second rope and eventually his wife scrambled over the grassed verge and into his arms.
He smiled, trying to fight the heavy darkness encroaching on his vision. “Caro…”
Then everything went black.
~ * ~
So much blood. Stephen’s jacket and shirt were soaked and now his eyes were shut and he wasn’t moving.
Gently drawing his head into her lap, Caroline began smoothing his hair over and over, her body shaking uncontrollably as hysteria gripped her.
“Stephen,” she babbled. “Wake up now. Come on, wake up, my love.”
“What are we g-going to do?” said Jane as she crouched beside them, tears running down her face.
Glancing up, Caroline scanned their surroundings. All was quiet and still except for Sir Albert, who was attempting to get onto his hands and knees. Very carefully, she rolled Stephen and removed the second pistol from his waistband. “Jane, would you…”
“My pleasure,” her mother-in-law replied, taking the pistol and strolling over to Sir Albert like she was ascending the stairs to Almack’s. One sharp blow to the back of the head, and the baronet again slumped on the ground. They were now marginally safer, although she wouldn’t feel truly safe until they were all back at Forsyth House and Stephen was being attended by the best physicians in England.
“One of us needs to go for help. Stephen’s carriage, with his footmen and coachman, is only about a half mile from here. If they can bring it close enough we can carry him.”
“I’ll go.”
“Are you sure, Jane?”
“Absolutely, darling. Your place is beside your husband.”
“Can you shoot a pistol?”
“Yes. Andrew insisted I learn. You keep this one, I’ll take Taff’s. Back soon, just hang on,” Jane finished, kneeling down to kiss Stephen’s forehead. After slipping her shoes on and collecting the abandoned pistol, she ran down the path toward the cottage.
The silence twisted and stretched Caroline’s shattered nerves. Surrounded by a dead man, an unconscious man and a horribly injured man, her cut forehead stinging painfully, she busied herself tearing a section of her gown hem and pressing it firmly against Stephen’s shoulder to stem the blood flow. Yet still he didn’t move, only very shallow breathing letting her know he lived.
Where was Jane? What if something had happened to her?
Tears trickled down Caroline’s face.
“Come on, Stephen,” she whispered. “You know damn well I’ve forbidden you to die, so open your blasted eyes and look at me. Look at me!”
He didn’t so much as twitch.
She buried her face in his neck, sobbing until her eyes were so raw and gritty it hurt to hold them open. Her husband was dying. After everything they had been through, that damned bastard Taff would still win.
Pulling Stephen closer, she started rocking him. And humming a ridiculous lullaby she’d overheard a nurse singing to a young charge, interspersed with the words ‘please don’t leave me’. Again and again she sang the tune, sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, unable to make herself stop.
Until the softest of groans sounded.
Freezing, she peered down at him. “Stephen?”
Silence.
“Stephen?” she said again, louder this time, even shaking him lightly.
One eye opened. “War…” he muttered.
“War? What do you mean war? Stephen?”
“No. Warbling. Stop.”
Tearful laughter erupted. “Are you c-casting aspersions on my singing, h-husband?” she said, her voice wobbling dangerously.
“Not. Singing. Warbling. Awful.”
“Well then, I guess you’ll have to live. It’s the only way to silence me.”
“Doing. Best. Hurts. ”
She pressed a soft kiss to his damp forehead. “I’m not surprised, my love. But very, very soon your mother will be back with the men and the carriage and we will whisk you to London. That Dr. Murray will fix everything and have you in tip top shape in no time. As a matter of fact,” she said joyfully, her ears pricking up at the sound of gravel crunching. “Here they come now!”
“Took. Long. Enough.”
“I know! For heaven’s sake, did you walk back on your hands,” she finished, glancing teasingly over her shoulder.
The world tilted.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Not Jane and help. Baron Kimbolton, Sir John Smythe and Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne. Halted into a semi-circle, their arms folded as they regarded the scene in front of them.
“No! Get back!” Caroline cried, scrabbling for the pistol. Even though she understood one against three was the worst of odds, and not even knowing how to fire the weapon made her beyond useless as a protector.
Sir John stepped forward. “Well, well. Lord Westleigh and dead bodies. Such a déjà vu scenario, yet this time it appears he is also in a bad way. How unfortunate.”
Stephen flinched in her lap and turned his head. “Sir John. Always. Unpleasant. See. You. Why. Here?”
“I’m sure you know we have informers everywhere, dear boy. When we received word regarding your very sudden journey to a certain cottage in Kent, naturally we were intrigued.”
“Very interesting being back here, I must say,” mused Kimbolton. “Such memories.”
“Ha,” said Wynn-Thorne. ‘You’re only thinking about all the times you tupped Hermia Bruce. Never met such a whore in all my life. Completely willing to spread her legs for anyone.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Sir John with a low chuckle. “More like sometimes willing, sometimes not. I particularly enjoyed the latter occasions. So much more fun when a woman needs to be…persuaded.”
Bile rose in Caroline’s mouth and she coughed several times. Monsters. If only she had three pistols, she would give shooting them all a decent try.
“…Rock liked that too,” Sir John continued reminiscently. “Until Westleigh killed him, of course.
“Goddamned fools. Westleigh didn’t kill Major Rochland. I did.”
Five startled gazes flew to Sir Albert as he staggered upright, rubbed the back of his head and stalked forward, his gait getting faster and steadier with every step.
Caroline stilled and hugged Stephen closer, every hair on the back of her neck rising as a gust of wind swept across the path. The ex-soldier must have a head of cast iron.
“You, ragged-pants?” said Sir John deri
sively. “And who might you be?”
The baronet smiled coldly. “Just a simple, retired soldier.”
Seconds later, in the crisp movement of a true expert, Sir Albert removed two knives from his jacket and buried them in Sir John and Lord Kimbolton’s chests. Tilting his head, he watched them fall to the ground and writhe in pained shock. “However, also father of a dead daughter and hell bent on justice,” he continued. “Sir Albert Bruce, at your service.”
Caroline choked as bright red flowers began to bloom on both men’s shirts. Not more blood. Not more death. And yet a tiny part of her wanted to cheer, to celebrate a victory.
“Well, Sir Albert,” snarled Wynn-Thorne, his face twisting with anger as he withdrew a pistol from his jacket. “Consider me a grieving friend hell bent on justice…”
“Don’t even think about it, my lord. Drop to your knees and put your hands on your head.”
Caroline jerked her head up at the now-familiar voice. Mr. White! And behind him a dozen soldiers all armed to the hilt, with Jane. And…George?
Joy and relief, such beautiful relief swirled in her head, making her dizzy. Could it really be over? “You took your sweet time, Mr. White,” she called unsteadily.
“My apologies, Lady Westleigh. The location was a little hard to pinpoint.”
“I’m sh-shocked. You are after all, the intelligence arm of the government.”
White’s lips twitched, but he said nothing, merely lifted a hand. The soldiers marched forward and began rounding up the men and dragging them back down the path.
Swallowing hard, she stared at her twin who now stood alone about twenty feet away. George stepped forward then hesitated, his eyes so dark in his pale face they appeared almost black.
“Caro…”
“For heaven’s sake, George, c-come here and make yourself useful, you cr-cretin.”
He sprinted over and fell to his knees beside her and Stephen. “Stupid, foolish twit. I stopped by Forsyth House to raid your brandy supply and Innes told me what happened. Can’t the pair of you go a day without getting into trouble? Am I the only responsible adult around here?”
Stephen coughed and shuddered. “It seems so.”
“Don’t talk, you goddamned idiot. You’re only rambling anyway. No one wants to hear a boring man ramble. Especially one with such a vast, gaping space where his brain should be. Now, baby sister, I’ll help you up first…UGH. Really? That’s how you thank me?”
She gave her twin an apologetic look and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A shame for his trousers, but was it any wonder her stomach had just attempted to purge itself of everything eaten within the past month?
“Caroline…” Stephen rasped, clumsily trying to pat her shoulder and instead whacking her ear. “You all right?”
She took his good hand and squeezed it. “Absolutely, dearest. Despite your attempts to physically correct me. In fact, after yet another bath I shall be ready to dance until dawn.”
“I detect sarcasm.”
A wide grin stretched her lips. Oh, how she loved this man.
“That’s just the blood loss talking. Probably the nasty sea air as well. Let’s get back to crowded streets and dirt immediately.”
“Don’t forget cake.”
“That, husband, goes without saying.”
~ * ~
Dr. Geoffrey Murray might be the most irritating man in England, with his perfectly combed silver hair, pressed gray jacket and trousers, and chilly bedside manner. Then again, when you were the very best at your profession, you could probably afford to be arrogant. At the moment, however, it didn’t suit Stephen’s purposes at all.
Narrowing his gaze, he unleashed his fiercest glare on the physician. “Another week of bed rest? I’ve already been trapped in this bloody room for three! And if I have to consume another glass of barley water or bowl of chicken broth…”
Dr. Murray didn’t so much as blink his wide gray eyes as he repacked his brown medical bag, the only colored item he appeared to possess. “You suffered a severe injury, Lord Westleigh, and lost a great deal of blood. Quite frankly you are lucky to still be with us. In the great scheme of things, I do not believe a period of bed rest or proper invalid food will kill you. Unlike pistols and knives. Now, I’ll have Victoria prepare another tonic to help your body heal. She is far more skilled than I am with herbs, I am both sad and proud to admit.”
“Victoria? Is that your wife?”
“My daughter,” Dr Murray said shortly. “If only she’d been born a boy.”
Stephen snorted. “Rubbish. One day our great nation will advance to the point where all professions are open to women. Already decided any daughters I have will be tutored in all subjects. And taught to box. Then they’ll proceed to government reforms and resolving all the continent’s issues.”
Dr Murray made a rusty, barking sound. It might have been laughter, it was hard to tell. “You might wish to speak to your wife about that. Soon.”
“Why?”
“Good day to you, my lord.”
Alone again, Stephen sank back onto a pile of pillows. Not that he would ever admit it, but between the shoulder pain and debilitating fatigue, even the thought of getting out of bed made him wince. He supposed he felt infinitely better than a few weeks ago, but Dr. Murray insisted it would take months to return to full health, and Stephen suspected the man might be correct.
The connecting door between the earl and countess’ bedchambers inched open.
“Yes, Caroline, he’s gone,” he called. “You can stop pressing your ear to the keyhole and come in.”
She sashayed into the room and carefully arranged herself on his bed. “Excuse me, who discovered all the details about Sir Albert escaping to France? And Sir John dying of his wound? And Kimbolton and Wynn-Thorne being locked up in Tower rooms entirely unbefitting of their station?”
“I think you give Albert Bruce far too much credit. If White didn’t want him to escape, there is no way he would have. But what else have you been doing with your days?”
“Resting,” she grumbled. “Resting, resting, resting. I’m perfectly fine yet I’ve been ordered to nap for an hour every afternoon. And eat awful nourishing food.”
“Don’t cry to me about food. When you’ve been on the diet I have…wait a minute, why is Dr. Murray being strict with you?”
Caroline’s gaze shifted. “Er, well, I…”
“Your head?” he asked, frowning. “Or something else you didn’t tell me?”
“No. Just a little, ah, sickness.”
“What kind? What did he say? Is it serious?”
She snorted. “Yes and no.”
“Now you’re just talking in riddles.”
“Perhaps,” Caroline replied, gently resting her head against his uninjured shoulder. “My mind does wander a little. A common affliction, I’m told, for pregnant women.”
He stilled, as pure joy warmed his entire body. “You’re with child?”
“I am indeed. And if you think it is an enjoyable experience, you are entirely mistaken. Even the sight of cake makes me cast up my accounts. Instead I want creamed peas. Peas! All the damned time!”
Curving his good arm around her shoulder, he tugged Caroline down until she rested against his chest. So she couldn’t see the stupidly huge grin on his face or the suspicious dampness in his eyes. “If it’s peas you want, Lady Westleigh, then it’s peas you shall have,” he muttered unsteadily.
“I should think so, Lord Efficient and Dedicated to the Cause. The very least you can do.”
“Does Dr Murray know when approximately?”
“He thinks perhaps late January or early February. Plenty of time to prepare for the rogue mathematician or too-clever hellion.”
“Or perhaps one of each? Ow, Caroline, no pinching, I’m a seriously injured man.”
She gave him a fierce glare. “You’ll be even more seriously injured if you keep up that talk. One child at a time is more than sufficient, thank you v
ery much!”
“But you are a twin, my dear. The probability…Ow! Vicious, bloodthirsty wench.”
“And yet you still married me.”
“Had to, as a public service. Who else could manage you?”
Caroline tilted her head then shimmied upwards until her mouth hovered inches from his. “Oh, you think you manage me, do you?”
“Occasionally,” he groaned, as her tongue brushed against his lips. How cruel, seducing him when he didn’t have the energy to do a thing about it.
“And the rest of time?”
“I thought perhaps I’d try…well…”
“Loving me?”
“Something like that.”
She snorted. “I think exactly like that. Say the words. Like you mean them, and I’ll hold them until we’re ancient and you deign to say them again.”
“So demanding,” he said, sighing theatrically. “Very well. I love you, hellion. Today, tomorrow and always.”
“Now that,” Caroline replied happily. “Sounds like a plan.”
EPILOGUE
December 1815
“You cannot seriously mean to eat that. There are men working all day in mines who don’t fill their plates half as high.”
Caroline smiled extra sweetly at her husband as she left the well-stocked sideboard and made her way to the breakfast room table. Dumping the large helping of coddled eggs, bacon, buttered toast and fried potato on his head was so very tempting, but what a terrible waste of heavenly scented food. “The baby is hungry.”
“According to you, the baby is always hungry. I’m starting to suspect you are carrying an entire regiment at the very least.”
“That is not in the slightest bit amusing,” she growled, pressing a hand into the small of her back to relieve the near-constant ache caused by a very rounded belly.
In his last examination Dr. Murray estimated she still had about two months to go and she’d nearly belted him with his medical bag. It already felt like she’d been pregnant for at least three years and between the nausea that still plagued her occasionally, the insistent middle of the night tap dances on her ribcage, and constant need to use the chamber pot, she was more than ready to squeeze this active darling out of her body. The only positive aspect in the whole palaver was the cold weather. Heaven knew how women coped with this nonsense in the heat of summer.
Rakes and Rogues Page 65