Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  She had no choice.

  No one was coming to rescue her; she had to rescue herself.

  She hitched up her skirts, wishing she were a man clad in breeches, and slid one leg and then the other over the sill, until she was sitting on it, her feet dangling down against the side of the house. Glimpsing the ground three stories below made her dizzy, and she forced herself to concentrate on the tree. She must throw herself at it and catch the single branch that faced her. It was heavy and solid enough, but Olivia had only one chance to leap to it, and if she did not, she would probably break both legs and both arms in the subsequent fall—if not her very neck. Then Hannah would not be rescued, dear God.

  She was panting. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength and calm. When she opened them, the tree seemed even farther away than before, and she made the mistake of looking down just once and briefly; it was enough. Fear curdled her insides.

  Then she imagined Hannah in that cold, sterile place, surrounded by insane, dangerous women, and she gripped the windowsill, gritting her teeth, digging her feet against the house. She jumped.

  But not high enough. She missed the branch but managed to grasp the trunk of the tree. Frantically she tried to dig her toes into the trunk of the tree, losing what little grip she had.

  Olivia fell.

  She cried out as she fell down the tree, the bark tearing her hands and cheek and skirts. And the next thing that she knew, she had landed hard on her back.

  She felt the air leave her lungs in a terrifying rush.

  Her body seemed to snap.

  The night above her exploded with fiery stars.

  Olivia blinked as pain shot through her from her head to her toes. She lay prone and waited until, gradually, the night sky steadied itself and her vision cleared. The moon continued to beam down at her. She inhaled, not daring to breathe, not daring to move, gazing up through the branches of the towering oak. She had fallen the entire distance she had wished to climb, dear God. She did not know how badly she was hurt, but most of her body seemed to be throbbing in pain.

  Gingerly Olivia turned her head. Her neck was not broken. Her head continued to pound. Hesitantly she wriggled her fingers and her toes, flexed her hands. Both her arms seemed to be in working order, and her legs were not broken. Fearfully she explored her head. A huge bump was forming at the base of her skull, but there was no blood. Slowly, hesitantly, she sat up.

  She had survived the fall. Relief began, mingling with the bodily pain.

  She levered herself up and stood—and almost cried out as a raging pain shot up her ankle to her knee. Her knees buckling, she reached for the tree for support. Tears blinded her as she fought to remain upright.

  She hoped that she had only sprained her ankle in the fall. It hurt so much, she was afraid it might be broken. But surely, if that were the case, she would not be able to put any weight upon it at all.

  Gritting her teeth, Olivia hobbled away from the tree, then broke into a limping run. Every step cost her dearly, but she could not give up now. It was a hundred feet to the stables, and the night was bright, there were few trees between the barns and house for concealment. She ignored the blinding pain in her ankle. When she reached the side of the stable she collapsed against the smooth wood, panting heavily, sobbing soundlessly, glancing back fearfully at the house. It remained dark and unlit. The salon downstairs where Elizabeth would now be sitting was behind the front rooms. She relaxed slightly. Then the sound of conversation inside the barn made her freeze anew with fear.

  She stiffened, swallowing her sobs, calming her breathing, refusing to heed the pain in her ankle. She strained to hear. Two grooms were inside the stable, apparently drinking gin and throwing dice! Olivia despaired. She could hardly walk, she had to steal a horse, but now what should she do?

  She tried to think through the encroaching panic. She could either wait until the grooms finished their evening of gaming and drink or she could make a go of it on foot. Immediately she realized she could not wait—it was far too risky.

  As Olivia turned away from the barn to begin the very long trek to the village, she was again faced with the house. Before her very eyes, she watched a light appear in her bedroom window. Stunned, incredulous, disbelieving, she froze.

  Her room went dark again. But within instants lights had appeared in the downstairs windows of the front of the house. Her absence had been discovered.

  Olivia whirled. Her heart constricted, her breath in her throat, she ran across the lawns, holding her skirts high. Air stuck in her lungs. She forced her legs to chum, stumbling repeatedly. Her sobs mingled with her harsh breathing. Fear and panic overcame her, turning her mind peculiarly blank. She reached the first meadow and slipped under the split rails, panting like a wild, hunted animal, inanely understanding now how ferrets and foxes must feel when hunted down and backed into a corner. Clinging to the fence for support, she glanced back at the house.

  A dozen servants bearing candles and torches were swarming down the front steps.

  Olivia cried out.

  Even at this distance, she could make out Elizabeth in their midst, who was clad in a pale ice blue gown that seemed white in the dark of the night.

  Frantically Olivia turned and began running toward the first line of trees on the far side of the meadow, afraid she had already been seen—waiting to hear shouts behind her, shouts of “Halt!” There were thick woods ahead. She tripped now on the uneven ground, on stones and ruts, many times, as her legs gave way, her muscles burned with fatigue. The air she desperately sucked in burned her lungs; she could not take in enough. Finally Olivia’s legs hooked a pair of dead twisted branches and she fell.

  Sobbing, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees, looking back. The servants had fanned out, some heading toward the stables, others hurrying down the long, winding drive. She launched herself upright through sheer force of will, biting down through her lip in order not to scream in pain, and ducked into the edge of the woods, melting against a slender birch. Her ankle hurt so badly that tears streamed down her face.

  Oh, God, she thought, and it was a litany. Oh God oh God. Please help me—please do not let them find me! She could not be caught. She had to escape; her daughter’s life was at stake.

  Olivia closed her eyes, seeking strength. She must pull herself together, she must not give in to fear or pain or fatigue. She had to hide—and she had to make it to Stanhope Hall. When she thought she had gained some semblance of courage and strength, she opened her eyes, only to see a carriage coming swiftly down the drive. It contained Elizabeth.

  Olivia crouched, gripping the birch, mesmerized with fear. The carriage was rapidly drawing abreast of her hiding place. Elizabeth and the servants who were in it with her held torches, and they were scanning the sides of the road.

  Olivia crouched even lower as the barouche drew parallel to the stand of woods. Elizabeth was crying, “I want Arlen notified immediately. We must find her, Harold, tonight.”

  The torchlit carriage swept past, continuing down the drive, finally turning onto the main road, heading north, toward Sussex—toward Stanhope Hall. Olivia wiped more tears from her face.

  They had not seep her.

  And then she turned and began limping through the woods.

  He rode very fast, wishing now that he had taken a carriage, because his body was protesting the hard ride, especially his sore left side. But he had been so disturbed by his mother’s report that he had left without hesitation several hours ago. Olivia was. ill, bedridden. Garrick did not think it likely. He thought it far more likely that that bastard Arlen had locked her up.

  Rage filled him as he drove his hunter hard down the road under a night sky filled with stars. If Arlen had hurt either her or Hannah, he would kill him, and not in a gentlemanly way. He would put his hands around his throat and strangle him to death. To hell with duels. He was not about to give Arlen the advantage, not ever again.

  He should have gone to Ashburnham earlier, himself
. He was a fool to have been deterred by his father, who did not understand what it meant to love a woman. But it was too late now for regrets. He must only hope that it was not too late to prevent something terrible from happening.

  Chills coursed through him as he rode. Something terrible had happened. The closer he got to Ashburnham, the more certain he was of it. He was as sick with fear as he was seized with determination, and fortunately he was not far from the Ashburn country home. There had been no one else on the road; generally the peerage did not travel at night, for fear of highwaymen and robbers. He slowed his hunter to a trot, squinting ahead. An approaching vehicle was emerging from the darkness of the night.

  Garrick reined the bay hunter to a walk, patting his sweaty neck. Treve was panting loudly, walking now beside them, abreast of Garrick’s stirrup. The vehicle was a carriage, he realized, an expensive lacquer one that could belong only to a nobleman. And he was but a mile or so from Ashburnham, the only manor in the vicinity. Garrick reined his mount to a halt, tension riddling his body.

  The barouche rumbled toward him, finally coming abreast. Garrick had been told that Arlen had departed for the city; still, he expected to see him in the passenger seat. But Elizabeth sat there with four armed servants. When she recognized him, surprise showed upon her features. “Halt the carriage,” she commanded.

  Her coachman instantly obeyed.

  Garrick drove his mount closer.

  “What an odd surprise!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Good evening, Lord Caedmon. Oh, dear! I mean Lord De Vere!” She smiled.

  He was not in the mood to spar, and he stared. “What are you doing out at this time of night, Elizabeth? Surely you are not returning to London at this hour?” All he could think of was, Something has happened to Olivia.

  “I am Lady Houghton to you, De Vere,” she said coolly.

  “I know exactly who you are. Where is Olivia?” he demanded. “And do not tell me that she is ill.” He rode even closer to the open carriage.

  “Olivia is ill and in bed,” Elizabeth said briskly. “My, are you in love with my brother’s wife? Perhaps he should challenge you to a duel all over again.”

  “Regretting that I am alive? I am sorry to have disappointed you.” He was disgusted with her.

  “I hardly care if you live or die,” she snapped. “But in the end, you will go back to that little island, will you not, with your tail between your legs—while your brother inherits everything.” She laughed.

  His temper flared. “I did not come here to discuss the impostor with you, and I happen to be very fond of that little island.”

  “You would be. You have turned into a savage, Garrick. You are worse than a colonial—but you were always odd and strange!”

  He snapped. “Could it be, dearest Elizabeth, that you are still fond of me? In your own unusual way?”

  “I was never fond of you!” she cried.

  “No?” he mocked. “So it was disgust which made you slip into my bed one night without a stitch of clothing on your back?”

  She inhaled, turning pale. To her credit, she ignored the unblinking servants. “That is a-lie!”

  “I am only sorry I availed myself of what you so freely offered. And it has been abundantly clear to me for all of these ensuing years that you have never forgiven me for failing to grovel over you as Arlen and other men do.” He made a sound of disgust. “Beauty, my dear, is only skin deep, and a black core taints even the most perfect, seemingly unblemished fruit.”

  Her eyes were wide, glittering. “And you are a spineless coward as well as a savage and a fool. You and that witch deserve one another, I think.”

  “You tread dangerously, Elizabeth,” he said, his tone so soft it was barely audible.

  She stared, and finally, the gesture filled with disdain, she shrugged. “Go to hell, De Vere.”

  Her curse hardly unsettled him. He glanced at the servants, all of whom were staring directly ahead, as if deaf and dumb and incapable of having heard a single word of their conversation. “Where is Olivia? Why are you out on the road?”

  “Olivia is in her bed, where she should be at this hour, and what I am about is not your affair.”

  She had hardly finished her sentence before Garrick had spurred his mount forward.

  “Where are you going?” Elizabeth cried in alarm.

  He tossed over his shoulder, “To Ashburnham, of course.”

  Olivia did not think she could make it. She had not gone very far since escaping the house, and now she limped down the road, every part of her body exhausted and aching, her ankle seriously in pain. The dead branch she had found to use as a cane did little to help her. She needed a lift, and badly. But at this hour, the only horseman she might come upon would be a highwayman, dear God.

  Hannah. She must think about her quest, because that fueled her as nothing else could.

  Suddenly she heard hoofbeats approaching rapidly. For an instant Olivia froze, filled with fear, because she had not a doubt it was a highwayman coming toward her, as if her thoughts had summoned him up. The night—a living night-mare—could not get any worse. Then she moved. With an agility and speed she did not think herself capable of anymore, she ran off the road into the woods, were she threw herself into the brush. She lay there, panting, her face buried in twigs and leaves.

  The hoofbeats grew louder.

  Gasping for air, tears stinging her eyes, in severe pain, Olivia sat up, brushing dirt off her face. On her hands and knees, she crawled to the edge of the wild shrub she hid behind. Parting thorny branches, she peered at the road as the rider galloped past, his steed kicking up clumps of dirt and dust.

  Relief filled her as he passed—she had once again just missed being discovered. God, it seemed, was on her side tonight.

  About to collapse once again, she glimpsed the dog loping at the horse’s side. The dog—a red Irish setter.

  She saw the big man astride the big horse.

  Olivia staggered upright as man and horse and dog galloped away, in the direction of her home.

  She came to her senses. She stumbled back to the road— he was fifty feet away now—sixty—seventy. “Garrick!” she screamed. “Garrick!”

  Horse and rider thundered away. Tears blinded Olivia, and she was at once immobilized and disbelieving and utterly desperate. Suddenly she started to run after them, knowing she could never catch up—and that he could not possibly hear her. She staggered down the road. “Garrick!”

  He continued to gallop away. It was hopeless.

  “Garrick,” she sobbed, her feet slowing. It was hopeless.

  Suddenly the dog stopped, turned, and barked.

  A moment later he had wheeled his horse around, so abruptly that it reared wildly.

  For an instant she stood there, staring at the prancing horse and the cloaked rider. “Garrick!” Olivia screamed, waving her arms.

  The dog barked again. Then he was galloping to her, he was out of the saddle, his horse still flying down the road, and he was running to her. And suddenly Olivia was in his arms. She clung, closing her eyes, finding safety at long last.

  And she wept against his chest, in fear and fatigue, in despair and relief.

  “Olivia … Oh, God, I have been so afraid,” he cried against her hair, raining kisses on the top of her head, holding her in a viselike grip.

  She choked on the huge sobs thrusting their way from deep inside her heart, her soul. “Hannah,” she tried thickly.

  He touched her face and gasped. Olivia met his shocked gaze. “What happened!” he cried.

  Olivia imagined that her face was covered with dirt and blood. “They drugged me. But I realized what was happening and stopped eating. Because of the cat. I waited for you to come, Garrick. I gave Lionel a message—” She could not continue. She covered her face with her hands, thinking of Hannah, crying now. “Hannah.”

  “My God,” he said, taking her hands and pulling them from her face. “Your hands are raw. The blood … your dress … your face.”<
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  “I jumped out of the window—they had locked me in,” Olivia cried.

  He crushed her hard against his chest. Olivia gasped in pain, because in doing so he made her step forward, unthinkingly, onto her bad ankle.

  “What is it?” he cried, steadying her with wide eyes.

  “My ankle. It’s terribly sprained, or maybe worse.”

  “We are going to a doctor.” His gaze burned. “I am sick, thinking of what he has done to you.”

  “He put Hannah in Bedlam,” Olivia cried. “There is no time for a doctor. We must rescue her.” She seized his shirt. “Help me, Garrick. Help me. Help me get my daughter out of that horrible place, and help us escape Arlen!”

  Briefly she watched Garrick close his eyes, his face a grim mask. Then he pulled her close again. “Olivia, we will rescue her. Do not worry,” he said, his tone tender yet firm.

  “How?” she implored. “How? Arlen put her there. They will hardly hand her over to us!”

  He looked at her. “They will hand her over. I promise you that,” he said.

  Suddenly she believed. She believed in him completely, in his strength, his loyalty, his word. Olivia nodded, leaning now upon him for support. She was brutally aware of how exhausted she was—but there was no time for fatigue yet.

  “We must hurry.” Garrick was decisive. “Elizabeth is looking for you.” He glanced back down the road.

  “And she has sent a messenger to Arlen,” Olivia said, following his gaze, afraid that they would see Elizabeth coming around the bend at any moment.

  “We need two fresh mounts or a ride,” Garrick responded. Suddenly he lifted her into the saddle and mounted behind her. He kept one arm around her waist, and Olivia spooned her body into his. “We shall find something in the village.”

  Olivia nodded, worried now that they were going to meet Elizabeth before they even made it to the village.