Captive Scoundrel

by Annette Blair

  “As much as half an hour, but—”

  “Young lady, were I mean spirited, I should turn you off without a recommendation for such irresponsible care. My brother’s welfare is uppermost in my mind.”

  Vincent’s rebuke frightened Faith more than his shouting, and her heart tripped in her breast. Had the man played the grieving brother so long that he was lost in the pretence?

  “I…I apologize, your Grace,” she said, playing servant to his master. “I assure you it will not happen again.”

  He folded his arms and sat back. “See that it does not!”

  Faith’s doubt was gone. Vincent no longer straddled the edge of sanity, but had left it far behind.

  Brian fell asleep pressed to her breast, her milk running freely, soaking her dress. She wanted to move him but feared any motion or sound, a whimper even, might shift the delicate balance of Vincent’s mind. Instead, she sat unmoving, watching the unpredictable man who held them in his power.

  When Vincent finally slept, his mouth hung open and spittle collected in droplets at the corners.

  Faith thought again about jumping. She wondered if the coachman was aware of the abduction, if he might be of help, but she doubted it.

  She gazed about the velvet-cushioned cab of the well-appointed vehicle. Nothing sharp to do for a blade, nothing ropelike for choking. Faith shuddered at her mind’s gruesome turn.

  Keep Brian safe, her good sense said. Keep yourself safe, too, it reminded her, so she could care for him. Be sensible. Take no chances.

  Justin will come. He will come.

  When Vincent’s snores filled the cab, Faith shifted Brian and closed her bodice. She brought the hem of her cloak up, folded it and placed it, like padding, between her wet dress and him.

  She remained awake and on guard.

  It was full evening when they stopped. She shifted Brian and he took to whimpering again.

  Her captor woke confused, disoriented. Faith wondered if his sanity had shifted again. The coachman opened the door and Vincent stepped out. “Ah. We are here,” he said as he raised his hand to help her alight.

  She ignored it, stepped down and away from him.

  His scowl told her he was the hate-filled Vincent once more.

  Mrs. Tucker opened the door, and despite the circumstances, Faith felt a sense of homecoming. As if to prove it, the housekeeper enfolded her in a hug. Then with genuine surprise, she noticed Brian, examined his face, and began to cry.

  “Yes,” Faith said. “He’s Justin’s, Mrs. Tucker. I was carrying him when we left.”

  Vincent’s ashen face contorted with rage. “Enough! Where is my wife?”

  “In her bed, I expect,” Mrs. Tucker said with a disdainful sniff.

  “Gather your things. You’re dismissed. Be gone within the quarter hour or your family will be turned off their farm.”

  The housekeeper’s face lost colour. “But, your Grace, my mother is ill, and we’ve been Killashandra tenants for generations.”

  “Squander many more minutes and you’ll not be tomorrow.”

  The woman left in tears, and with her, Faith’s hope for an ally in the house.

  Vincent took Faith’s arm in a bruising grip, propelled her upstairs, and barged into Justin’s father’s bedroom, where a gilded, silk-canopied bed on a raised dais centred the room. A set of steps led up to it, and two naked…“Hemsted!”

  As Vincent charged the bed, Faith slipped from his grasp and backed slowly toward the door.

  “Slut!” Vincent roared as he backhanded the woman across her garish, rouge-pot face.

  Like a spitting cat, she hurled insults, her French flawless and rapid. A dispute escalated, drawing Vincent’s full attention.

  Faith hugged Brian and stepped closer to the door and freedom.

  Hemsted jumped from the bed and came to her. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you? Where’s Justin?”

  Justin. Faith fought despair. If Vincent had his way, Justin would die.

  Hemsted’s expression said he understood and cared, and that nearly undid her. Nevertheless, she swallowed her urge to confide in him. She couldn’t trust him, or anyone, anymore.

  “You’re not safe, I think. Come,” he said, and as Vincent had done, he grasped her arm to haul her along. But she’d had enough of being dragged like yesterday’s trash, and she stood her ground. He was Vincent’s man, Justin had often reminded her, and it was time to remember that. “Don’t be a fool,” Hemsted hissed below his breath, checking his ire. “I’m your only chance.”

  “You told him I’d borne a child,” she accused.

  He looked as if she’d struck him. “Faith, I never meant to—”

  “Miss Wickham,” Vincent called. “Is the blighter accosting you too?”

  Hemsted sighed, seeming to understand he’d lost, and despite his unclothed state, he bowed with ludicrous formality and kissed her hand. Then he unhooked her cloak, removed it from her shoulders, and threw it over his own, fastening it to cover himself. “A friend in need,” he said, self-mockingly, his face a study in regret. And he left the room.

  The furious Frenchwoman marched up to Faith and raked her with disdain. “What did he say to you?” she demanded with suspicion.

  “He…he begged my pardon for the embarrassment.” The painted features softened. “Always the gentleman, my Max,” she said with an indulgent smile.

  Vincent approached. “Miss Wickham—or did you marry my brother? No matter. You shall be free of him soon enough. May I introduce my wife, Aline. She will spread her legs for anything with a lance.” He gazed with disgust at his wife and indicated Faith with a nod of his head. “Lock her up with her brat till I decide what to do with her.”

  “Braying ass. Why should I?”

  “Money, my dear, money. Ah, yes. I see that does indeed make a difference. With you, it’s greed, followed closely by vengeance and lust. Or does lust head the list, my pet?”

  Vincent mocked the hatred on his wife’s visage with a laugh. “I bid you good day, Faith. I may call you that, may I not? After all, we will soon become very well acquainted.”

  He smiled. “As soon as I eliminate my brother, that is.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When Justin and Marcus arrived at Killashandra, a stable boy told them the master had arrived with a woman and a babe. Heart hammering for knowing Faith was near, yet far from safety, Justin entered the empty kitchen, Marcus behind him, to take the back stairs.

  As they reached the foyer, Hemsted came running downstairs—naked, but for Faith’s billowing pistachio cape. “Justin. Thank God you’re here. I just left Faith in the gold bedroom; she refused to—” Hemsted hit the floor with a thud.

  Satisfaction filled Justin as he flexed his hand and examined the unconscious form. “Truss him up and lock him in the linen cupboard,” Justin said. “Top of the stairs to the left. Key’s on a hook inside. Take the cape and let the bastard freeze.”

  Marcus grinned and dragged him by his feet, Hemsted’s head hitting each step, until Justin stopped him. “By his shoulders, Marc.” And Marcus reluctantly obeyed.

  “See if Faith is upstairs, but let me deal with Vincent. Keep Faith and Brian safe for me, will you, one way or another? Beth too. There aren’t many people I’d trust with that.”

  Marcus nodded soberly as he dragged the man of affairs away.

  Justin went to the library, Vincent’s favourite haunt and as expected, Vincent was there. As they faced each other, for the first time since the cliff in Bognor, Justin’s fury was savage, and dangerous, for it nearly robbed him of caution.

  From his seat behind the desk, Vincent smiled and raised a pistol—a 17th century, multi-shot German cavalry pistol that Justin had purchased in France. “Odd how one’s past returns to take a bite of one’s backside,” Justin said. Then he remembered his father’s matched pair of smoothbore duelling pistols, loaded and waiting in a drawer on the balcony above.

  This blend of fury and fear for loved ones was d
angerous, as he suspected. If he were thinking clearly, he would have fetched the pistols before stepping into Vincent’s net.

  “Took you longer than I expected,” Vincent said. “Sit down.”

  Justin sat, Vincent’s confidence an unpleasant surprise. All right, he could play the game. “This is the last time you come near my wife or one of my children, Vincent.”

  “One of your wives you mean?” Vincent said, chuckling.

  “I have proof you fed me poison as medicine.”

  Vincent’s smile widened. “I never fed you a drop.”

  Justin sighed. “Enough. Already I tire of this. Do what you will with me, but leave my family alone. Just indulge me in this last, if you will. Did you plan to throw Catherine over the cliff, or was your decision made on the instant?”

  Vincent examined the pistol. “Catherine was a good mistress. And I had planned to keep her as such.”

  “Your grief is staggering,” Justin bit off, trying to curb his rage, to keep his cards close, when he wanted to jump the desk and strangle his brother, the bloody gun be damned.

  Only fear of abandoning Faith and his children to Vincent’s mercy stood between him and any number of irrational, vindictive deeds. That he and Vincent might be more alike than he wished to admit was a notion Justin thrust aside for later perusal.

  Despite all, he must remain calm. The way to wrest control was to make one’s foe relinquish it. “You know, Vincent,” he said, smile genuine, for he could predict a reaction. “With regards to Catherine, I always wondered why you were content with used goods—second-hand, so to speak—especially mine.”

  On target, Vincent’s fury came. “The bitch went crazy. When I aimed that gun at your back, she grabbed my arm and sent the shot wide, damn her soul. Still, it served its purpose, though not as well as a bullet would have. It spooked the horses that carried you over the cliff. I thought she’d tear me open with her claws, crying your name and screaming for all she was worth.”

  Cat had cared? She’d even tried to save him? That was jarring.

  “You didn’t realize, did you?” Vincent’s tone showed grief. “I lived my whole life with people who loved you more. I simply did not need another.” He shrugged. “So I sent her after you.”

  What was the matter with him, feeling sorry for the man who tried to kill him? The man who murdered Catherine and abducted Faith and their son. He had to remain level-headed and strong. “You must have been beside yourself when I survived.”

  Vincent narrowed his eyes and raised his chin.

  Justin cheered inwardly. “How did you feel when you realized I had risen from the dead, so to speak?”

  Vincent shot to his feet. His chair teetered and fell, echoing in the vaulted chamber. He steadied his aim and growled.

  “As if that were not enough,” Justin said chuckling, throwing fuel on the fire of Vincent’s agitation. “Not only did I survive your poison, I married the nurse you hired to give it to me.”

  Nostrils flaring, Vincent wrapped both hands around the gun’s grip and stepped closer.

  Standing would affirm Vincent’s advantage, so Justin remained sitting, pretending a calm that was so far from fact as to be laughable, but if Vincent stepped a fraction closer….

  “And my son,” Justin said, stretching, crossing his ankles. “What think you of my son?” Fear for his boy pounded in his brain, but Justin silenced it. “A right proper heir, is he not?”

  “Stop!” Vincent shouted. “Stop pretending you have it all, you bastard. I do. I have your wife and your precious heir. All you have is Beth.” Vincent’s laugh, as if he’d amused himself, alerted Justin to a shift. “You have Beth, did I say?” Vincent chuckled. “You never questioned her paternity, did you?”

  Justin attempted to mask his shock. Failed.

  “I see from your look, you did not. I suspect you guess the truth now, then.” He nodded. “Yes. I am Beth’s father.”

  Stunned out of mind, Justin forced a smile—weak at best, he feared. Still he persevered. “Did you call me a bastard?”

  Vincent revealed renewed agitation, giving Justin heart. “We both know you are the bastard, not I.”

  Vincent’s gun hand lowered. “How long have you known?”

  “Twenty years or so. You?”

  A sneer contorted Vincent’s mask. “On my sixteenth birthday, from that balcony, I heard your father call our mother a slut, naming me her worst mistake. She said I was one of many, her worst, marrying him.” Pain weighted Vincent’s laugh. “I wasn’t even high on the mistake list, no nor on any other. The old man called me a bastard and I stood like stone, praying she would correct him. But she never did.”

  A breath, a shake of his head, and Vincent seemed to awaken. “The birthday must have been hard on the old man.” He smiled wryly. “You’ve known longer than I, yet you treated me the same, until I put a stop to it. I didn’t want or need your pity.”

  “No, just my title and my money. So much for sentiment.”

  “Sentiment is for women like Faith.” The light in Vincent’s eyes foretold another thrust. Justin braced himself. “Hemsted proposed marriage to Faith in Arundel. Did you know that?”

  Despite steeling himself, Justin was robbed of breath.

  “I see from that tic in your cheek, brother, that our little nurse was…keeping secrets, shall we say?”

  By not telling him about Hemsted’s proposal, Faith had in effect, lied to him. How far did her deception extend? Ah, Faith. Faith. Could no woman be trusted?

  “Today, Justin, your wife betrayed you again. Do you know what she has been doing this past hour or more?”

  He pictured Hemsted, Faith’s cape billowing behind, and shut the image away. “Trying to get away from you, I expect.”

  Cunning lit Vincent’s eyes. “Fornicating with Hemsted. Found them myself in your father’s bed. A woman of passion, your wife. Her sounds of satisfaction do tend to inflame the senses.”

  Justin’s insides clenched. His fists ached to connect with bone … Hemsted’s, Vincent’s. Hemsted’s words, ‘I left Faith in the gold bedroom,’ became a haunting chant.

  Undeniable proof of Vincent’s claim. And yet. And yet….

  Then everything fell into place. He was being dosed with poison again, venomous poisonous words. Who better to administer this new toxin than the man who knew his every reason to mistrust? Their mother’s bastard, Catherine’s lover. What viler poison than to name Faith unfaithful? The very words were a paradox. Justin laughed. As certain as he was that Catherine betrayed him, was he certain Faith did not, could not.

  Faith had delivered him from hell. She had borne his abuse. For the love of God, she had given him life. His. Beth’s. Their son’s. Justin grinned.

  Setting his jaw, Vincent tried to collect his tattered confidence. That he searched for his next thrust was obvious. “Why do you think Faith told Hemsted of your marriage? She knew my man would tell me. She wanted me to remove you as an obstacle between them. Max is crazy for wanting her. And she feels the same. Neither of them can get enough of—”

  A shriek, piercing, shrill, drew their gazes to the library balcony. “You lie, you wretched excuse for a man. Max loves me!” Aline screamed.

  Vincent barked a laugh. “Love you? Who could?”

  Justin had never heard him speak more coldly. He saw his chance to disarm Vincent the same moment Aline raised her own weapon. And Justin’s heart sank, for in those hands, his father’s duelling pistols would be as deadly as a loose cannon.

  “Stupid bitch,” Vincent said, just loud enough to narrow his wife’s eyes and bring a deadly smile to her lips.

  She took aim. The gun exploded.

  Justin leapt to push Vincent aside and broke his fall instead. Shocked he lowered his brother to the floor and watched blood seep through the azure waistcoat, the grotesque stain spreading. In the silence, amid the metallic odour of blood, Justin tried to grasp the situation. Was the game finally over?

  He caught a movement,
looked up, and knew it was not.

  The game would continue. New players, new rules.

  He had forgotten her, his widowed sister-in-law, the coarse woman he did not know and did not like. And he supposed he should not have been surprised when she aimed the second of the pistols at him. Fate. Destiny. A bite in the backside.

  Aline nodded as if she read him. “I will kill you both and make it look like you killed each other. And after I inherit your money, I will go away with my Max.”