At Long Last

by Shirlee Busbee

  Arabella had not realized how bone-tired she was until Tony lifted her down from her horse. Anticipation and nerves had kept her going all day, since long before dawn, and now that she was safely married to Tony and they were actually on their way home, she felt like a squashed egg.

  Tony smiled at her as he guided her to an old stump at the edge of the clearing in which they had chosen to camp; a small stream of water gurgled nearby. "It has been a hard day for you, I know. Made more so by the fact that you are not a frequent rider. Are you very tired, my love?"

  Having checked out the stump for any lurking visitors, Arabella sat down and let out a sigh of bliss. "I did not want to complain or delay us, but I do believe," she said wryly, "that if I had been forced to ride for another five minutes, I would have fallen into a fit of hysterics."

  Jeremy, busy getting a fire started five feet in front of her, grinned over his shoulder at her. "I confess that I have been most impressed by your fortitude today. You have been in the saddle for hours, riding at a banging pace—you, Bella, who usually swoons at the notion of using any other form of transportation than a well-sprung vehicle pulled by a sedate animal."

  Arabella's expression was haughty and at a distinct variance with the twinkle in her eyes. "I'll have you know that in my, er, youth, I was quite an intrepid rider."

  "Ah, and you are such an old pair of boots now," Tony teased.

  Blackburne, who had been seeing to the horses, looked over at them and said, "Do not allow them to badger you, my dear Mrs. Daggett. You did splendidly today."

  "Indeed she did," Tony concurred proudly. Reaching for her hand, he kissed it. His eyes warm and loving, he murmured, "Most splendidly."

  Arabella beamed at him, her face aglow, the two of them aware of nothing but each other.

  Jeremy and Blackburne exchanged a look and immediately became very intent upon their different tasks. But Tony and Arabella were not so lost to decorum that they did not almost instantly recall themselves to their surroundings. A moment later, having recovered her energy somewhat, Arabella began to help Jeremy make a pot of coffee and Tony helped Patrick finish unsaddling and watering and feeding the horses.

  Robertson, his horse blowing and sweating from the mad gallop down the Trace, arrived within the hour. Fifteen minutes later, they were gathered around the glowing fire, sipping coffee and eating the biscuits and dried venison Patrick had packed in his saddlebags.

  Nestled next to Tony where they sat together on a blanket on the ground, the strong bite of boiled coffee and salty venison lingering on her tongue, Arabella decided her wedding feast was perfect. To be sure, the biscuits had been tough and the night air full of the whine of insects, but this was compensated for by the satisfying crunch of those same biscuits between her teeth and the aromatic wood smoke drifting over them and driving off the worst of the pests.

  And later, as she and Tony lay in each other's arms near the dying fire, Patrick, Jeremy, and Robertson taking turns guarding the camp through the night, she was certain that her wedding night was far more memorable than most. It didn't matter that she and Tony could not make love—they would have all the rest of their lives for that part of their marriage. That night was special and unique for both of them; for the first time, they would spend the night, the entire night, in each other's arms, knowing without any doubts that they loved and were loved in return.

  Forty-five minutes after dawn the next morning, after a hasty breakfast that was the duplicate of their evening meal, they were on the road again. Speed was imperative if suspicions were not to be aroused.

  Arabella couldn't help the small groan that escaped from her when she swung into the saddle that morning. There was another hard day in the saddle ahead of her.

  Hearing her groan, Tony threw her a commiserating look. "Sore?"

  Arabella nodded. "Very. I shall be glad to be home."

  And while she longed for a hot bath and a long uninterrupted nap on her soft bed, when they reached that part of their journey where their paths parted, she wished the ride could go on forever. It was late afternoon, and the day had been another grueling one, but she had dreaded this moment.

  Leaving Tony and Arabella near a fork in the road, the other three companions discreetly withdrew to give the lovers privacy for a few minutes.

  Bringing his horse alongside of hers, Tony said softly, "I will not come to you until tomorrow night—you need to rest." His eyes gleamed. "But do not expect to sleep a great deal tomorrow night."

  Despite herself, Arabella blushed, and Tony laughed. His expression sobered. "Do you still have those men guarding the house?"

  Arabella shook her head "No. There has never been another intrusion, and a few weeks ago, I decided that my visitor was probably not coming back and dispensed with the patrol." She made a face. "I felt silly having them wandering about at night."

  Tony frowned. "Silly or not, I would feel better if I knew they were watching the house. Their absence would certainly make it easier for me to visit you undetected, but until we have managed to unmask Molly's killer, I think you should have them around at night."

  "Do you really believe that I am in danger?" she asked, her beautiful eyes troubled.

  Tony shrugged. "Probably not as long as the fact that you are married to me remains a secret, but I don't want to risk anything happening to you." He flashed her a smile that melted her very bones. "Indulge me, sweetheart—start the damned patrol again."

  Arabella agreed. They spoke for a few minutes longer, the subject of interest only to lovers, and then Tony kissed her, and they rejoined the others.

  It was difficult for Tony to watch her ride away with Jeremy, every instinct within him clamoring to whisk her away to Sweet Acres and to announce to the world that she was his bride. But he dared not. Two wives were dead, one murdered, and he would rather die than allow the slightest hint of danger to come Arabella's way.

  Bringing his horse alongside Tony's, Patrick said quietly, "She will be safe. Do not worry."

  "I wish I was as confident as you," Tony said grimly, his eyes fixed on Arabella's departing shape.

  "Now have I ever misled you?" Patrick teased, attempting to distract him.

  Tony threw him a look, laughter gleaming in his blue eyes. "Frequently!"

  "Untrue. You malign me," Patrick protested virtuously. "Name me just one time."

  Followed by Robertson, they fell into a friendly wrangle that lasted until their paths diverged.

  Pulling his horse to a halt, Tony said, "Do you think it would be suspicious if you came to call on me this evening?"

  Patrick considered it. "I don't see any reason why not. In fact, it would be logical, that in my case, having been gone for a few days and not having seen you, I would come to call."

  That point settled, they parted ways; Tony to Sweet Acres and Patrick to Willowdale.

  Upon his return home, Tony's first acts were to order a hot bath and a tray of sandwiches and ale. An hour and a half later, freshly shaved, bathed, and his stomach pleasantly full, Tony felt ready to face whatever came his way.

  Having descended the main staircase, a preoccupied expression on his face, he walked to his study. Seated behind his desk, he dwelt first on what he considered the most important thing for Arabella's future—his will. He wanted her future secure, and he spent several minutes listing the various points he wished to remember when he had the document drawn up first thing the next morning.

  His demise was not something upon which he wished to linger—especially not when he finally had everything to live for, and he soon laid aside his scribbling. He would have preferred to spend the time thinking about Arabella, their child, and the future they would have together, but he was bleakly aware that until Molly's murderer was found the future for all of them would be dicey.

  The brief conversation he'd had with Billingsley while he had eaten had informed him that no one had come to call while he had been away and that nothing unusual or significant had occurred during his
absence. He should have been reassured by this news, and to a point, he was. No one, except for a few trusted servants, even knew that he had been away, and they would not gossip. So that put to rest one fear. It was unlikely that Arabella and Jeremy's overnight trip would be found remarkable by anyone—he hoped. Blackburne's absence should not arouse any particular attention either, and if it did, why would anyone connect it to Arabella and Jeremy's sojourn? Which left them with one obvious problem: Who had murdered Molly? And why?

  He sat there for a long time, turning the problem over in his mind, trying to come up with some explanation that made sense. It was inevitable that thinking about Molly's murder his thoughts should stray to Leyton's death. Murders and robberies were common along the Natchez Trace and even in the infamous 'Natchez-under-the-hill,' but it was not common for someone of Leyton's ilk to be cold-bloodedly murdered in his very home. There was no obvious connection between Molly's murder and Leyton's, but he could not shake the growing certainty that they were linked together, and that link led to him.

  Tony conceded that a jealous lover could have murdered Molly. Or it was possible her death had come about because of the vicinity in which she lived and that her death had had nothing to do with Leyton's murder several weeks ago. And yet the notion, once considered, proved hard to dislodge.

  He scowled. Hadn't he heard some rumor or gossip that Molly had been in Leyton's keeping? Hell! Over the years, she'd been in the keeping at one time or another of a half dozen men he knew—including Alfred Daggett and his sons, as well as that pompous fool, Kingsley. But if recently she had been in Leyton's keeping, perhaps even under his protection at the time of his death, it was almost too much of a coincidence that the pair of them should be murdered within just a few months of each other. Of course, he admitted wryly, it could simply be a coincidence—Leyton had certainly made enough enemies. So, had the same person murdered Molly and Leyton? And that led him to wonder what it was that Molly and Leyton had known or done that had gotten them murdered? And how, if at all, did it affect him?

  Staring blankly at the top of his desk, the fingers of one hand absently tapped the paper on which he had written out the notes to his will. His lips twisted. Newly married and instead of spending his time in his wife's bed, he was considering his will. He sighed. If past experience was anything to go by, it was Arabella who should be making out a will.

  He did, he admitted grimly, seem to have very bad luck in keeping his wives alive. Not only keeping his wives alive, he thought slowly, but also in getting a prospective bride to the altar. But was it just bad luck, or something else? He had always assumed that it was so, but thinking about the past, it occurred to him that it was odd that he'd had such a run of ill fortune when it came to the women in his life. And now another woman, Molly, the woman who had played such a major part in the destruction of his engagement to Arabella five years ago was also dead, murdered. Was it the luck of the draw, or something else at work?

  Several people had been against his engagement to Arabella and any one of them might have arranged for Molly to play her part, but had altruistic motives been behind the actions? Or was there some other reason? A reason that had more to do with keeping him unmarried and unencumbered than with sparing Arabella the ordeal of being married to him?

  It was an intriguing thought but one that made little sense to him. There was, as far as he could see, only one reason to keep him without a wife or heirs: Under the terms of his Grandfather Daggett's will, should he die without issue, his uncle and cousins would inherit the Daggett fortune. But if that was the case, why didn't they just kill him? Why keep him alive?

  He brooded over the idea that one or all of his Daggett relatives wanted him dead. It was an unpleasant notion, but not without merit. Except, he reminded himself bleakly, he was still alive.

  Almost idly his gaze dropped to the paper where he had jotted down the main points he wanted to remember when he drew up his own will the next day. His attention sharpened, as one item seemed to leap off the paper at him. He sucked in his breath as the full import hit him. Of course. There was a very good reason for keeping him alive if one wanted the biggest prize of all.

  During the hours while he waited for Blackburne to arrive at Sweet Acres, Tony examined his stunning conclusions from all angles. He could be wrong, grasping at straws, and yet it all made a frightening sort of sense.

  Blackburne arrived promptly at eight o'clock that evening and found Tony still in his study. Greetings were exchanged and refreshment served.

  Seconds later, seated across from Tony, a glass of whiskey at his elbow, Patrick looked at him a long moment before asking, "Why such a bleak expression, my friend? We accomplished what we set out to do—and with no one the wiser. You should be a happy man tonight."

  "I will be once I know who murdered Molly—and Elizabeth," he said grimly.

  Blackburne appeared startled. "Surely you do not think—"

  "I have done nothing but think since I returned home this afternoon. And I can't say that my thoughts have brought me any solace." He took a swallow of his own whiskey. "I did come to one conclusion though—either I am a cursed man, or someone has been going to a great deal of trouble to make my life a living hell."

  "Oh, come now," Blackburne protested. "I will agree that there have been some tragic circumstances in your life, but they have just been plain bad luck."

  "Have they? I'll grant you that simple bad luck could have caused Mercy's death—if I hadn't been so determined to wrest her from Terrell and gone chasing after them, I am certain that she would probably be alive today. But with Elizabeth..." He looked across at Blackburne. "When Elizabeth was killed, she was here, at her home. It was not yet nine o'clock in the evening—not a time that any self-respecting housebreaker would choose to enter and rob a place, especially not a place like Sweet Acres. It wasn't as if she had been coming home late on some dark country lane and crossed the path of a murderous bandit; nor was it a case of her having been somewhere she should not have been. She was here," Tony said bitterly. "The one place she should have been safe."

  An unhappy silence fell and then after taking another sip of his whiskey, Tony asked, "Did I ever mention that there was never any sign of anything being taken?"

  Blackburne nodded. "Yes, which fact counted against you—that and the hour." Blackburne frowned. "As I recall, the French doors leading from her sitting room to the veranda were found open when Billingsley, alarmed at having heard the sound of a shot coming from upstairs, arrived in the room and found her dead. You were not at home—having been invited to dine at my house that night." Blackburne made a face. "Which, of course, no one believed. Gossip has always maintained that I lied about your whereabouts to save your neck."

  Tony lifted his crystal glass in a mock toast. "It seems that I owe my life to you twice—a debt I shall never be able to repay."

  "Name your first child after me, and we shall be even," Blackburne said, the expression in his gray eyes only half-teasing.

  "Done!"

  The light moment vanished and his brows creased in a frown, Blackburne asked, "But what does Elizabeth's death have to do with Molly's? You don't believe that they are connected, do you?"

  Tony nodded. "As I said, either I have had the most damnable luck with women as any man I have ever known, or someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make it appear that way. More to the point, have you noticed that it is only the women in my life who suffer the most?" Painfully Tony ticked them off. "My first two wives, Mercy and Elizabeth, are dead. Mercy's death, I believe, was just bad luck. But not Elizabeth's since she was murdered. And five years ago, my fiancé, Arabella, found me in deplorable circumstances and broke off our engagement. Now Molly is dead, murdered. Molly, the very woman whose antics brought about my broken engagement to Arabella. The same Molly who less than a month ago named me the father of her bastard child. Incidentally, once again in front of Arabella. Which, if there were any possibility of us renewing our prior attachmen
t, certainly would have destroyed any new beginnings between us. Don't you find that interesting? I do."

  Patrick frowned. "But I understood you to say that Arabella had already realized that you hadn't been lying about Molly's appearance at the lodge five years ago. Isn't that one of the reasons she agreed to marry you? She believed you innocent?"

  Tony's face softened. "Yes. But that was something no one else knew. And if someone was determined to keep us apart, what better way than to have the woman who had led directly to our parting five years ago name me as the father of her child—a child supposedly conceived while I was originally engaged to Arabella. Few, if any, women would be able to forgive that betrayal." Tony's features grew intent. "Think about it, Patrick! Mercy's death was probably simple chance, but anyone with a lick of sense would have known that once I found out she was running away with Terrell I would have gone after her. And if someone was up to mischief, curious, perhaps, to see what would happen, and at no cost to himself, which I believe was the case at the time, seeing that I went haring off after the pair of them was one way of doing so. Anything could have happened. I could have died—leaving, I might add, the Daggett fortune for my nearest relative to inherit." When Blackburne looked skeptical, Tony said, "Don't forget that Terrell was just as hot-tempered as I was and just as quick and accurate with his pistol—there was a good chance that one or both of us could have ended up dead." His face tightened. "Unfortunately, it was Mercy and Terrell who died."

  "If your uncle Albert was set on inheriting your fortune, why didn't he just kill you and have done with it?"

  Tony stood up and took a turn around the room. His brow furrowed in thought, he said, "I don't think in the beginning there was any definite plan—I think it just evolved as time went by. Mercy's death was simply a side issue.