The Bride Thief

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  "Good morning, Lady Darvin," he said, stepping beneath the oak's umbrella of shade.

  She turned toward him, and he stilled at her utterly bleak expression and the tortured look in her eyes.

  Driven by deep concern, he dismissed propriety. Reaching out, he gently grasped her upper arm, then maneuvered himself so his back blocked her from any curious glances that might be cast their way. "What is wrong?"

  She seemed to look right through him, her thoughts clearly far away. "The wedding ceremony… I was just remembering. I tried so hard not to, but sitting in that church…" A shudder ran through her. "I have not been inside it since my own wedding day."

  He instantly recalled that day in vivid detail. He'd sat on his bed, sick with loss, staring at the clock, knowing with each passing minute the woman he loved was exchanging vows with another man. When the church bells had chimed in the distance, signifying the end of the ceremony, he'd opened a bottle of whiskey and proceeded for the first time in his life to get deliberately, blindly drunk. He'd stayed drunk for two days, then spent another two days suffering the worst hangover in the history of hangovers. After that, he'd simply… lived, believing she was happy.

  One look at her stricken face disabused him of that notion. She looked so… haunted. So distraught. Her eyes shimmered with tears, but there was no mistaking them as the happy sort women often shed at weddings.

  Was there something more to her unhappiness than he'd previously thought? Was there more involved than missing her home and her brother? More than the fact that she hadn't had children? Releasing her arm, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

  Dabbing her wet eyes, she said, "Thank you. And forgive me. This is a happy day, yet here I am sniffling. I'm afraid I allowed my memories to distress me."

  Her words disturbed him, and a sick uneasiness slithered down his spine. "Your husband…" He hesitated, not certain how to phrase what he wanted to ask her. "Was he… unkind?"

  A humorless sound erupted from her lips, and she averted her gaze. Even as his mind told him not to, he grasped her gloved hand and gently squeezed her fingers.

  She turned back to him, and he was taken aback by the fire burning in her eyes. "Unkind?" she repeated in an awful voice he didn't recognize. "Yes, he was unkind."

  As suddenly as her anger appeared, it vanished, as if doused by cold water, to be replaced by a broken, lost expression. Tremors shook her and she squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear rolled down her pale cheek, silently landing on his white shirt cuff. He watched the droplet soak into the linen.

  Hell and damnation, that bastard had hurt her. Hurt her mind and spirit. God Almighty, had he hurt her body as well? A red haze veiled his vision, and violence such as he'd never felt before gripped him.

  A sense of unreality overwhelmed him. The news of her marriage to Darvin had nearly brought him to his knees, but he'd accepted the inevitable with stoic resignation. As much as he loved her, he'd known he could never so much as court, let alone marry her. He had nothing to offer an earl's daughter.

  Except love. And kindness. Her words raced through his mind. I used to spend time on the cliffs, looking out at the sea, wondering how it would feel to jump…

  Nausea gripped him at the thought of Darvin mistreating her. To the point where she'd contemplated suicide. God in heaven. If only he'd known-

  What would you have done? he asked himself. What could you have done? But he knew without question. He knew in his soul that he-a man who dedicated his life to upholding the law-would have killed the bastard. And why the hell hadn't her brother done so?

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. His feelings must have shown, for a look of unmistakable tenderness filled her gaze, stealing his breath. "I appreciate your outrage on my behalf. You were always such a stalwart friend. There was nothing you could have done."

  A stalwart friend. Did she have any idea he would have given anything to be more? "Your brother," he managed past his tight throat. "Did he not know?"

  "He knew I was unhappy, but not the extent of my misery, and I dared not tell him. He visited me when he returned from the war. He saw bruises on my arms. I told him I'd fallen, but apparently he'd heard of Darvin's proclivities, and he did not believe me."

  He clenched his teeth against his mounting rage. "Why on earth did you protect such a monster?"

  "I wasn't protecting Darvin. It was my brother I sought to protect. He would have killed Darvin and hung for his efforts. As it was, he beat Darvin nearly unconscious and threatened to finish the deed if he ever dared hurt me again."

  "And did he?"

  Her eyes went totally flat. "Yes. But not as often. I… I never told Eric. When I finally stopped fighting Darvin, he eventually lost interest in me and turned to other women. Eric only knows that Darvin was unfaithful, not about the… other things."

  Every cell in his body screamed with impotent fury against her suffering and the man who'd caused it. He'd hurt her. Humiliated her. Been unfaithful to her… this gentle, lovely creature he'd loved from the first moment he'd laid eyes on her when they were both little more than children. His heart shattered, aching for her. For himself. Bile burned his throat, and he pressed his lips together, trying to calm his heaving insides.

  He squeezed her hand, fighting the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms, to protect her. To let her know he'd never allow anyone to ever hurt her again. "Why didn't you leave him?"

  "I did, a month after our marriage. He found me at an inn fifty miles from Cornwall. He told me if I ever left him again he would kill my brother." Her gaze searched his, her eyes troubled and confused. "I… I never meant to tell you. I don't know why I did."

  A tempest of emotions consumed him, and he could not force away the image of her bruised and crying, from his mind. He looked into her haunted eyes, shadowed with dark memories of sufferings he could not begin to imagine. Rage erupted in him, and he fought to clamp it down, contain it. Control it. Darvin was dead, yet he wanted nothing more than to dig up the bastard and kill him again. How the hell had her brother kept from strangling Darvin with his bare hands?

  Her brother. Everything in him shifted, then stilled as realization clicked into place. No, her brother hadn't killed Darvin. Instead he'd channeled his rage elsewhere, and risked his life to save other women from a similar life of misery.

  He moistened his dry lips. "Tell me… if you'd had the chance to run away, even if leaving meant never seeing your family or Mends again, would you have done so to avoid marrying him?"

  She didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

  That single word, barely more than a whisper, rocked his very foundation. He'd devoted the last five years of his life to capturing the Bride Thief. The man was a criminal. A kidnapper. He tore families apart and ruined planned marriages. Yet Margaret clearly would have accepted his help to escape marrying Darvin. And she would have been spared those years of horror and despair.

  Confusion assailed him. There was no curtailing the law. He prided himself on his honesty and integrity. The punishment for kidnapping was the gallows. If he failed to see justice carried through, how could he call himself a man of the law?

  He swallowed to dislodge his heart from his throat. "You said you'd never meant to tell me. Why not?"

  She looked at the ground. "I… I didn't want you to think badly of me."

  He swore he actually felt his heart break in two. His hand shook as he reached out and lifted her chin with his fingertips. "I could never think badly of you. Of the man who hurt you, yes. Of you, no." God, he longed to tell her that it would be impossible for him to think any more highly of her, but he didn't dare. "I'm so very sorry for what you suffered."

  "Thank you. But I'm free now. And I'm back at the home I love, with my brother."

  Guilt hit him like a blow to the gut. Within an hour's time he hoped to have her brother in custody.

  A fleeting smile touched her lips. "And this very day I have gained a sister, so there is much
to be happy about." She gently eased her hand from his. "I'd best go offer my congratulations. Would you care to join me?"

  Before he could reply, he heard a discreet cough behind him.

  "Begging your pardon, Mr. Straton, but I need to speak with you."

  Adam's every muscle tensed as he recognized Farnsworth's voice. Offering Lady Darvin a bow, Adam said, "I'll be along in a few moments."

  She inclined her head, then moved past him, walking toward the crowd of well-wishers. Once he was certain she could not overhear, he turned to Farnsworth.

  "Well?" he asked.

  Farnsworth pulled a piece of black material from his pocket and handed it to Adam. "I found this in Lord Wesley's bedchamber, sir. Behind a hidden panel under his desk. No question it's the Bride Thief's mask."

  Adam stared at the black silk mask. In his hands he held the evidence he'd sought for five long years. He now had everything he needed to arrest the Bride Thief.

  Sammie and Eric no sooner rounded the corner after their passionate kiss than Mama descended upon them.

  "There you are, darling!" She engulfed Sammie in a rib-squeezing hug that Sammie nonetheless relished, as it would be the last time she felt her mother's arms around her. "I'm so happy for you," Mama said with a sniffle. Then into Sammie's ear she whispered, "I'm sorry we didn't have time to discuss… you know what, but I'm certain the earl will know what do to."

  Stepping back, Mama dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief and emitted a trio of chirping sounds. She glanced quickly about, but obviously realizing that no benches were in "fainting" distance, Mama drew a deep breath and recovered herself. Indeed, she lit up like a dozen candles when Lydia Nordfield and her daughter Daphne approached, both women wearing similar puckered expressions.

  "Lydia!" Mama exclaimed. She embraced her nemesis with an enthusiasm that brought a wince to Mrs. Nordfield's already pinched features. Leaning back, Mama's face became the personification of concern. "Now don't you worry, Lydia. I'm certain Daphne will find a nice gentleman. Someday."

  A choking sound erupted from Mrs. Nordfield, and the smile she leveled upon Mama was glacial. Mrs. Nordfield and Daphne then offered Sammie stilted best wishes. The woman's narrow-eyed gaze bounced between her daughter and Sammie several times. Sammie bit the insides of her cheeks to hide her amusement, for she could almost hear Mrs. Nordfield saying, If Samantha Briggeham can become a countess, surely my Daphne can become a marchioness or a duchess.

  "Perhaps if you had spectacles, Daphne dear," Mrs. Nordfield mused as she led her pinch-faced daughter away. "They do have a certain charm…"

  Hermione, Lucille, and Emily came next, and Sammie embraced them each in turn, committing their glowing faces to her memory. How was it possible to feel such sadness and such joy at the same time? Such regret for the times they would not share, yet such anticipation for the future?

  Papa followed, kissing both her cheeks. "Always knew some lucky fellow would find you, Sammie. I told your mother so." He patted her on the head as if she were his favorite hound, then moved on.

  And then Hubert stood before her. They'd already said their good-byes earlier this morning, and although she smiled at him, tears still misted her eyes. Reaching up, she tousled his unruly hair, and their gazes met. His Adam's apple bobbed, and a lump lodged painfully in her throat.

  Sadness lingered in his eyes, but his lips curved upward in a lopsided grin. He then wrapped her in an awkward, bony hug and their spectacles smacked into each other. Laughing, they separated.

  "Nice show, Sammie," he said, adjusting his glasses. "You're the most beautiful countess I've ever seen."

  Swallowing her melancholy, she laughed at him. "I am the only countess you've ever seen."

  "Well, I've seen a great many countesses"-interjected Eric-"and I must agree with Hubert. Beautiful." Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, his dark eyes sending her a message that shot heat down to her toes.

  Hubert moved on, and what seemed like an endless stream of well-wishers followed. Finally Margaret stood before her, extending both her hands. "We're officially sisters now," she said, tears shimmering in her eyes. "And you're officially a countess."

  Sammie squeezed her hands and smiled to hide her sorrow that she would not have the opportunity to get to know Margaret better. "Indeed we are sisters. And good heavens, I am a countess-a prospect I find a bit… daunting."

  Margaret shifted a quick glance at her brother, then offered Sammie a genuine smile. "Not to worry. You have already mastered a countess's most important task. You've made the earl very, very happy."

  Sammie felt Eric's warm hand at her back. "Indeed she has," he said.

  She watched Eric hug his sister, her heart tugging when his eyes squeezed shut to savor what would be their last embrace. She turned to the next person waiting to extend best wishes.

  Adam Straton stood before her. Another man she did not recognize stood next to Mr. Straton. She judged Mr. Straton's companion to be in his mid-thirties, well-built, with dark blond hair, and a tight-lipped, serious air. Both men appeared tense, with no signs of well-wishes in their gazes. Their attention was riveted on Eric, who was smiling down at his sister.

  Sammie's heart started drumming in slow, hard thumps, dread spreading through her with each beat, while her stomach seemed to fall like a dead weight to her feet. Forcing what she hoped passed for a cordial smile, she opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word, Mr. Straton spoke to Eric.

  "Would you mind stepping inside with me for a moment, Lord Wesley? My man Farnsworth here and I need to speak to you. Privately."

  Eric and the magistrate exchanged a long look, then Eric nodded slowly. "Of course." He slid his arm around Sammie's waist and gave her what she guessed was supposed to be an encouraging squeeze. Leaning down, he brushed a kiss across her cheek. "Don't ever forget," he whispered in her ear, "how much I love you." He released her, and she bit her lips together to contain the agonized No! threatening to spill from her throat.

  Fingers of ice-cold fear clutched her, freezing her as the trio of men entered the shadowy church interior and disappeared from her view.

  "I wonder what that is all about," Margaret murmured.

  Sammie's stomach heaved with panic.

  She suspected she knew.

  With his heart pounding at thrice its normal speed, Eric stood in the vicar's office and regarded Straton and Farnsworth with studied detachment. After several seconds of silence, Eric crossed his arms over his chest and raised his brows. "What did you wish to discuss with me?" he asked, injecting a bit of impatience into his voice.

  Straton slowly pulled a piece of black material from his pocket and handed it to Eric. The familiar smooth silk felt cool against his palm, in complete contrast to the heated sense of dread thumping through him. Keeping his expression carefully blank, he asked, "What is this?"

  Farnsworth cleared his throat, drawing his attention. "It is the Bride Thief's mask. I found it hidden in the desk in your bedchamber, my lord."

  The words reverberated in his mind, and he clamped his jaw to contain the anguished roar threatening to erupt. Not now! Not when he'd just been handed happiness on a golden platter. Not when he and Samantha were so close to escaping.

  Not when he had so much to live for.

  He shifted his gaze to Straton, expecting to meet a hard-edged stare. Instead, the magistrate was looking out the window with an expression that Eric could only describe as troubled. Following his gaze, Eric realized Straton's attention was riveted on Margaret, who stood alone, a short distance away, in the shade beneath a huge oak tree.

  With his hands clenched, one fist crumpling the soft silk, Eric stood still as a statue, every muscle tense as he waited to be arrested. There was no refuting the evidence in his hand, and he even had to give Straton and Farnsworth his grudging respect for their cleverness.

  His thoughts switched to Samantha and a muscle ticked in his jaw. Damn it, she was no doubt frantic. Regret weighed upon him
for what she would face in the wake of his arrest and hanging. Regret that he would never have the chance to be her husband. To laugh and love with her. At least he'd secured her financial future. The Countess of Wesley was an extremely wealthy woman. He prayed she would depart England. Leave the scandal behind and start a new life.

  His attention focused once again on the magistrate. Straton continued to stare out the window. His face appeared pale, and his hands were fisted at his sides in a white-knuckled grip. Nearly a full minute of deafening silence passed.

  Finally Straton turned to his subordinate. "Excellent work, Farnsworth," he said. "You passed the test in an extremely admirable fashion."

  Eric felt the same puzzlement that blanketed Farnsworth's face.

  "Test, sir?" Farnsworth asked, scratching his head.

  "Yes. I've had my eye on you for quite some time now for a promotion, but it was necessary for me to test your skills, as I'm sure you understand."

  "Er, actually, no-"

  "Lord Wesley, who has shown great generosity in offering his assistance during this investigation, was kind enough to lend me the use of his home."

  Straton clasped his hands behind his back and continued, "As per my instructions, the earl hid this mask, which is a replica of the Bride Thief's I fashioned based on descriptions from witnesses, at Wesley Manor. I knew if your deductive skills were honed enough to locate the mask, Farnsworth, you deserved the promotion." He turned to Eric. "A secret panel under your desk, my lord? Fiendishly clever hiding spot. I thank you for your help."

  Shock rippled through Eric. Only a lifetime of keeping his emotions in check kept him from showing the same slack-jawed reaction as Farnsworth. Surely his hearing was afflicted. What the hell was Straton talking about?