Forget Me Not

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  “You there!”

  Jerked from her stupor, Lydia sprang to her feet, spotting not one, but two men staring down at them. The first man, dressed in everyday labor clothes, she did not recognize, but the second was Felix Keith a close friend of her father. Mr. Keith carried a long bloodied knife. She stumbled back a step, choking on another sob of sheer terror. What was going on?

  Brian stepped to the stall door, a heavy board clenched in his fist. Lady Jane shifted nervously. A metallic clank sounded from the loft. The horse whinnied, rearing on hind legs, clipping Brian’s head. He crumpled, disappearing behind the door.

  “No,” Lydia gasped. She would have to save herself, and hopefully Brian as well.

  “Stop right there, miss.” The man in working clothes leapt from the loft barring escape. He leered over her assuming a predatory stance, a menacing gleam in his eye.

  Lydia turned to flee through the open doors at the southern end of the stable, opening her mouth to scream a second time. Only sounds of the night floated over the stables, the main house with its thick stone walls was too far distant for any to hear her cries, and even the stable hands seemed non-existent. She managed to dodge the man’s first lunge but his longer strides brought him ever closer. If only she could get within ear shot of the house…

  A strong arm looped around her waist pulling her back the full length of her attacker as a second hand clamped over her mouth. Panic surged through her as he dragged her back into the barn. She flailed her arms and kicked with brutal accuracy. Her father—retired general of his majesty’s royal forces—had taught her well.

  Her booted heel made sharp contact with his shin. “You little bitch,” the man spat. He spun her into the stable wall crushing her between the unforgiving wood and his body. Lydia cringed away from the cruel bite of his fingers and the stale odor of his breath. “You would be wise not to fight me little missy.”

  Lydia wasn’t entirely sure what could be deemed her wisest course of action, but out of sheer self-preservation she obeyed the brute’s command and stilled, at least for the moment. Frantically her eyes darted around the dim interior searching for any avenue of escape. After witnessing the viciousness of Lucas’ murder she entertained little doubt these men would bat an eye before cutting her down as well. If she could keep from angering them it may buy a little time, time at least for a stable hand to overhear the commotion.

  “What have we here, Mr. Scott?” Felix Keith approached, chuckling. From the corner of her eyes Lydia watched in horror as he pulled a handkerchief from the dead man’s pocket to wipe the bloodied blade clean. When the knife was sufficiently devoid of blood Felix slipped the handkerchief back into MacGregor’s breast pocket. A chill prickled her flesh. Did her father know the callous ways of his closest friend? “Why, Miss Lydia, how unfortunate you should have happened upon our business meeting tonight. Your father will be quite disappointed when he learns of your demise. He has anticipated your becoming a viscountess for years.”

  Demise? The single word was enough to run her blood cold. I don’t want to die, she screamed silently. Papa, where are you? Tears pricked her eyes and it became impossible to breathe. Would her father investigate her murder? The two of them had done little more than spar for years. Or would he simply use the public sympathy to gain footing in the election? No, that would be callous even for him. A second burst of insight flashed through her mind, could her father be part of this murdering business? Partnered with Felix Keith?

  “How would you like me to dispose of the little lady?” Scott’s stale breath raked hot and wet across her cheek, bile burned her throat, ending the tumultuous trail of thoughts.

  “As quickly and discreetly as possible.” Felix turned away from them to rifle through MacGregor’s shabby pockets. “It would probably be best if you leave the premises to do so. We can’t have her body discovered too soon, if at all. You will have to take Donnelly as well.”

  Lydia’s mind spun as tears of fear and anguish swam before her eyes. Trapped as she was between the burly Mr. Scott and the cold wall of the barn, fighting for escape was impossible. If he planned to take her away before killing her she may have time to formulate an escape plan.

  Thwack!

  The sound of wood connecting with a human skull jarred her senses. The restraining arms of Mr. Scott slid away from her as he oozed unconscious to the floor. Lydia stood stunned, staring at her motionless attacker. Her eyes raised… and the breath froze in her throat. Brian stood before her holding a length of plank, a bright red river of blood trickling down the side of his face. Tall and dark he held his broadly muscular frame as one accustomed to battle. Their gazes connected and—

  “Are ye daft girl? Run!”

  Jolted from her trance, Lydia stepped over the unmoving Mr. Scott and dashed for the stable door. God in heaven, his Irish brogue was near enough to make her swoon on the spot. The man, nay, the hero she’d been waiting for. Even amidst the danger swirling in the air and the imminent threat of death she knew to the depths of her soul that her heart was lost to him then and there.

  The ominous click of a pistol sounded as she neared the barn doors. Her heart skipped a beat. Lydia knew without looking the weapon belonged to Felix Keith. Wildly she searched for a weapon of her own, it was imperative she help Brian, he had already risked his life to save hers. A three pronged pitchfork propped against the stable door caught her eye. She would jam it straight through Felix’s thigh or that of Scott’s if presented any opportunity. Lydia could handle the sight of blood, especially if she was the cause. Grasping the weapon with both hands she turned away from the barn door and the promise of escape. Felix had a flintlock trained on Brian’s chest while Brian still looked a bit woozy from the blow to his head.

  “I told ye to get out of here.” Brian glanced back at her, thoroughly annoyed.

  “Not without you.” Determinably she leveled the pitchfork to Felix. Two to one odds were good, he couldn’t shoot them both.

  “I can take care of myself, lass.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “I’d noticed,” she replied sardonically.

  “Why could ye not just go to the house fer help?”

  “Oh.” Chagrined, Lydia paused, she hadn’t thought of that.

  Keith let out a low whistle, pistol never wavering. Men seemed to ooze from every crevice of the barn, clogging her path. Lydia gulped, unsure what to do, she couldn’t very well run every last one of them through.

  “This is getting entirely too messy for my liking,” Felix said in the irritated tone of one who’d had his afternoon tea disrupted. With his free hand he motioned toward two hands who’d been in her father’s employ near five years. “You two take care of MacGregor; I don’t want anyone to know he was here.” The shabbily dressed brutes leapt into action. “The rest of you get Donnelly and Miss Covington into the wagon. Dispose of them where Christ himself won’t know to look. I don’t care if you cross into Scotland to do it just get rid of them.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Felix raked a seedy, disdainful gaze the length of Lydia. “Months of planning destroyed all because of a silly chit and a stable hand.” A cold rush swept the length of her spine. The man had always made her uncomfortable, something lurking in his eyes, but before this moment she’d never been able to put her finger on what.

  Brian backed toward her as four burly men closed in around them. Lydia gripped the pitchfork until her knuckles turned white and inched closer to her sole ally. Brian, still wielding the heavy wooden plank, positioned his body protectively in front of her. “Steady, lass,” he murmured, his deep voice sent shivers across her skin. “Stay close to me and I’ll see ye through this, I promise.”

  “And how do you plan to accomplish that?” Her eyes slid nervously from Felix to the men tightening the noose around them. One fiend made a decidedly lewd gesture and grabbed for Lydia. Disgusted, she reacted, ramming the pitchfork straight into the man’s left thigh.

  He howled in pain, stumbling backward, t
he weapon still lodged in his leg.

  The scream sent everyone into a flurry of action.

  In one swift motion Brian stepped forward and sliced the board through the air making devastating contact with the head of the man standing immediately between them and the door. Before Lydia could so much as draw a breath, the henchman crumpled against a stall door, and Brian locked a strong arm about her waist, pulling her into the secure heat of his chest as he broke into a run. “Damn it, lass, can ye not listen?”

  Lydia scarcely heard the words. Security such as she’d never known washed through her being as physically as his heat and masculine scent, not that she had time to dwell on it, for as soon as Brian’s move had been made a crush of attackers was upon them. A brigand lunged from the right. “Look out!” Brian raised the plank catching the man square on the chin. Head injury or no, his reflexes were like lightening, the fact ignited her with a combination of sensual awareness, and calm confidence. Perhaps the two of them would escape this predicament after all.

  “I never should have rolled out of bed,” Brian grumbled. “Should have let ye take off on that ancient mare to the fate of whatever highwaymen ye came across. Nothin’ but trouble.”

  With effort she ignored him. He pulled her safely through the stable door into the starry night. Her heart soared. The openness of the yard left her with a heady sense of freedom. The manor was on the opposite side of the barn, but surely—

  Instinctively Lydia turned as a fleeting shadow touched the corner of her vision. Too late she saw yet another of Felix’s men stealthily swing the butt of a musket downward catching Brian in the back. He grunted and jerked forward, dragging Lydia with him. A second blow sent him to his knees, the arm slid from around her waist, pulling with it the warmth and security his simple touch instilled within her. Spirits plummeting, Lydia dropped to her knees beside him, hoping to shelter him from further harm. “No,” she cried, her sole ally was frighteningly motionless.

  His sea green eyes fluttered open locking momentarily on hers before turning to the man who’d struck him. “Roark?” he groaned. “How could you?”

  “You should have joined us, Brian.” The man stood menacingly over them, holding a musket with militaristic efficiency.

  “And be a part of killing innocents like the general’s daughter? I think not. Sir William saved yer life the same as mine, Roark. I had thought ye better than Felix Keith’s money grubbin’ schemes.”

  “I’d wager Sir William has not thought a wit about us since the day we left his service to muck his stalls.” Roark planted a foot firmly in Brian’s chest as he began to rise. “Don’t be thinkin’ you’re so high and mighty for refusin’ Mr. Keith’s offer. He tossed a glance to one of the men emerging from the barn. “Fielding, bind Donnelly and take care of the little lady.”

  “Lay a hand on that girl and I’ll kill ye myself.” A palpable danger emanated from Brian’s body. It was as though his life force reached out physically to surround her, for half a heartbeat she was so attuned to him she would swear she could hear the steady strum of his heart and the draw of his breath. Brian’s broad, calloused hand clasped her fingers briefly, and for a fleeting moment she wondered at the defensiveness he displayed toward her. Was it merely the same chivalrous act he would perform for any woman in danger, or could it be more? Did Brian Donnelly remember their brief encounter? Dare she hope?

  Roark smirked, reaching for her. “Is that a promise, Donnelly? Sweet on the General’s daughter are ye?” Brian lunged forward, and Roark cracked the rifle butt along the side of his jaw. Brian collapsed limp to the ground beside her. “Unlucky son of a bitch,” Roark muttered. She scrambled for the plank lying a few feet away, but a set of arms clamped cruelly around her.

  “No!” Lydia jerked wildly against the brute, hot tears dripping down her cheeks, as a second set of hands shoved filthy rags into her mouth and secured a gag before binding her wrists. The cords bit into her flesh, driving home the realization she was about to die. Not an hour earlier she’d believed her life over should she follow through marrying the viscount, now she understood the crippling reality of a true threat on her life.

  Chapter Two

  The cart bounced and rattled along the dusty road. Time was impossible to gauge beneath the dirty tarp stretched across the wagon bed, but Lydia would guess near twelve hours had passed since being abducted from the abbey.

  The cold, stiff body of Lucas MacGregor tilted into her. Lydia shuddered, battling a wave of nausea, and scooted closer to Brian’s still unconscious form. The fact he was still out couldn’t be good. She longed to call out to him, roust him from the deep slumber but the gag stuffed in her mouth made speech impossible.

  Panic welled and threatened to consume her for the umpteenth time that day. Concentrate, Lydia. Concentrate. On what was the real question? How many hours did she have left? One? Five?

  Regrets pooled in her mind. Never kissing a man… Never falling in love… Her gaze fell to Brian… not real love anyway. If she survived this ordeal she would apologize to Olivia and her father. She would write her grandmother every day, well… at least once a week. Lydia sighed. She just wasn’t ready to die. Not at twenty. Not before she’d done anything of consequence with her life. One regret in particular stood out, like a little piece of her soul, empty and unfinished.

  Lydia closed her eyes, vividly remembering the forbidden moment four years ago when she’d stood alone on the terrace with Brian…

  “Will you forget me once you’ve gone away to France?” she asked boldly, gazing into his markedly piercing eyes.

  “Forget ye, love? Never. A man would prove a fool to be forgettin’ a lass the likes of you.” The lilt of Ireland ran thick through his words, sending her pulse to a run, and as he reached out to pluck a single flower from the stone planter nestled against the matching terrace rail she was convinced the strumming beat was audible to his ears…

  Distinctly Lydia recalled how tall and indestructible Brian, then Captain Donnelly, had appeared leaning close to bequeath her the Forget-me-not. Far too close by the standards of propriety. Close enough in fact to kiss her…

  Lydia’s lips tingled in silent yearning.

  He would have kissed her too, she was sure of it, if not for the impeccable timing of her stepmother, Olivia. The older woman had the uncanny ability to find Lydia when she least wanted to be found—which was of course the point. In any case Olivia had erupted through the terrace double doors, threatened to swoon at her daughter’s deplorable behavior, and promptly hastened her back to the ballroom. Thus Lydia had been left to wonder how her life might have changed should the good Captain have had the opportunity and inclination to kiss her. Even now her lips tingled with yearning. Countless times she’d dreamed of Captain Donnelly, fancied herself in love with him, and here he lay beside her…

  * * *

  Brian woke bound, gagged, feeling as though a metal spike had been drilled through his skull, and staring into the luminous golden brown eyes which had haunted his every moment—waking or sleeping—for the last four years.

  His heart slammed in his chest. By Christ Lydia was beautiful, and by damn he didn’t want to think so.

  Four years prior Brian’s regiment had been on parade in a small district to the north of London. The army was soon to deploy to France, and he’d recently acquired a commission and more recently been promoted to captain—no small feat for an Irish orphan with naught but a name to carry with him. Women had packed along every street corner offering tokens and kisses for Britain’s soldiers. Brian had been as interested in pretty girls as any man of twenty and three about to embark to foreign shores until he saw her. Lydia Covington. From across the column of marching soldiers he’d caught sight of a pretty woman, no more than sixteen, standing with a small group of friends. Her manner more subdued than the rest, but enigmatic of patriotism, and something in her air had held him enraptured. As though by a supernatural force her exquisite profile had turned until her eyes locked on his. T
he closer he’d marched the more certain he’d become that she was pulling him into the oblivion of her honey brown eyes.

  The world as he knew it had ceased to exist. Time suspended. The air swirled and stopped around him, all he’d known—all he had known since that day—was the light of her eyes and the curve of her lips. As he’d marched past, her arm had extended pressing an embroidered handkerchief into his palm and her exquisite mouth had curved into a secret smile meant only for him. Brian had never been a romantic, had never believed in love as anything more than an avenue for heartbreak, until that very moment. After the parade he’d followed through the impulse to seek her out, had even held her in his arms to waltz. Before shipping out he’d thought to secure permission to write her… until he’d learned who she was… the daughter of his commanding officer, General William Covington, and betrothed to the Viscount of Northbridge. The girl was nothing more than a typical ton tease, likely toying with him to spite her father or perhaps she was merely curious.

  Ha! The fates would only be so cruel to an orphaned foot soldier. To fall in love with a future viscountess was the worst sort of folly. Proper English ladies would never think to look twice at a nobody of Irish birth such as himself. The knowledge that their single seemingly enchanted evening had meant nothing to her had driven the final nail into his coffin of hope of ever having a family of his own. Orphaned at the age of two Brian knew well what a miserable emotion love was. All souls unfortunate enough to find themselves in love would eventually find themselves alone. The misery was not worth it and after Lydia Brian had no intention of becoming yet another of Cupid’s victims. Even so the knowledge had not kept him from dreaming of her. Literally. The memory of her huge, wide set, oval eyes flecked with amber had seen him through two miserable years bivouacking in freezing rain and snow, a grievous wound, and the year and a half he’d been employed by none other than her father. He’d known the proximity to Lydia could be nothing less than disastrous, but he owed Sir William more than one debt.