by C. J. Archer
"Who sent you?" Hughe hissed.
The fellow's lips peeled back from his teeth. "I'm here to make sure you stay out of Larkham affairs. We take care of our own."
"I've seen the way you take care of people. But what makes you think I am involved in anything to do with Larkham?"
"You were seen at the Renny place."
"And?"
"And we know you're goin' to help them little turds escape. I'm here to make sure you don't."
"Those boys are innocent."
"They're their father's sons. Who cares what you think?"
Hughe twisted his fist in the man's jerkin. "Cocky, aren't you, considering I've got your blade."
Upfield merely chuckled. Hughe felt rather than saw him twist and reach into his boot. He deflected the second blade when it was mere inches from his head. Upfield was strong, but Hughe was stronger and faster. He grasped Upfield's arm, wrenched it behind his back, then sliced through his throat with the man's own knife. Death was swift, but it made a mess of the floor.
He hefted Upfield over his shoulders and carried him to Monk's door. He whistled softly and a moment later, Monk emerged, yawning.
"What in God's— Bloody hell." Monk shut the door on his sleeping wife. He squinted at the face of the man draped across Hughe's shoulders. "Is that Upfield?"
"He tried to kill me."
Monk swore. "The world is well rid of him."
That's what Hughe had thought after assassinating Cat's first husband. Now he wasn't so sure. Pure, primal instinct had driven him to cut Upfield's throat. But now, as his pulse slowed, he wondered if it were the only choice he could have made.
"Want me to dispose of the body?" Monk asked.
"Would you? I've got to clean up before the servants wake." He helped Monk to position the body over his shoulders then slapped him on the back. "Good man."
Monk shook his head. "This does not bode well for our rescue. Who else knows of your involvement?"
"I don't know. I didn't get a chance to ask him. He shouldn't have known of our plans."
"He may have forced Widow Renny to tell him."
"In which case, she's in danger. Upfield may have come here alone, but he would have told others of his movements. Once his friends learn of his death, they'll want vengeance, but not upon me. I'm too difficult to bring down. She's not."
Monk nodded. "I'll hide the body well so that it's not found for a few days. She'll be gone by then."
"Aye, she will be. We'll act today instead of tonight. It'll be more difficult during daylight, but we must do it before a Larkham mob forms. And believe me, it will form."
"Even if Upfield's not found?"
"Even then. I'd wager as soon as they realize he's missing."
Monk hefted the body higher as it began to slip. "Want me to come with you to Larkham?"
"Keep to the plan. I'll leave for Larkham as soon as dawn breaks and you go on to the first farm as we discussed. Arrive early to be sure no one sees us coming."
"Aye."
"Be careful, Monk."
"You too, Hughe."
***
Slade and Hislop sank further into the shadows along the brewery wall as Oxley's man passed them carrying Upfield’s dead body. The stench of blood and death followed him as he hefted his cargo off into the darkness.
Once Monk was out of sight, Slade thumped the brick wall. Everyone was failing him. Cat wouldn't spy on Oxley, even after he told her that her second husband killed her first. All he wanted was for her to confront Oxley and learn for certain whether the earl was the assassin. That way Slade could silence him before Oxley discovered he'd been manipulated. Without her, Slade had only a few pieces of information to slot together, none of them definitive. They'd even gone to Larkham that day to find out if Oxley's visits to the village were suspicious, only to leave none the wiser, albeit with another plan set in motion.
And now that plan had backfired too. Upfield was dead, unable to report back. He was supposed to sneak up on Oxley as he slept and question him at knife-point over his involvement with the Renny family. Slade didn't care about the Larkham matter, except where it could help prove Oxley was an assassin. Upfield, however, cared deeply.
On the other hand, perhaps Upfield's death did prove something after all. Oxley would have followed the law and had the local Justice of the Peace look into an attack by an intruder if he were innocent, but he'd chosen to avoid the official process. In his opinion, that was the action of a guilty man with something to hide. Slade's spirits lifted. All was not yet lost.
"I was right," Hislop whispered. "Oxley's the assassin." It seemed he'd come to the same conclusion.
"You?" Slade studied his man in the dim light. He was a ferocious beast with his scarred face and soulless eyes. It hadn't always been so. When they'd first met, Hislop had bowed and scraped along with everybody else. He'd called Slade 'sir' and whispered things in his ear that encouraged Slade to aspire to be more than the second son to an older, more stupid brother. Sometimes Slade wondered if Stephen would still be alive if it weren't for those whispers.
The change in Hislop had happened so slowly that Slade had hardly noticed. Somewhere, sometime, he had stopped whispering and started ordering. Before Slade knew it, he'd given Hislop his best horse, allowed his dogs to sit at his feet, and given him the finest cuts of meat at dinner. Hislop took it all without thanks.
"Aye," Hislop said. "It was my suggestion to send Upfield there to find out if Oxley were up to something in Larkham. Seems Oxley knew it. Killed him to keep him quiet, I'd wager."
"And why would you wager on that?" Slade asked. It was time to wrestle back some of the things he'd given to Hislop.
"It's what I would do if a fat prick like Upfield threatened me and my trade. If I had a good income, I wouldn't let anyone get in the way." The weak dawn glow cast shadows over Hislop's face and turned his grin into a grotesque warping of lips. "Don't pretend you wouldn't do it either, Slade. You would. You have. You killed your own brother to get what he had."
Slade bristled. "I'm no killer."
Hislop chuckled, low, guttural. "You may not have shot the arrow, but you handed it to the man who did."
"The assassin's to blame, not me. Oxley. I simply pointed out some facts to him through a few letters."
"If you truly believe that, then why are you going to all this trouble to discover the assassin's identity before he realizes who wrote those letters and paid him?"
Slade swallowed. A breeze brushed the ends of Hislop's hair against his handsome cheek. Slade had liked that face once. Liked the power in the jaw, the ethereal golden eyes, and even the scars. Now…now he couldn't remember why he'd thought Hislop handsome. There was nothing admirable in his sharp features, his thin lips and soulless eyes.
"You've poked the beast and now he'll come for you." Hislop nodded in the direction Monk had walked with the body. "You see what Oxley does to his enemies."
"You're his enemy too."
"Aye, but I can say that you ordered me to speak to Upfield and paid him to attack Oxley."
"You think he'll believe that? You think anyone believes I have sway over you?"
It may have been still quite dark, but Slade saw the flicker of uncertainty in Hislop's eyes as he glanced away. He was just as worried about Oxley as Slade was.
"Why are you doing this?" Slade asked. "Why have you gotten involved with me and my scheme?"
Hislop patted Slade's cheek the way he used to do in the early days. "Because through you, I get what I want."
"And that is?"
"Respect."
Slade knew Hislop had come from nothing, but he'd not thought being the second in command at Slade Hall would be so important to him. How quaint peasant folk could be. "If I fall, you fall with me." Better that he remind Hislop of that before he decided he wanted to climb even further.
"I know that, fool," Hislop snarled. "That's why I'm behind you every step of the way. Hiding Upfield's body points to Oxley's gu
ilt, in my opinion. Now we must act before he realizes you commissioned him to kill your brother."
Slade nodded. "I'll go prepare. There isn't much time."
Hislop caught Slade's shoulders. He dug his fingers into the joints until pain rippled down Slade's arms and his fingers tingled on the brink of numbness. "This is our last chance. Fail at this and Oxley will know it was you."
And I will make sure he knew you were behind me every step of the way.
***
Hughe watched Monk ride off just after dawn produced enough light to see by. It was not his usual horse, but one of Lynden's. With so much riding of late, the grooms recommended Charger and Zeus be rested if another long day in the saddle was planned.
While the grooms prepared his horse, Hughe checked Charger over from hoof to nose. The gelding didn't seem himself. His head hung lower and he seemed to favor one leg. He ran his hand over Charger's muscular withers and was about to inspect the hoof once more when a maid approached. He glanced at her then straightened. She was one of Cat's girls. What was she doing in the stables?
"Is Lady Oxley well?" he asked.
"Aye, my lord. She slept well." The girl offered him a cup. "She wishes you to drink this before your journey."
"She knows I'm leaving?"
The girl nodded. "The day will be hot and she asked the kitchen staff to prepare this brew. There are herbs in it to keep you alert." She extended the cup further.
He took it and smiled. As peace offerings went, it was an unusual one. It was better than silence, however. Hopefully the wine was only the first step. Hopefully it meant she was ready to receive him again.
"Tell her ladyship that I will thank her for the wine when I return. I regret that it won't be until later today, but I would like to see her before she retires for the night."
He drank half the contents and placed the cup down on the floor in the corner. The girl left, only to have Slade take her place. Good. Hughe needed to threaten the cur again before he left.
"Is your horse lame?" Slade asked, eyeing Charger.
"He's in need of rest."
"You ought not exercise him so much."
"And you ought not meddle in affairs that don't concern you." Why was the man at Sutton Hall? At any other time, Hughe would have found the answer, but he'd been so preoccupied with the Larkham problem, and Cat's ire, that he'd let the prick do whatever he wanted.
That would change after today. Tonight, he would confront Slade, with the point of his blade if he had to.
He stepped up to Slade. "Stay away from my wife," he said, voice low. "Do not go near her. If I find that you have, I will ruin you and then kill you."
Slade's swallow was audible. "I have no wish to harm her." He frowned. "Oxley, you look unwell. Is everything all right?"
Hughe rubbed his temple where the devil had set up a workshop in his head. Blood pounded behind his eyes, between his ears. "Stay away from my wife," he told Slade.
"As I just informed you, your wife has nothing to fear from me. She is my sister-in-law, my family. And anyway, it's not me she fears." The smile he gave Hughe was twisted, cruel.
Hughe backed up against Charger. What did he mean? Cat feared him?
Slade might as well have punched him in the stomach. Cat was afraid of Hughe, the one person who would never hurt her. The thought made his belly clench, his head hurt. He should go and speak to her, tell her…
What?
Christ, he couldn't think. His head… And now his stomach, too. It felt like someone had tied his insides together and was pulling the knot tighter, tighter. He looked around for somewhere to sit. To gather his wits and shake off the pain.
Slade's face came into view. "You do look ill. How strange. A moment ago, you seemed perfectly well."
Pain tore through Hughe's insides. He doubled over and vomited in the corner of the stall.
Slade came up to him and held out the cup. "Drink this."
The wine. The wine from Cat. No.
No!
He fought down the next wave of nausea, but the effort nearly did him in. He dropped to one knee and placed a hand against the wall for balance. Standing was an impossibility. Thinking too, almost.
There was one thing he did know. The wine was poisoned.
"Cat," he said on a groan as his stomach tied itself into knots again. Christ, everything hurt. His gut, his head, his skin. But most of all, his heart.
Cat, why?
CHAPTER 13
"I've seen this before," Slade was saying. He was behind Hughe, or beside him. He couldn't be sure anymore. He didn't care. "A fast illness, aching head, vomiting, tiredness. You do feel tired, my lord?"
Hughe turned to him, but Slade was staring into the cup.
"Cat gave you this, didn't she?" Slade blinked at Hughe. Then he laughed, a low chuckle. "Well, well. It would seem I underestimated her. We both did. She's not the timid little creature she portrays. I suppose we should both have seen this coming."
Hughe wanted to tear Slade's tongue out, punch him in the face, stop him talking. Yet he was only confirming what Hughe already feared.
"All she wanted was a little freedom," Slade went on. "Did you know that? Freedom from husbands and marriage. The freedom to do as she pleased."
"Why?" Hughe could barely manage a whisper. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. His insides were on fire, burning a hole in his gut.
"I won't pretend that I've been the best brother-in-law to her. I know she wanted to be free of me too. That's why she married you. That and your money. Ah well, it would seem she's about to become a very rich widow."
The money. The will. How did Slade know he'd left everything to Cat? Why had she told him?
He didn't get a chance to think it through. His stomach clenched once more and he threw up again. He closed his eyes. They were too heavy to keep open.
He heard footsteps. Shouts. Hands grasping him, faces appearing. Worried eyes. "My lord!" More shouts with very real fear threaded through.
"Fetch help." That was Slade. He hadn't been so eager to assist a moment ago. The cur leaned closer to Hughe and whispered, "Don't worry. I won't let her hang for this. I'll protect her."
"Not…Cat." Yet even as Hughe said it, doubt washed over him, as debilitating as the nausea. She wouldn't poison him. Would she?
"She told me this morning how much she hates and fears you after learning that you killed Stephen. I had not expected her to go to such extremes to see you punished, but I suppose I should have. Poison is a woman's weapon, and she is a fierce woman when angered."
The footsteps seemed to get further away, not closer. It felt like dozens of hands touched him, cradled him, lifted him, but not the pair of hands he wanted to feel. Not Cat.
Cat who hated him now. Hated him enough to kill him.
***
Frantic maids woke Cat a little after dawn, their faces long. Hughe was gravely ill, they said. But that was absurd; he couldn't be. She'd only seen him the night before and he'd looked perfectly all right then. Indeed, he'd looked perfect. Her questions only led to shrugs and, in the case of the younger maid, tears.
Cat's heart dropped to her toes.
They tried to dress her, but she waved them off and ran out of the bedchamber, through the shared sitting room and into his adjoining chamber. Some servants surrounded the large bed, but she hardly saw their faces. She only had eyes for the person lying there.
Oh God, oh God.
Hughe lay on top of the covers, fully clothed in riding garb. The blue of his veins was stark against the marble white skin. Dark circles bruised his closed eyes. His breathing came in shallow, shuddering gasps. This could not be her strong, commanding, healthy husband. This man hovered on the edge of death, but her Hughe was a fighter. He would not be overcome so quickly by sickness.
She stared down at his prone form. Someone placed a housecoat around her shoulders and she folded the edges closed over her chest. Her aching, painful chest. Her throat constricted, and tears str
eamed down her face, dripping onto the bedcover.
No. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening, she couldn't lose him. She had only known him a few months and yet she couldn't imagine a life without him in it. She should hate him. She should want him to rot for what he'd done. But she couldn't. He was a deeply flawed man, but she loved him anyway.
And he was going to die without knowing it. It didn't matter that he didn't love her back, she just wanted him to know she was wholly his. There would never be another love for her on this scale.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her lips to his cool forehead. "Hughe," she whispered. "My husband, my lover, my life."
A small furrow dented his brow and he turned his face toward her as if he were following the sound of her voice. His lips parted but no words came out.
She stroked his hair and pressed her cheek to his. Perhaps she could warm him a little, give him some of her life. Perhaps he wouldn't die if she could show him that she loved him.
"The wise woman?" she asked the maid.
"Widow Dawson has been fetched, m'lady. Shall I wake Mistress Monk?"
What could Elizabeth do? Cat shook her head and did not take her gaze from Hughe. What if she wasn't watching when he breathed his last? What if he tried to speak and she didn't hear it?
Her heart caved in. Her face crumpled as the tears streamed, unabated. "What happened to you?" she whispered.
She was dimly aware of her maids hovering at the doorway, too far away to hear. The grooms seemed to have disappeared altogether.
Hughe stirred and murmured something. She tilted her head to hear him better.
"Hughe?"
He opened his eyes. The pupils were huge, unseeing. "Cat." The word was a mere breath.
"Yes." She clasped his hand, but there was no reaction. "Hughe? Say something."
"Sorry."
"Don't," she murmured against his cheek. "Don't speak of it. It no longer matters. Just fight this. Get well. Come back to me."