by Allison Lane
“No, but you might have been.”
“My dearest love,” he murmured.
“Be quiet so I can stop this bleeding.” His love? That gilded tongue hadn’t changed a bit. “Can you move your arms?”
He flexed fingers, wrists, and elbows.
“Good. How about your legs?”
“Hurt.”
“Broken?”
“Uh-uh.”
“How bad are your ribs?”
“Fine.”
She doubted it. He winced with every breath. But at least the bleeding was stopped.
“Oomph!” grunted Rafe behind her. The fight still raged. Two blows landed in quick succession.
Alex struggled to push himself up.
“Don’t sit yet,” she ordered, holding him down. “You’ll swoon if you rise too quickly.”
A horse screamed. The coachman was fighting to keep the team from bolting. So far, he was winning, but the approaching storm and smell of blood were turning restlessness into panic. She could see the offside leader trembling from fifty feet away.
A body hit the ground. Not Rafe. One fear gone.
“Don’t move,” she told Alex. “I have some ointment that will help that cut.” Rafe had been applying it to her head.
He gripped her hand. “Stay!”
“I’ll be back in a moment, Alex.” Her assurance relaxed him into semi-consciousness.
Rafe had the highwayman pinned to the ground, but the man was still squirming. “Bring me the rope from the boot,” he grunted as she passed.
She nodded, a barrage of questions hammering her head. Who had Alex betrayed this time? Or had he turned to theft or piracy? His crimes must be bad to attract such vicious retribution. His clothes hinted that he’d fallen far down the social scale.
By the time she returned with rope, water, and Rafe’s remedy box, Alex had pulled himself up to sit, white-faced, against a tree. “I can’t believe it’s you,” he murmured as she washed blood from his face. “I was on my way to fetch you.”
“Why?” She shook her head. “Forget it. You’d just lie again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Disappearing without a word? Ruining my reputation?”
“I never meant—”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“I planned to come back that night,” he swore.
“Good intentions don’t count, Alex. It’s too late.” She slathered salve on his cut, then ignored his flinch as she ripped another flounce from her petticoat to wind around his head.
“Helen.”
“Be quiet. Talking will restart the bleeding.”
The villain landed a kick as Rafe bound his arms, drawing a curse.
Alex jerked his head around. “My God,” he choked. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with Thomas! When you said ruined, I didn’t— You were supposed to wait for me. You can’t have turned mistress to that rakehell!”
“How can you believe I’d be any man’s mistress!” Her fingers dug into his arm.
“Then why are you with him? Don’t you dare claim you just happened to be passing by.”
“Of course not. He’s my husband.”
Alex blanched. “He can’t be. There’s been no announcement.”
“Certainly there was. Four days ago.”
“How— Why— But you love me!”
Helen shook her head. “You walked out four years ago without a word, Alex. Why would I pine for a scoundrel?”
“You knew I’d be back. We couldn’t wed until it was safe.”
“Safe?”
“Don’t pretend ignorance, Helen. You knew my position came first.”
“What position? You said you were a London gentleman. That’s hardly dangerous.”
“I—” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you jilted me.”
“Are you mad? You jilted me. You didn’t even say good-bye. I’ll be back in a moment, Helen. Then you slipped out the window and disappeared. What was I to think when you failed to return?”
“You knew I loved you. We’d talked about marriage often enough.”
“Really?” She brushed his hands away. “Oh, you were free with hints and half-promises, but you never offered and you never wrote. That is not the mark of a serious suitor.”
Alex gaped. “Your father accepted my suit that afternoon. I would have proposed that evening if duty hadn’t interfered. But I knew he would keep you safe until I could return.”
“Duty?”
“I work for the Home Office and was in Somerset investigating a suspected traitor.”
“Who?”
“Sir Montrose.”
Helen laughed. “That is the most idiotic suggestion I’ve ever heard. He is—”
“You needn’t defend him. We proved him innocent. But at the time, things looked black. He had a brother in the Foreign Office and a cousin at Horse Guards, and wrote regularly to both. Information from both offices turned up in France after passing through Sir Montrose’s hands.”
Helen shook her head, but it explained the games he’d played that year, like his favorite, hide-and-seek, which had always ended in torrid kisses that made her forget how long she’d been alone. She’d been his excuse to slip away. All those times he’d hurried off to collect a gift from his room, he’d really been searching private papers. And his lengthy delays before discovering her hiding places had covered spying. He’d used her.
“We learned the truth that last night,” he continued. “When my assistant signaled me, I meant only to take his report and return to you, but he’d found our traitor – Sir Montrose’s secretary, working with secretaries to the other men. A courier had already collected the latest information, so the only chance to recover it was to leave immediately.”
“You could have let me know.”
“There wasn’t time.”
She opened her mouth to protest – poking his head through the window would have taken no more than a moment. But his face spoke volumes. He had expected her to throw a tantrum.
The insult hurt. Even at her worst, she’d been understanding – as he should have known. Not once had she protested his actions, not even the day he’d left her in the maze for three hours.
Yet beneath the pain was relief, and a growing joy as the weight slipped from her heart. She hadn’t driven him off. He’d used her, callously and deliberately, then left when he no longer needed the cover she offered. But it wasn’t her fault. Never again would she wrack her brains trying to figure out why – or fret that Rafe might detect the same flaw and abandon her, too.
“We barely reached the coast before the tide turned, Helen,” he swore now. “Five extra minutes would have ruined our chances. We didn’t even have time to collect local officials to help, which proved unfortunate. There were more of them than we’d expected. Though we won the skirmish, it took me three months to recover from my injuries.”
“What happened?” Shock drove recriminations from her mind.
“Broken leg, cuts.” He stroked his cheek. “By then, I’d realized that marriage would endanger you as long as the war continued – the French might have attacked you to punish me. They have no honor. I knew Sir Arthur would keep you safe in the meantime.”
“Alex—” She picked up the salve and slathered another cut on his arm. “Father never said a word about any offer. He was as furious as I that you’d left without notice. And as hurt. You must have known that your disappearance would raise doubts about my virtue. I’ve been a social pariah ever since.”
He blanched.
“Furthermore, you said nothing about duties that might take you away at a moment’s notice. Even with us you continued your pretense. And however honorable your disappearance, nothing excuses your silence. We did not hear a word from you.”
“I wrote!”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what fantasy you’ve woven to cover your perfidy, but you cannot have made your intentions clear. A formal offer would have saved me untold grief. I don’t know
what you think you said, but there was nothing that made Papa believe your intentions were honorable.”
“Don’t fall into hysteria, Helen,” he said soothingly. “Parents rarely share business decisions with daughters.”
“Balderdash!” She didn’t care if she sounded childish. He was treating her like an infant. “Not that it matters. I am wed, which makes this entire discussion moot.”
“But you shouldn’t be,” he insisted. “And to Thomas, of all people. He’s the wildest rake in London and can never make you happy. How long have you known him?”
“Five days.”
“Five days!” He straightened. “How could you wed a stranger?”
She stepped back. “That’s my business, Alex. You lost any say in my life when you walked out on me. And don’t tell me again that you had no choice. There is always a choice. You didn’t even send condolences when Father died.”
He had the grace to look abashed. “I’m so sorry, Helen. I didn’t know.”
“That was nine months ago.”
“I was away from town. Except for an occasional week, I’ve been gone for a year. But I was too busy when at home to catch up on the news.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled her down beside him. “I’m sorry, Helen. What happened?”
“You knew he was ill.”
He nodded.
“It was terminal.” Dust swirled past, giving her an excuse to blink away tears.
“My condolences, Helen. It must have been awful for you.” His finger brushed her cheek. “How is your mother holding up?”
“She died last month.”
“Dear Lord! I swear I didn’t know.”
His concern cracked her last layer of composure. Sobbing, she let him pull her against his shoulder, accepting the comfort she’d needed for so long.
“Ahem.” Rafe’s cough cut through her grief.
Alex kissed the top of her head, then released her and smiled at Rafe – nastily. “Congratulations, Thomas.” His tone could have cut glass. “You’re a lucky man. Helen is the most caring woman I’ve ever known. A veritable angel.”
* * * *
Rafe glared. Why did the victim have to be Portland? The man had hated him for ten years, gleefully grasping every opportunity to annoy him. He’d long suspected Portland of starting the most vicious rumors.
Now the man would have a new complaint. Rafe hadn’t missed the intimacy between him and Helen. Nor had he missed Portland’s fury that Rafe again had what Portland wanted. Would he retaliate for Lydia by seducing Helen? She seemed willing. He wished he’d been close enough to hear their conversation.
“How badly are you hurt?” he asked brusquely, pulling Helen against his side in a show of possession that tightened Portland’s mouth.
“I’ll live.” Portland struggled to his feet, using the tree to keep from being blown over.
“I’m not so sure of that.” Rafe tightened his hold so Helen couldn’t lend a hand.
Portland grimaced. “The worst is a wrenched shoulder and bruised ribs, but both will heal.” He slowly rolled the shoulder. “Thank you for stopping. They caught me by surprise.”
“In broad daylight?” asked Rafe.
“I was lost in thought and not paying attention.” He glared at Helen.
“That’s not what I meant. Highwaymen prefer darkness to reduce the chance of being caught by passersby.”
“Oh.” Portland frowned. “But these are assassins, not highwaymen.”
“So I was right.” Helen struggled against Rafe’s arm. “What did you do this time, Alex?”
“Nothing! You can’t think—”
“What happened?” demanded Rafe, shifting Helen to his other side.
Portland pointed toward Hillcrest. “They broke from that spinney as I rounded the gatehouse – it probably looked like I came from the estate. They thought I was you.”
“My God!” Helen quit struggling and met Rafe’s eyes. “Steven.”
“So it would seem, sweetheart.” He returned his attention to Portland, who was leaning weakly against the tree. “Did they say why they were after me?”
“No, but their orders were to make your death long and painful.”
“We can’t let him get away with this,” snarled Helen. “It’s bad enough he’s after you, but to hire a pair of cutthroats stupid enough to attack anyone who looks like you…”
“We don’t look alike,” protested Rafe, so shocked he let her pull free.
“Of course, you do.” Hands on her hips, she glared at each in turn. “I noticed it from the first – same height, same build, same coloring. Alex has even acquired a scar since we last met. Your features are different, of course, but not in a way Steven could easily describe. His men would be at Hillcrest seeking a tall, dark man with a scar.”
Rafe’s head was spinning so fast he nearly keeled over. Helen had looked at him that day and seen Portland. No wonder she’d traced his scar, the most noticeable difference she knew. But if she loved Portland…
He’d been furious when she’d locked him out last night, but he’d thought it was distrust raised by Hillcrest’s diatribe. Now he knew better. She had finally admitted that fear and injury had driven her to wed the wrong man. Again that memory tickled his mind – Dear Helen’s canceled Season, followed by hints that she’d found a beau in the country. Portland was often away from town. So why hadn’t they wed?
“Who wants to kill Thomas?” Portland asked Helen.
“Besides you?” Rafe grimaced.
“My uncle, Sir Steven,” said Helen, glaring at Rafe before moving back to Portland’s side. “Or possibly his son Dudley – long and painful sounds like him. They want my inheritance, but Rafe stands in the way.”
“You’ve had a worse time than I thought,” he said sadly, raising her hand to his lips. “We need to hide you somewhere safe until the danger is over.”
“I’ll take care of her.” Rafe scanned the sky as thunder rumbled in the distance. “The first step is to find out who hired this pair. Helen, hold the team while the coachman collects the other horses.” They had finally calmed, so she could handle them. “I don’t want cutthroats inside the carriage, so they’ll have to ride.”
Helen started to protest, but thought better of it. Rafe was being as autocratic as Hillcrest – and as unwilling to listen. The air was thick with tension that had nothing to do with the storm.
She understood his fury. He and Alex obviously hated each other – which must make his bruises more painful; he’d risked his life to rescue a man he despised.
But he was right to insist on action rather than talk. Aside from the worsening weather, Alex needed a doctor. The sooner they finished with the highwaymen, the sooner he would see one. Rafe, too. That fight had inflicted more than bruises. He was favoring his left leg.
Your fault.
She stumbled as dizziness swept over her. Her conscience was right. This attack was her fault. By dragging Rafe into her family squabble, she’d not only endangered his life, but Alex’s and Lady Alquist’s as well. Steven was eliminating anyone who opposed him.
Which meant that Rafe’s instinct had been correct. Alquist’s death was murder. Hiring that runner had signed his death warrant. Steven had known that nothing would stop him. She was family, not just a legal obligation. Even ending his guardianship would not have halted his investigation. So Steven faced ruin. A baronetcy would not protect him from transportation if his defalcations came to light.
* * * *
Rafe waited until Helen was gone, then glared at Portland. “Keep your hands off my wife,” he hissed. He might have doubts about his marriage, but he would never disclose them to his worst enemy.
“Why are you angry?” snapped Portland, ramming one fist into Rafe’s chest and the other into his stomach. “She’s my betrothed. The wedding is supposed to be next week.”
“Liar!” He wouldn’t believe it. Helen had sworn she knew no one in London.
But Portland hadn’t been in London. And sh
e’d started some sort of confession just before Steven burst in during breakfast.
“I can’t believe you found another way to ruin my life.” Portland again swung, missing as Rafe sidestepped. “Weren’t you satisfied with fleecing me and—”
“I never fleeced you!” Rafe landed a punch of his own. “You are the one who drank yourself into oblivion and insisted on one more game.”
Portland wasn’t listening. “Now you’ve stolen my wife. Damn you to hell!”
“She is not your wife!”
“Why the devil did she turn to you, anyway?” growled Portland. “If Sir Steven was causing trouble, she should have gone to Alquist. Sir Arthur swore Alquist would be her guardian if anything happened to him.”
“Alquist is dead.” He advanced, glaring. “I’m her new guardian.”
“But—” Portland flinched as he backed into the tree. “When?”
“Three weeks ago.” His voice cracked, increasing his fury.
“Damn! If only I’d been in town.”
“Enough of this, Portland. Helen is my wife. Period. You can help me question your attackers, or you can sit down and catch your breath. But stay away from Helen.”
Portland released a long sigh that drained the last vestige of belligerence. “I’ll help. I take it personally when people try to kill me. And I’ve dealt with men like these before.”
* * * *
Ten minutes later, Rafe’s patience was nearly gone. “Who hired you?” he demanded for the hundredth time.
“I told ye, nobody!” Arnold had finally revealed his name – if it was his name – but he refused to divulge anything else. “We was riding along, peaceful-like, when this bruiser jumps out wit’ a barker. Yer money or yer life, ’e says, all menacinglike. I don’t got much to give, so when I seed a chance, I tackled ’im – protecting meself, I was.”
“Where’s his barker now?” asked Rafe.
“Dropped it, ’e did. Aside the road. It’s there somewheres. Find it. You’ll sees how it were.”
Rafe snorted. Leaving Arnold to his lies, he pulled Portland aside. “He swears you pulled a pistol, so he had to defend himself.”
“I did pull a pistol – after Barney tried to smash my head with a club.” He nodded toward the blond. “Too bad I missed. I could have subdued one opponent.”