“Run, Gemma. Don’t stop.”
Instead, she held up the cushions and took a hesitant step forward.
“Don’t attempt to beat it out.” Not with her fear. Besides, she’d fan the flames rather than smother them. He rose on his haunches. “They will see smoke and come. Beauchamp will help me.” But probably not. “Go.”
“I lost my parents this way. I cannot lose you, too.” She scrambled to his side and poked at his shackles with the knife. Every other second, however, her gaze darted to the drapes. Then she grasped the poker and struck the chain.
Futile. He reached for her, but she stuffed his hands back against the blood-soaked cushion at his chest. “Behave and keep this pressed against you.”
As if it mattered. Bleeding to death was preferable to suffocating in smoke. He cupped her face. The act tore at his wound, weakened him, but strength wasn’t something he’d require much longer. “Please go.”
Her wet cheeks heated under his fingers. “I can’t.”
Ach, how he loved her. But he wouldn’t add to her grief by declaring his heart. If he did, she’d never leave. “You must. For the boys. Go.”
With a whoosh, the second set of drapes caught fire.
She screeched, an unholy sound. “I’ve killed you.”
He held up his shackles. “You did not do this. I am not angry. Never forget that, lass.”
Tears streaked her face.
“Gemma, I now trust that I am forgiven. I have peace from God. That’s what you wanted for me all along, is it not?”
She nodded, her lips pressed in a grim line.
“What a gift you are, lass.”
She pressed her face to his, wetting his cheeks with her tears. His head spun from the agony and joy of this farewell.
“Now go.” He urged her back before he caused her death.
She stared at him for a moment and then disappeared out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hot. So hot.
Gemma fled the room, yet there was no escaping the stench of smoke filling her nostrils. She gasped to scream, but she coughed instead. Not that anyone would come to Tavin’s aid, anyway.
Tavin. She’d left him to die.
But he’d wanted her to. He wanted her to live. To care for Petey and Eddie. With slick hands, Gemma dashed down the stairs. Her boot slid, and she caught the banister, her upper body twisting over the rail.
Her muscles locked as if ice captured her instead of fire.
Images flashed before her eyes. Petey’s face. Then Eddie’s. Amy’s, Wyling’s, Frances’s, even Peter’s and Cristobel’s. Tavin’s, his brow arched in that saucy way.
They are Yours, Father. I release them to You. At last, I give them into Your capable hands.
In Gemma’s mind, the Lord’s hands appeared. Scarred, strong, cupped, as if waiting to hold something. She imagined Petey and Eddie. As if they were babes in her arms, she placed them in the Lord’s hands. They are Yours, Lord.
Then she gripped the banister and pulled herself upright. And she kept on pulling until she had ascended every stair.
Thick smoke coiled from the drawing room door, but she plunged in.
Fire lapped the two far walls. She veiled her mouth and nose with her sleeve. “Tavin!”
“Get out.” He had dropped the pillow from his chest.
She dropped to her knees, shoved the cushion against his wound, pressed his hand to it and then crawled away. Her eyes stinging, she peered through the smoke. The air was clearer down here, but not by much. At last she saw it, a reddish lump close to the fire, but she reached out, anyway.
“You returned for your bonnet?” A cough consumed him.
Her fingers worked at the brim, plucking around the pheasant feather. Then she pressed the hatpins into his fingers. “Are these sturdy enough? You must tell me what to do if I am to pick the lock.”
His eyes rolled back. “No. You must—”
“I must hurry, is what I must do. So tell me.”
The lines around his eyes softened. Then he held up his wrists.
“Insert the first pin into the keyhole. Push up. Now insert the second. Do you feel the change in resistance?”
She nodded, then manipulated the second pin according to his instructions. Jiggled. Nothing happened. “Tell me again.”
“There’s not time.”
“Once more.” First pin, push up. Second pin. Find the barrier, feel for the change. Wiggle.
She could not hear the click or the rattle of the chains as they fell away. But Tavin’s hand was firm around hers as he hauled her to her feet and pulled her from the golden room.
* * *
Never had air tasted sweeter. Like scythed grass and dew. Bent over, palms against his knees, Tavin drank the spring-cool air in heaving gasps and choked them out again. Beside him, Gemma sank to the gravel drive, her red riding habit looking less like a flame than a sooty rag. He swallowed, his throat rough as splintered wood. Speaking would hurt, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“You are beautiful.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Blood loss has addled your brain.”
She gave way to another fit of coughing, and Tavin rose with care. Everything hurt. Pain from the shot radiated down his arm and up his neck. The imprints from Garner’s boot in his back would take a while to diminish, as well.
But the wounds would wait. He scanned the yard. What few servants Hugh had in residence scrambled with buckets in hand. Hugh shouted instructions and tore at his hair. Raghnall and Jasper weren’t visible, but in the distance, an ink-black horse galloped toward the New Forest, Garner on its back.
Pity Tavin had lost his boots. Ah, well. He nudged Gemma with his good shoulder and led her, jogging, to the stable. “Pick a horse, lead him to the block and climb on. Get Wyling and as many men as he can muster.”
“What are you doing?”
The stable was dark, empty of grooms, but it took mere seconds to find a saddled gray gelding—belonging to a smuggler, perhaps. He shoved his left foot into the stirrup. With his right arm, he hoisted himself atop the tallest of the mounts. “Ending this.”
He dug his heels into the gray and sped after Garner.
At the rise, he spotted the black horse and rider. Tavin clucked his tongue. The gelding was no Raghnall, but he responded well enough to Tavin’s commands. The pain of his wound jarred with the horse’s gait. He cradled his left arm closer to his chest. God help me.
He slowed the horse’s pace at the tree line, peering into the gaps between trees. He paused to listen for the snapping of twigs, the rustle of leaves.
And then he heard it. The jingling reins of a cantering horse. Probably riderless.
Tavin slid from the saddle and tethered the gray to a branch. The desire to cough was overwhelming. So was the desire to sink to the earth and rest. Instead, he studied the ground for signs, equestrian and human. His stockinged feet made little sound crossing the carpet of damp leaves. He waited, listened.
A mammoth fallen oak blocked the widest space between the other trees. A twitch of a smile curled at his lips. Garner had thought to jump it?
With his left arm still curled into his chest, he pressed his right palm against the oak and leaped over it, spinning back around, his boot connecting with some part of Garner’s prostrate form hidden under the trunk.
“Oomph!”
Garner slithered away, one hand on the tree trunk, the other curled in a fist. No pistol. Tavin must have knocked it from his hand when he’d kicked him.
As one, they both lunged under the fallen tree.
Garner reached out, but Tavin had no interest in the weapon. One armed, Tavin grasped Garner’s coat and hauled him away from the pistol.
“You intend to fight me with o
ne hand?” Garner grasped a fallen branch and swung.
Tavin blocked the branch with a kick. “I will fight with no hands, if I must.”
Garner eyed the pistol on the ground.
Tavin circled him away from it. “Are you afraid? Sir?”
“I am the Sovereign.” Garner’s nostrils flared. “All Hampshire fears me. And soon England will, too.”
“No one in London even knows you. Recall Theophilus Grenville, that fellow whose entrée to the masque you stole?” Tavin shifted. Once Garner lunged, he’d have him where he wanted him. “He’d never heard of you.”
A muscle worked in his cheek. “He will.”
The pain in Tavin’s chest and shoulder deepened. Tavin stood tall, but his vision started to blacken. “You chose him for a reason, though. Whom did he harm? Your lady love?”
“My sister. A maid in his house.” Garner spit. “He cast her and her babe out with a few coins. She died begging for mercy, from him, from God. There’s no injustice in Grenville’s death.”
“You’ll be sorry to hear it, but Grenville isn’t dead. And justice is not yours to dispense.”
“Then he’ll be the first to die in the new order.” Garner lunged for the pistol.
Tavin’s foot caught Garner’s ankle, tripping him. His right arm gripped Garner’s wrists, pinning them behind his shoulder blades.
Garner writhed against Tavin’s hold. “You will die from blood loss before you can drag me out of here.”
“Test me.”
Tavin swept his leg under the fallen oak, drawing out the pistol. Garner grunted, twisted, snapped his jaws, but Tavin’s grip did not loosen. His left arm tore with ragged pain as he gripped the pistol and examined the chamber.
Loaded. Ready to fire.
Garner laughed. “I suppose ’tis fair, you killing me after I tried to kill you. But if you murder me, your God will reckon with you.”
“Who said anything about murder? I am apprehending a smuggler.”
Tavin cocked the pistol. Garner’s eyes grew wide.
Extending his wounded arm hurt more than anything Tavin had ever done. His skin seared. Black spots appeared before his vision, but he could still see the fear in Garner’s eyes.
The fear of a man with no hope.
Tavin fired the pistol. Straight into the air, to signal Wyling.
Shouts penetrated through the trees. “Knox! Thataway!”
“You couldn’t kill me.” Garner’s brows knit together.
Tavin pulled Garner up to stand, his right hand still clenching Garner’s wrists like a cuff. “I never intended to.”
“I will be more powerful imprisoned than I am now. My followers will grow in number and zeal. I will change the course of human history.”
Tavin nudged his superior toward the sound of the shouts.
“There is one true Sovereign, Garner, and He is not you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The evening passed in a flurry, with Tavin, Wyling and Peter behind closed doors with officials and the physician, preventing Gemma a minute alone with Tavin. Determined to wait up until he was able to see her, she’d bathed, changed into a clean muslin gown and curled onto the drawing room sofa where she’d sat with Hugh all those weeks ago. She opened her prayer book.
“Ah Lord GOD! behold, thou hast made the heaven and the earth by thy great power and stretched out arm, and there is nothing too hard for thee.”
“‘There is nothing too hard for thee.’” Gemma’s words were soft as vapor in the air. She resolved to pray and trust through the night. But sleep overtook her, and when Amy cupped her shoulder, dawn’s gray tendrils crept beneath the drapes.
“Tavin?” Gemma bolted upright.
“He’s well. Determined to make an early start.”
“He cannot travel with that wound.” She hurried to stand.
“The bullet went through. He’s been patched and caught a few hours’ rest. I learned he wished to see you but thought you were asleep in bed. He’s leaving soon for London.” At Gemma’s grunt, Amy smiled. “Gentlemen grow irritable when they have work to finish.”
“His work is finished.” Gemma wadded the light blanket she’d snuggled beneath. “He was shot and beaten. Someone else can transport Garner to London.”
“But he would see it as leaving the job unfinished, and then he would not be Tavin Knox, would he?”
No. Gunshot wound, bruises and all, Tavin completed his tasks. She loved his dedication, but it meant she’d have to let him go—today and every day, just as she had prayed while bent over Hugh’s banister.
She let out a ragged sigh. “When does he depart?”
Amy helped her to stand. “Once he’s returned here from the village. He’s overseeing the, er, prisoners’ placement in the wagon.”
Gemma could only nod before marching upstairs to wash and repin her hair. She’d break her fast later. Why waste a moment when she had so few left with Tavin?
The boys, who as yet were blissfully ignorant of the full scope of the previous day’s events, were awake, fed and dressed, so she and Amy took them out front to frolic on the dewy lawn. Within a few minutes, Tavin, atop Raghnall, trotted into the yard. Aside from the left arm curled into a white sling and the shadow of a bruise on his jaw, Tavin looked hearty and whole as he dismounted on the drive, watching her.
Until the boys barreled into his side and grabbed his knees. “Mr. Knox!”
He laughed and winced at the same time. “What a greeting!”
Gemma choked down the emotion thick in her throat.
“Can we ride Raghnall today?” Petey abandoned him for the horse.
“Not today, lads. I’m for London.”
Eddie pouted. Petey returned and tapped Tavin’s arm, making him wince. “What’s this?”
“Just a trifle.”
Eddie rubbed his own jaw. “Why is your face splotchy?”
“Er.” Tavin looked at her, helpless.
“Shaving with a dull razor?” Petey nodded knowingly. “Papa’s valet says dull razors hurt.”
“My razor isn’t dull.” Eddie curled his finger over his lip to make a mustache, like he had when they’d viewed the Elgin Marbles.
“Indeed not.” Tavin laughed, and despite herself, Gemma did, too.
Amy patted her arm and beckoned the boys. “Come, help me find the package of cake Cook prepared for Mr. Knox’s travels. I think she left bites for us.”
“Cake before noon?” Petey’s jaw dropped. “Hurry, Eddie.”
Gemma didn’t watch them go. Her gaze was on Tavin, her steps toward him slow. He moved toward her at a faster pace. “I feared I’d miss you.”
“Are you in pain?” She stared at the buttons of his black waistcoat.
“Only when I ride. Or breathe. Or when Petey and Eddie greeted me.” He laughed. “I will miss them.”
“When will they see you again?” When would she?
His touch was gentle on her cheek. “I don’t know, lass.”
Her body betrayed her by filling her eyes with tears. “What about Garner’s men?”
What about me?
He owed her nothing. She knew better than to expect something more from him. Yet still she hoped.
He wiped her tears, but then his hand fell. “They’re being rounded up by local authorities. Word went ahead of us, warning the prince. But Garner has created quite a mess. I must assist the Board of Customs to set things right.”
“You will have much work to do.” She tried to smile. “And I daresay Miss Scarcliff may not wish to marry Hugh now.” Her little joke inspired the smallest of smiles. There was no use prolonging this. “Go with God, Tavin.”
He took her hand and placed the briefest of kisses on her wrist. “And you, Gemm
a.”
She wasn’t going anywhere, but she smiled. It was easier this time.
He released her hand just as Amy and the children returned with a paper-wrapped parcel.
“Cake!” The crumbs on Eddie’s lips revealed that he’d sampled his share.
“I think you will like it, sir.” Petey handed it to Tavin.
“Thank you, lads.” He tucked the parcel into a pouch on Raghnall’s saddle, mounted up and, with a final wave, trotted away.
There is nothing too hard for Thee, Lord.
Not even forgetting Tavin Knox.
* * *
Gemma became adept at saying goodbye over the passing weeks. Amy and Wyling departed for Portugal—without the boys, after much discussion—and Gemma’s world returned to what it had been before she met Tavin Knox. Loving the boys. Serving Cristobel.
Now, as summer waned into autumn, Gemma entered a new season, too. Acceptance of her lot and trusting God to care for her and her broken heart. Sending sums from her small investments and allowance each fortnight to her London solicitor to invest on her behalf. Praying for Tavin.
And she’d been blessed with peace. Most of the time, anyway.
Bent over the table in the morning room, Gemma held the creased foolscap to her nose, as if she could smell Portugal on the pages. Instead, the faint aromas of ink and Amy’s tuberose perfume lingered there—not exotic fragrances, to be sure, but soothing ones all the same.
I miss you, Amy. Missed conversing, asking questions she was too afraid to put into writing. Did carrying a child hurt as much as Cristobel said? Had Amy and Wyling received any news from Tavin?
At the fresh ache in her chest, Gemma dropped the letter. It had been a few months since he’d gone back to London, but his face was clear in her memory.
With a loud sigh, Cristobel entered the morning room and sank into the coral-pink armchair by the fire. “September is too premature for this chill. Why is there no fire laid?”
“I was comfortable without it, but I shall ring for one, if you like.” Gemma rose and pulled the bell.
Cristobel scrutinized the remnants of Gemma’s light repast and a pair of letters lying on the table. “News from Portugal?”
The Reluctant Guardian Page 23