“Edwin, think for a moment. Aidan and George both know what happened. You can’t escape. If you surrender willingly, perhaps you can . . .” She didn’t know what the authorities would do to him. Since he was a viscount, prison was unlikely, but Bedlam was a real possibility. He was clearly mad.
“No one will believe Aidan or George,” he said, as if to reassure himself. “They both have too many reasons to lie.”
Her belly lurched. His madness had a twisted kind of logic.
All she could think to do was slow him down. She kicked off a slipper and began to hobble. “Oh, please stop. I lost a shoe.”
He stopped and flashed the torch around, illuminating the tunnel behind them.
“I don’t see it. We need to go back a bit,” she said, trying to pull him back down the corridor. He jerked her up short.
“I’ll buy you new ones in Scotland.” Edwin bent double and threw her over his shoulder. Then he gave her bum a vicious whack that vibrated up her spine and made her teeth rattle. “Try something else, my pet, and I’ll wring your neck and leave you to rot in the dark.”
“Fetch some help, George,” Aidan shouted as he scooped up the bow and arrow and started running back through the maze. “We’ll catch them at the old tower.”
“It’s too far. You’ll never make it,” George called after him.
Aidan poured on more speed as he sprinted for the stable. All the horses startled when he burst through the doors, stamping and snorting their displeasure.
His groom stumbled out of his room at the back dressed in only his drawers. “What the—shall I saddle Camlan for ye, gov? By gum, he’s gone.”
“Even if he was here, there’s no time for a saddle.” Aidan threw open Balor’s stall, grasped a handful of his black mane and swung himself onto the demon’s back. He extended his hand toward the horse’s head and sent every drop of the Knack he possessed. “Now fly, you big bastard.”
The gelding’s eyes rolled as the Celtic magic settled over him like a shimmering mantle. Then he leaped forward and shot out of the stable as if the cry of the Banshee rang in his ears and the hounds of Hell nipped his heels.
Pound. Pound. Pound. Balor’s hooves dug into the turf and propelled them across the meadow in time with Aidan’s shuddering breaths. If Edwin hurt Rose . . .
Aidan leaned over Balor’s neck, crooning curses and urging him to more speed. The gelding sailed over the hedgerow and Aidan could have sworn the hooves never quite settled back to earth. They skimmed the surface of the ground, fast as Aidan’s desperately beating heart.
Carrying her forced Edwin to slow down. And when they reached the point in the tunnel that was partially collapsed, he had to put her down. By then, he’d reverted to his usual courtly, tightly controlled self.
“You’ll enjoy Scotland, I should think. Lovely countryside,” he said as he led her around the obstruction of stone and detritus. “If it wasn’t full of Scots, it would be heaven on earth.”
“My mother was Scottish,” she said stiffly.
“Well, no one’s perfect,” he said as he hoisted her back over his shoulder as if she were a sack of meal. “In a way, it means we start this marriage on a more even footing. We both have things to overlook in each other. You don’t hold Peg Bass against me and I won’t hold your Scottish mother against you.” Then he laughed uproariously and she knew the madman was back.
The sound reverberated along the corridor, sending a shower of stone sloughing from the low ceiling. He picked up his pace, grunting with effort as he scaled the uneven stone steps that led to the tower ruins.
When he reached the top, he set her down. Aidan’s gelding, Camlan, was hobbled near the entrance, his welcoming whicker strangely comforting.
“I wasn’t expecting to need two horses, so we’ll have to share, sweeting.”
“Not likely, Musgrave,” Aidan’s voice came from the dark. “Ye may have gotten away with murder, but ye’ll not add horse thievery or abduction to your list of sins.”
Edwin yanked Rosalinde in front of his body again. In the deep shadows and spatters of moonlight, she made out the form of a dark horse and a man astride, arrow nocked, like an avenging angel.
“Back away, Stonemere, or I’ll kill her.”
“Last chance, Edwin.” Aidan’s voice was strangely calm.
“No!”
The arrow whirred past Rosalind’s crown and struck Viscount Musgrave squarely in the right eye. His grip turned to whey and she leaped away from him. He sank to his knees and then fell forward, dead before his forehead smacked the stone pavers.
Her whole body shook in delayed tremors, but Aidan was suddenly there, enfolding her in his arms. Sobbing with relief, she sagged into his strength.
“Don’t look, love,” he urged. “It’s over now and he’ll never harm anyone again.”
Her insides shook. Another person was dead at Stonehaven and Aidan was right in the thick of things. Depending on the view the magistrate took of these dark matters, Edwin could still harm them.
He could harm them very badly.
Three months later
Autumn frost kissed the English countryside and a riot of color burst forth, a final dance of glory before the coming bleak winter. Lady Chudderley braved the cool air for a turn around Lord Stonemere’s garden and found her great-niece under the dry brown leaves of the grape arbor. Marriage obviously agreed with her, for her cheeks were ruddier than the weather warranted.
Lady Chudderley stopped her afternoon constitutional to chat with Rosalinde, whose broad skirts were spread around her on the stone bench. She seemed to be contemplating the dentils ridging the tall manor house, so Lady Chudderley took a moment to study the imposing edifice as well.
“A magnificent home. I must congratulate you, child. Even though he seemed unconventional at the outset, Lord Stonemere has proved to be, in every instance, the very sort of well-connected gentleman I required you to wed.”
“I’m sure Father is . . . gratified that you are pleased.”
“And well he should be!” True to her word, Lady Chudderley had bequeathed all her unentailed property and a goodly sum to her only nephew. Loromer Burke was set for the rest of his indulgent life. Rosalinde had refused the dowry she’d offered, since her new husband had no need of the funds. Lady Chudderley was mildly annoyed at that. It was difficult to control those over whom one wielded no monetary power.
“In the end, I suppose we must thank your husband’s cousin George.” She narrowed her eyes at her great niece, wondering at her distracted expression. Ordinarily, Rosalinde would never remain seated while her elder stood.
Honestly, one would think the girl would have the goodness to slide over and offer an old woman a seat!
“After all,” Lady Chudderly went on, “George had the most to gain if Lord Stonemere found himself in difficulty with the law again.”
Rosalinde smiled and drew a shuddering breath. “Yes, but fortunately George backed Aidan’s account of the viscount’s confession to Peg Bass’s murder at every point.”
Lady Chudderley frowned at her great-niece. “Dear me, you’re flushed, child. Are you quite all right?”
Rosalinde’s lips twitched.
Was the girl panting a little? It certainly wasn’t a warm day.
“I’m . . . fine,” she said. “I believe Mrs. Fitz has tea laid on the terrace. I’ll join you later.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Not . . . yet.” Rosalinde sputtered as if she’d choked on something. “Soon, auntie. I’ll come soon.”
“Hmph. Well, if you see that scamp of a husband of yours tell him I’d like him to join us for tea, too. The pair of you have been married a month now and come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve managed to catch you alone. It’s simply not the done thing to be so besotted with one’s spouse. All this mooning about is . . . well, most improper.”
Lady Chudderley turned back to the garden path and headed toward the terrace, vaguely disconcerted
by the exchange. There was something afoot, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“She’s gone,” Rosalinde whispered.
Beneath her broad skirt, Aidan’s mouth found the slit in her pantalets again and resumed his sensual rhythm. She closed her eyes. He’d tormented her with his wicked fingers while her aunt stood not three feet away, bringing her so near to a jerking release, she feared she’d explode. The man was beyond incorrigible.
Thank God.
Her insides coiled and then snapped, her climax shuddering through her in pounding waves. Aidan placed a final kiss on the lips of her sex and climbed out from under her skirt.
He sat down next to her, a smug smile on his handsome face. “Well, is Lady Chudderley right? Are ye besotted with your husband, madam?”
Rosalinde sighed. “I’m afraid so. Most improperly besotted.”
“Good,” he said. “It’ll be my pleasure to keep you that way.”
She smiled up at him. “And now we must do something about your pleasure, sir.”
“Before tea?” His green eyes glinted with wicked delight.
“If we’re quick about it. Come.” She stood and offered him her hand.
“Where are we bound?”
“The library,” she said as she led him past the jasmine and into a side door. “I’ve been wondering if that desk is as sturdy as it looks.”
Aidan chuckled. “Seems I’ve corrupted you thoroughly.”
“That you have, my love,” she said as he swung her into a snug embrace. “And may I never repent.”
“Not sorry ye didn’t wed a proper fellow?”
“You said it yourself. I’d have been wasted on one.” She kissed him, nipping at his bottom lip. “Besides, who’d ever want a proper fellow when she can have an improper gentleman?”
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“Tell me you did not tell the barbarian Scot that he could court me.”
Jemma Ramsden was a beautiful woman, even when her lips were pinched into a frown. She glared at her brother, uncaring of the fact that most of the men in England wouldn’t have dared to use the same tone with Curan Ramsden, Lord Ryppon.
Jemma didn’t appreciate the way her brother held his silence. He was brooding, deciding just how much to tell her. She had seen such before, watched her brother hold command of the border property that was his by royal decree with his iron-strong personality. Knights waited on his words and that made her impatient.
“Well, I will not have it.”
“Then what will you have, Sister?” Curan kept his voice controlled, which doubled her frustration with him. It was not right that he could find the topic so mild when it was something that meant so much to her.
But that was a man for you. They controlled the world and didn’t quibble over the fact that women often had to bend beneath their whims.
Curan watched her, his eyes narrowing. “Your temper is misplaced, Jemma.”
“I would expect you to think so. Men do not have to suffer having their futures decided without any concern for their wishes as women do.”
Her brother’s eyes narrowed. She drew in her breath because it was a truth that she was being shrewish. She was well past the age for marriage and many would accuse her brother of being remiss in his duty if he did not arrange a match for her. Such was being said of her father for certain.
Curan pointed at the chair behind her. There was hard authority etched into his face. She could see that his temper was being tested. She sat down, not out of fear. No, something much worse than that. Jemma did as her brother indicated because she knew that she was behaving poorly.
Like a brat.
It was harsh yet true. Guilt rained down on her without any mercy, bringing to mind how many times she had staged such arguments since her father died. It was a hard thing to recall now that he was gone.
Her brother watched her sit and maintained his silence for a long moment. That was Curan’s way. He was every inch a hardened knight. The barony he held had been earned in battle, not inherited. He was not a man who allowed emotion to rule him, and that made them night and day unto each other.
“Lord Barras went to a great deal of effort to ask me for permission to court you, Jemma.”
“Your bride ran into his hands. That is not effort; it is a stroke of luck.”
Her brother’s eyes glittered with his rising temper. She should leave well enough alone, but having always spoken her mind, it seemed very difficult to begin holding her tongue.
“Barras could have kept Bridget locked behind his walls if that was his objective. He came outside to meet me because of you.”
“But—”
Curan held up a singled finger to silence her. “And to speak to me of possible coordinated efforts beween us, yes but an offer from the man should not raise your ire so much sister.”
The reprimand was swift and solid, delivered in a hard tone that made her fight off the urge to flinch. Her brother was used to being in command. His tone was one that not a single one of his men would argue with even if she often did. But that trait was not enhancing her reputation. She noticed the way his knights looked at her, with disgust in their eyes. When they didn’t think she could hear them, they called her a shrew. She would like to say it did not matter to her, but it did leave tracks like claw marks down the back of her pride. Knowing that she had earned that slur against her name made her stomach twist this morning. Somehow, she’d not noticed until now, not really taken the time to recognize how often she quarreled with her brother. He was a just man.
“You are right, brother.”
Curan grunted. “You admit it, but you make no apology.”
Her chin rose and her hands tightened on the arms of the chair as the impulse to rise took command of her.
“Remain in that chair, Jemma.”
Her brother’s voice cracked like a leather whip. She had never heard such a tone directed at her before. It shocked her into compliance, wounding the trust she had in her brother allowing her to do anything that she wished. The guilt returned, this time thick and clogging in her throat.
“Has Bridget complained of me?” Her voice was quiet, but she needed to know if her brother’s wife was behind her sibling’s lack of tolerance.
“She has not, but I am finished having my morning meal ruined by your abrasive comments on matters concerning your future. You may thank the fact that my wife has been at this table every day for the past six months as the reason for this conversation not happening before this.”
Bridget, her new sister-in-law, had taken one look at the morning meal and turned as white as snow. No doubt her brother was on edge with concern for the wife who had told him to leave her alone in one of the very rare times Bridget raised her voice in public to her husband. Curan had slumped back down in his chair, chewing on his need to follow his bride when Jemma had begun to berate him.
Her timing could not have been worse.
But hindsight was always far clearer.
“I will not speak against our father and his ways with you, Jemma. However, you will not continue as you have. You were educated well, just as my wife, and yet you spend your days doing nothing save pleasing your whims. You have refused to see Barras every time he has called upon me as thought the match is beneath you, it is not.” Her brother paused making his displeasure clear. “Well, madam, I believe a few duties will help you place some of your spirit to good use. Curan drew in a stiff breath. “I will not force you to wed, because that was our father’s wish. Yet I will not tolerate anyone living in this castle who does nothing to help maintain it. You may have the day to decide what you prefer to do or on the morrow. I will have a list of duties given to you. Food does not appear from thin air, and you shall help make this fortress a decent place to reside.”
Her brother stood up and strode away, several of his knights standing up the moment their lord did to follow him. Conv
ersation died in the hall and the sounds of dishes being gathered up for washing took over. Jemma watched the maids and cringed. Shame turned her face red, for she noticed more than one satisfied smile decorating their lips.
Standing up, she left the hall, seeking out the only living creature that she could trust not to lecture her.
But that was only because a horse could not talk even if she often whispered her laments against its velvety neck.
In the dim light of the stable, she moved down the stalls until she found her mare. The horse snorted with welcome, bringing a smile to her face, but it was a sad one. Jemma reached out to stroke the light gray muzzle, the velvety hairs tickling her hand. Storm had been her constant companion since her father’s death and she realized that she had never really dealt with that parting. Instead she’d refused to admit that her sire’s departure from this life had cut her to the bone.
Instead of grieving, she had become a shrew, irritating everyone around her, and escaping to ride across her father’s land while the rest of the inhabitants toiled at all the tasks required to maintain a castle keep.
Curan and the others labeled it selfish but in truth it was running. She had swung up onto the back of her horse and ridden out to avoid facing the fact that her father was dead. It had never been about escaping her chores or thinking the match with Barras beneath her, she had sought out the bliss of not thinking at all which removed the need to grieve from her mind. She simply ignored the fact that time was passing, choosing to remain locked in a few hours that never progressed. That way, she didn’t have to face the sadness that threatened to reduce her to a pile of ashes.
Barras . . .
The burly Scot was something else that she liked to avoid thinking about, yet for a far different reason. He looked at her as though he wanted to touch her. Even now, a shiver rippled down her spine at just the memory of the way his eyes traveled over her curves, tracing them, lingering on them while he eyes narrowed and his lips thinned with hunger. Some manner of sensation twisted in her belly and it set her heart to moving faster but she was unable to decide just what it was. Or maybe she had merely avoided naming it to remain locked in her fairy bubble where she didn’t have to face the grieve that wanted to assault her.
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