Vow: A Lords of Action Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  Her words hit him, blasted through his gut.

  His body staggered backward, collapsing on the opposite bench. “What…how do you know that?”

  “I stared at her hands in the carriage. After they took me. I stared at them for hours and hours and hours. I could not lift my eyes. So I stared at her hands. Soft hands. She had truly soft hands, so soft.”

  It was Isabella.

  There was no doubting it. The girl knew her. Knew the hand, the knuckles he had traced a thousand times over in a different land, in a different life.

  His head fell back on the cushions, numb.

  He had been so close. So close.

  The words the girl spoke made sense in his mind, but could not travel down to his body. He couldn’t feel it. Not yet. Not his love gone from this earth.

  “You are…you are sure?” He could not move his head to look at her, could not smooth the roughness of his voice.

  “She died. I saw her.”

  Each word sliced into Caine’s chest, robbing him of his breath, of his heartbeat.

  She moved, sitting upright on the bench, threatening to stand. “What—”

  “Sit. Shut your mouth.” His growl sent the girl back into the corner, wrapping herself into a ball.

  Caine’s head fell back, his eyes closed against the horror.

  His love. Dead.

  He had stayed alive for Isabella during the war. For her. And now she was dead.

  Thick silence swelled in the carriage, seeping into every corner to suffocate the air.

  Ten minutes. An hour. Caine had no idea how much time passed before he heard the girl’s voice slip into the silence, a whisper against the pain ravaging his chest. Against the failure pounding in his brain.

  “What…what are you going to do to me?” The trembling words broke through the air.

  His head dropped, his eyes finding her in the corner. She had not moved a muscle. “Do to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? But…”

  Caine leaned forward, his voice hard. “Do you want me to do something to you?”

  She snapped back, hiding her face from him.

  Dammit. How many times was he going to send the pitiful creature cowering?

  He shook his head, damning himself. If Isabella were sitting across from some strange man, at his mercy, how would Caine want her to be treated?

  He sighed. “I am not going to hurt you, girl. What do you want? Where do you want to be delivered to?”

  Her head flew up, her eyes wide as her mouth opened and closed several times before sound made it past her lips. “Truly? You are letting me go?”

  He nodded.

  “Home. I want…I want to go home.”

  “Where is home? Somewhere here in London?”

  “I am in London?” Her hand flew over her mouth, fingers dragging across her lips. “I…I did not know that…I am from Wiltshire—the village of Marport. My father is the local vicar.”

  Blast it. That was at least a twelve-hour carriage ride away. His night and the next day would be gone. But that would also place him by Isabella’s home in Somerset. He could go to see her mother and father, tell them the news, even if he wanted to put it off as long as possible. He still did not fully believe it himself.

  He settled his hands on his lap, tempering his voice from the pain beginning to cut through his shock. “Then I will return you to Marport. What is your name, girl?”

  “Ara Detton—Arabella Detton.”

  Caine shook his head.

  Of course, dammit to hell.

  Another Bella.

  { Chapter 2 }

  Ara pulled the edges of the dark jacket tighter around her ribcage. Light had started to filter into the carriage, but the warmth of the sun had done little to heat the air in the past hour.

  The rustle of the jacket sent the scent of the man across from her floating up from the fine fabric to her nostrils. The complexity hit her, cinnamon, alcohol, pine, apple, spice and something she couldn’t identify, something of male, something that brought the range of smells into a whole. Somewhat akin to her father, but much deeper. A man that lived life. Not a boy. A man.

  Whatever it was, it was oddly comforting.

  Her eyes lifted, opening to the morning rays sneaking past the edge of the dark curtain after trying unsuccessfully to sleep for the last four hours. For the first of those hours, she had sat huddled, shivering in the thin, bright pink rag they had thrown over her in the brothel, unwilling to believe the man who had bought her was truly taking her home.

  It wasn’t until he had moved to drape his jacket over her that she had relaxed. Slightly. She had still kept her head down, her eyes closed, her body still. She didn’t want to remind him she was in the carriage. Didn’t want to give him a reason to change his mind. Didn’t want to give him a reason to take what he had bought.

  She had no idea she was worth so much as a virgin.

  But it wasn’t her the man had bought. He thought he was buying Isabella.

  Isabella.

  Ara’s eyes squeezed shut, fighting back the memories of the girl she had just spent days with. Of the terror. The helplessness. Rage at the injustice that could turn nowhere but inward. Shame. Desperation. Everything she had felt during their journey, she had seen reflected in Isabella’s eyes.

  Everything except for the stillness of death. That alone had belonged to Isabella’s vacant stare.

  Ara had survived. And the nightmare was now solely hers.

  “How did they take her?”

  Ara’s eyes jerked open to the man across from her at the soft words, his voice almost unrecognizable from hours ago when it had been harsh and furious.

  Her mouth dry, Ara cracked her lips. “Isabella?”

  He offered one nod, staring at her.

  She opened her mouth to answer, but the one word had sapped every bit of liquid from her mouth. And when was the last time she had eaten? She couldn’t even recall. The mealy lump of bread had been at least a day ago—had that been all?

  Ara slipped a hand up from under his jacket, pointing to her mouth with two fingers. “W-water?”

  The man looked around the carriage and then leaned across the bench he sat in to flip open a flap of wood on the side of the carriage. He pulled out a silver flask, removing the stopper and holding it out to her. “It is brandy. I have no water, only this. But it will wet your mouth.”

  She nodded as she fumbled her arm out above the jacket. Now that she was covered—haphazard as it was—she wasn’t about to let any more of her body show than necessary. Only her bare feet peeked out onto the bench from under the jacket, and she meant to keep it that way.

  She grabbed the flask, the edge of it hesitating on her bottom lip. She had never had brandy before. Father had always said it was a sin. But if it was all this man had, it would have to do. How bad could it be?

  She took a long sip, the instant relief of moisture on her tongue disappearing as the brandy turned her mouth to fire.

  He snatched the flask out of her hand just before she gagged, coughing and spewing droplets of the brown liquid onto the back of his jacket. Cough after cough, and she swallowed hard, trying to clear the flame from her tongue.

  “I apologize. I should have known.” Concern etched his brow.

  Ara shook her head, still trying to gain control of her throat. “There was no way you could have. I did not know.”

  He held the flask up. “Try again?”

  “No. No.” She leaned back into the corner of the cushions, hiding her arm and drawing his jacket up to her neck.

  Relaxing back onto his bench, he set the stopper onto the flask, but then thought the better of it and drew a healthy swallow before securing the stopper in place.

  Ara watched his face. Not a flinch as the liquid descended. The man clearly did not think brandy was a sin.

  His look lifted to her, his eyebrow cocked. “Isabella?”

  Ara’s breat
h stopped in her chest. “I am sorry, I do not know how they took her. She was already in the coach when I was shoved in. She never told me.”

  He nodded, silent, and his head dropped. Ara watched, waiting as he stared at the bottom left corner of the carriage for minutes.

  “You. How were you taken?” His eyes stayed solidly on the dark corner.

  “I was walking home.”

  “From where?”

  “The market in our village.” Her voice halting, she looked out the small crack beside the curtains to the passing fields. “I dropped the bread. The eggs. They all cracked. That was what I worried about for hours—the bread and the eggs. Birds picking at them. Mice. That we would not have them for dinner. I did not understand what was happening. Not until they…”

  Her eyes closed, her head softly shaking. “I still do not understand…why…why do this…”

  “There are bad men in this world, Miss Detton.”

  She opened her eyes to look at him and found him staring at her. His eyes were blue. A light blue that did not match his dark hair. Her fingers tightened the jacket to her chin. “You. You are not one of them?”

  He shrugged. “Does being an utter failure equal bad?”

  “No.”

  “I think that decision depends upon the one who was failed.” His fingers went to the bridge of his nose, squeezing as his eyes closed. “And since she is dead, the judgment is quite clear.”

  Ara licked her lips, moisture finally returning now that the sting of the brandy had subsided. “Why do you think you failed her? You did not take her, did not put her into that…that…place.”

  “No. I merely abandoned her. She did not want me to leave for the war—go to the continent—and I took far too long to come home. I thought I was protecting her, staying away after the war ended until my head was right.”

  “You are a soldier?”

  “Was. She begged me not to go, said I was abandoning her. I promised we would marry when I returned, even though I could have chosen not to go. But I did not want to fail my men. Instead, I failed her.”

  “When were you last with her?”

  “I have not seen her in more than two years. I returned only weeks ago, and when I arrived at her home, I found out she had been taken. Mere days. I missed her by only days. If I had made my way to her without stopping in London, she would be with me now—protected. I was too late. Too damn late and I failed her.”

  His head dropped again, and his hand slid flat across his face, hiding his eyes.

  Ara had no reply, no words for the man. Nothing to comfort him. Nothing but the guilt in her chest that she was the one sitting here, in this carriage, in the place meant for his love. The wrong woman. Without Isabella’s death, Ara could very well be chained up by an old lecher right now. Or ripped apart. Or dead.

  The guilt swelled, settling heavy into her chest.

  She had escaped, but at what cost?

  Silence filled the carriage the remainder of the day, but Ara did not mind. She had begun to realize she was still numb, her mind still impervious to all that had happened to her. Once she was home, safe, in her bed, then she could think. Then she could dwell, move on. Once she was safe with her father.

  Pangs of hunger twisting her belly, Ara stared out the carriage window as she had for most of the day. The curtains had been pulled aside, and she had watched clouds set in, rain brewing, and then she saw it.

  The stone wall trailing up a hill, jutting in and then crumbling. A wall that kept nothing in, nothing out. She had passed that stone wall countless times on the way to Widow Bellington’s farm. Widow Bellington always kept the plumpest chickens, and she had been to her home hundreds of times over the years.

  Air she had held hostage in the pit of her lungs exhaled.

  She was almost home. Almost.

  “You recognize something?”

  Ara’s head swiveled to the man. She hadn’t realized he had been watching her.

  “I do. I have walked this lane countless times. May the driver stop at the next crossroad? We are very close to my home, and I would prefer not to appear with…” Her voice trailed off, not wanting to offend.

  “Accompanied by a strange man?”

  She nodded. “I mean no offense, but father—”

  The man’s palm whipped up, stopping her. “I understand.”

  Moving to flip open the door in the roof of the carriage, he repeated the request to stop to the driver.

  The man sat down, his voice soft but stilted, as though the words were mere motions he had to bear his way through. “Do know, Miss Detton, I take solace in the fact that, at least for you, the horror you have gone through will have a happy outcome. You are welcome to take my jacket, cover yourself until you get home.”

  “Oh.” She blinked, looking down. “I had not even considered my dress.” Ara looked up to him. “I will take it, if it is not too much trouble. I have come to appreciate the slight modesty it affords me.”

  “It is yours.”

  A sad smile curved the edges of her lips. “Who are you?”

  “Caine Farlington.”

  “I do not know how I can possibly begin to thank you for your generosity, Mr. Farlington. All I have been able to dwell upon today is where I might be in this very moment had circumstances been different in that brothel. Had you not been the one to purchase me.”

  He nodded, a sudden shine blanketing his blue eyes. He had stifled it all day, but the pain she saw in his eyes in that moment gripped her heart, crushing it until she felt it would explode.

  Ara cleared her throat. “I know I am not the one to decide it, but you are not a bad man, Mr. Farlington. You are, truly, the furthest thing from it.”

  Another nod, and he looked to the window. He didn’t believe her, that she could see. But she had said the words that needed to be said, at least from her mouth.

  “How did she die?” His face still to the window, his whisper barely made it across the short distance to her.

  “What?”

  He looked to her. “I did not ask you before. I meant to. How did she die?”

  Ara’s gaze flickered to the passing trees, giving her precious seconds to steady herself from her stomach that flipped, threatening to heave at the question.

  A deep breath, and her eyes found his. “They gave her something in a bottle—laudanum—I am not sure. She fell asleep, and she just stayed asleep. She died.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You are lying.”

  Ara’s eyes fell closed as she took another bracing breath. “I am not.” She opened her eyes, meeting his hard gaze. “I held her hand, Mr. Farlington. It went cold under my fingers. Her breath stopped. It stopped, and her head dropped to the side. I saw peace take over her body…it was quiet…soft.”

  The carriage slowed to a stop.

  “She was not alone?”

  “She was not.”

  His face ashen, he held her gaze. Held it for seconds that stretched into eons. But Ara refused to look away. She would give him this. If nothing else, she could give him this kindness.

  Finally, he nodded. “Thank you for telling me, Miss Detton.”

  He opened the carriage door and descended, turning back to help her down the step the driver had pulled. He dropped her hand, and Ara resettled his jacket about her shoulders, wrapping the front flaps closed as best she could.

  He inclined his head. “I wish you well, Miss Detton.”

  Ara could only nod, her throat clamped against all sound. She turned from him, stepping on her bare feet to the grass alongside the lane to avoid the rocks on the road. Home was only minutes away.

  She walked, hearing Mr. Farlington’s low voice mix with the driver’s. His driver mentioned encroaching darkness and a coaching inn. Their voices trailed, and when Ara looked over her shoulder, the black carriage had already started to move once more.

  Stopping, she watched it until it disappeared behind a line of trees.

  She
turned forward, her feet moving quickly and bringing her stone cottage into view.

  Home. She was finally home. Safe.

  { Chapter 3 }

  The carriage slowed, jerking as the horses jumped against tightened reins.

  Dammit. What now?

  All Caine wanted was to get to Somerset. They had left the coaching inn at the first light of day to move onward to Isabella’s parents. To tell them the news. Her parents had been frantic a fortnight ago when he saw them—and he was sure they would now be beyond desperate for news of their beloved daughter.

  Caine had sworn to them he would find her. And as much as he would abhor telling them what had happened, he wanted nothing more than to get this business done as quickly as possible.

  “M’lord.”

  Caine flipped the trap door in the roof as the carriage came to a stop. “What is it, Tom?”

  “The side of the road, m’lord. I don’t want to interfere, but…”

  Caine could see his driver pointing to the right. He went to the side of the carriage, pulling aside the deep blue curtains to search the side of the road.

  A stacked stone wall lined the road, the land rolling down into a gentle hill just beyond it. Bleating sheep dotted the hill.

  “Tom, what?” Caine growled. He didn’t have time for looking at sheep.

  “Just behind the wall, m’lord. I can see it from up here. Mayhap you can’t down there.”

  Caine’s eyes flitted back and forth along the top stones of the wall.

  He saw it. The gaudy pink. Bright, shocking against the deep green of the pasture. Just a slice of the fabric—lifted by the wind—but there it was.

  He flew out of the carriage before Tom could descend and open the door. To the wall in a second, his hands landed on top of the stones, knocking several loose. His gaze dropped with dread.

  The piece of fabric was attached to the whole chemise.

  The whole chemise was attached to Miss Detton.

  Her face was buried in the dirt, but even from his poor angle, he could see the streaks of blood on her neck. Her legs splayed crooked, prone, her bare arms huddled under her body for warmth.