Nevertheless, the problem of her marriage vows and her unwillingness to consciously break them hung like a dark cloud over his head. As much as he wanted to take her straight to bed and make love to her until dawn, the fact remained that she wouldn’t allow him to touch her.
And there was still the matter of Roger Morton. Whoever the hell the man was, Luke needed to find him and resolve this once and for all.
“Trent said if Morton married her under a false name, then the marriage would be annulled. Is that true?” he asked Sam.
“Yes. But given everything that has happened, don’t you think Morton will be hanged once he is caught?” Sam asked. “Either way, the man is irrelevant. She’ll ultimately be free.”
Not so irrelevant, Luke thought. If Morton was hanged as her husband, she would have to endure the stigma of being the widow of a criminal, not to mention the additional stigma of having been Luke’s lover while she was still married. Furthermore, if he knew Emma, she’d feel she would have to endure yet another year of mourning before she could truly be free to be his.
If the marriage was annulled, however, she would be free and clear. She wouldn’t feel like an adulteress. She’d be able to start anew.
Luke studied his brother. “You too?” he mused. “You think I ought to marry her?”
“Of course. You’d be a damned fool not to. And while I know you’ve made many, many stupid decisions in your life, brother, I don’t think you’re stupid enough to allow this one to slip through your fingers. This is a brave woman. One who will stand by your side and fight for you. Best of all, she loves you.”
That word again.
Hell.
Luke was beginning to feel rather overwhelmed. He needed to leave. He had much to accomplish this night, and the hour had grown late. He rose.
“I hope you’re heading home to propose marriage,” Sam said, the barest hint of a smile curling his lips.
“Not yet,” Luke replied. “I’m heading out to Chiswick to follow up with a lead about Morton’s whereabouts. I need to confront the man.”
“I suppose you’ll insist you require no assistance from Trent and me.”
Luke’s hands tightened over the back of the chair. For a long moment, his throat was too crowded with emotion for him to speak. Then he said, “Let me do this on my own, Sam. Let me…try.”
“I hope you will absorb into your thick skull that we come to your assistance not because we believe you are incapable, but because we care and want to lend our help in whatever way possible. I know it is an alien concept to you, but it is natural for people to wish to help those they hold in high regard. Promise me you’ll remember that.”
Luke couldn’t move, much less make a promise like that.
Sam sighed. “We’ll stay away from Chiswick tonight. But if you’re not back by noon tomorrow, there’s no army that could stop Trent and me from finding our brother and ensuring his safety. Do you understand?”
“I’ll find Morton, I promise you,” Luke choked out. “Then I’ll find our mother.”
Sam sighed. “I hope you’re right, Luke. I really, really hope you’re right.”
* * *
It took almost an hour before Luke reached the location in Chiswick that had been written on the bill of sale. He rode down a long, overgrown driveway, glad for clear skies and a good amount of moonlight to guide him, and stopped his horse in front of a large house that might have once been grand but was now in disrepair, with peeling paint and an overgrown lawn. The place was quiet and dark, but it was after midnight now, and if anyone lived here, it was possible they were all abed.
He dismounted, secured his horse in a small clearing surrounded by trees, and walked around the place, keeping his steps quiet and his body hidden in shadows so he wouldn’t make himself known if there was anyone about. From what he could gather by rubbing at the dirt-encrusted windows and peering into the darkened interior, the house was abandoned.
He tried the doors—which were locked—then the windows one by one. He finally found one he could push open a few inches. He reached inside and forcibly pushed it the remaining way up by grasping its frame from the inside. Then he swung his leg over the ledge and vaulted inside.
He landed in a crouch on the floor of a large kitchen. There was a rectangular table and a few overturned chairs, all covered with a fine layer of grime. When he stepped forward, kicking up a cloud of dust, a small animal he didn’t care to name scuttled across the wooden floor.
The fact that the kitchen wasn’t in use confirmed that the place was abandoned. It was a large house, and it could certainly be made to be elegant given a great deal of work. That was probably what Morton had intended—to use some of the money he’d stolen from Emma’s father to remodel this pile into a stately home.
Luke systematically searched the house. He went through every room, from the downstairs galleries, with their stripped wallpaper and scuffed floors, to the upstairs rooms with once-grand but now blackened fireplaces, peeling paint, and crumbling walls.
There were three notable rooms. The first was a vast hall—perhaps a ballroom—that was piled high with furniture and other items that had been covered by large white linen cloths. When Luke moved the cloths aside, he saw that everything beneath was new and of the highest quality. There were gilded mirrors, ancient-looking statues, Greek urns, Persian carpets.
This must be where Morton had stored some of the items he’d purchased with his ill-gotten gains.
The second room of note might have once been a library. Its furniture, including a grand assortment of bookshelves, had been piled in the center of the room. Oddly, one wall had been completely stripped of its wallpaper and repainted. The same white paint had been used on one wall of what had clearly been the drawing room, with its dusty pianoforte with several missing keys and a nest that rats had created out of shredded newspapers in one corner.
Luke went upstairs to the servants’ quarters and into the attic. The house was still and quiet. Eerie, really, in these early morning hours. Luke felt his way about in the darkness, relieved whenever he encountered a west-facing room, where the moon could offer some additional light.
He returned downstairs, his mind working furiously over the various ways to catch Morton the next time he appeared here, when he heard a noise that made him stop dead in the middle of the corridor. He listened. There it was again—a rattle coming from outside.
The noise came from the back of the house and sounded very much like a carriage traveling over a rutted road. Luke made his way to the kitchen, to the broken window where he’d entered the house, and, keeping his body out of sight, he peered out.
The dark, shadowy form of a small carriage came into view as it rounded a bend in the driveway. It stopped in front of a smaller rectangular building Luke had earlier assumed was the stable—he’d intended to search it after completing his inventory of the house.
The coachman remained in his seat, sitting stiffly. A man alighted, holding his hand aloft, and Luke stiffened. The man held a gun, clearly silhouetted by the moonlight. He waved it at another occupant of the carriage, gesturing at that person to quit the vehicle as well.
Luke’s hand went to his own pistol, still tucked into his pocket.
Skirts fell from the doorway. Slippered toes reached for the step, and then she emerged, setting every single one of Luke’s senses screaming.
Damn it. The bastard had Emma.
He watched, his body so tight he couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to. They spoke, but Luke couldn’t hear the words from here. The man gestured in the direction of the stable, then turned to the coachman, snapping out instructions. The coachman nodded, then turned the carriage around and left in the direction they had come.
Luke’s fingers tightened on the sill. He couldn’t see her face. He needed to see her face, needed to know if she was all right.
But she turned away from him and headed toward the stables. Morton—or whoever the hell he was—followed her, keeping
the gun pointed steadily on her back.
Hell, no.
Luke was not going to let that bastard hurt the woman he loved.
* * *
“Open the latch,” Morton told Emma when they reached the stable door. She did as she was told, still acutely aware of the gun aimed at her.
She hadn’t been able to see much from the window as they’d approached this place. They’d driven down a long, winding, narrow road to get here. She’d seen the large, dark house through Morton’s window and this stable through her own. She’d no idea where they were.
She breathed steadily, keeping her fear in constant check. Time was running short for her. Could she whip out her pistol and shoot him before he could shoot her?
No, she thought, panic twisting her innards tighter and tighter. She didn’t think so. If only he’d point that infernal weapon at something else for a moment…
But he didn’t. His dark eyes were watchful, too, not straying from her for longer than the blink of an eye.
“What are you going to do with me?” she breathed.
“Just walk inside, Emma.”
She did, feeling old bits of hay under her slippers.
“Go into that stall on the end.”
Oh, Lord. She didn’t like the sound of his voice. It had become low and rough. On shaking legs, she forced herself to go to the end stall. Inside, it was dark, but as her eyes adjusted, she saw the shadowy shape of a bale of hay.
“Sit on that,” Morton said, gesturing at the hay bale, “and face me.”
Again, she did as she was told. She gazed up at him. His face was drawn into tight lines. The hand that held his weapon trembled.
“You…give me…no choice, Emma,” he bit out. “Lie down. Stomach onto the hay.”
He intended to…to execute her.
Oh Lord.
“Please,” she whispered. It was too late for her pistol, but her shaking hand moved toward her cloak pocket anyhow. It was her only hope.
“You have forced me to these ends,” he said in that rough, odd voice. “This is not my fault. I am no murderer, but you have made me into one, do you hear me? You.”
“No,” she murmured. “You’re not a murderer…Henry. I know you.” She was lying but she didn’t know what else to do, how else to convince him…
“Lie down,” he said sharply. His weapon drew inexorably closer.
She did it. She lay on her stomach. Stray pieces of hay poked at her through her bodice and prodded the bare skin of her chest.
“I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered.
“It’s too late for that, isn’t it, Emma? The damned Duke of Trent knows about me now. The only way out of this for me is to eliminate you. Once you’re gone, I’ll find a way to turn his suspicion to you.”
Luke would never believe that. If she had to die, she’d die believing he’d know she was innocent.
She couldn’t let Morton murder her. Luke needed her. She needed him.
She turned to face Morton. He stepped closer. The barrel of that horrid gun headed toward her temple. Now it was pressed against it, the metal cold against her skin.
Her body trembled violently, and her hand fumbled, searching for the opening of her pocket. She couldn’t find it. Her weight was on a fold of her cloak, blocking it.
Morton cocked the pistol, and she sucked in a breath at the sharp cracking noise. Lord, she thought in despair. She knew so little about firearms. The gun hadn’t been cocked this entire time. She should have taken the chance and tried to shoot him. She probably would have succeeded.
But now it was too late.
She gazed at him, saw his eyes dilate even as they narrowed.
Luke, she thought, I love you. Please know that I love you…
They heard the sound at the same time. A scuffling, followed by a low slam—like the wooden stable door had crashed against its inside wall.
Morton reared backward, trying to see who was coming without taking his eyes off her, which was impossible. He finally gave up and swung his gaze toward the stall door.
Emma sprang into motion. She scrambled up, digging into the folds of her cloak for her weapon. Just as her fingers touched metal, a large, dark figure surged into the tiny space. The silver of his pistol glinted in the dimness.
“Luke!” Her voice broke on a wrenching combination of relief and fear.
Morton barreled into him. She heard the thud as one of their pistols fell to the floor. Their arms flailed, punctuated by the dull sounds of gasping breaths and fists connecting to flesh. Both men tumbled to the hay-strewn floor, locked in a brutal battle.
“Stop!” she cried, raising her own gun in her shaking hands. She couldn’t shoot—Luke’s and Morton’s limbs thrashed violently in the dimness of the tiny space, and she couldn’t tell whose belonged to whom.
Morton surged to his knees, his dark eyes widening at the sight of the pistol in her hand. Before she could blink, he raised his gun. Again, toward her. And she was facing the barrel of a gun pointed directly at her chest once more.
Everything ground to slow motion. Like someone had poured syrup into the stall and they had to push through it with every movement. Her vision became precise, hawklike. She saw everything. Saw Morton’s eyes narrow. Saw the tiny movement of his finger tightening on the trigger.
Her own quaking finger awkwardly cocked her pistol.
“No!” Luke roared, and Emma jerked back, because his voice cracked like a gunshot. In a blur of motion, he jumped in front of her, knocking the pistol from her hand and the wind from her lungs as they tumbled to the floor. A much louder crack pierced the air. Luke’s body jerked over her.
Oh, God. He’d been hit.
Morton had shot Luke.
Something thudded to the floor. Morton’s gun? Luke’s body was heavy atop hers. She lay sprawled across the hay. She couldn’t see Morton beyond Luke’s large form. Luke groaned, and suddenly, all her senses went on high alert.
“Luke!” she cried, searching his body desperately with her hands. With a grunt of pain, he slid off her, leaving her right hand wet with blood.
Luke tried to rise to his knees but faltered, weakened by his injury. Morton, his face twisted with fury, lunged toward him, hands out, poised to kill.
Just as Morton reached him, Luke surged up. A weapon—Emma’s pistol—glinted in his hand. The gun fired with a deafening roar, and Morton staggered backward two steps. His backside hit the door, and he sagged into a heap on the floor, instantly unconscious.
Luke dropped Emma’s gun, then he, too, slid bonelessly to the floor. Emma scrambled over to him.
“Luke…Luke, where are you hit?”
His eyelids fluttered. “Emma,” he said in a rasping voice. He reached weakly toward her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but you’re shot…” Tears streamed down her face in hot stripes. “Wh-where were you shot?”
“Don’t know…My stomach…it burns…”
“Just lie still.” She glanced at Morton. It was so dark, she couldn’t tell where he’d been hit either. But he didn’t move or speak, so she assumed he was either unconscious or dead.
She hoped he was dead.
She turned back to Luke. “Stay here. I’m going for help. I’ll be back soon.”
He caught her wrist with his hand. “Em…stay with me. I need you, Em.”
What he needed was help—a doctor. She gently pulled out of his grip.
“Need you with me…”
“I love you,” she said in a vehement whisper. “I’ll be back soon. You wait.”
His eyes began to sink shut.
“Wait for me, Luke!” she commanded.
He was losing consciousness. She swallowed down the sob that welled in her throat, rose, and hurried to the door. It devastated her to leave his side now. If he died while she was gone, she’d never recover.
Marshaling all the strength she possessed, she ran for help.
Chapter Twenty
Luke woke to early
morning sunlight streaming into the room. His side ached, but the pain was now only a dull throb. Three weeks had passed since Morton had shot him. The bullet had pierced the side of his stomach, missing vital organs by less than a fraction of an inch, the doctors had told him.
His recovery had been long and painful, but Morton had fared far worse. Luke hadn’t dealt him a killing wound—he’d shot him in the shoulder. But once the doctor who’d helped Luke had seen to Morton’s injury, he’d been charged with a multitude of crimes, from forgery to theft to kidnapping, then transferred to Newgate Prison.
The wound had festered in the filth of the prison, poisoning Morton’s blood, and seven days ago, he had died.
But not before his marriage to Emma had been annulled on the grounds of the husband having forged his identity on the marriage license. Luke had Trent to thank for that. While Luke and Emma had been overcome by the immediacy and seriousness of Luke’s wound, Trent had taken it upon himself to see that Morton and Emma’s marriage was declared null and void.
When Trent had come to tell them the news, Emma’s eyes had cleared of the pain that had resided there since the moment she’d seen her “husband” was alive. And perhaps for the first time in his life, Luke had taken no offense to Trent poking his nose into business that didn’t concern him.
Maybe it was the start of a new, better relationship between them. Luke hoped that would be the case.
Anticipation welling sweetly within him, he turned his head to the woman lying beside him. She was awake, too, lying still and gazing at him with those lovely amber eyes.
“I didn’t know you were awake,” he murmured.
“I heard you stir.”
His lips quirked into a smile. She’d gone to get help on the night he’d been shot, but she hadn’t left his side since.
God, how he loved her. She’d saved his life. In more ways than he could possibly express.
“Doctor says I am free to finally leave this bed today,” he reminded her.
Her smile was as bright as the morning sunshine. “I know. Are you ready?”
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