Emma smiled at her. “I am sure you are right. Now, how much should we allot for new draperies in the drawing room? I do like that blue brocade…”
———
Oh, the things a man will do for his wife! Jack thought with a grim smile, as another rush of water poured down from his hat into his eyes. The hat, and indeed his coat, did nothing to keep the rain away. He had been a fool to eschew the carriage, leaving it behind at an inn and going forward alone on horseback. He could be sitting beside the inn’s fireplace right now, enjoying a glass of warm wine!
But he had known that the carriage could not go on along the rain-washed roads and that Emma was expecting him this evening. So he pressed on, hoping that she had missed him as much as he missed her. Or even half as much, for he had missed her a great deal indeed.
And feared for her, too.
The week preceding his final meeting with Thompson had been filled with long meetings and circuitous discussions, plans fueled by brandy and cigar smoke, concerns over the security of Napoleon’s person on Elba and about the cohesiveness of the allied monarchs that grew greater now that they had all departed from London. Once something of a resolution had been reached, he wanted nothing more than to hold his wife in his arms, smell her perfume and kiss her until they were both breathless.
After he had kissed her, and kissed her again, there could be a warm bath and a warm meal, a glass of brandy. And he could surprise her with his news—that they would be joining her aunt and uncle in Vienna soon for the congress. Surely she would be happy to see them again.
Jack urged the horse into a faster gallop and ducked to avoid a low-hanging tree branch. When the explosion cracked above him, he thought it was just a particularly loud clap of thunder—until the second one sounded, and a voice shouted “Stand and deliver!” above the rush of the rain.
An ambush! By a highwayman? What sort of a foolish highwayman would be out on a night like this? Jack had no time to ponder this; another shot rang out, this one taking off the tree branch above his head.
Jack’s horse, frightened by the branch striking against his flank, gave a terrified whinny and bucked up, into the stormy sky. Jack scrambled to clutch at the reins, shouting, “Hold! Hold!” His battle instincts obviously needed hardening, though, because it was too late. He went flying off the horse, landing in the muddy road with a sickening thud. Vaguely, through a haze of pain, he heard the blasted horse go running off, and he was alone in the sudden water-rushing silence.
Or almost alone. At first, he thought perhaps the highwayman had run off as well, the night was so quiet around him. His head hummed from the effort of listening, of being alert for any tiny sound. Then he heard it, the crackle of branches from the trees on the opposite side of the road, the fall of a footstep.
Jack’s left ankle shot sharp, hot pains along his leg as he rolled to his side, but the rush of adrenaline, so familiar from those old battles, was stronger. He climbed to his feet and ducked behind a tree, to the surprised shout of the villain and the scrabbling sounds of reloading. Whoever the thief was, he was obviously not terribly well prepared. There also seemed to be no accomplice, only the one man.
Damnably, Jack’s own pistol was in the saddlebag of the fleeing horse. But he did have his dagger tucked into his boot. He drew the blade and waited. Waited for the man to come to him, so he could cut him to ribbons for daring to delay Jack’s arrival on his wife’s doorstep.
He did not have long to wait. He heard a footstep near his hiding place and with a great shout came out swinging his dagger.
The highwayman cursed and backed away, bringing his pistol up to fire. There was only a faint clicking noise, and the thief, his face covered with a kerchief and his body with a long black coat, gave it an astonished look.
Jack saw that instant of opportunity and attacked, lunging forward with his dagger. The thief, after that moment’s hesitation, pulled out a long dagger himself and fought back with a fierceness that surprised Jack. He had usually found men of this ilk to be cowards underneath, hunting only easy prey. He had expected him to flee at the first sight of a knife, but it only seemed to inflame the villain.
Something that sounded like “You will pay!” was shouted into the night, muffled behind the man’s kerchief. He fought like a man possessed, but that very passion was his undoing. As he lunged at Jack, his boots slipped in the mud and he fell heavily.
Jack leaned in, pressing his blade to the man’s chest. He reached down and yanked off the kerchief.
He had thought once that nothing in battle could ever surprise him again, that he had witnessed every bloody, grotesque, bizarre thing one man could do to another.
He had been wrong, for he was shocked to his very marrow now, despite the documents he had read in Thompson’s sitting room “Ashbey!”
Sir Jeremy Ashbey lay in the mud, his breathing labored, his pale eyes shining up at Jack with a malevolent light visible even in the darkness. He said nothing, just stared, but that look spoke volumes.
It spoke of a hatred so deep, so long nurtured, that it led him out on this unholy night to destroy Jack—but perhaps it was not really about Jack, or even about Emma, but about something terrible and twisted deep inside himself.
Jack felt cold, a deep cold that owed nothing to the rain, as he stood there with his dagger poised above Ashbey’s chest, and he was very disturbed. He had thought Sir Jeremy relatively harmless, though with a ridiculous obsession for Emma, someone who just bore keeping a faintly amused eye on. Not someone who could be driven to a murderous rage. And Jack had left his wife, his home!
What would he find at Weston Manor? A burned out house? A murdered wife? The glowing eyes of the man under his dagger said he was capable of all that.
“You have to pay,” Ashbey said, his voice unnaturally calm and even reasonable. “I never lose, you see. I never lose. She has belonged to me since we were children.”
Fast, so fast Jack could not even sense any warning movement of eye or muscle, Sir Jeremy drove forward with his dagger. Its blade just nicked Jack’s thigh, but Jack, pulled by the forward momentum, saw his own dagger drive deep into Ashbey’s chest.
The man gave a surprised, horrifying gurgling noise. His eyes widened, and he fell back heavily into the mud. He lay there, perfectly still.
He would never move again.
An unutterable weariness flooded through Jack’s very veins, flushing away the last vestiges of the adrenaline that had driven him. For the first time, he was aware of the pain in his leg. It buckled beneath him, and he sat down clumsily, letting go of the dagger hilt and watching it drop.
He tipped his head back to the pouring rain, but not even that cold baptism could wash away the sickness of this night.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The loud pounding at the front door startled Emma from her after-supper lassitude. She, Madame Ana and Bertie were gathered by the drawing room fire, sipping tea and chatting lazily. It was time to be thinking of retiring, not time for guests. Especially guests who were so insensitive.
The knocking continued as the three of them trailed out of the drawing room into the foyer. The butler was there already, shrugging into his black coat as he opened the door.
There were five men in the doorway, including Emma’s own coachman and groom. Between them they bore a makeshift stretcher, a blanket attached to long poles. At first confused glance, Emma just saw a tangle of mud and water and dirty cloth. Then bright blue eyes blinked open, and a voice croaked, “Emma, my love. I am home.”
She screamed and clapped her hand to her mouth as she ran to his side, falling onto her knees on the cold floor. “Jack! Jack, what happened to you? Why were you trying to get home in such weather?” She groped for his hand, clutching at it desperately in her horror at the sight of him hurt. She screamed out again when she realized that there was dried blood, deep burgundy, mixed with the mud on it.
Jack twisted his fingers with hers, even as he whispered, “I am a mess; I will ge
t your pretty dress dirty.”
“Oh, who cares about that! Tell me what has happened.”
“We found him on the road, my lady. We knew when his horse came back to the inn without him that he was in trouble. And, begging your pardon, my lady,” the coachman interrupted, “but should we carry his lordship to the library and put him down there? It can’t be good to jostle him about so.”
“Of course, of course! Just put him on the settee there, and build up the fire in the grate.” Emma moved out of their way as they carried Jack away, and then she turned to Madame Ana and Bertie. Her mind was whirling, a jumble, a mess, but one thought did come through clearly enough. “We should send for the physician.”
“I will go,” Bertie said, already striding away, calling for his coat and a horse.
“And I will fetch hot water and towels, so we can get Lord St. Albans cleaned up,” said Madame Ana, still efficient despite the sudden white pallor of her cheeks. She dashed off in the direction of the kitchen.
“You may also want to consider fetching the magistrate, my lady,” the butler suggested quietly.
Emma, who had turned to follow the men into the library, turned back. “The magistrate?”
“I fear so, my lady. That wound on his lordship’s leg was not from anything natural. It was a stab wound.”
A stab wound? Emma whirled about and ran into the library. The men had put Jack down on the leather settee by the fireplace before silently filing out again. His eyes were closed, his face tight with pain, white under the dirt. Emma grabbed the decanter of brandy and a glass from the desk and knelt down beside him. She looked at his leg; the cloth of his trousers was torn over his left thigh in a jagged rent, crusted with blood.
She shivered and tore her gaze away from the ugly wound. “Jack?” she said gently, brushing the matted hair back from his brow. “Can you hear me?”
His eyes did not open, but he nodded. “I can hear you. Your voice sounds like angels’ wings.”
Emma choked on a laugh. “You must be in pain, to be hallucinating so! Can you drink some brandy?”
He nodded, and she poured a generous measure into the glass and held it to his lips. He drank of it deeply, taking it from her hand into his own muddy fingers.
“Better?” she asked, dampening her handkerchief with more brandy.
“Always better, when I am with you.”
“Good. Then perhaps this will not hurt so very much.” She pressed the cloth to his leg, wincing when he gasped. To distract him from the sting, she said, “The physician will be here very soon, and Madame Ana is bringing some water. Jack, dearest, what happened to you? How were you wounded? Was it some sort of—accident?”
He gripped at her hand and was silent for a long while, so long she began to think he had fallen asleep again. But finally he nodded again and said, “I fear I was wounded quite deliberately. I was foolish; I should have waited out the storm at the inn, but I was eager to be home. I hadn’t gone far when I was ambushed by a highwayman.”
Emma gasped in shock. “A highwayman! Jack, how can that be?”
“Ah, my dear, it was not just any highwayman. It was Jeremy Ashbey.”
At first, Emma thought she must not have heard him correctly, that the terrible shock of the night had made him delusional. “Jeremy Ashbey?”
Jack opened his eyes and stared up at her with great sadness and understanding. “I fear so, my dear. I knew he was unpredictable, not one to be trusted. That was why I left Bertie with you. I never should have left you. I should have realized…”
“No!” Emma cried out, clutching at his hand. She pressed it to her lips, feeling the reassuring warmth, the life in it. “No, it was my fault. I was unkind to him at the picnic. But I never could have imagined he would do something so insane!” She paused, tightening her fingers on his as a new realization occurred to her. It must have been Ashbey who destroyed the vase in the foyer the day of the picnic.
“Insane is exactly the right word.” Jack’s voice was growing fainter, his grip on her hand loosening weakly. “And that is why we, neither of us, should blame ourselves for what happened this night.”
“But what if…”
“No, Emma. Listen to me. I am getting very tired, and soon we will be inundated with doctors and servants. I have to tell you something. I rode here tonight just to say it.”
Emma leaned closer to him, puzzled. “What could it possibly be, Jack darling? What could be so dire?”
He laughed weakly. “Nothing dire at all. Just this. I love you.”
Emma could say nothing. All she could do was stare at him, blinking. She glanced down at his leg, carefully covered with her brandy-soaked handkerchief, to see if he was losing any blood. It seemed clean, or at least as clean as it had been before. Perhaps it was not the loss of blood; it was the loss of his mind.
Or maybe she was losing hers, for it sounded as if he said he had ridden through the rain to say he loved her.
Loved her!
At last, what he had said truly sank into her consciousness. Her lower lip trembled, and she felt the wet prickle of tears at her eyes. She did not, could not, let go of his hand to brush them away.
“Oh, Jack,” she choked, laughing and crying all at the same time. “You beautiful, ridiculous man. I love you, too.”
He smiled faintly and raised her hand to his lips. They could say nothing more, for the door opened and Madame Ana and Natasha rushed in, their arms full of basins and towels. Truly, though, they did not need to say anything else, for those few words had spoken volumes.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Some small noise woke Emma suddenly, jerking her from her fitful sleep. She sat up slowly, gasping at the sharp crick in her neck. She rubbed at it, leaning back in her chair.
She had fallen asleep in the chair next to Jack’s bed, slumped across the edge of the mattress, and her bones and muscles hated her for it now. She could not be sorry, though. She would have sat here for a thousand nights and more to be sure he was well.
Was it Jack stirring that had woken her up? She looked down at him, but he was still, his face as smooth and relaxed as a boy’s in healing sleep. She laid the back of her hand gently against his brow. Only the tiniest bit warm, thankfully. The physician’s medicines seemed to be working.
Emma tucked the bedclothes closer about him and stood up to stretch her aching and stiff back. She went to the window and pulled the draperies back, so that Jack could see the starlight of deepest night when he awoke. It was so lovely and still, as if the earlier storm had never been at all.
The gardens were quiet and dreaming, no movement at all except the trickle of water from the overflowing fountain reflecting the moon. Emma leaned her forehead wearily on the cool glass, twisting her hand in the velvet of the drapery. How very much of her life she had spent staring out of windows, she thought. Usually pining for whatever was on the other side! Tonight, though, she wanted to be no place but exactly where she was.
With a husband who had miraculously survived tonight’s attack. A husband who loved her and had ridden, quite literally, through fire and rain to tell her so.
Emma smiled, despite her weariness. Despite the terrible events of this night and everything that might wait in the clear light of day, she was happy. A bone-deep, soft contentment that had never been hers before. She knew she would never have to disguise herself again, for she was truly home now.
And she hoped Jack felt the same. That he knew the feeling that, in each other, they had all they could have asked for.
She heard a rustle from the bed behind her. “Emma?” Jack called, an edge of panic in his voice. “Emma?”
“Here I am.” She left the window and went to perch on the edge of the mattress next to him. For a second, he looked feverish again, but his expression cleared when he saw her, and he gave her a tired smile. His arm came out and wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer to him.
“Be careful!” she admonished, leaning carefully over him. “You wi
ll hurt yourself again, and after Madame Ana was so careful in changing your bandages.”
“Don’t worry, I will not tear the bandages. I was just afraid you had left me.”
“Of course not. I just went to open the curtains so you could see the stars when you awoke. Is it not a beautiful night? The rain has ceased completely.”
“The most beautiful of nights,” he said, tightening his arm around her. “I feared for a moment, when Ashbey fired that gun at me, that I might never see the stars again. Or you. That I would never be able to say I loved you.”
Emma laid her hand tenderly against his cheek. “I had fears, too. Fears of—of so many things. But they are nothing compared to the fact that, thanks to God, you are here with me. You are safe, and we are together. I love you, too. So very much.”
“There are other things I must speak of as well. Such as the reason I went to London in the first place…”
“Shh.” She laid her finger over his lips. “Not now. You must sleep and heal. There will be time for everything tomorrow, when you are feeling better.”
He frowned and opened his mouth as if to argue. Apparently he thought better of it and nodded. Instead, he reached up to move her finger, held that hand tightly in his, and said, “Very well. I will rest, but only if you stay here beside me.”
Emma smiled at him. That sounded like something she could happily do. She stretched out beside him, carefully not jarring his bandaged leg, and laid her head on the pillow next to his. “I am beside you, Jack, my love. Always.”
“Always,” he answered, and it sounded like the deepest vow ever made.
And, together, their hands entwined, they slept, as the stars smiled down on them.
SIGNET REGENCY ROMANCE COMING IN OCTOBER 2003
Regency Christmas Wishes by Edith Layton, Emma Jensen, Sandra Heath, Barbara Metzger and Carla Kelly
Celebrate the joy, warmth, and magic of Christmas in Regency England with this all-new collection of stories from five award-winning and bestselling authors.
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