Something Wonderful
Page 46
His body coiled like a tight spring, Jordan tossed his gun down and slowly came to his feet, but Alexandra suddenly sidled up against him as if she mistakenly believed there was safety there. “Move away!” he snapped under his breath, but she clasped his hand in an outward display of terror and simultaneously pressed a pistol into his palm.
“You’ll have to kill me, too, Bertie,” Tony said softly, standing up and starting forward.
“I suppose so,” his brother agreed without hesitation. “I intended to eventually, anyway.”
“Bertie!” his mother cried. “No! That’s not what we planned—”
Alexandra’s gaze riveted on the man on the floor; she saw him slide his arm toward Tony’s coat and, behind him, another man stepping into the doorway, slowly raising a gun. “Jordan!” she screamed, and because there was no other way to protect him from three assailants, Alexandra threw herself in front of him at the exact moment two guns discharged.
Jordan’s arms automatically clasped her to him as Bertie Townsende collapsed, shot by Fawkes from the doorway, and the bandit on the floor rolled over, clutching the wound in his arm inflicted by Jordan’s gun. It happened so fast that it took a moment before Jordan realized that Alexandra was suddenly very heavy, a dead weight sliding down his body. Tightening his arms, he tipped his chin, intending to tease her about fainting after everything was over, but what he saw struck stark terror in his heart: Her head had fallen back, lolling limply on her shoulders, and blood was streaming from a wound at her temple. “Get a doctor!” he shouted at Tony, and lowered her to the floor.
His heart hammering with fear, he knelt beside her, ripped off his shirt, and tore it into strips, binding the ugly wound in her head. Before he’d half finished, blood had already soaked and spread around and through the white linen, and her color was rapidly turning an ashen grey.
“Oh my God!” he whispered. “Oh my God!” He had seen men die in battle countless times; he knew the signs of a hopelessly fatal wound, and even while his mind was recognizing that she would not live, Jordan was snatching her into his arms. Cradling her against his chest, he ran down the path, his heart hammering in frantic rhythm with the refrain pounding in his heart: Don’t die . . . don’t die . . . Don’t die . . .
His chest heaving with exertion, Jordan burst into the clearing, carrying his limp, beloved burden. Oblivious to the stricken faces of the cottagers, who stood in quiet, watchful groups, Jordan laid her gently in the carriage Tony had evidently told someone to pull up at the edge of the woods.
An old woman, a midwife, took one look at the bloody bandage around Alexandra’s head and the deathly pallor of her skin and, as Jordan raced around to climb into the seat, she quickly felt for Alexandra’s pluse. When she turned back to the cottagers gathered around the carriage, she sadly shook her head.
The women whom Alexandra had helped and befriended a year ago gazed lovingly at her still form in the carriage and, as Jordan drove off, the soft sounds of weeping began to fill the clearing. Only ten minutes before, it had rung with the gaiety she had brought to them.
Chapter Thirty-One
THE DEFEATED EXPRESSION on Dr. Danvers’ face as he stepped into the hall outside Alexandra’s bedchamber and closed the door made agony scream through Jordan’s brain.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly to the distraught group waiting in the hall. “There was nothing I could do to save her. When I got here, she was already beyond hope and beyond reach.”
The dowager pressed her handkerchief to her lips and turned into Tony’s arms, weeping while Melanie sought her husband’s embrace. John Camden’s hand came to rest consolingly on Jordan’s shoulder, then he took his sobbing wife downstairs to join Roddy Carstairs.
Turning to Jordan, Dr. Danvers continued, “You can go in now and say your goodbyes, but she won’t hear you. She’s in a deep coma. In a few minutes—a few hours, at most— she’ll slip away quietly.” At the expression of raw anguish on the duke’s face, Dr. Danvers added gently, “She’ll feel no pain, Jordan, I promise you.”
A muscle worked spasmodically in Jordan’s throat as, with a look of wordless, impotent rage directed at the innocent physician, he walked swiftly into Alexandra’s bedchamber.
Candles burned beside her canopied bed, and she lay as still and white as death upon the satin pillows, her breathing so shallow it was almost imperceptible.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Jordan sat in the chair beside her bed and gazed down upon her beloved face, wanting to memorize every line of it. She had such smooth skin, he thought achingly, and such incredibly long eyelashes—they lay like lush, dark fans against her cheeks. . . . She wasn’t breathing!
“No, don’t die!” he cried hoarsely as he grabbed her limp hand, frantically feeling for a pulse. “Don’t die!” He found a pulse—thready and faint but still there—and suddenly he couldn’t stop talking to her. “Don’t leave me, Alex,” he pleaded, holding her tightly. “God, don’t leave me! There are a thousand things I want to tell you, places I want to show you. But I can’t if you go away. Alex, please, darling . . . please don’t go away.
“Listen to me,” Jordan begged urgently, somehow convinced that she would stay alive if she understood how much she meant to him. “Listen to what my life was like before you hurtled into it wearing that suit of armor— Life was empty. Colorless. And then you happened to me, and suddenly I felt feelings I never believed existed, and I saw things I’d never seen before. You don’t believe that, do you, darling? But it’s true, and I can prove it.” His deep voice ragged with unshed tears, Jordan recited his proof: “The flowers in the meadow are blue,” he told her brokenly. “The ones by the stream are white. And on the arch, by the arbor, the roses are red.”
Lifting her hand to his face, he rubbed his cheek against it. “And that’s not all I noticed. I noticed that the clearing by the pavilion—the one where my plaque is—looks like the very same one where we had our duel a year ago. Oh, and darling, there’s something else I have to tell you: I love you, Alexandra.”
Tears choked his voice and made it a tormented whisper. “I love you, and if you die I’ll never be able to tell you that.”
Driven by anger and desperation, Jordan clutched her hand tighter and abruptly switched from pleas to stern threats. “Alexandra, don’t you dare leave me! If you do, I’ll toss Penrose out on his deaf ear! I swear I will. And without a reference. Right on his ear, do you hear me? And then I’ll kick Filbert out right behind him. I’ll make Elizabeth Grangerfield my mistress again. She’d love to fill your shoes as the Duchess of Hawthorne . . .”
The minutes became an hour, and then another, and still Jordan kept on talking, switching mindlessly from pleas to threats and then, as hope finally began to die within him, to cajolery: “Think of my immortal soul, sweetheart. It’s black and, without you here to make me mend my ways, I’ll undoubtedly slip back into my old habits.”
He waited, listening, watching, her lifeless hand gripped in his as he tried to infuse his own strength into her, and then, suddenly, the determination and hope that had driven him to talk ceaselessly to her crumbled. Despair wrapped around his heart, suffocating him, and tears stung his eyes. Gathering her limp body into his arms, Jordan laid his cheek against hers, his massive shoulders racked with sobs. “Oh, Alex,” he wept, rocking her in his arms like a baby, “how will I go on living without you? Take me with you,” he whispered. “I want to go with you . . .” And then he felt something—a whispered word against his cheek.
Jordan’s breath stopped and he jerked his head back, his eyes frantically searching her face as he gently lowered her against the pillows. “Alex?” he implored achingly, bending over her, and just when he thought he’d imagined the faint flutter of her eyelids, her pale lips parted, trying to form a word.
“Tell me, darling,” he said desperately, leaning close to her. “Say something, please, sweetheart.”
Alexandra swallowed, and when she spoke, her words were so faint
they were nearly inaudible. “What, darling?” he pleaded urgently, not certain what she was saying.
Again she whispered, and this time Jordan’s eyes widened as he finally understood. He stared at her hands held tightly in his and then his shoulders shook as he began to laugh. It started as a low rumble in his chest, then exploded in great, gusty shouts of laughter that rang out along the balcony and brought the dowager, the doctor, and Tony running into the room in the obvious misapprehension that Jordan’s grief had destroyed his mind.
“Tony,” Jordan said with a wobbly grin, holding Alexandra’s hand in his and beaming at her. “Alexandra thinks,” he said, his shoulders beginning to rock with laughter again, “that Elizabeth Grangerfield has big feet.”
* * *
Alexandra turned her head on the pillows as Jordan walked through the doorway that joined her suite with his: It had been two days since she’d been injured, two days and nights of drifting in and out of wakefulness. Each time she had awakened, he was sitting beside her bed, keeping a silent vigil, his fear for her etched deeply into his drawn features.
Now that she was fully conscious, she would have liked to hear him talk to her in that same tender tone he’d used these past two days, or to look at her with love burning in his eyes. Unfortunately, however, Jordan’s features were perfectly composed and completely unreadable this morning—so much that Alexandra wondered if she’d only dreamed the tender, tormenting sweetness of his words to her when he believed she was dying.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his deep voice conveying only polite concern as he came to stand beside her bed.
“Very well, thank you,” she returned with equal courtesy. “A little tired, that’s all.”
“I imagine you have some questions you’d like answered —about what happened two days ago.”
What Alexandra wanted was for him to put his arms around her and tell her that he loved her. “Yes, of course,” she replied, wary of his unfathomable mood.
“To be brief, a year and a half ago, Bertie caught one of their kitchen servants—a local peasant named Jean— stealing money from his purse. She admitted that she intended to give it to her brothers, who were waiting for her in the woods directly behind their house. Bertie and his mother had already hatched a scheme to have me killed, but until then neither of them had any idea where to find someone to do it. Rather than prosecute the maid for stealing the money, Bertie made her sign a confession, admitting to the theft. He paid her brothers to get rid of me the night I met you, and he kept the maid’s confession to ensure her silence and her brothers’ cooperation.
“You ruined their plans by riding to my rescue in that suit of armor, but one of the brothers—the one I shot— managed to crawl to his horse and escape while I took you to the inn.
“Bertie tried again four days after we were married, but this time the two men he hired took his money, and instead of killing me, they doubled their take by handing me over to the press gang. As my aunt pointed out,” Jordan added sardonically, “it’s difficult to hire good people when one hasn’t much money.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and then continued: “When I ‘came back from the dead’ a week ago, Bertie reminded the maid that he still had her incriminating confession and he used it to blackmail her brother into trying to kill me again. That time he shot at me in Brook Street—the same night you slept in the governess’ room.”
Alexandra gazed at him in astonishment. “You never told me that someone shot at you that night.”
“I saw no reason to alarm you,” Jordan said, then shook his head and gruffly added, “That’s not the complete truth. I also had it in the back of my mind that you might have been the one who fired that pistol. From the standpoint of size, the gunman could have been you. And you had told me that very day that you’d do anything necessary to get out of our marriage.”
Biting her lip, Alexandra turned her face away from him, but not before Jordan saw the pain and accusation in her eyes. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and went on: “Three days ago, a footman named Nordstrom died from drinking the port that was in the decanter at our picnic—the same port you repeatedly tried to make me drink.”
Her gaze flew to his face, and he continued in a voice of harsh self-accusation, “Fawkes is not an assistant bailiff, he’s an investigator whose men have been stationed all over Hawthorne since we came here. He investigated the incident with the port, and it looked as if you were the only one who could possibly have poisoned it.”
“Me?” she cried softly. “How could you think such a thing!”
“Falkes’ witness was a scullery maid who’s worked here off and on when we need her for the last year and a half. Her name,” Jordan finished, “is Jean. She poisoned the port, again at Bertie’s instructions. I think you already know everything else that has happened since then.”
Alexandra swallowed painfully. “In your mind, you accused and convicted me of trying to murder you, based on evidence as flimsy as that? Because I’m the same approximate height as someone who shot at you in Brook Street, and because a scullery maid said I must have been the one who poisoned your wine?”
Inwardly, Jordan flinched at her words. “I did it based on those things and on the fact that Olsen, who is one of Falkes’ men, followed you to Tony’s house on two separate occasions. I knew you were meeting with him in secret, and that—combined with everything else—made the evidence against you seem very damning.”
“I understand,” she said bleakly.
But she didn’t understand at all, and Jordan knew it. Or perhaps she understood too well, he thought grimly. No doubt she clearly understood that he had failed in his promise to trust her and that he had repeatedly rejected the love she offered. She also understood, he knew bitterly, that she had risked her life twice for his sake and in return he had rewarded her with callousness and mistrust.
Jordan gazed down at her beautiful pale face, knowing perfectly well that he deserved her hatred and contempt. Now that she was fully conscious of the true depth of his heartlessness and stupidity, he waited, half expecting her to banish him from her life.
When she didn’t, he felt obliged to say the things she should be saying to him. “I realize my behavior to you has been unforgivable,” he began tightly, and the sound of his voice filled Alex with dread. “Naturally, I don’t expect you to want to remain married to me. As soon as you’re well enough to leave here, I’ll give you a bank draft for a half million pounds. If you ever need more . . .”
He stopped and cleared his throat as if it was clogged. “If you ever need more,” he began again, his voice rough with emotion, “you have only to tell me. Anything I have will always be yours.”
Alexandra listened to that speech with a mixture of tenderness, anger, and disbelief. She was about to reply when he cleared his throat again and added, “There’s something else I want to tell you. . . . Before we left London, Filbert told me how you felt when you thought I was dead, and how you reacted when you came to London and had all your illusions shattered. Most of what you heard about me was true. However, I would like you to know that I did not sleep with Elise Grandeaux the night I saw her in London.”
Pausing, Jordan gazed down at her, unconsciously memorizing every line of her face so that he would have it before him in the empty years that lay ahead of him. In silence, he looked at her, knowing she represented every hope and every dream he cherished in his heart. Alexandra was goodness and gentleness and trust. And love. She was flowers blooming on the hillsides and laughter floating through the halls.
Forcing himself to finish what he had come to say and then get out of her life, he drew a long breath and said unsteadily, “Filbert also told me about your father and what happened after he died. I can’t wipe away the hurt he caused you, but I wanted to give you this . . .”
Jordan held out his hand and Alexandra saw within it a long, flat velvet case. She took it from him and with trembling fingers unfastened the latch.
The diamond was cut in the shape of a tear.
Biting her lip to stop her chin from quivering, Alexandra raised her eyes to his. “I think,” she whispered, trying to smile, “I shall wear the ruby on Queen’s Race day, so that when I tie my ribbon on your sleeve—”
With a groan, Jordan pulled her into his arms.
“Now that you’ve said all those other things,” she whispered when he finally lifted his lips from hers several minutes later, “do you think you could possibly say ‘I love you’? I’ve been waiting to hear that since you began and—”
“I love you,” he said fiercely. “I love you,” he whispered softly, burying his face in her hair. “I love you,” he groaned, kissing her lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you . . .”
Epilogue
WITH HIS BABY SON cradled in his arms, Jordan stared in fascination at the tiny face looking back at him. Not certain what to say, and absolutely unwilling to give up the pleasure of holding his baby, he decided to give some parental advice.
“Someday, little son, you will choose a wife, and it’s important to know how that sort of thing should be done, so I will tell you a story: