Without a second thought, Penelope flung herself at Clive, and they toppled down the narrow stairwell.
Penelope landed sandwiched between the dog and Clive. She pulled the broach from her pocket and stabbed him in the neck.
Clive howled and rolled away.
Penelope scrambled after him. Ferris’s tutelage pounded through her brain. “If you are going to do damage, use the element of surprise. You have two chances to land a blow. The first is the surprise, the second is the shock of the surprise. Go for the balls or the face.” She went for his face.
Clive screamed again and grabbed her hand. The broach sank into his palm.
Penelope crab crawled away, then tried to stand and tripped over her skirts.
Clive pulled the broach from his hand and threw it across the room. “You bloody whore!” He surged to his feet, yanked her hair, and dragged her down the hall to the front the foyer.
She screamed and kicked, but her blows landed in vain.
Clive let go of her hair and cuffed her several times, one hard blow after another.
“I’m going to teach you to heel if it kills you, you bitch.”
“That is enough!” Leona stood on the bottom step of the front staircase, holding another pistol in both hands. They still shook, but this time, her voice commanded attention. “Let her go. You are a pestilence. I should have smothered you as a babe. You are your devil father’s spawn.”
“Do it then, mother. Shoot me.”
Her arms wavered.
“You can’t do it. You’re too weak.”
Leona raised the gun and cocked the hammer.
* * *
Edward stepped onto the front portico with his pistol at the ready and pressed his back on the wall next to the door and checked the latch. It was unlocked. Mabrey mirrored his stance on the other side.
He nodded to his comrade in arms. “You shoot the dog. I’ll shoot Clive.”
On Mabrey’s answering nod, Edward swung the door wide with a crash and stepped over the threshold, pistol aimed before him. In less than a second, he scanned the foyer. Clive held Penelope to his chest and another woman, Leona De Chevalier, he assumed, had her pistol trained on Clive.
Penelope’s gaze met his. Fierce and welcoming with a hint of annoyance at his tardiness. “Hello, Boots.”
“Shoot HIM.” Penelope’s sharp order relaxed the muscles threatening to squeeze his chest. His Penelope was no helpless miss.
Clive tightened his grip around her neck, and she clawed at his arm.
“Shoot me, and we’ll both be dead before we hit the ground.”
Mabrey lowered his pistol. “Let her go De Chevalier, and we will let you live.”
Edward studied his intended. The bruises, her split lip, the swollen eye. The handprint across her cheek. Cold settled into his chest like a hard frost. He mocked a frozen smile. “Whitehall wouldn’t be too happy if I let a smuggler and a slave trader go free.”
“Boys. Worthless boys. Their parents sold them to me. Will you turn them into Whitehall too? Ferris purchased at least a dozen.” Spittle foamed at the corners of Clive’s mouth.
Edward settled his gaze on Penelope then slid back to Clive. “Ferris purchased them to keep them out of your nefarious hands. Unlike you, his intentions ARE noble.”
Penelope’s pupils dilated.
“Ferris has already informed Whitehall, and Alice La Pierre is singing. Albeit, off-key.”
“You lie. Ferris is dead, and Alice is in France. She sent me a message not an hour ago.”
Edward lowered his weapon and cocked his head. “How did the message go Mabrey?”
Mabrey rocked on his heels. “Let me see, I believe it went something along the lines of, ‘I must speak to you. I am at the Prancing Ponies. You may now address me as Your Grace, the newly installed Duchess of St. James.’”
The whites of Clive’s eyes expanded with disbelief then fury. His cheeks mottled. He licked his lips as if to taste the truth and then twisted his mouth into a grotesque smile. Victory in death. “You lie.” He tightened his arm around Penelope’s neck without dropping Edward’s gaze.
She flailed, ripping at his sleeves.
Blotches of red appeared across her face. Tiny red prickles spreading and joining and blossoming into bright red spots.
Edward’s heart stopped.
Sound retreated as if pushing itself into all the nooks and crannies to hide and muffle its sense. The edges of his vision blurred, sharpening his focus on the subtle nuances of the scene before him not immediately visible. Clive’s bleeding hand, his irregular stance, as if he were off balance. His disheveled wig. The stink of panic.
Brutus’s whimper in the shadows.
The ball of rage in Edward’s gut tightened like an over-wound coil ready to hurl lethal violence.
Penelope went limp.
He released the dragon. Channeled it in the fluid lift of his arm, his aim, the firm pull of the trigger, directing death with unerring accuracy. The motion so slow, his brain processed the flash of the flintlock, the acrid smoke spiraling upward, the bullet whizzing from its chamber obliterating its intended target.
Two more shots fired.
He leaped a split second after the explosion and pulled his intended into his arms. Her deathly stillness pressing them to the floor.
“Penelope.” He felt for her pulse, and his heart pounded back to life with the faint beat beneath his fingers.
Around him, a wail rose, high and keening.
Mabrey rushed to Leona’s slumped figure at the bottom stair and pried the still-smoking pistol from her hand.
Brutus lay in a dead heap at his master’s feet.
Chapter 26
Penelope woke to a slight rocking and snuggled under the down-filled covers. The bed shifted, and she rolled toward the low spot. Arms settled around her and whiskers brushed her jaw.
“Are you finally awake my love?”
Penelope opened her eyes.
Blue irises stared at her, concern warring with amusement. “I was beginning to think you might sleep your way across the channel.”
She stretched and groaned, her muscles protesting. “Where are we?”
“Safely aboard Mabrey’s friend, John Luke’s ship.”
“How did I get here?”
Edward’s lips trailed her temple. “Father Buford aided in our escape. We left Le Havre a few hours ago. Mabrey stayed behind to help Leona.”
Penelope pushed away. “Le Havre? But how did we get to Le Havre?” She was missing something. Something important. Good gracious, she was missing her clothes. She pulled the covers to her chin.
With a smirk, Edward tossed aside the bedding and grabbed his pants. “It’s too late for modesty now, my sweet.”
“What did you do with my clothes?”
“I removed them. White doesn’t suit you.”
She didn’t disagree. White symbolized marriage and marriage symbolized the death of freedom. An involuntary shiver ran a rampant path down her spine. She had come too close to losing hers. She grabbed the shirt, tossed carelessly across a chair, and tugged it over her head. The fine linen would have to do as a mantle of bravado in lieu of buckskin and billiards.
Edward handed her a glass. “Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Not the finest French brandy. John Luke grudgingly gave up his cabin for the night but refused to relinquish his prized stock. Does your eye still hurt?”
Penelope set the glass aside. She’d learned long ago not to drink spirits on an empty stomach. She touched her socket with ginger fingers. It was no longer puffy, but it was still a bit tender. “It’s fine. I must look like Ferris after—” She still hadn’t come to terms with losing her brother. She turned away and swallowed a lump of guilt.
“Thank goodness you don’t have matching noses. The last time I saw Ferris, his eyes were bulging like a fish at the market, and his nose had a very distinctive crook. When he ran off to find Frances, I was half afra
id she wouldn’t recognize him.”
Was he such a cad that he’d speak so unkindly about her dead brother? No. Edward was a cad, but it wasn’t in his nature to be cruel. Her cheeks felt hot and tight. She refused to cry. She glanced around the cabin taking in the narrow bunk. The chairs, the table against the wall, the built-in cupboards. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She was missing something big.
Edward crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. “Ferris is alive. Reggie pulled him from the ocean. Ferris went after Frances a few days after you were kidnapped. Frances ran off with Archibald Granger, and he went after them to stop her from making a horrible mistake.”
Penelope listened as if Edward were speaking in tongues. She heard what he said, but understanding was slow to formulate a coherent thought. “Ferris is alive?”
Edward kissed her. “It takes more than an icy dip in a frozen sea to kill a St. James.”
“He’s alive.” She breathed in the words filling her lungs for the first time. “He’s alive.”
Edward kissed her again. “For the time being. I’ve died a thousand times over since you were kidnapped. If Ferris has even the smallest of feelings for Frances…”
She snorted. “Frances? Never. Ferris would have told me. The very idea is ludicrous.”
“You are the last person Ferris would have told.”
“Not true. We tell each other everything.”
“You are his sister.” He smoothed her hair as if she were an amusing pet.
Penelope lowered her lashes until Edward was no more than a tiny slit. “Your meaning?”
“Men don’t pour their hearts out to just anyone—and especially not their sisters.”
“St. James men don’t have hearts, but even if we did—”
Edward planted a quick kiss on her nose. “You are not a man.”
His amused condescension had her grinding her teeth. Was it necessary to point out her worst flaw? “I’m still a St. James.”
Edward released her. “Not for long.” The sharp line of his shoulders amplified the clipped tone of his rebuke.
She shivered at the sudden loss of his warmth and something else she couldn’t quite grasp. Her whole insides sliding to her toes in a dejected muddle didn’t sit well.
“I ordered a hip bath for you. It’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”
Images of her last bath with Edward danced in her vision, and she picked up the whiskey and downed the amber liquid in a single swallow. “May I have another?”
Edward smiled at the glass as if he knew what she was thinking. “No. I want you sober for the ceremony.”
Penelope’s stomach clenched and her gaze collided with his like a falcon snagging an unsuspecting hare off the ground for a tasty meal. “What ceremony?”
“We will be wed before we make land.”
Comprehension landed her on her feet, and she raced to the door. Not if she could help it.
An arm encircled her waist, and she screeched.
“Oh no, you don’t, my love. No more running. No more chasing. No more avoiding the inevitable.”
“I won’t—”
Edward sealed her lips with a hot, heady kiss. A kiss that left her breathless and limp and dizzy.
“You will. Just as soon as—”
The bang of a fist against the door was the only warning before a large man filled the threshold. “I do hope I’m interrupting you, Your Grace.”
The wicked smile, accompanied by a lascivious wink tossed at Penelope labeled his intent as just that. He carried two steaming buckets of water and another man followed with a large tray of food.
The smell of fresh bread and steaming stew made her mouth water.
“You are a master of the art of ill-timing John Luke.”
Penelope tried to step away, but Edward held on and ignored the pinch to his side. Mostly. His glance promised retribution.
“Is everything ready?”
“We only lack the bride and groom.”
“Give us a minute.”
John Luke set the buckets down with a smirk. “Any longer and I’ll marry her.”
Penelope’s face flamed, and she shied behind Edward acutely aware that she was half-naked.
The door clicked shut, and Edward turned. “Where were we?”
She hopped out of reach and hightailed it to the only sanctuary within the room—the bed.
Edward followed as if stalking his prey. “Shy Pen? This is new.”
Penelope watched him, panic rising with each step closer. He released his falls and let his pants slide to the floor. Muscles rippled with every movement. Penelope couldn’t catch her breath. “I…”
He pressed her down with a kiss. “Marry me, Penelope. Be my wife.”
“I…”
He kissed her again, this time longer. Deeper. With so much reverence, she felt the quake of his heart. The quake that matched hers. The quake that frightened her more than losing her freedom. She pushed away. “I can’t.”
* * *
Edward leaned back in bed and looked at her. “You can’t?” His heart ricocheted against his ribs, and he let his temper unfold. “You can’t or you won’t.”
She stared at him as if steeling herself for a blow. As if… He reeled against the bulkhead and studied her hollowed cheeks pale beneath the fading bruises. Dear God. He was no better than Clive.
He scrubbed his face with his hands and raked the back of his neck, willing his imploding chest to take another breath. “Did Clive—” His throat constricted. He closed his eyes, denying the burn and then met her gaze. “Did he?”
Penelope lowered her eyelids as if ashamed, and he wanted to kick himself.
He waited for her to look at him. When she did, he saw her withdraw. Saw the cloak of indifference glide over her features with the flutter of regret before she closed the door to her heart.
“No.” He pulled her against him. He wouldn’t let that door slam shut. “Don’t. Don’t pull away. I don’t care. I still love you.”
“No.”
“Yes, I love you.”
“He didn’t touch me.”
The words were spoken so soft, he almost didn’t hear them.
He kissed her temple and brushed her lips. “I don’t care.”
Penelope leaned away. “I do.”
He stopped, confused, and stared at her. Stared into misty green depths shiny with agony.
She reached up and cupped his cheek. “I care, Edward. I care enough about you that I can’t marry you.”
“Why?”
She withdrew her hand. “Because I’m a bastard. I can’t marry you because if I do, there will be talk and you said so yourself, you won’t have your name sullied.”
“You’re not a bastard. I already know about the circumstances surrounding your birth. But no one can deny the obvious. Even my mother. From your green eyes to your red hair, to your supreme arrogance. You are one of the most pedigreed thoroughbreds of the ton, and it is a perfect match.”
“It’s not the truth that matters, it’s the innuendos, the whispers behind the fans, the wagging tongues of the matrons. My mother was ostracized because of me, and I don’t want to have anything to do with society or the Ton.”
“So, you would remain hidden in some outcropping along the Cornish coast content to be alone. Content to live out your life in self-enforced solitude? With only an ornery beast for companionship? No. I won’t allow it. I’m a jealous man, and I refuse to have a horse as a rival for your favors.”
“You won’t allow it?” Penelope sputtered.
The indignation sparking from her green eyes, a welcome change from the battered sadness.
“No, I won’t allow it, Lord Westfield. You are the most conceited, arrogant, pompous ass—”
He kissed her, then tossed her onto her back and kissed her again. “Are we back to formalities, Boots?”
Penelope wrapped her arms around his neck. “That depends. Are you going to insist on pressing your
ducal will to get your way?”
He settled against her. “Do you want me to?”
“I think I should have the right to try out a few stallions before making my final decision. Aunt Augustina kept journals of all of her lovers.”
“Forget it, Boots. I’m going to marry you just so I can burn them.”
“What about my freedom?”
“Does it mean that much to you?”
“I want to be able to make my own decisions. I want to have a say in our lives. I want an equal partnership.”
Edward frowned. “All I want is you, Penelope. If that’s what it takes to make you my wife, then the answer is yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Now get up.” Edward rolled away.
“But?”
“Not yet, Penelope. I want you as my wife first.” He rummaged through a chest at the foot of the bed and tossed her a deep red velvet robe. “This will do.”
She caught it and wrapped it around her cinching the sash. “For what?”
Edward dragged on his britches and another shirt, then grabbed her hand and propelled her to the deck.
John Luke stood at the stern holding a bible and grinning from ear to golden-hooped ear.
“Are we ready?”
“Yes, I want the abridged version.” Edward gruffed.
The smuggler captain rolled on his heels and looked to the sky. “They always do. Miss St. James?”
“She’s ready.” Edward held her close. He wasn’t about to let her make a hasty retreat over the side of the ship.
Several sailors gathered to witness the ceremony. Subdued and serious. Almost solemn for the occasion.
When he slid the ducal ring onto Penelope’s finger, he was swamped with a sense of relief. She was his. Truly and forever.
Chapter 27
Penelope stared at the heavy signet ring and curled her toes into the deck to keep the sway that didn’t have anything to do with the ship at bay. Her too-large velvet robe pooled around her feet and made her feel small, insignificant. The sun kissed the horizon, the wind plucked at her hair, and the salty air pungent with the scent of the sea was dulled only by the noise of the gulls crying out overhead, like sirens beaconing ancient sailors of old to their doom.
Penelope’s Pleasure (A Gentleman’s Guide To Understanding Women Book 1) Page 24