“All right men, let’s move.”
Kate
Dawn was peeking through the window of the parlor when Kate came fully awake. A fitful night’s sleep in between cries for help and unsuccessful escape plans had left her exhausted. It was on the second yell for help that Mr. Evans had come in the room and slapped her hard across the face. She could still taste blood on the cut near her mouth.
His menacing eyes took her back to the moment in the woods that she had seen his oldest brother Charles for the first time, and it terrified her. She should have noticed the resemblance earlier. As for Peter, she was ashamed for ever thinking him as evil as either of his brothers. It was obvious now that he regretted the way he used to follow his older brother’s ways, and even clearer that Martin had never forgiven either of them for it. The innocent boy she had saved that day long ago was gone, replaced by a soul so full of anger and resentment that he was heavy and dark, unable to move on.
The fresh light of morning brought a clearer picture of the room she was in. The sofa was battered and old, the carpet threadbare. Through the thin drapes, she could see a sign for the inn across the street: The One-Eyed Sailor.
Kate searched the room until her gaze stopped at the cold fireplace. There beside the mantel sat a poker, and she kicked herself for not thinking of checking for one the night before. In her defense, of course, there had been no way to know if the room even held a fireplace, for the thin tallow candles had hardly lit the corner of the room they’d sat in.
Swinging her legs over the side of the sofa, she gave herself a minute for her head to stop spinning and then fell, as gently as she could, onto the floor. The soft thud was louder than she had anticipated, and she closed her eyes and counted to twenty, waiting to hear movement in the next room. When all remained quiet, she scooted herself to lie in the proper direction. She felt a bit ridiculous, but the only way to get from where she was to the mantel would be to roll, so roll she did.
Boots sounded on the stairs, and she heard another door swing open so loudly it hit a wall. She began rolling quicker when footsteps sounded in the room beside hers; the noise had awoken Mr. Evans. Anxiety raced through her blood and she nearly made it to the mantel when another door banged open and hit its wall. Someone was getting closer.
She panicked, getting off course before righting herself and rolling again when her own door flung open and Mr. Evans ran into the room. In his shirtsleeves and trousers, he looked disheveled, unprepared. His gaze searched the room before locating her and he closed the door behind himself, sliding the lock into place.
Dread gripped her, and Kate shrunk back. Mr. Evans’s steel eyes were hard and unyielding. He looked crazed, calculating, and she feared for her safety.
“I don’t know how he did it,” he said, shaking his head. “Somehow, the idiot found us.”
Found us? Hope broke through her fear. If Peter was here, she wanted him to know exactly where she was. Kate drew in a breath to scream. Mr. Evans seemed to sense what her intentions were and lunged for her when a pounding on the door startled him and he jumped back.
“Peter!” she screamed.
The door pounded again, and Mr. Evans looked from it to Kate, his mind working through the dilemma if the scheming expression he wore was any clue.
The door banged again, as though someone was doing their best to force it open, and Mr. Evans flinched. He crouched, sliding his hands under her and lifting her, despite her wiggling to get away.
“A weapon,” he said under his breath, glancing about the room. Dropping Kate on the sofa, he patted down his shirt, and Kate was glad he seemed not to notice the poker near the hearth.
The door slammed open and Marsh stepped inside, Peter on his heels. Peter swept the room, his gaze flicking to Kate before landing on Martin, and hardening. She’d never seen such anger pulsing through him before, and the raw energy he exuded was alarming and comforting, all in the same breath.
He crossed the floor in three large steps, reared back his fist, and delivered a swift uppercut to his brother’s jaw. Martin flew to the floor, lying in a heap.
“Marsh!” Peter bellowed, his chest heaving, causing Kate to wince at the volume. He flicked his head toward his prone brother and Lord Marshall moved into action.
Kate lay her head back as relief poured through her veins, her body relaxing into the sofa cushions. She was saved.
Peter dropped to his knees beside Kate, pulling a knife from his pocket and slicing through the twine that bound her hands and feet. She gasped at the pain from the blood rushing back into her feet, and tears came to her eyes unbidden.
“Oh, dear Kate,” Peter breathed, gathering her into his arms. She didn’t miss the wince as he lifted her or the large lump on his temple. He tucked her into his shoulder and rocked her gently.
Lord Marshall lifted Mr. Evans onto his shoulder and Kate lifted her head in that direction, noting the line of blood trickling from Mr. Martin’s swollen lip. Peter softly urged her head to his shoulder, soothing her.
“Do not worry,” he said gently. “He cannot hurt you anymore.”
36
Kate
Emily was a mess by the time Kate returned to Split Tree Manor. The house party had been disbanded by the cunning Mr. Cruikshank, who had mentioned to the stable boys of Evanslea that he had heard that scarlet fever was making its way around the big house and wanted to know if there was any validity to the rumor. Before long the stable hands had spread the rumor to the housemaids, and from there it moved about the house like wildfire, the tale growing with each new person. By the time the guests were hearing it from their personal servants, they were told that Miss Smithson was on death’s doorstep with scarlet fever and they best be leaving soon if they wanted to be safe from catching the illness as well.
The Smithsons departed shortly after the rest of the guests, though Miss Smithson was feeling miraculously healed by the time they had left Evanslea not two days after Peter had gone after Kate. Emily had returned to Split Tree, growing increasingly nervous with each day her friend had remained missing. It was all Kate could do to console her well enough to learn of all that had transpired in her absence as well as fill Emily in on her own adventures.
Peter had immediately taken Kate to his London townhouse the morning that he had found her and insisted she be seen by a doctor. He had needed one as well and they had spent the day and night resting before leaving the following morning to go back to Larkfield. Peter had hired two coaches to transport them back. The first had transported Kate, the maid they had borrowed from his townhouse for propriety’s sake, Lord Aniston, and himself. The second coach had conveyed Mr. Evans, with Lord Marshall and Lord Cohen acting as guards.
Kate had been anxious sleeping in Peter’s house in London knowing that Mr. Evans was under the same roof, however irrational that was. She had seen Peter burn the special license herself and had known that Mr. Evans was locked in a room with a rotating guard posted outside of his door. A guard of lords, no less. Peter had not taken any chances.
Eventually her exhaustion had won out, and she’d enjoyed a night of solid sleep.
The carriages had parted ways at the turnoff to Evanslea, and Kate had finally let out a breath of pent up energy. Peter had sent her a kind smile, and soon after she had been helped down from the carriage and brought here, to her tearful reunion with Emily.
“Oh I have never worried so much in my life!” Emily cried, tears rolling freely down her face. Finally noticing Kate’s borrowed gown of coarse, brown wool, Emily’s eyes widened fractionally. “I can scarce imagine all you’ve been through.”
“It’s a long story,” Kate replied with a strained smile. She lowered her voice. “And I find myself in great need of a proper bath.”
Emily nodded, no doubt glad she had been given a chore she could easily accomplish. “Come, I’ll send for one straight away.”
Peter remained by the coach, and Kate turned, confused at why he wasn’t following her inside until
she realized that he most likely wanted to go to his own home and deal with his brother. She pulled her arm from Emily’s grasp and turned back to him.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
He nodded. Their gazes were linked momentarily in a heavy connection. She was both saddened and anxious at the thought of being separated from him; she could not be certain, but she sensed he felt much the same way. He stood there with a beaten expression and she knew that he was about to go and do a very hard thing.
“Kate?” Emily nudged, pulling them both out of the moment.
“Right, then.” Peter bowed and climbed into his carriage, and Kate watched him pull away before Emily took her arm and led her inside.
“What was that about?” Emily asked when they reached the safety of Kate’s room.
She sat on the bed, feeling overwhelmed and fatigued. A maid carried in a tin bath and another followed with two pails of water.
Kate watched the steam curling off of the water and felt her eyes drooping. The madness of the last few days had caught up to her, and she watched the maids come and go with boiling water until the bath was prepared. She went through the motions of bathing then dressed in a nightgown though it was only midafternoon, and crawled into bed. Emily quit asking questions after her first few went unanswered, and Kate was glad for the reprieve when her friend slipped away. She would explain everything eventually, but for now she needed to sleep.
Peter
Peter paced back and forth in his study. The path was clear, but he didn’t want to follow it. A large part of him was torn between the love he carried for his deranged brother and the need to let the justice system do its job.
Cohen had come up with a good solution, but Peter did not know if taking his friend’s advice would be going against King and Country, which he had a strong inclination to do. His mind kept flashing back to the image of Kate tied up on the floor, and he wanted to strangle Martin. But he also knew Martin held a sort of hero worship for Kate after she’d saved him from his mean older brothers.
Peter could not help the wry smile that fit on his lips. Of course, it had all been Charles’s idea. It always had been. But Peter hadn’t helped much. It wasn’t until he was older and away at school that he had grown enough of a backbone to step away when things had gotten out of hand. It was no surprise to Peter that Charles had died in a reckless race, however hard it had been to cope with at the time.
“Have you come to a decision?” Cohen asked from the doorway. He was leaning back with his arms in his pockets, a common pose the man used to hide his missing hand.
Peter sighed and dragged a hand over his face. “Yes, but is it the right one?”
Cohen shrugged. “That is for you to decide. I will support you either way.”
Peter sat down before the fire and rested his head in his hands. When he heard Cohen come and sit beside him, he voiced the question that plagued his mind. “Do you think Kate will take it as a personal offence if I take you up on your offer?”
There was a long stretch of silence, and Peter glanced up. The look in Cohen’s eye was all he needed. He nodded once and stood, finally decided on the matter. “Well,” he said. “I suppose it is time to go and tell Martin.”
“Would you like me to come?”
Peter clapped his friend on the back with his good hand and squeezed his shoulder. “I better do this on my own.”
Martin
Martin sat in the parlor, the oaf, Lord Marshall, watching him from a plush, wingback chair on the other side of the room. As if he needed such close supervision. He was no child.
Sighing, he crossed his foot over the other ankle, fingering the ends of the thin rope that bound his wrists. He’d tried to pull on the loose end, but it seemed to only tighten the knot. If only he’d gone to Gretna Green instead, he’d be a married man now, with naught anyone could do about it. Least of all, Peter.
Lord Marshall looked on with a shrewd, narrowed gaze, and Martin had to admit that the man was quite intimidating when he chose to be. Not that Martin would ever give him the satisfaction of admitting so aloud. Instead, he remained still, composed in the face of this uncertainty.
The door opened and Peter stepped inside, creating a deep, hard knot in Martin’s stomach. Peter nodded to Lord Marshall, who immediately rose and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. It was disgusting how devoted these men were to Peter, how he bossed them around with no thought for their opinions or cares.
Peter stood at the end of the rug, five paces from where Martin sat. He raked his gaze over Martin as though attempting to puzzle him out. “I won’t mince words. If the magistrate gets his hands on you, it’s gaol at the very least, hanging at worst.”
Martin went cold, the blood draining from his face. Hanging? Death? He wanted to shrink, to beg—but he couldn’t, so frozen he felt. Everything had been so meticulously planned, from the foxglove in Bartholomew Kingston’s tea, to extricating himself from the bounds Miss Smithson had tried to shackle him to. Gibson had slipped in and out of the outing to the vista perfectly unseen, he’d shoved Miss Kingston from the edge of the lookout undetected, and still she remained with child. But Martin had planned so thoroughly, been so flexible when things hadn’t gone his way. Up until London. He screwed his eyes shut. He’d been so close to having Kate as his own. Where had he gone wrong?
Peter cleared his throat. “I have an alternative, but the choice is yours.”
Silence stretched as Martin refused to speak, to give Peter the satisfaction of seeing him grovel.
“Cohen is willing to escort you to Antigua and teach you the sugar trade,” Peter said. “You’ll be out of England’s reach and have the opportunity to build a life for yourself there, but you will not be able to return. Ever.”
Martin clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to go to a barbaric, lowborn island and work. He was too smart for such a menial life, and he deserved far better than that. He regretted now, more than ever, not directing the carriage to Gretna Green. But failing to secure a marriage was all Martin regretted. Nothing else. “And what if I refuse?”
Peter
“Then I’ll take you to the magistrate, and it will be out of my hands.”
Peter hated this. Martin sat slumped and angry, a shriveled man destroyed by bitterness. But he had made his choices; no one had forced him to do any of it.
“Can I ask why you did it?” Peter asked.
“I love her.”
Well, that was misguided. At least according to Peter. “But why hurt Harriet Smithson? Surely it would be far better to break a betrothal than take her life?”
“I wasn’t trying to take her life,” Martin said, his voice cold. “My purpose was to remove the child.”
Peter’s heart clenched, disgust souring his stomach. He’d seen the depths of Martin’s derangement in recent days, but this was too much. He was tempted to leave, to call on the magistrate at once.
“But it was foolish of me. I can see my error now.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to Antigua.”
Peter didn’t know if Martin referred to the error of his ways, or his errors in failing. He cleared his throat. “Cohen will manage you closely. It will not be easy.”
“My penance?”
“I hope so.”
37
Peter
Peter stood on the front portico of his vast home and watched the hired coach carry his brother away for the last time. He was glad his brother had chosen Cohen’s offer, and was equally relieved it was Cohen escorting Martin away, and not himself; he did not think he could leave Kate again right now, even if he had to. He was already in his riding attire, and the morning air was crisp and clean, the sun burning off the last of the frost that dusted the earth.
When he came around the corner and Split Tree came into view, he scanned the area for Kate before moving toward the stables. A groom informed him that she was out at her orchard; he was equally excited and nervous to see her again.
When she came into view, his heart skipped a beat. Mrs. Nielsen was beside her, their horses tied to a nearby elm.
“Sir Peter,” Mrs. Nielsen said, her voice laced with surprise. Kate’s head shot up and the shock in her widened eyes momentarily worried him. Was she not happy to see him?
“Good morning, ladies. I was out for my ride and thought to come bid you a good day.” He could hear the strain in his own voice and wondered what Kate made of it. He gazed at her intently, the height from his horse adding to the distance between them. He slid down to be on more level terrain with her.
Mrs. Nielsen cleared her throat and turned to Kate. “I will go ask Mr. Cruikshank that question we had about…the, um…the plum tree. Should you need me.”
And like a good chaperone, she slipped away quietly.
Kate
Kate did not know whether to run into his arms or sit down and cry. She was anxious, alternating between feeling a decided fondness for the man—more than fondness, if she was being honest—and wondering if he reciprocated her feelings. She stood where she was, stiff and taut.
The way he’d saved her, held her, cradled her head with such tenderness had led her to believe the man felt more for her than that bound by the confines of friendship, but after leaving London he had kept a decided distance from her.
His eyes in the morning light were a clear blue, and his hair shone more gold than brown. Purple marred his forehead, the faint bruise beginning to yellow at the edges. He shuffled his feet and looked away briefly before clearing his own throat. “Are you well?”
A Forgiving Heart Page 24