Had he gotten hungry and retreated to the kitchens? Had he gone to seek comfort from Starlight? Delilah shoved the niggle of jealousy away. It was ridiculous to envy a horse.
A noise from the courtyard drew her to one of the archer’s windows. Expecting to see Marcus and Starlight bonding in the night, she blinked. Marcus was on the ground and a man who was surely not O’Connell was on top of him. They were locked in a struggle, and based on their position, her husband was losing.
Fear and anger coalesced into action. Her mind whirled but was surprisingly clear. She would be no help without a plan. Her gaze fell on the glinting weapons hanging along the wall of the great hall, fixating on a short sword with a sharp-looking point. It had been made for someone her size.
She yanked it off the wall. It was heavier than she’d expected, and the edge clashed to the stone floor. Adjusting her grip on the hilt, she raised it and slashed the blade through the air. Had a former lady of the castle been tasked to defend herself or her loved ones?
Her only advantage was surprise. Her dressing gown was made of dark greens and blues, and her bare feet made no sound as she slipped out the door. Marcus still thrashed on the ground, but less vigorously.
She had no training in sword play. Should she slash or run the man through? She must act before it was too late, but she was at least two dozen paces away. Too far. She ran.
The stones cut into the bottoms of her feet, but desperation blunted any pain. She didn’t attempt to be quiet now. Her goal was to get the man off Marcus. Her scream echoed against the stone walls of the castle.
The man loosened his hold around Marcus’s throat and shifted to the side. She’d been aiming at the middle of his back, but instead the sword entered the man’s shoulder. The sudden hindrance of flesh and muscle and bone made her stomach flop, but she kept pushing until the blade had pierced him through.
She tried to yank the sword free of the man’s shoulder, but it hung on something—she didn’t want to think what—and the man let out a guttural yell full of primal pain and fury. He staggered to his feet and spun to face her, jerking the hilt from her numb fingers.
Between the sharp end of the sword emerging from his shoulder and his twisted mouth, the man made a macabre picture. Used to seeing him in the elegance and civility of a London ballroom, it took a moment to place his identity.
“Lord Whitmire? But, you…” Lord Whitmire moved among the highest echelon of political circles. He was Prinny’s man. Whispers circulated about his ambition to be prime minister. A darker fact registered. He was also the infamous Lord W—killer of Quinton. Traitor.
“You have caused me a great deal of trouble.” He fumbled behind him for the hilt of the sword.
Delilah risked a glance toward Marcus. He was alive, although gasping for breath, his hand at his throat. A measure of relief had her knees quaking. She had no time for sentiment, because if Lord Whitmire managed to free the sword from his shoulder, she and Marcus would both die by the already bloody blade.
Already bloody. Delilah narrowed her eyes, noticing a gash on Lord Whitmire’s other arm. Both sleeves of his jacket were torn and wet with blood. He was injured. Not mortally, but surely he was weakened. Delilah considered her options. She could run, but if Whitmire didn’t take the bait, Marcus would be left vulnerable. On the other hand, she had no weapon other than herself.
Alastair’s spirit whispered in her ear. When she was a child, she’d loved to follow her brother around and try to scare him. Her favorite method was to run out from behind a bush or tree, circle her arms around him, hook a foot behind one leg, and force him to the ground. Then she would proceed to tickle him until he gained the upper hand.
With a yell that would make Alastair proud, she ran straight for Lord W. He stumbled backward, a look of shock on his face. She grappled with him, searching for wounds as she looped her foot around his ankle. Already off-balance from his retreat, he toppled to the stones, pulling her down with him.
The hilt of the blade pushed farther into his shoulder. His agonized scream made her cringe. As it pressed forward, the edge of the blade ripped through the sleeve of her dressing gown. A burning sensation streaked along her upper arm.
“You little bitch!” Whitmire rolled to his side and tried to throw her off him by driving his knee into her stomach. Pain burst through her and stole her breath. She held onto him as if her life depended on it. Which it did.
The tang of blood, both hers and his, turned her stomach. She had no idea how bad the wound on her arm was, but her hand was tingly and weak. Although he was injured, Lord Whitmire was bigger and stronger than she was. In addition, he had the advantage of having no conscience or morals. He reversed their positions until he was on top of her.
The grimacing smile on his face reminded her of a gargoyle, fixed and stony. Only when he brought his chest closer did she realize his intention. The point of the sword extended six inches from his shoulder. He aimed at her heart, ready to impale her.
She squirmed away but didn’t make it far enough. The sharp point tore through her dressing gown and poked her skin. She closed her eyes, unable to look the demon in the eyes as he ran her through the heart.
The pinching pressure against her chest eased. She popped her eyes open and stared into Whitmire’s face. His mouth gaped in shock and agony. The sword was gone. Blood trickled from his shoulder onto her in a foul baptism.
Whitmire was ripped off her and thrown to ground. Marcus stood over him, swaying slightly, but with clear eyes and a set jaw. The sword point was inches from Whitmire’s neck.
With his advantage gone, Lord Whitmire began to barter. “You don’t want to kill me, Wyndam.”
“Oh, I believe I do.” Marcus’s voice was hoarse but preternaturally calm.
“Only I know the key to deciphering the book. If you kill me, you’ll never clear your father of wrongdoing.” Satisfaction lifted Whitmire’s expression.
Marcus’s hesitation lasted only a breath before he drove the sword through Lord Whitmire’s chest where his heart—if he had one—beat. The man blinked, his gaze falling to where the sword skewered him. Marcus pulled the sword free and blood gushed from the wound. Lord Whitmire collapsed like a rag doll tossed away by the hand of a god.
Delilah closed her eyes against the sight.
The sword clattered to the stones, and Marcus fell to his knees at her side. “Are you injured?”
“A mere scratch on my arm.” Delilah touched his chest. “I was afraid I was too late.”
“You almost were.” Marcus touched his throat and winced before shaking his head. “Delilah. I can’t believe you put yourself in such danger.”
“If I hadn’t, we’d both be dead.”
O’Connell stumbled out of the stables, his hand pressed to the back of his head. “Laddie! The devil sneaked up on me. I’m sorry.”
Marcus rose and took the old man’s arm. “No need for apologies. The man truly was a devil. How’s your head?”
“I’ve had worse getting thrown from a horse. The bounder is dead then. Good riddance.” O’Connell spit at Whitmire’s feet.
“Aye, he’s dead.” No satisfaction warmed Marcus’s voice. The three of them stared at Whitmire’s body for a long moment. “Wait for me in the study, O’Connell, so I can look at your head in the light. You might need to be sewn up.”
O’Connell grumbled but made his way inside.
Good riddance. The words echoed hollowly, and Delilah wished she could savor their escape from death. Whitmire had been vile and evil and would have shown them no quarter, but what would happen when his allies in London found out? Would they attempt to throw Marcus into Newgate for his murder? After what had happened to Marcus’s father, no one could be trusted.
“Now that Whitmire is dead, how will you clear your father’s name? The book is undecipherable. What will we do?” A shiver turned into a shake until her entire body was beset.
“You’re safe. We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
Marcus squatted and drew her to his chest. She flinched when his hand bumped her injured arm. He peered closer at her wound. “This is more than a scratch. I need to see to your arm immediately.”
He helped her to her feet. Her knees were wobbly, and her head swam. She might have swooned if not for the arm Marcus wrapped around her waist.
“I’m sorry to be such a weakling.” She leaned even harder into him.
“A weakling?” He made a noise of disbelief. “You ran Whitmire through with an ancient sword.”
“I didn’t kill him though.”
His sigh was heavy with emotion. “You did more than enough. You should have found a hiding place behind a set of curtains like the first time.”
She ground to a stop, shuffled in front of him, and hung on to his jacket. The darkness hid his expression, but she could sense his torment at her pain. “Would you have hidden to save yourself and leave me to face Whitmire’s evil alone?”
“Of course not! I have my honor.”
“Honor is not exclusive to the male sex, my lord. I would never have left you at his mercy.” The tart edge to her voice couldn’t be helped, but it naturally softened when she added, “I only wish we could have forced him to reveal his cipher.”
“You have been revelation enough. I thought the most important thing was to clear my family name, but everything changed the evening I met you.” His tongue darted along his bottom lip. “I love you, Delilah. When I thought I was dying, my only regret was not telling you sooner.”
She swallowed past a rising lump of tears. “I love you too.”
“Even with everything that has happened?”
“Even through the danger and death and rats running across my bed.” Her attempt at humor ended in a choked-back sob, and she buried her face in his neck, taking a deep breath.
“Come and let me tend your arm, my love.”
He guided her into his study and to a chair by the hearth. The embers of the fire emanated just enough heat to make Delilah aware of how cold she was. O’Connell sat in the chair next to her with a glass of liquor.
Marcus pushed a matching glass into her hand. “Drink it all. It will help dull the pain of what is to come.”
Marcus added fuel to the fire and lit another brace of candles, flooding the sitting area with light. He first examined the back of O’Connell’s head. “Quite a goose egg. You’ll have a splitting headache, but the skin isn’t even broken.”
“Told you I was fine. No harder head than an Irishman’s. What about the lassie?”
Marcus knelt by her chair and tugged her dressing gown off her shoulder. She gasped as the cloth pulled at the wound and jerked away from him. Producing a penknife from his desk, he poured a small measure of the liquor over the blade and sliced through the sleeve of her dressing gown and night rail from sleeve to shoulder.
Delilah glanced down, but seeing her torn flesh and the ooze of blood made the room spin. She rested her head against the back of the chair. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s not good.” Marcus sounded distracted and distant.
A numbness spread from her toes and fingers. Even her lips felt strange. It reminded her of the long night she’d spent wet and shivering in the bog. She’d accepted death as a likely outcome. But now, she had too much to live for. Fear quickened in her body, driving her heart into a furious pounding.
“Tell me truly. Am I going to die, Marcus?” Her voice sounded tinny and far away.
Marcus glanced up from examining her arm, his face softening, a small smile coming to his lips. “Of course not, but the injury requires stitching, and it’s going to be painful.”
It was his smile more than his words that offered comfort. She remembered the solemn faces surrounding her during her illness as if holding a vigil until death claimed her. He rose and pressed a bracing kiss on her lips.
“Have you experience stitching wounds?” she asked. The brief exchange of glances between Marcus and O’Connell wasn’t reassuring.
“On horses. I’ve stitched saddles and such.” Marcus cleared his throat.
“The laddie has a fine, steady hand.” O’Connell waved his glass in the air, his ruddy cheeks almost matching the red of his bushy eyebrows. “
“Saddles?” Delilah sat up but sank back into the chair when dizziness overcame her. “I’m not a saddle. Or a horse.”
Marcus poured more liquor into her glass and pushed the rim toward her lips. “Drink while I gather what I need.”
The rim clinked against her teeth as she did as Marcus bid. “I’m so cold.”
O’Connell heaved himself out of his chair, and Delilah wanted to reach for him and ask him to stay with her. She didn’t want to be alone. He returned with a blanket and tucked it around her legs.
“Ach, you’re in shock, lass. I’ve seen it happen with mares after difficult foalings. The laddie will get you back to rights in no time.” O’Connell patted her knee and then her cheek, his work-roughened hand warm and comforting.
Maybe it was the pain and fear, or maybe it was the liquor, but she wanted her distracted, loving father and her overbearing, judgmental mother. With her brother dead and her parents blissfully unaware of her circumstances, she was adrift from her family. If she’d known what would happen, would she have chosen Marcus over her parents?
Delilah blinked but couldn’t keep the flooding tears at bay. One trickled out, followed by another and another. The saltiness chased away the taste of the liquor on her tongue.
Carrying a steamy bowl of water, young Ella entered the study, her hair disheveled and her cap pinned on lopsided. “Oh, my lady, I’m sorry you’ve been hurt, but the master and I are going to set you right as rain. You’ll see.”
Delilah couldn’t help but smile through her tears. Marcus returned, his hands full of supplies, his face serious and focused on the upcoming task. As he organized the bandages, the thread, and water, she asked, “Just how painful will it be?”
“Like the devil is breathing fire on your arm.” His eyes were stamped with worry. “If I could bear your pain, I would, love.”
“I know.” The smile she offered was small and watery. She took a deep, bracing breath, turned toward O’Connell, and held out her good hand. “Will you hold my hand, O’Connell?”
“Aye, lass.” Her hand was enfolded in his. “You squeeze as hard as you need to.”
O’Connell was her family. Ella was her family. And, of course, Marcus. Always Marcus. She had followed him out of a window and had no regrets.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Do it,” she said shortly.
Her mother often said the anticipation was worse than the deed.
Her mother had never had a wound sewn. The deed was far worse than she’d imagined. She made it through the cleaning with a half dozen yelps from her and more than a dozen colorful curses from O’Connell as she bore down on his hand.
With the first piercing of skin with the needle and the tug of thread, she had enough wits to yell, “Bloody hell, Marcus,” before a welcome blackness overcame her, and she felt no more.
Chapter 18
Delilah sighed and fluttered her eyes open. She was in bed. Sunlight slashed through the narrow windows where dust motes danced. Calm enveloped her like the covers drawn up to her chin and tucked around her. The previous night took on a dreamlike quality. Had it all been a terrible nightmare?
She lifted her arm to push her hair back and winced. Not a nightmare, then. A muted throb had replaced the stabbing pain of the night before. The last thing she remembered was Marcus taking a stitch. She laid a hand on her forehead, half expecting a fever, but she only felt cotton headed from the liquor. Or perhaps that was due to almost dying at the hands of a madman. A madman who had been killed by Marcus. What would happen now?
She couldn’t hide in bed with so much at stake. She sat up and swung her legs around, pausing while a wave of nausea crashed over her and settled to churn her stomach. She slid off the bed, her bare feet cold and sore
against the stone. The shift she wore was clean and fresh. Her ruined night rail and dressing gown weren’t in sight. She hoped someone had burned them to ash.
Strips of linen were tied off around her upper arm. The blood dotting the white wasn’t red and fresh. She peeked underneath the bandage to see a row of neat stitches. Marcus’s needlework was better than hers.
She flipped through her meager dresses and chose a simple frock with a front ribbon lacing she could manage. Woolen stockings and her half boots followed. Gingerly, she made her way downstairs, her entire body sore.
She stopped in the middle of the great hall. Was Whitmire’s body still lying in the courtyard? Had the magistrate been called? Would Marcus be hauled off to Newgate? She wouldn’t allow anyone to spirit him away under the guise of justice. Justice had already been served with Whitmire’s death.
Voices echoed against the stone, and she followed them toward the study. Stopping in the doorway, she took in the scene. A stranger occupied one chair in front of the fireplace. She could only see part of his profile, the sleeve of a dark blue jacket, and highly polished boots, but his body was upright and expectant. In the same clothes he’d worn the night before, Marcus was slumped in the adjacent chair. Lurid bruises ringed his throat like a grisly cravat.
A third man she hadn’t noticed emerged from the shadows of the corner. “Sir, Lady Wyndam has arrived.” His rough-hewn looks didn’t match the silk of his voice. He was tall and broad, with huge hands and piercing gaze. The air around him snapped with danger.
“Ah, Lady Wyndam, come join us. I was terribly sorry to hear you were injured during last night’s ordeal.” The dapper stranger rose and gestured toward the chair he’d relinquished.
Marcus stood and gave her a bracing nod. Her knees still weak, she shuffled forward. The man was small in stature but emanated a power that was even more intimidating than his companion’s strength.
“I’m afraid you have the better of me, sir. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Although she had a guess as to his identity.
A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers Page 20