by Lisa Bingham
The Bengal Rubies
Lisa Bingham
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1993 by Lisa Bingham
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition January 2014
ISBN: 978-1-62681-198-0
More from Lisa Bingham
Temptation’s Kiss
Silken Promises
Silken Dreams
Eden Creek
Distant Thunder
To Wade.
After twenty-one years and climbing, you still make my heart beat faster.
She is more precious than rubies;
and all the things thou canst desire
are not to be compared unto her.
Proverbs 3:15
Prologue
Cornwall, England
Spring 1751
“Please, Matthew. Please.”
The words melted out of the awful silence which had cloaked the keeping room. Delicate, fine-boned fingers touched Matthew Waterton’s wrist, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t bear to look into Jeanne’s luminous eyes and see her pain.
When he didn’t answer, she stepped closer. “If you want me to beg … I will beg.” Not allowing him time to speak, she sank to her knees on the worn rug. “I can’t live another day in the company of that man. He doesn’t love me. He never has.” Her comments were interspersed with barely submerged sobs. “I’ve received word that he’ll arrive within the week. Help me take Aloise away tonight! I can hire a skiff to row us to Judith-on-the-Sea and from there buy passage on a ship to Calais. I’ve a pair of maiden aunts who will shelter us. Oliver Crawford will never find out where we’ve gone!”
“Jeanne, don’t do this.” Slipping his arms beneath hers, Matthew tried to help her rise. But she lacked the strength to stand on her own, merely falling into his embrace. Supporting her weight, he caressed her hair, trying to infuse a measure of calm into her trembling frame. But the birth and subsequent death of her second daughter days ago had sapped Jeanne of her energies and filled her with an overriding panic. “You aren’t well. Give yourself time to recover. Things will look brighter in a month or two when you’ve regained your health.”
Jeanne grasped at his waistcoat, clumping the fabric in desperation. “No!” She shook her head from side to side, causing the pins of her coiffure to release a few precious strands of chestnut-colored hair. “Don’t you understand? I couldn’t bear him a son!”
“Crawford would never blame you for such a thing.”
“But he will! He wants an heir. He won’t rest until he has one. I disappointed him years ago by giving him a daughter, a girl he scarcely acknowledges as his own—your betrothed, Aloise.”
Matthew still found it hard to believe that he—a mere commoner and the son of the local schoolmaster—had been contracted to marry a child born well above his station. But when Jeanne’s husband had given her permission to form a match for their first daughter, Jeanne insisted that the girl not be doomed to a marriage of political and monetary “strategy.” Therefore, she had approached Matthew Waterton. Her friend. Her confidante. A man she could trust to see to Aloise’s happiness.
At first, Matthew had demurred. But after weeks of persuasion, he had learned that he was far from opposed to such an arrangement. Not because Aloise’s father was a wealthy merchant, but because the girl was Jeanne’s offspring. If little Aloise matured to look anything like her mother, she would be stunning. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with skin as rich as cream and a body as delicate as a sparrow’s.
“The second child I bore wasn’t a boy either.” Jeanne’s voice grew husky with suppressed emotion, betraying how deeply the baby’s demise had affected her. “Oliver will never forgive me for failing to provide a male heir.”
“He knows there can be other children.”
“No.” As if disclosing some painful secret she whispered, “Midwife Mackie informed me that I am no longer … capable.”
Matthew’s heart nearly broke at her strangled confession. He knew how much she’d longed for a houseful of babes. “Please, Matthew. Help me.”
If she’d asked for anything else, he would have come to her aid. Or if more time had passed and he knew she was acting rationally, not merely suffering from the exhaustion of labor and the grief of a mother’s empty arms. But Jeanne’s suggestion had several serious flaws. Oliver Crawford was a powerful man who was feared by many of the villagers—and with just cause. He might not be a part of the charmed circle of titled aristocracy, but he had important contacts in government as well as a great deal of wealth. He was fanatically possessive of his horses, his estate, and his wife. To tamper with any aspect of his household would not bode well for Jeanne—or for Matthew, who had no real money or contacts to speak of. Merely the cottage his father had left him after his demise, a vast collection of books, and a set of jewels that could not be exchanged for money without causing his father’s ghost to haunt Matthew for the rest of his days.
“My plan will work. I promise!”
Matthew didn’t respond. How could he? She thought she could escape her husband as easily as rowing across the inlet. Matthew had been Jeanne’s close friend for nearly a year—since Oliver Crawford had impregnated her and sent her from his home in London to his estates in Cornwall, to “breed.” In that time, Matthew had become intimately aware of the kind of man she’d married. Crawford might not actually live with her on a daily basis, but he would not let her go. If she tried to escape his iron reign, he would hunt her to the ends of the earth.
Matthew couldn’t tell Jeanne such a thing, however. Her pallor proclaimed eloquently enough that she barely had the wherewithal to stand.
“Go home and rest, Jeanne.”
“But—”
“Aloise relies upon you—to see you in such a state would frighten her.”
“Will you help us?”
Matthew hesitated over his answer, finally touching the curve of her cheek. “We’ll talk again once you’re feeling better.”
Bit by bit, Jeanne drew upright, an exhausted resignation covering her features. “Very well.” Freeing herself from his support, she summoned as much dignity as she could muster. Halfway across the room she stumbled slightly, but when he offered his assistance, she waved him away.
Once in the doorway, she hesitated. “Good-bye, Matthew.” There was an unfamiliar edge to her voice. A fathomless hint of sadness.
“Swear to me that you won’t try anything.”
The silence pulsed loud and keen.
“You’ve been a good friend. And remember … whatever happens, you have promised to marry my daughter, to see that she is happy.”
“Jeanne, if you attempt anything foolish, I’ll—”
“No.” Her eyes shone with defeat and regret. “I think I’ll take your suggestion and nap until supper.”
With that parting comment, she disappeared, leaving Matthew feeling that he had failed her somehow. But what could they have done with her feeling so ill? She wasn’t ready for a short rowing, let done a channel cro
ssing.
“Jeanne, wait!” He rushed outside, but she’d already gone. A wake of dust showed the haste of her departure.
“Damn.” Ducking inside, he slammed the door behind him, planting his hands on his hips and scowling at the cramped room with its dog-eared books and maps crammed in every available space. The shadows appeared thicker now. A growl of thunder mocked him for his impotence. Shrugging away his disquiet, he vowed he would visit her on the morrow. After she’d had a chance to sleep.
Little more than an hour had passed when he found himself pacing the floor. By nightfall, as the afternoon’s brewing squall intensified into the makings of a full-fledged storm, he was filled with frustration, knowing that Jeanne had come to him as a friend and he’d turned her away.
“Master Matthew?”
Matthew looked up, even though, at one-and-twenty, he had long since abandoned his childhood title. In the past few years—after the death of his father— he’d spent most of his time at the university, then had returned home to assume his father’s position as schoolmaster. He’d grown accustomed to responding to “Mr. Waterton” and “sir.” But he hadn’t been called “master” in some time.
“Yes, Miss Nibbs.”
The old woman who had served as his father’s housekeeper for over a decade hesitated, obviously thinking what she had to say might be rather forward.
“Out with it,” Matthew barked, then regretted his curtness. It wasn’t her fault that he was ill-tempered.
“There are lights on the old sea road.”
“Lights?”
“Lanterns of some sort.” She chose her words carefully, “I thought I heard a woman’s screams.”
Matthew felt the blood drain from his face. Jeanne.
He brushed by Miss Nibbs, lunging outside. One of the draft horses used for tilling the upper meadow was just being led into the mews next door. Matthew jerked the halter rope out of the farmer’s hands. Ignoring the man’s cry of surprise, he swung on the animal’s broad back, and dug his heels into its side.
As Mrs. Nibbs had said, there were lights flickering and bobbing on the old sea road. From a distance of half a mile, the wavering dots of brightness conveyed a certain panic. Maybe even a scuffle.
Damn it! Why hadn’t she heeded him? Why hadn’t she stayed at home? He had no doubts whatsoever that Jeanne had ignored his warnings and tried to escape. Tried and failed. The faint feminine cries of grief and outrage told him as much.
When he rounded the bluff, approaching the spot where the lights had been, there was nothing to greet him but churned-up earth and the lash of the sea below. Matthew reined the steed to a halt, cocked his head, and strained to hear the intermittent shouts that had led him this far. Jeanne was close. She had to be. He could feel her presence—her horror.
“Jeanne?” His call shuddered through the night. He waited, heart pounding. But even as he labored to hear a response, the breeze gusted, mocking him by snatching away any retort she might have made.
“Jeanne! Answer me, damn it!”
Just when he was about to lose hope, another shriek came, louder and to the right. This sound was higher pitched and filled with a childish fear. Aloise.
Matthew spurred his horse into a gallop, charging the length of the rocky trail. The wind clutched at his clothing. Huge drops of rain began to plop into the dust, lazily at first, then harder, faster, stinging his hands, his face.
The horse heaved from the effort of galloping uphill. Urging it on, Matthew silently prayed. Dear God, let them be safe.
Finally, he reached one of the uppermost knolls of the seaside cliff. Rounding the bend, the sight he encountered caused his stomach to knot in terror. “Jeanne!”
In the light of a single lantern, he saw her fragile form huddled between a pair of boulders precariously balanced on a narrow ledge. She was no match for the hulking man who held her wrist and grappled to pull her free, but she fought with all her might—obviously desperate about the five-year-old girl shielded behind her body.
“Maa-theew!”
The ruffian glanced away from Jeanne and Matthew recognized the man as Ruban Brannigan, one of the village blacksmiths. The gap-toothed fellow had a reputation in the county for his meanness as well as his greed. Another servant waited beyond, holding aloft a pair of flickering lanterns, the same pinpoints of brightness that had alerted Miss Nibbs.
Lightning flashed, rain pounded in icy torrents. Jeanne sobbed and backed Aloise against the rocks to form a crude protective blockade. Brannigan sneered and yanked at her wrist, clearly intent upon retrieving them both.
Growling deep in his throat, Matthew swung from his horse. He’d taken only a few steps when Brannigan saw him and whipped a knife from his boot, holding Jeanne and brandishing the weapon in Matthew’s direction. “Get back, y’ little whelp. This is none o’ yer concern.”
“Let her go!”
Brannigan ignored him and turned away as if Matthew were no more than a minor irritation. Speaking to Jeanne, he said, “Come along, Missy. The master has asked us pretty like t’ bring ye home. He’s promised us a guinea or two if we can do it without causin’ a fuss that might rouse the village.”
“No.” Her knuckles gleamed white where she gripped Aloise. The girl whimpered, not understanding what was occurring, but frightened nonetheless.
Matthew stalked forward. “The woman is ill, can’t you see that? Leave her. I’ll see to it that she gets back to Crawford’s estates.” His words were a gamble he knew, but Jeanne imperceptibly wilted. This time he would help her.
Brannigan shook his head. “She’s coming with us. Now. Otherwise, I don’t get me coin.” He shook the knife in Jeanne’s direction. “Do as I say! Come along—and bring yer little brat!”
Again lightning flashed, and the blade glinted as Brannigan waved it menacingly. Peeking behind her mother’s skirts, Aloise saw the weapon, shrieked, and wriggled free, running toward Matthew. Startled, Brannigan caught the child with one arm.
“Aloise!” Jeanne bolted forward to claim her daughter. From his vantage point, Matthew saw Brannigan’s instinctive reaction, saw it, but couldn’t prevent it. His body seemed filled with lead as the man swung the knife. Too late, Jeanne lurched against him, driving the weapon into her stomach.
Aloise screamed. The servant above dropped the lanterns and—muttering a litany of half-uttered prayers—scrambled to drag the child away.
Unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes, Matthew staggered toward his friend. “Jeanne?”
She looked in his direction. Her mouth gaped in disbelief and her expression grew haunted, brimming with a potent mourning. “Mat-thew?” His name was a poignant whisper on her lips, a wistful farewell. Then her limbs lost their strength. She wavered, teetering closer to the edge of the cliff.
Matthew ran to her, trying to catch her—and for a moment he thought he’d succeeded. She clutched at him, her hands becoming anxious talons that bit into his skin, clawed at his cheek, drawing blood. Matthew caught at her gown, nearly securing her balance, but the fabric rent and she screamed, falling back, back …
Horror washed over Matthew as he heard the sickening thud of her body landing on the rocks below. Sinking to the ground, he peered over the ledge.
She lay so still, her arms and legs curiously twisted. The wind and rain caught at the heavy strands of her hair, plastering them across her cheeks in such a way that Matthew expected her to rouse, swipe the tresses away in impatience, and continue her flight.
She didn’t move.
The clatter of hooves echoed in the distance. Looking above him, Matthew saw the impressive silhouette of a rider coming to a halt on the promontory.
He didn’t need the stab of lightning to tell him who the gentleman was. He’d seen Oliver Crawford only once and from a distance, but he recognized him immediately.
The man swung from his horse, standing arrogantly with his back to the wind, looking down at the scene with cold eyes. Slapping his quirt against his thigh, he descended the slope and peered over the ledge. Not by so much as a flicker did he give away any signs of remorse. In fact, the man looked more irritated than grieved.
His next words punctuated such an attitude. “I see you’ve made a mess of a simple errand, Brannigan.” He turned to frown at the man he had hired to retrieve his wife. The spat, spat of his quirt became slower, more deliberate.
The blacksmith cringed. “I didn’t mean … to …”
“For that you and your assistant will have to be punished.” The statement was uttered matter-of-factly, but there was no disguising the chill buried deep in each word.
Brannigan blanched, the bloodied knife dropping from his trembling fingers. “No. Please! I didn’t mean to hurt her! I didn’t—”
Crawford waved aside his protests. “Such an accident is of little consequence. You merely saved me from disposing of the woman myself. I’ve already discovered that she’s become useless to me. Completely useless.” He used the same tone one might employ if Jeanne had been little more than a quill that refused to write. “However, you have provided me with several unfortunate witnesses to her demise.” His steely gaze flicked to the servant who still held the wriggling child. “My daughter, I can control. But as for that gentleman …
All attention turned to Matthew who had pressed his back against one of the boulders. He froze in sheer disbelief at the casual venom flickering deep in the man’s gaze.
“Take care of him, Brannigan.”
“But, sir—”
“The man is a murderer.” Crawford’s tone became hard, implacable. “Can’t you see the blood on his hands? His shirt? He killed my wife. We can all testify to that fact—and the authorities would never dare to dispute my word. I pay them enough to see to that. Take care of him.”