Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8)

by Lancaster, Mary

  Marjorie sat up straighter. Of course he could see it. Richard was no fool. Was that his game? Was he trying to force Javan into action? After all, with his first, utterly disastrous marriage under his belt, Javan was understandably skittish about marriage and highly cynical of women on the so-called marriage mart. He might well need to be forced, although where on earth the rush was when Miss Grey hadn’t been here a month…

  Moreover, Marjorie balked at the idea of Miss Grey bringing shame on herself, her family, and her employer’s family by eloping. One way or another, it would surely break her relationship with Rosa. Nothing about Miss Grey gave Marjorie any reason to believe her a schemer, a fortune-hunter—the Braithwaite rumors notwithstanding.

  Marjorie nodded twice. “Rosa,” she said firmly. “Ring the bell. I think we need to question the servants.”

  “So,” Marjorie said, ten minutes later, after she had spoken to the servants and dismissed all of them save Williams. “So, Ginny took a letter to Miss Grey and then Mr. Richard called for his curricle.”

  “He was going to take her to Carlisle, at least, or ‘home’ if she preferred,” Williams repeated.

  “And did you tell this to the colonel?” Marjorie demanded, forgetting that she wasn’t meant to use his rank.

  “No, he didn’t ask, just rode off without a word.”

  “So, he thinks they’ve gone to Gretna Green. And in fact, they’re going to her family somewhere else in Scotland. Or Richard will put her on the mail coach at Carlisle.”

  Williams inclined his head, while Rosa looked from one of them to the other.

  “Does it seem to you,” Marjorie asked, frowning, “that there is room there for lots more misunderstandings? And scandal? And in spite of all, the wrong marriage? At best, Miss Grey will need a chaperone.”

  Williams, who clearly hadn’t thought of Gretna Green until Marjorie mentioned it, began to nod vigorously. He knew his master very well.

  “Then we had better go, had we not?” Marjorie said.

  “To Scotland?” Williams asked doubtfully.

  “If we drive like the wind, will we reach Carlisle before the Edinburgh coach leaves?”

  “Maybe. But it will rattle your bones.”

  “Well, what else do I use the old things for? Fetch the coach and the horses, Williams! We’ll need food and a blanket.”

  *

  The way from Blackhaven to the Carlisle road was not great for carriage travel. Javan, riding across country, had every hope of catching up with Richard’s curricle long before it reached the city. The road wound between hills and along the coast for part of the way. Javan cut off several miles by simply riding as the crow flies, over the hills and streams and through the forest, until, galloping fast, he caught sight of the road below him. A horse and cart ambled in the opposite direction. And then, around the corner, came a curricle containing two people, a man and a woman.

  With some triumph, Javan turned his horse’s head and galloped onward and downward to head them off. It was then that he noticed the fresh hoof prints again. He’d glimpsed them at various stages on the way without paying much attention, for he knew both his quarries were in Richard’s curricle, not riding on horseback. He followed the hoofprints for a little, but as he came closer to the road, they carried on around the side of the hill while he galloped on downward toward the road and Caroline.

  Now that the moment was almost upon him, he realized he’d no real idea of what he would do or say. Every speech he came up with made him sound like a pompous ass, a coxcomb or a pathetic whiner, none of which could he imagine appealing to Caroline.

  The trouble was, words could not adequately express his feelings or his desires, or his care for hers.

  He would have to wait until he saw her. Once he saw her face, he would know whether he was saving her to be with him, or simply to prevent a disastrous elopement and the damage to her reputation. Either way, he would fight to win her and be worthy of her, and he would never give up…

  A flash from the hill above caught his attention. Almost at the road now, he turned and gazed several yards up and to his right, just above the next bend. The low, wintry sun was certainly glinting on something, something so familiar to him it was like coming home. A sword. Or a rifle.

  He absorbed the terrain without really trying. From the glint, a sharpshooter had a clear sight of the road below, and yet had plenty of cover. From the road, and from where Javan observed, he could remain hidden. Any vehicle would slow drastically around that bend, giving a good shot his best chance.

  Only, who would do such a thing? He hadn’t heard of highwaymen in the area, though it was true he hadn’t been in much of a position to hear of any that were. That, too, was the result of his chosen isolation.

  By the time he stopped the curricle now, they would all be in the direct view of any sharpshooter. Before the thought was properly formed, he’d turned his horse’s head, urging it up the hill as fast as it would go. All the time, he scanned the hills for signs of other weapons, other shooters.

  By the time he threw himself off the horse, the rumble of the curricle’s wheels seemed to fill his ears. Blending speed and caution, he crept around the rocky outcrop and saw what he’d become sure he would—one man stretched out with a rifle pointing below. The distance was perfect, and the curricle was rounding the bend with slow, smooth perfection. No one had ever accused Richard of driving badly.

  “Good morning,” Javan said to distract the shooter, because he wasn’t sure he had time to jump on him before he shot. He hadn’t, as it turned out. A mere instant before he landed on the shooter, the familiar crack of a rifle exploded and echoed around the hills.

  The gunman heaved himself around almost in the same movement as he shot—not in time to save himself, but in time to see his attacker’s face. “You!” he exclaimed as Javan landed on his shoulder and punched him hard on the chin.

  The man’s eyes rolled up, but he was clearly as tough as old boots, for he still managed to heft the rifle and swing the butt at Javan’s head. Swearing, Javan seized it in both hands, bouncing as the gunman bucked beneath him in an effort to dislodge him.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Javan said between his teeth, and brought up his knee sharply between his opponent’s thighs. As the shock jerked the gunman’s body into an attempted ball, Javan snatched the rifle and swung it sharply into the gunman’s head. This time, he went out like a light.

  Javan had no time for triumph. Taking the rifle with him, he began to run down the hill, whistling for his horse as he went. Now, at last, he could observe what had happened below. But if he’d hoped to see the curricle trundling on in blissful ignorance of the events on the hill above, he was doomed to disappointment.

  The gunman had let off a shot, and it seemed he was good. For the horses and curricle stood still on the corner, and the female passenger lay spread out in the road.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The explosion had come out of nowhere. One moment, Caroline was admiring Richard’s skill in taking the corners on the appalling road, and the next, over the top of the pounding hooves and the rumbling wheels, an almighty crack sounded. At the same time, her arm jerked of its own volition, spinning her against the side of the curricle, and the horses screamed in fright.

  “What the…?” came Richard’s voice, then, “Dear God, Caroline!”

  Somehow, he must have got the horses under control, for a moment later, she was lying in the road, with him looming over her.

  “What happened?” she asked blankly. “How did I get here? Did I fall out?”

  “Sort of,” Richard said hoarsely. “It’s as well I managed to halt them first. Be brave, my dear, I’m afraid you’ve been shot. It must be highwaymen, and one of them is running toward us.”

  As he spoke, he produced a pistol from the pocket of his overcoat. She could make that out although the fringes of her world were growing misty. It seemed to take a long time for his words to penetrate.

  She
frowned up at the sky. “I’ve been shot?” She turned her head toward the sudden, galloping pain in her arm. There was blood. “Oh dear, so I have. Am I going to die? I mustn’t! Who will care for Peter? And I must not abandon Rosa. Oh, where is he?” Sudden, weak tears filled her eyes because she would die without seeing Javan again, without telling him…

  “Oh, put the pistol away, you lummock, it’s me,” said an irritable voice, surely in her imagination, for it sounded like his. Hasty footsteps sounded on the road, and his face swam before her misty eyes.

  “Help her,” Richard’s voice pleaded. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Caroline smiled, reaching urgently for Javan with her good arm, because even if he wasn’t real, she wanted his presence so much. But the skin of his neck was warm and firm under her hand, his deeply scarred face frowning and desperate.

  “I have you, Caroline,” he whispered, his rough fingers gentle and soothing on her face. “I have you. Hold on.”

  Enchanted by the warmth of his voice, she let the happiness explode within her. She tugged him closer, gasping his name as she pressed her lips to his. “I love you,” she whispered.

  She felt the aching, tender response of his lips for a bare instant. And then, his voice, “Then you’d better let me see that wound, so I can remind you of the fact for years to come.”

  “Years,” she said blissfully. “Am I dreaming, Javan?”

  “No, but I need somewhere cleaner and safer to get the bullet out of you.”

  His hands were beneath her, swinging her up across the sky, and then she seemed to be back in the curricle with Richard. She tried to ask where Javan had gone, and then she saw him on horseback, riding beside them. The world sped up and vanished into blackness.

  *

  When she woke, she was between crisp sheets. She had a memory of excruciating pain that went on and on, relieved only by the sweetness of Javan’s voice. She’d trusted him to make it stop. She must have been dreaming. The fierce ache in her arm told her it hadn’t all been imagination. And behind that was some nagging worry that she had something important to do.

  “Javan?” She turned her head on the pillow, searching.

  A silhouette by the window stretched into the shape of a man springing to his feet. He strode toward her and she saw with wonder that it truly was Javan.

  “It is you!”

  “It is. How are you?”

  There was something incredibly wonderful in him sitting on the edge of her bed. He touched her forehead, no doubt feeling for fever, and then moved on, stroking her hair.

  “I’m well, I think,” she replied, “though my arm hurts. Was I truly shot? And how in the world did you come to be there?”

  “I was trying to catch up with you, came across that fellow with a rifle. I shall never forgive myself for not stopping him in time.”

  “I thought I might die,” she remembered. “And it seemed so cruel without seeing you again, and then you were there.”

  He took her hand, his fingers curling around hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m afraid I’m a mess of a human being. I didn’t quite understand until you left how much you mean to me.”

  “I do?” she said, enchanted.

  He smiled, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers, then her knuckles. “I love you, Caroline Grey. Please don’t leave me again.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t leave you, precisely. I had to…” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Peter! Peter is ill. I had to go to him this time. Have I missed the mail coach? Where am I?”

  She struggled to sit, but his hand on her good shoulder pressed her back into the pillows.

  “Be still,” he said severely. “I know, Richard explained to me. Yes, you have missed the mail coach, because we haven’t yet made it to Carlisle. We brought you to the nearest inn, where, not three hours ago, I dug a rifle ball out of your arm. Which explains why you are not going anywhere for a couple of days.”

  “But I feel fine,” she protested. “And Peter—you don’t understand—he cries for me when he’s ill, for my sister cannot abide sickness and goes to pieces and my mother… Well, she was used to servants doing her bidding and has no idea how to nurse, and Peter might die!”

  “Drink this,” he said, sliding one arm under her shoulders and holding a cup of water to her lips. She drank it obediently, though it tasted peculiar, for she was very thirsty. And besides, there was something beguiling in being held in his strong arm against his chest. It did strange things to her heart and her stomach.

  “I understand from Richard,” he said calmly, easing her gently back on to the pillows, “that your sister asked for money rather than your presence, so we doubt Peter is actually at death’s door. However, since you are clearly worried, either Richard or I will go there for you if you wish and see what is to be done. For, as I said, you are not going anywhere until I am assured you are well.”

  She frowned, trying to make sense of all of this. Somewhere, she liked him commanding her, for though she was used to people’s orders, they weren’t normally given for her benefit. She found the novelty curiously sweet. However, in some things, she, too, was immovable.

  “You are not a physician,” she pointed out. She frowned. “So how is it you took the ball from my arm?”

  “Practice,” he said. “My men didn’t always have access to a surgeon. Don’t look so impressed. Once you’ve taken a ball out of your own body, extracting one from someone else’s is a blessed relief.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed, just as the door opened and Richard sauntered in with a large tray of food.

  “Ah, that sounds more like our Miss Grey,” he said cheerfully, although his glance was piercing and more than a little anxious. “I’ve brought food.”

  “So I see,” Javan murmured.

  “The boy’s following with drinks,” Richard said. He cocked one eye at Javan. “Do you want to feed our prisoner?”

  “Lord, no, let him stew.”

  “Prisoner?” Caroline asked, intrigued.

  Richard’s lips twisted. “Killer Miller,” he said with contempt. “The man who shot you.”

  Her eyes widened. “You caught him? Shouldn’t you have handed him over to the authorities?”

  “Probably will,” Javan said without much obvious interest.

  “Is he an infamous highwayman?” Caroline asked, accepting a little bread and butter. The ache in her arm seemed to have eased just a little and she felt very sleepy, but there were things she needed to know.

  “He’s an infamous rogue for hire,” Richard said grimly.

  “But how did you capture him?” Caroline demanded. “I want to know everything!”

  “Javan just rode up the hill and fetched him,” Richard said. “Having taken the earlier precaution of knocking him cold with his own rifle. We needed to be sure there were no other gunmen around taking pot-shots at us.”

  “And were there?” she asked breathlessly.

  “No,” Richard replied, taking the tray of ale and coffee from some unseen person at the door. “You see, he isn’t a highwayman, but a ruffian hired by our old friend Marcus Swayle.”

  “Who will pay,” Javan said in a cold, dangerous voice, all the more chilling for its absolute certainty.

  “We assumed this Miller had mistaken me for Javan,” Richard said, “and hit you by accident. Turns out, his orders were to shoot you.”

  “Me?” She dropped her nibbled crust on the plate. “I’m the governess! Why would Swayle want me dead?”

  “To further discredit Javan,” Richard explained. “Put the blame on him and hope he hanged for it.”

  Caroline gazed from him to Javan. “But that’s…”

  “Unforgivable,” Javan finished for her. “Even Miller seems to think so, for he’s quite happy to land his paymaster in the soup. Apparently on Swayle’s instructions, it was Miller who hired Nairn for one more howling at the hall. Also, according to Miller, he told Swayle he wouldn’t kill you if he cou
ld help it.”

  “You would have made it easier for them by being there,” Caroline speculated. She frowned at Javan. “Why were you there? Why were you following us?”

  Richard grinned with unabashed mockery. “He thought we were eloping.”

  A gurgle of laughter broke from Caroline. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” Javan said shortly. “And you needn’t look so pleased about it because—”

  She threw out her hand, effectively silencing him and his fingers closed around hers. “I’m so sorry about the engagement sham. I didn’t know what to do for the best and everything seemed wrong.”

  “It was,” Javan said ruefully. “It was I who should have claimed the betrothal.”

  “Yes, you should,” Richard said frankly, “considering you were the one who was kissing her.”

  “I didn’t want to be pushed,” Javan muttered. His fingers tightened. “More than that, I didn’t want you to be pushed. I don’t want you to marry me to save your blasted reputation.”

  “Is it really that bad?” she asked.

  A breath of laughter escaped Javan. “Your reputation? Hardly. I don’t believe the Tamars or the Grants would have blabbed. I suppose we should care that no one realizes you are now travelling alone with two male Benedicts, but—”

  “Actually, that doesn’t seem to be strictly true,” Richard said from the window. “Come and see this.”

  “Not you,” Javan said severely to Caroline as he strode across the room to join his cousin. It seemed to her that his limp was less noticeable than when she’d first arrived at Haven Hall.

  “Good God,” Javan said in awe. “How the devil did she know? And she’s brought Rosa!”

  “Who has?” Caroline demanded. She really was very sleepy.

  “Marjorie,” Javan said. “It seems your reputation is saved. Although it will still seem odd, no doubt, when you return engaged to the other Benedict cousin.”

  Caroline frowned. “Neither of you ever considers asking.”