by Julie Daines
It caught him off guard. He stumbled to the side, loosening his grip. Marianne rolled away and off the bed. She screamed as loud as she’d ever made a noise in her entire life.
“Help!” she cried. “I need help here!” The house was silent.
Bartholomew Hayter wiped a trickle of blood from his cheek. He grinned up at her. “This will be more fun than I imagined.”
Marianne reached behind her, and her fingers closed around her water pitcher. She hurled it at him, but he ducked to the side.
Next, she threw the basin, but it, too, crashed against the wall behind him as he came at her slowly from the opposite side of the bed.
Marianne retreated, matching him step for step. She grabbed for a vase and threw that. He blocked it with his arm, leaving a new cut that created a spot of red through his shirt sleeve.
She was running out of ammunition. Her back was against the window.
He stood before her, blocking any attempt she might make of escape. She pressed back until the panes dug into her.
His knife glinted in the flickering candlelight, then sliced the silk of the beautiful gown that Mr. Northam had given her. He was nothing like his father. With real evil standing in front of her, the contrast was blinding.
She was reliving exactly the night of her family’s death. The moment of every nightmare she’d ever dreamed since that day. At least this time, the nightmare would end. She’d see her family soon enough. When it was finally over.
A crack rang from the doorway, and Hayter collapsed against her, then slumped to the ground.
It took her a moment to catch her breath, then she looked up.
Mr. Northam stood there, a pistol still smoking in his hand. He tossed the firearm aside and crossed the room in three strides.
“Miss Wood. Are you hurt?” He looked her over. “You’re bleeding,” he said as he pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her.
She stared at him.
Alive. She was still alive, was she not?
Yes, because the pain in her shoulder was extreme. She’d not felt it before. Mr. Northam was here. And he’d just killed his father.
“Mr. Northam,” she whispered. “I think I’m going to faint.”
He lifted her into his arms. “It’s over now,” he whispered. “Over. You never have to fear him ever again.”
She leaned into him, and his arms wrapped tighter around her. She lay her head on his shoulder, and he stroked her hair.
“No.” She lifted her head. “Mrs. Strumpshaw. Jamie.” They could not still be living. Bartholomew Hayter would have taken care of them first.
“Go below stairs,” Mr. Northam ordered. “Look for Mrs. Strumpshaw and her son.”
Marianne hadn’t noticed there were other men present. One of them was the magistrate, Mr. Cranmore. He pulled the door open wider, and Mr. Northam carried her out and into the larger bedroom at the front of the house, then lowered her onto the bed.
“We’d better summon a doctor, I think.” Mr. Cranmore had found a linen towel and was pressing it to her shoulder.
Mr. Northam nodded at him, taking over Mr. Cranmore’s efforts at stanching the blood.
The shock of Hayter’s attack drained away, leaving room for the pain to settle in—a familiar pain she remembered from before. He’d done a remarkable job recreating the past.
“It’s all right if I die,” she told Mr. Northam. It only seemed fair after she’d already lost her whole family to Hayter in his first ambush.
Mr. Northam smiled at her. His real smile. Not the one he reserved for the jury at the inquest or even the one he saved for Mrs. Cricklade. This was his smile just for her. Like the one he’d given her when she stepped off the mail coach that first day in Bath. “You’re not going to die. A bit of sewing and you’ll be good as new.”
A young man entered. “We’ve found the mother and her boy. They are a little banged up, but they’ll be fine.”
Mr. Northam spat out an oath about how Bartholomew Hayter’s body would hang from the gibbet till the end of time.
“Do you want to come and check on them?” the younger man asked.
Mr. Northam looked down at her.
She had seen Hayter crumple to the ground. Witnessed the light flicker out of his yellow eyes. Mr. Northam had assured her he was dead and could no longer hurt her. But she would rather eat a pot of stewed eels every meal for the rest of her life than remain alone in a room next door to his body.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Mr. Northam said. “I’m not leaving her.”
The man nodded and left.
“How did he escape?” Marianne asked.
Mr. Northam’s jaws clenched. “During the transport to Taunton. He had an accomplice who set fire to the transport wagon.
The front door opened, and footsteps sounded on the stairs.
A moment later, Mr. Cranmore appeared carrying a black leather bag. “I’ve brought Dr. Palmer. He’s on his way up.”
Dr. Palmer arrived, out of breath from climbing the stairs on his injured leg.
Mr. Cranmore set his bag down on the dressing table. “I’ll go down and see the housekeeper. Get an idea from her what happened and how Hayter got in.”
Mr. Northam gave the magistrate a nod, then stood and went to the other side of the bed, giving Dr. Palmer space to work.
The doctor peeled back the cloth, and Marianne gasped. The pain was worse this time; she could feel it in burning waves, searing and spreading to the tips of her body.
The doctor pulled out a bottle of something. “Fetch some brandy,” he told Mr. Northam.
Mr. Northam left, returning a few minutes later with a decanter of amber liquid. Close on his heels was Mrs. Strumpshaw, carrying a basin of water and a pile of clean towels.
“Oh, my poor dear,” she said. Mrs. Strumpshaw’s eye was swollen and bruised, but it didn’t seem to affect her smile. “I was scared sick for you.”
“Is your Jamie well?” Marianne asked.
“Oh, he’s just fine. He’s a strong lad.” She set the basin down and set to cleaning Marianne’s wound.
Mr. Northam poured Marianne a glass of brandy, and she drank it down, grateful for anything that might take some of the pain away.
Dr. Palmer splashed a little of the spirits onto her cut. He might as well have poured a bucket of fire straight onto her heart. She cried out, wishing perhaps that Hayter had finished his deed so her suffering would be over. It took her a few moments to catch her breath, then she found Mr. Northam’s face.
He winked and smiled at her. “Strong and brave, remember?”
Right. She had appearances to keep up. But when Dr. Palmer came at her with needle and string, she reached out for Mr. Northam’s hand.
He wrapped his large fingers around hers, firm and solid. That single anchor did more to steady her than all the brandy in the world.
It took the doctor nearly half an hour to finish his work.
“I’m afraid this will leave a scar,” he said as he packed up his bag. “A worse scar, I should say.”
There was nothing to be done about that. A governess had little need for wearing gowns that showed her shoulders anyway.
“I will go and see to the boy now,” Dr. Palmer said.
Mrs. Strumpshaw nodded. “Thank you, sir.” Then she shooed the men out of the room. “Off you go. I’ve got to get the miss cleaned and ready for bed.”
Marianne let go of Mr. Northam’s hand with reluctance. Her business with him was over now. Bartholomew Hayter would not see the noose, but he did meet his just reward. And with the end of Bartholomew Hayter came the end of her connection with Mr. Northam.
Mrs. Strumpshaw put a clean linen wrap around the wound. Marianne was still wearing the silk ball gown. She no longer needed help to unbutton the back, for it was slit from neck to waist. When she slipped it over her shoulders, it fell to the floor.
Mrs. Strumpshaw had her in a new chemise and back in bed in no time. “I’ll go make you a dr
aft of tea to help you sleep,” she said, gathering up the soiled, ruined clothing and leaving her alone.
Marianne glanced over at the wall separating her from the body of Bartholomew Hayter. Would he come to her in her dreams tonight? It would be a tender mercy if his death in this world also banished him from her nighttime world.
“He’s gone,” Mr. Northam said, leaning against the doorframe. “They took his body away hours ago.”
“Oh.” She wouldn’t have gotten a wink of sleep all night with his corpse in the next room. “I’m glad to know it.”
“May I come in?”
He’d never asked before. But then again, this was the first time he’d entered while she was not either crying out in her sleep or being attacked by a murderer.
“Yes.”
He entered and sat in a chair near her bed. “How are you feeling now?”
“Better. It still stings, but it is not so bad.” The house was quiet. After all the men clumping around, up and down the stairs, now there was not a sound. “Has everyone gone?”
“Yes. Dr. Palmer left a few moments ago, and the last of the constable’s men followed him out.”
Marianne looked out the window. The moon was nearly full, resting high in the sky. Its light changed the city from one of gilded walls to silvery stones and diamond windows. He had saved her life—of that there was no doubt—but the cost to him might be hard to pay.
“I’m sorry I ever judged you by your father. It was wrong of me. And I’m sorry you had to kill him. That must have been difficult for you.” He’d have to carry that with him the rest of his life.
“It was not difficult at all, Miss Wood. It was an easy choice to make.” He scooted his chair a little closer.
“That’s right. You and your sense of justice.” An advocate for the weak. And she was definitely weak.
He scooted closer still. “I did not do it for justice.” He watched her closely, his eyes burning with something deep. She couldn’t look away.
His hands rested on the edge of her bed. Marianne placed her fingers on his. He wrapped his hand around hers for the second time that night. Instead of an anchor, this time his touch gave her wings. Perhaps her story was not the same as King Bladud. For now she felt she could fly.
A pool of moonlight streamed through the window, creating a fan of silver on the floor.
“The moon shines bright,” he whispered.
She smiled at him. Such nonsense. But she played along, quietly adding, “The stars give a light.”
“And I may kiss a pretty girl at ten o’clock at night.” He lifted his hand, tucking hers against his chest.
“It’s long past ten o’clock, Mr. Northam.”
His mouth was inches from hers. “I don’t care.” He leaned closer.
The moment his lips touched hers, she closed her eyes. The pain of her injuries melted away in the flood of desire that filled her body. His fingers landed on her cheek, then slipped down to the curve of her neck.
Then he let her go, all except her hand, which he held tightly. “Come in, Mrs. Strumpshaw.”
Mrs. Strumpshaw entered, her cheeks the color of persimmons. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Northam. I’ve got Miss Wood’s chamomile tea concoction here to help her sleep.”
If Mrs. Strumpshaw was all aflush, Marianne’s cheeks must be ten times worse. What must the woman think of her?
“I have good news, Mrs. Strumpshaw,” said Mr. Northam.
The woman nodded without looking up.
“Would you like to hear it?”
She turned around. “Certainly.”
“Miss Wood has consented to marry me.” Mr. Northam’s grin stretched from Bath to Bristol.
“I did no such thing,” said Marianne. The very presumption of the man.
Mr. Northam looked at her like he was the one mortally wounded instead of her. “You mean you won’t marry me?”
He had far too many airs for his own good. “I will marry you, of course, but I have not yet consented. As a man of the law, I’m surprised you would eschew proper procedure.”
Mrs. Strumpshaw handed Marianne her cup of tea. “Congratulations, miss. This is the happiest of news.”
Mr. Northam took the cup from her because he would not relinquish her one hand and the other was too painful to lift.
“That will do, Mrs. Strumpshaw. You may go. For I have a keen desire to kiss my newly betrothed one more time before I leave.”
Mrs. Strumpshaw’s face burned again. She gave Mr. Northam a stern tut-tut as she left the room, leaving the door wide open.
As soon as her feet sounded on the stairs, Mr. Northam set the teacup on the night table.
“From the first moment I saw you in the mail coach, small of stature, frightened, I have admired you. You came to Bath determined to face your greatest fear so that another might have justice. Tonight, when you told me you would no longer play my game, I knew that admiration had grown to something much fonder and I could not live without you.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You truly have made me the happiest of men.”
“Fine words of flattery,” she said. He would always be a player of games, reading people and understanding them faster than they could understand themselves. He knew her before she knew herself, and he’d been right in every assumption.
“Words of truth, I hope you know.” He kissed the back of her hand. “When Cranmore told me Hayter had escaped, my only thought was for you. If anything would have happened—” He swallowed hard.
He was not the only one who could read people. She was learning too, and he meant what he had said.
“Yes, Mr. Harby Northam.” She let her fingers graze his whiskered jaw. “I will marry you.”
He leaned close and kissed her again.
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About Julie Daines
Julie Daines was born in Concord, Massachusetts, and was raised in Utah. She spent eighteen months living in London, where she studied and fell in love with English literature, sticky toffee pudding, and the mysterious guy who ran the kebab store around the corner.
She loves reading, writing, and watching movies—anything that transports her to another world. She picks Captain Wentworth over Mr. Darcy, firmly believes in second breakfast, and never leaves home without her verveine.
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Lord Edmund’s Dilemma
By Caroline Warfield
Chapter One
Six bewigged musicians played on, oblivious to the cream of Bath society parading about the Pump Room or sitting in a manner designed to show their au courant attire to best advantage. Lucy Ashcroft thought the music especially enjoyable this morning, the crush less so. As the Bath season got underway, more of the fashionable elite poured into town.
The crush thickened as she made her way toward the counter that provided a glass of the famous spa waters to those able to afford a subscription. Lucy found the water disgusting in spite of its reputed health benefits, but the ladies believed they needed a daily dose, and she did not have the heart to say no. She pressed forward as delicately as she could, clutching her subscription chit, as well as Aunt Imogene’s, and hoping those serving would be too distracted to notice that this was her third trip. She had no qualms about collecting waters for Aunt Imogene’s less fortunate friends who had no subscription of their own. The waters came up from the earth free, after all.
She reached the counter, only to be jostled by gentlemen seeking service. The man behind the counter shot a glance—more of a glare, really—in her direction. It didn’t bode well. The well-dressed gentleman who had taken the place of the corpulent squire to her right must have seen the look.
“I believe this lady was ahead of me,” he said. The deep voice, as mellow as the dark chocolate she sipped every morning, echoed through her.
The servant seemed about to argue until
he studied the gentleman more carefully. “Of course, my lord,” he said with an inclination of his head.
My lord? Suddenly shy, Lucy managed only a quick glance at the man. “Thank you,” she murmured. She had an urge to curtsy, but the crowd made that impossible, if not ridiculous. Soon she had her glasses, one for the Dowager Lady Hardy and one for Mrs. Moffat, and began her careful way back through the throng.
“May I assist you with those?” the same deep voice said from behind her.
Heat enveloped Lucy’s face, her skin prickling. In the midst of a crowd, both hands clutching glasses of Bath water and her third best dress clinging to her legs, she felt as awkward as she often did when she attempted to mind the children while Stepmama entertained the squire’s wife.
“No, thank you. I can manage,” she said without turning. A voice in the back of her head—probably her stepmother’s—called her a perfect widgeon for not attempting to fix the gentleman’s attention. He’s a lord, for goodness’ sake.
The gentleman excused himself to an elderly gentleman who moved aside so he could come around her. “I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but your hands are full and you seem like you could use assistance.”
Lucy couldn’t avoid facing him. His smile, the sort that began with the mouth and infused the entire face with kindness, startled her when she did finally look at him. Little lines around his brown eyes made her think perhaps he perpetually smiled in just such a way. For a titled gentleman, he dressed rather plainly, in black and gray with a simple knot at his neck. She smiled back. She couldn’t help it.
“Thank you, my lord, but I am almost to the ladies, and it is just as easy to retain my grip as it would be to hand them over,” she said.
He followed her glance to the ladies sitting in their corner—five elderly women obviously on the fringes of society. Not one wore a fashionable dress, and one or two appeared shabby, even to the most casual observer. They were Aunt Imogene’s bosom bows, and Lucy considered them her own circle of friends while in Bath. She lovingly referred to them as the Circle when she thought of them.