Knight For A Lady (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 3)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  So bold? Edith’s pulse began a slow pumping. She wanted to scream or curse, but her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Her famous wit had deserted her. She could think of nothing to say to hold him. At any moment he might make a move. How to withstand him?

  She looked wildly around the room, and her eyes came to rest on the bottle on the table. He picked it up by the neck, turned it upside down so that liquid trickled out. He waved it in a gesture as mocking as it was triumphant.

  “I can read your mind, Edith. Face it, my dear, there is no escape. You may as well come to me with a good grace.”

  He set the bottle aside and reached out a hand to her as he spoke.

  “Never!” Without thought, Edith snatched up her discarded fork, rising as she did so. With the full might of her arm, she jabbed the prongs into his hand, bearing it down to the table.

  Lord Kilshaw roared and leapt up and forward as the prongs penetrated deep into his flesh and quivered there, blood beginning to spurt.

  Edith seized her side of the table and heaved. It tipped, knocking into Kilshaw, who was half standing. He was thrown backwards. His chair went over, crashing to the floor. Dishes, bottles and cutlery slid across the table, crashing down around him.

  Her heart was pounding but Edith wasted no time, racing for the door. She turned the handle to no avail, and remembered he had locked it and the key was in his pocket.

  He was grunting and cursing on the floor, batting away the debris that had fallen on him, the fork still protruding from his hand.

  Edith looked around for another weapon. If she could batter him into unconsciousness, she could get the key. One of the bottles had rolled a little way from Lord Kilshaw and remained intact. Edith darted towards it. As she neared, a hand reached out and seized her ankle.

  “Not so fast, you witch! Come here!”

  He gave a vicious tug and Edith toppled, grabbed for the table and missed. She came down in a tangle of petticoats, knocking her head on the edge of the table as she did so.

  Momentarily stunned, she was unable to move fast enough to evade Lord Kilshaw, who swung himself over her, still bleeding from his hand. Edith saw he’d succeeded in removing the fork and groaned, putting up her hands to try to hold him off.

  He was snarling, his fingers digging hard into her shoulders.

  “You don’t escape me so readily, you fiend! I would have been merciful, but now you deserve what’s coming to you!”

  Panic gripped Edith as he raised himself enough to permit him to reach down to drag at her petticoats. Panting for breath, she shoved at his chest, but the effort was unavailing. Her legs were imprisoned beneath his, her body crushed by his weight.

  From somewhere half outside her consciousness, Edith heard sounds betokening activity without. Voices and footsteps? Had the thumping and clatter within the parlour drawn attention?

  No immediate hope of rescue. The room was locked! And Lord Kilshaw had her at his mercy.

  Under the impetus of desperation, she turned her head away from his hot regard, vicious now with rising desire. God help her, but he truly was inflamed! Her defiance had served to spur him.

  Edith’s gaze hunted the debris and lighted upon the bloody fork he had cast away from him. The air washed her bare limbs and she felt his fumble at the fall of his breeches. His breath was hot and heavy on her face, stinking of liquor. No time to lose!

  His busy fingers left her hand free. Edith threw it out, groping for the fork, her eyes now on his to keep his attention off the movement of her hand. She felt the prick of the prongs and slid her fingers down to close about the handle.

  As he thrust his hand between her thighs, grabbing and shoving hard, Edith brought her weapon up in a violent sweep, and struck below Lord Kilshaw’s raised chin.

  He froze, his mouth flying open, but no sound came out. He seemed to fight for breath, his grip tightening so hard on her thigh and shoulder that she winced.

  The pose held for a timeless moment, blood dripping onto Edith’s chest from the wound she had inflicted.

  Forever passed in Edith’s frozen mind. Then Lord Kilshaw drew a sobbing breath. His grip relaxed suddenly and he collapsed, still half covering Edith’s body.

  Uttering a cry, she shoved with all her might, dragging herself out from underneath. Her legs were caught, and she had to physically lift his off before she could extricate herself. There was a sob in her throat as her breath came short and fast. She pushed herself to a kneeling position and stared at the wreck of her Nemesis.

  He was lying on his side, the fork protruding from his neck. His aspect was deathly, his face drained of colour. Was he breathing?

  The fear she’d killed him spurred Edith into action. Reaching towards his hips, she dug her fingers into his visible pocket. They groped in vain. No feel of cold steel rewarded her efforts.

  She regarded the heavy body with misgiving. Could she turn him? If the key was in his other pocket, then she must.

  The sounds from without had grown louder. She could hear footsteps pounding along the hallway outside. The thought that she was no longer alone with Kilshaw’s body spurred Edith.

  She staggered to her feet, aware her legs were trembling. She shook out her petticoats and held them up as she stepped gingerly over his still carcase and crossed to the door. Without hesitation, she lifted her fists and hammered on it, yelling out. “Help! Help me, whoever you are! I can’t get out!”

  The most welcome voice in the world answered her.

  “Edith! It is I, Hetherington! Stand away from the door!”

  “Niall! Oh, thank God!”

  Hardly aware of her own sobbing relief, she flung herself away from the door, landing flat against the wall.

  A deafening report made her jump, throwing her hands to her ears. The door cracked open and was thrust back by a kick from a booted foot.

  Niall charged into the room, his gaze falling first on Kilshaw on the floor and then sweeping up to find Edith. “Are you hurt? What has happened here?”

  Edith staggered forward and fell upon him, feeling his arms close about her in a comforting embrace, his hand holding her head to his shoulder.

  “Hush, now, hush, my dear one. It’s over now.”

  She drew a sobbing breath and pulled back, looking up into his face. “Niall, I think I’ve killed him!”

  His brows drew together. “The devil you have!” He glanced down at the body on the floor and then his eyes came back to Edith, reassurance in them as he grasped her shoulders. “Go with Peter, Edith. I’ll make all right here.”

  She allowed herself to be handed over to young Eddows, who took her arm and ushered her out through the door. Edith could not resist a glance back into the shambles behind her. Niall was on one knee beside Lord Kilshaw’s still body, checking his pulse.

  “Come away, Miss Westacott,” urged her escort.

  She shuddered, the full horror of what had happened only now coming in upon her. God help her, but she might yet end upon the rope for this night’s work!

  Chapter Thirty-one

  As he hunted for a pulse, Niall searched Kilshaw’s pale features. He’d seen enough wounded men on the battlefield to be able to see at once that the villain did not have the waxen look of death upon him. A pity. Niall was tempted to finish the job and send the fiend straight to hell, if the consequences to Edith were not in question.

  One glance at the half ripped open fall at the waist of the man’s breeches, taken with Edith’s dishevelled state, was enough to give Niall a fair notion of what had prompted her to take such drastic measures to protect herself.

  Under his fingers, still clasped about Kilshaw’s wrist, a slight pumping confirmed the man was still alive. A groan and a flicker of his eyelids betokened returning consciousness. One wavering hand came up, groping at his neck where the fork was embedded, having entered just above the cravat, which was spotted with blood.

  Niall grabbed the hand and held it off. “Wait! Don’t touch it!”

  Kilshaw’
s eyes flickered open and he gazed up at Niall, blinking blearily. “You!” His voice was hoarse.

  “Hold still! I’m going to extract the fork.”

  “Fork?” The dark eyes rolled a little. “Again? Damn the little vixen to hell!”

  Niall did not trouble to answer. It was evident Kilshaw recalled the events prior to his collapse, but this was not the moment to demand details. Though a welter of admiration went through him, tinged with grim humour, at the method Edith had used to save herself.

  “I’m going to have to remove your neckcloth first. Just keep still.”

  The man was evidently in no condition to argue. He let his hand fall and his head sank back. His cravat had come half undone in the late contretemps, and Niall had no difficulty in ripping its folds open, though he had to use care while unwinding it to expose the man’s neck and avoid shifting the protruding fork. But it would serve as a bandage after. He caught sight of a discarded napkin amongst the debris in which Kilshaw was lying and snatched it up, bundling it into a thick pad.

  “Brace yourself,” he told the man and grasped the fork. “It’s deep and will likely bleed a good deal.”

  His victim hissed in a breath as, with some effort, Niall pulled the prongs free from his neck. Blood gushed behind them, and Niall held his makeshift pad to the wound to staunch it. The white cloth reddened with rapidity and Niall took up Kilshaw’s hand and put it to the pad.

  “Hold this as tight as you can.”

  The hand wavered a little, but then the man’s fingers pressed harder and Niall was able to let go. Folding the long length of the stained cravat in two, he re-tied it around Kilshaw’s neck with deft fingers, knotting the ends to keep it in place.

  “That should hold it until you can summon a surgeon.”

  “Obliged to you,” grunted Kilshaw. He tried to rise and failed. “Help me up, damn you!”

  Niall got up and righted the man’s chair. Then he heaved him from the floor and dumped him into it. Kilshaw landed heavily and sat there for a moment, panting, his eyes closed.

  Niall surveyed the wreck. Instinct urged him to improve upon Edith’s handiwork and slam his fist into that handsome face. Not that the villain was looking his best at this moment. But an innate sense of chivalry prevailed. One did not strike a man when he was down, no matter the provocation.

  Kilshaw’s eyes opened again and he searched frowningly about the mess below him. “I daresay my bottle did not survive. Damnation! I could do with a dose of liquor.”

  Niall extracted the slim silver flask he carried from one of his pockets and opened it, holding it out. “You may take this. Though it goes against the grain.”

  An echo of the villain’s customary sneer appeared in his face as he took the flask. “I daresay you’d prefer to fling it in my face.” He drank deeply from the flask and handed it back. “That’s better.”

  Niall wiped the opening of the bottle with fastidious fingers and replaced the lid, slipping the flask into his pocket. “Attend to me, Kilshaw!”

  The man’s brows rose. “A trifle peremptory, sir, towards a wounded man.”

  “You may thank your stars for that wound, my friend. The one I should have inflicted would have incapacitated you to a greater degree.”

  Kilshaw’s eyes glinted up at him, but his voice was still rough from the rude treatment at his throat. “Is it so, indeed? Well, let us try a fall, my dear Hetherington, when this is mended.” He touched one long finger gingerly to the improvised bandage.

  Niall snorted. “By no means. You are done, sir. Make up your mind to that.”

  “Oh? Upon whose authority am I done, pray?”

  “Mine. Make no mistake. If you come at Edith again, you will be coming at my wife.”

  Malice showed in the man’s eyes. “You’d make her a countess? Good God, man, don’t you know I’ve been there before you?”

  Niall gritted his teeth. “You’re lying.”

  The sneer returned to Kilshaw’s mouth. “Am I now? She has you fooled, has she?”

  “Don’t compound your villainy with further lies! I know Edith too well to be taken in.”

  “My dear sir, I know her a deal better than you might wish.”

  Niall’s temper got the better of him. “Be silent! Or I’ll bury my scruples and break your pretty nose!”

  Kilshaw grinned sourly. “That’s your trouble, Hetherington. Too many scruples.”

  Aware the man was merely trying to provoke him, Niall shifted his ground. “If you show your face in this district again, I will make your recent activities known to the world at large.”

  “What, and force Edith to brave the scandal? I doubt it, my friend.”

  “Do you? Then you don’t know me, my friend.” He strode to the door, but did not open it immediately. He looked back at Kilshaw. “By the way, I’ll be writing to your royal patron. I dare say he will be interested to learn of your doings. More so to hear of my intent to make them public. They tell me the Prince of Wales is terrified of scandal. And you are one of his cronies, are you not?”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the smug expression wiped off Kilshaw’s face, and knew at last he had found the chink in the fellow’s armour.

  “You need not be afraid.” The words were grunted out. “I’m done with the wench. She’s not worth it.”

  Niall eyed him with contempt. “She is to me. Remember that.”

  Turning from the sight of Kilshaw’s pallid countenance, he opened the door and left the room, shutting it quietly behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The journey back to Itchington Bishops seemed to Edith a timeless interval. Wrapped in a travelling rug Niall abstracted from beneath the seat, she sat beside him in the curricle as he drove through the darkened countryside, lost in a dreamlike state where reality melded into nightmare.

  The events of the last minutes of her capture replayed in her mind over and over again. She found it hard to believe Niall’s assertion that Lord Kilshaw still lived. Yet for no consideration would she have gone back into that room to see it for herself.

  The hood was up on the curricle, giving her an illusion of privacy within its cocoon. She knew, at the back of her mind, that Niall’s groom was on the perch behind and the rest would be following, either on horseback or in the phaeton.

  She recalled sitting in a public room downstairs, shivering on a bench, while young Peter Eddows conversed with his father. She could hear sounds of a struggle out in the hallway, with thumps and grunts betokening some sort of fight. Mr Eddows must have noticed her question, for he had approached her, laying a hand on her shoulder and speaking in a tone of reassurance.

  “Don’t trouble your head about it, Miss Westacott. Kilshaw’s groom and the landlord and tapster here put up a spirited protest at our invasion, that is all.”

  She nodded, feeling dazed at the number of men Niall had brought to her rescue.

  “Peter, fetch a tot of brandy to Miss Westacott. If the tapster or a waiter is not by, get it yourself.”

  Voices had been raised in argument. Edith recognised Peter’s, barking quite in Niall’s peremptory manner, which had induced a tiny smile. He returned presently and passed a glass to his father, who urged it upon Edith.

  “Drink this, Miss Westacott. It will revive you.”

  She put a hand towards the glass, but did not take it immediately. “Brandy?”

  “Just so. His lordship would advise you to drink it, I know.”

  “Advise me?” Edith’s dazed state had lightened for a space. “Order me, more like.”

  Mr Eddows smiled. “Well, I will not emulate him, ma’am, but do take a sip or two. I truly think you need it.”

  Edith took the glass and tipped the fiery liquid down her throat. She gasped and coughed, but the effect was almost instantaneous. Warmth slid into her chest and the clouds in her mind began to dissipate.

  She was alert enough on Niall’s joining them for the horror of what she had done to resurface. He must have seen
it in her face, for he did not wait for her question.

  “He’s alive, Edith. The wound was deep, but not fatal. I’ve patched him up and told his man out there to send for a surgeon.”

  Mr Eddows blinked at him. “You amaze me, my lord. After all that man has done?”

  “He does not deserve as much consideration, but it will save trouble in the long run.”

  He had lost no time in bundling Edith into the curricle, saying he must get her home in the shortest possible time. He’d set as speedy a pace as the dark night would allow, and few words were exchanged between them.

  Edith did not ask what had occurred after she left the parlour. It was enough to know she had not killed the wretch, and so need not fear the authorities.

  Lulled by the rhythm of the vehicle, the regular beat of the horses’ hooves, Edith’s mind became cloudy again. The events of the night began to assume the aspect of a dream, and she woke with a start to find the curricle at a standstill.

  Blinking into the lightened atmosphere, she sat up and looked about. The vicarage? She was home! Candlelight flickered within the downstairs windows, where the curtains were left undrawn, the shutters open. Her uncle must be up still, waiting for her.

  Niall was no longer beside her and the groom was at the horses’ heads. Leaning forward, she saw Niall at the open door of the vicarage and caught sight of her uncle, who came hurrying down the path ahead of him.

  “My dearest girl! My poor Ede! I have been in a fever of anxiety.”

  He reached the curricle and put up his hands to clasp hers, gazing up at her with so much affection as to bring tears pricking at her eyes for the first time this night.

  “Uncle Lionel,” she managed and could not say more.

  “Let me come there, sir.”

  Her uncle gave place, and Niall held up his arms. “Come, Edith.”

  Shakily, she prepared to alight. She was no sooner on her feet than Niall plucked her bodily from the curricle and swung her up into his arms. On instinct she threw an arm about his neck to steady herself, clutching his coat with her other hand.

  “I could very well walk, you know.”