The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  “Deirdre! What the devil…?” He looked at the object in her hand and his eyes narrowed.

  She followed his gaze and the pistol was quickly lowered.

  “What are you doing with that?” he asked with a suggestion of suspicion in his voice. Behind him, on the floor, she could see a lantern and the flickering light in the darkness of the tower reassured her.

  “I don’t feel dressed without it,” she responded with a flippancy she was far from feeling, and made as if to push past him.

  His arms came and caught her shoulders. “Wait!” And then on a less urgent note, “Deirdre, Armand is here. He’s all right, but I think he’s foxed or some such thing. Don’t be alarmed.”

  He stood aside and Deirdre saw the form huddled on the flagstones of the floor. Armand was half propped against the wall and his eyes were closed. At his elbow was an empty brandy bottle, and the stench of strong spirits assaulted Deirdre’s nostrils.

  Wordlessly, she moved to kneel beside him and she felt for his pulse. It was beating erratically, but it was strong.

  “How did you find him?” she asked over her shoulder, and she smoothed Armand’s tousled locks back from his forehead.

  “I knew all along that he was here, but I had no wish to give Rathbourne wind of it—not when he was in a mood to do murder.”

  She looked a little surprised at this but merely responded, “You knew? But you said that you saw Armand making for the gatehouse.”

  “That was no lie. But he turned aside before reaching it. It’s my guess that Armand saw who shot at Rathbourne, but knowing he himself would come under suspicion, ran for cover. I have merely put Rathbourne off the scent. The boy is within the walls of the fortress. Rathbourne is searching on the outside. Perhaps I should not have mentioned his name at all, but it never occurred to me that Rathbourne would jump to conclusions.”

  There was something in his logic that was not quite right, but Deirdre was too anxious about her brother’s position to spend precious moments sifting through long explanations.

  “But why would he come here and drink himself into a stupor? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Cavanaugh shrugged. “Who knows? It’s my surmise that he was in his cups before he came through the barbican tonight. We’ll just have to contain our curiosity until the boy comes round. But what’s to be done? Shall I call off the search and tell Rathbourne that Armand has been found?”

  “No!” Deirdre’s quick denial silenced him. She needed time to think, but her brain was sluggish, unable or unwilling to grapple with the onslaught of problems which pressed upon her. “No,” she repeated more quietly. “Perhaps I am being overcautious, but I would feel happier if Armand were away from Belmont altogether.”

  He looked at her for a long considering moment, then nodded. “I was afraid it would come to this. Their quarrel must have been ferocious.”

  “It was,” she acknowledged, but did not elaborate.

  “Deirdre,” he said reasonably, “try not to put too much credence on all the gossip you have heard about Gareth. It’s grossly exaggerated, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “Oh, you know, the stories that he somehow engineered Andrew’s death in that climbing accident; his implacable hatred of the French, or anyone who opposes him for that matter; his cruelty…”

  “You’ve been listening to Armand,” she interrupted with sudden insight, and wished that Tony had not chosen that moment to regale her with a litany of Rathbourne’s iniquities.

  “Oh no.” He sounded surprised. “These stories about Rathbourne have been circulating for years now. I know he is a hard man, but I can’t believe that he is…well, without conscience.”

  Deirdre did not believe it either, not in her heart of hearts. If it were only herself she had to consider, she could face him without a tremor. But she did not have the right to take a chance on her brother’s safety.

  “Can you saddle and fetch mounts for us without being seen?” She spoke with a new resolve. “I’d like to take Armand to our home in Henley.”

  “I can try. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “Good. Hide the horses well, then come up here and give me a hand with Armand. I’ll never manage to get him down those steps on my own. D’you mind if I keep the lantern? I don’t care to be left in total darkness.”

  “No, I don’t mind at all.”

  He watched with interest as Deirdre brought up the barrel of the pistol and cradled it in the crook of one arm.

  “D’you know how to use that thing?” he asked doubtfully.

  She gave him a long level look. “Oh, yes, Tony,” she answered. The frown left her brows and her voice firmed. “Never doubt it for a moment.”

  “You know, you’re a remarkable girl,” and his voice held bemusement as well as admiration. “If I’d found you before Rathbourne…who knows?” and he laughed deprecatingly, but his eyes were watchful.

  “No, if Rathbourne hadn’t found me, I would still be…” Her voice drifted away as if she had become suddenly distanced in time and space. “No,” she said more forcefully, but she smiled to take the sting out of that one annihilating word.

  “If you say so,” he said gravely, and moved to the head of the stairs. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She listened to the stealthy sounds of his footfalls as he descended the circular flight of inside stairs of the tower. The door creaked as he closed it behind him. Then there was silence.

  She turned back to Armand and grasped him by the shoulders. “Wake up, you besotted fool!” she said impatiently. He groaned and tried to push her hands away. “Armand, wake up. You must pull yourself out of this drunken stupor.”

  She had to strain to catch his slurred words. “Caro? Must…see…Caro.”

  “Why must you?”

  He struggled to answer her question, but his head lolled on her shoulder.

  Nothing she did could rouse him again, and she wondered abstractly how they would manage to get him, in his intoxicated condition, out of the tower and into the saddle. If only Rathbourne had given her some clue about the fate that might await Armand if he believed him guilty, she would be tempted to remain where they were till her husband’s anger had time to cool and Armand could come to his senses and explain the damning evidence against him. But his silence had been almost a threat, and she would be a fool not to take Rathbourne seriously. She settled down beside the inert form of her brother to await Tony’s return.

  The door at the bottom of the stairs opened, and Deirdre’s head came up. She had not expected Tony to return for some time. Something must have gone wrong. She got cautiously to her feet and peered down the well of the staircase, but could see nothing in the dense gloom.

  “Tony?” she queried softly.

  There was no answer. The footsteps halted, then after a pause, began to climb again, but more rapidly. She steadied herself with one hand behind her against the wall, and raised the pistol. He rounded the corner and the light from the lantern clearly illumined the austere set of his features.

  “Rathbourne,” she said on a whisper, and stumbled back till the hem of her skirts brushed the prone figure of her brother.

  Rathbourne took in everything at a glance. He observed Armand’s huddled form at her feet, and his eyes, like molten gold, moved from the empty bottle then sliced to the weapon in Deirdre’s hand.

  “So, it’s come to this!” and a travesty of a smile twisted his mouth. “What now, Deirdre?” Then on a softer, more intimidating note, “Do you intend to shoot me dead?”

  He took a step toward her, and Deirdre leveled the pistol. Her chin lifted and her eyes met his unflinchingly.

  “What do you intend to do with Armand?’ she parried, and was surprised that her voice betrayed nothing of her inner trepidation.

  “I don’t have to answer to you for my actions in this instance. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that St. Jean shot at me earlier this evening? I shall tell you once, and only once, not to interfere in
what is between your brother and me. Do I make myself clear? Now step aside.” There was no softening, no offer of compromise in his stern tone.

  Her arm straightened and she pointed the pistol at his heart. “Come one step closer, Rathbourne, and it’ll be the last thing you do. Ever,” she added for emphasis.

  His eyes smoldered. “I believe you would pull the trigger.”

  “Believe it!”

  He averted his head, and one hand came up to ravage his dark locks in a weary, bemused gesture. “Deirdre, oh Deirdre!” and in the next instant his foot lashed out and caught her a crushing blow on the wrist. She cried out and the pistol went spinning from her grasp. It came to rest against the door leading to the battlements.

  Rathbourne strolled to the door and picked up the pistol. He weighed it in the palm of his hand. “So now we know where we stand,” he said quietly, and laughed in a way that made Deirdre press back away from him.

  “You don’t mind if I dispose of this—what is it?—a momento of Waterloo? The weapon you used on the Prussian?” Her silence confirmed his words. “I thought as much,” and he thrust open the door to the battlements. She watched as he threw the pistol from the threshold to arc over the rampart walls. Then he turned back, and at the little half smile on his lips, something inside Deirdre shriveled.

  “What do you mean to do?” she asked tremulously, and stepped in front of Armand as if by shielding him from the Earl’s murderous eyes, she could make him invisible. The gesture was not lost on Rathbourne. His eyes blazed.

  “Why, what should I do, but what I should have done long since—sever every connection with you and your family. Oh don’t look so worried, madam wife. I won’t harm your precious brother. You wanted compassion? You have it! You wanted Marcliff? It’s yours! I give it back to you, gladly. I hope you and St. Jean will be very happy there. It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it? He’s the only man in your life that counts for anything, the only one who, right or wrong, you trust implicitly. Oh, don’t shake your head at me in that innocent fashion. You proved once and for all, when you pointed that pistol at my heart, where your loyalty lies—not with me, that’s for certain. What a fool I was to think that once, just once, you would put yourself completely into my hands. But it was not to be, and I, thank God, have come to my senses.” He turned away as if the sight of her disgusted him, and threw one last barb over his shoulder. “It’s time to cut my losses. See that you are packed and ready to leave for Marcliff first thing tomorrow. You can stay there till my child is born. After that…we’ll see.”

  As shock and weariness began to take their toll on her, Deirdre’s teeth began to chatter and she clamped her jaws tightly together. Her misery was too deep for tears. She had failed him, and she did not know how to put things right.

  She tried to think of something to say in her defense, but the words would not come. The set of his shoulders, his air of remoteness, one fist clenching and unclenching as he leaned the press of his weight against the wall—everything warned her that he was in no frame of mind to listen.

  She said miserably, “Gareth, I’m so sorry.”

  He remained unmoving, and she had to strain to hear his words. “So am I, Deirdre. So am I.”

  They neither of them heard the soft footfalls on the stairs until Tony Cavanaugh emerged from the stairwell. “Touching, very touching, and so disappointing!” he said conversationally.

  A shaft of light was caught and reflected back from the object Cavanaugh held in his right hand, and Deirdre saw that it was a pistol.

  “You can put that away,” she said wearily. “Rathbourne never had any intention of harming Armand.”

  Cavanaugh smiled unpleasantly. “Oh, I never thought for a minute that he did.” And he brought up the pistol in a threatening gesture.

  Deirdre felt a shaft of purest apprehension, and the fine hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end. Her eyes darted to Rathbourne’s, and she read the warning that flared in their depths.

  Rathbourne pushed from the wall but his posture remained relaxed. “So, it was you. I thought as much.”

  “Did you?” asked Cavanaugh in a negligent tone, though the white of his knuckles around the butt of the pistol in his hand betrayed a control that was rigidly imposed. “I take leave to doubt that. If you had, you would have murdered me in some quiet spot before now without the least compunction.”

  “Not murder, Tony, execute. There is a difference, you know, though I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered to you since the result would have been exactly the same. You were, and still are, a traitor. I suggest that what I had in mind would have been preferable to a long, drawn-out trial and a public hanging.” He willed his voice to tell the lie convincingly. “Even should you silence Deirdre and me, you won’t get away with it. They know who you are.” His voice sank and he said quietly, “The game is over. Give it up, Tony, and I’ll be generous, I promise you.”

  Cavanaugh’s well-bred mask of indifference slipped. He stared wild-eyed for a moment, then visibly struggled to get a grip on himself. “I don’t think so.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “No. If you had put two and two together, I would have been a dead man.”

  “And so you are. I spared you only because there was some doubt that St. Jean was your accomplice. I had to know the truth about him.”

  “And what have you discovered?”

  “I knew he was innocent as soon as I saw that pistol in your hand. I’d recognize it anywhere. O’Toole keeps it in the tackroom.”

  A laugh was startled out of Tony. “Clever, oh very clever, Gareth. But just for argument’s sake. Supposing St. Jean had been my accomplice, what fate would you have had in store for him then?”

  “You know the answer to that question as well as I do.”

  “A convenient accident?”

  The words hung on the air, and Deirdre’s eyes fastened on the impassive form of her husband. Their eyes met. He made no answer, and after a moment turned away from her.

  Tony’s laugh had an ugly ring to it. “Since it makes no difference now, I don’t mind admitting that the boy is a pawn, nothing more. D’you know, Rathbourne, you and I are both diabolical? I don’t think there is much to choose between us. Deirdre, do you still prefer him?”

  Deirdre felt as if her brain were frozen. With paralyzing slowness, she managed to stammer, “I don’t understand this.”

  Rathbourne saw her distress, and made a move to lessen the distance that separated them.

  “Don’t!” and the pistol in Cavanaugh’s hand was nervously jerked up.

  “Gareth, what’s going on?” she pleaded.

  “As you see, my dear, my cousin is finally showing his colors.” He turned slightly to address Tony. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Up till now, you have stayed very much in the background and let others do your dirty work. Oh wait, now I get it.” One hand went to his head in a gesture of impatience. “When you lured me up here to find Armand, was Deirdre supposed to blow my brains out when I came up those stairs? She would have, you know, oh yes she would have if I hadn’t disarmed her. Your scheme almost came off, if it’s any consolation.”

  “What scheme?” asked Deirdre, her voice rising with the panic which was racing to every nerve end in her body. In the circular chamber, in the dim light from the lone lantern which had been set on the massive flagstones, the features of the two protagonists assumed a sinister and inhuman aspect. The scene was like a nightmare which she longed to waken from.

  “Well, Tony, shall you tell her or shall I?” she heard her husband’s voice drawl with its usual sangfroid.

  “Oh you, by all means, Gareth. I’d be obliged if you would keep it brief. Though I think it will be a long time before your lackeys return.”

  The smile that twisted Cavanaugh’s lips was chilling and a shiver of alarm pierced Deirdre’s heart. It was as if she had been touched by the ghastly breath of some ancient shade which stalked the castle walls. Tony Cavanaugh was a stranger to her! There was a satani
c mesmerizing light in his eyes. It came to her that he was in no hurry to bring things to a head, but was savoring every moment of the novelty of having Rathbourne compelled to do his will.

  “Where shall we begin?” asked Rathbourne, and his eyes, heavy-lidded, looked steadily into the fever-bright eyes of his cousin. “Did it begin when we were children, Tony?”

  “Indubitably,” was the amused rejoinder.

  “You hid it well.”

  “What other course was open to me? I lived on your family’s charity. But I hated you even then. You thought yourself cock of the walk—and so you were. I was just the poor relation. It was Andrew’s death that made me see how fragile your claim to the title and estates was.”

  “But you didn’t act then. You should have, you know. I was more trusting when I was younger.”

  “True. But I myself was more of an idealist. When you went off to Spain, I thought the French would do the deed for me.”

  “How galling for you when I returned after five years without a scratch. Then, of course, you took a hand in things.”

  “Much good it did me. Really, Gareth, you’re like the proverbial cat with nine lives. Footpads, French assassins, even fire left you untouched. Armand was my last hope.”

  “In some things I’m remarkably lucky, but by no means in all,” replied the Earl in a deprecating tone.

  “Your luck has just run out.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Deirdre stirred and said, as if coming back from a distance, “Where does Armand come into all this? I don’t understand. How does he come to be here in the tower?”

  “Oh, that was easily accomplished,” said Cavanaugh. “I lured him here with a note, forged of course, from cousin Caro. The poor boy is really smitten with her. Just a suggestion from me that Rathbourne had unleashed the full force of his anger against the girl, and Armand was beside himself.”

  “And the brandy?” asked Rathbourne quietly.

  “Oh that was to while away the time. Drugged, of course. It will be hours before the poor boy comes to himself.”