Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  Roderick Markham smiled. “Does the esteemed earl let you roam the streets unfettered? But I suppose you cannot help your nature. Once a street whore, always a street whore.”

  She bit her tongue, fighting the urge to defend herself. What good would it do? He would not listen to reason or give mercy. His face might be that of an angel, but his soul was as black as the night.

  “I have to thank you, my dear.”

  “What for?”

  “I wondered how I might entice you out. I’m grateful you spared me the bother, and came of your own free will.”

  “What would you know of free will?”

  “Still stubborn, I see, but that will change.”

  “My husband…”

  “Has, according to my source, been in Whites all day,” he interrupted. “Anything to delay having to return to the slut he married.”

  She froze at his next words.

  “I have the brat.”

  He drew near, and her skin crawled as soft fingertips caressed the back of her neck.

  “That’s it, little bird,” he whispered. “You want her to live, don’t you?”

  Defeat rested on her shoulders, rooting her to the spot.

  “What do you want?”

  “Now, there’s an interesting question.”

  Before she could respond, pain exploded in the back of her head, and she pitched forward into darkness.

  *

  As Hawthorne approached the townhouse, the front door opened to reveal Giles, together with the young couple whose love Hawthorne had, until now, envied with a passion. But no more. He was in possession of such a love.

  Frederica. His Frederica.

  The butler’s expression was grave, and the couple beside him exchanged fearful glances. A sense of foreboding slithered through Hawthorne’s body.

  Something was wrong.

  “Giles, what’s happened?”

  “Her ladyship’s gone.”

  Dear Lord, had she carried out her threat of that afternoon? Had she taken the child?

  “And my daughter?”

  The maid began to cry. “She’s not here, sir. I’m so sorry!”

  “Has my wife taken her?”

  “Your daughter disappeared,” Giles said. “Your wife left in search of her. Alone.”

  “Why did she not look for me?”

  The butler shifted from one foot to another. “Perhaps you should ask yourself that.”

  “I don’t like your tone, Giles.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” the butler said. “She wanted to find the child as swiftly as possible, with as little recrimination from you.”

  The maid and the footman shared a glance, which sent a spike of guilt through him. Frederica couldn’t trust him, and they knew.

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No,” Jenny said. “She left in such a hurry. But she mentioned a name.”

  “And what was the name?”

  “Markham.”

  Hawthorne’s stomach twisted sideways.

  Markham…

  Markham had been watching Georgia in the park. What had he said about Frederica?

  I pride myself in finally understanding what she values above all.

  Hawthorne hadn’t understood it at the time, but what if it was a warning?

  Or a threat?

  A cry erupted in his mind. Markham had Frederica and Georgia. They might die. She might die, never knowing how much he loved her, the woman to whom his soul had been irrevocably bound since they were children.

  “Sir, shall I summon the carriage?” Giles asked.

  “No,” Hawthorne said, his voice hoarse. “There’s no time.”

  “Sir!” Harry said. “Take this, you might need it.”

  Hawthorne blinked at the object in the footman’s hand.

  A loaded pistol.

  He grasped the handle and sprinted out the front door, following the path Frederick Stanford had taken nearly six years ago. And for the same reason, to save the person he loved most in the world. On that night, Frederica had lost her father.

  Tonight, she might lose her life.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dark shapes swirled around Frederica, black feathers beating to the pulse of pain in her head.

  She opened her eyes, and an angel stood before her, a beautiful, smiling angel with eyes the color of ice. Behind him, exotic plants curled upward, tendrils weaving their way through the air. The last rays of the setting sun cast a red glow through the glass roof overhead, and feathered shapes flitted to and fro.

  A wave of panic rippled through her. She was in an aviary.

  She tried to move, but he caught her wrists and forced her back, slamming her against the wall.

  “Still fighting, I see.”

  “And I’ll continue to fight you with my dying breath.”

  His smile broadened, but his eyes remained cold and hard. “You’ll soon learn the benefits of being more open to my affections.”

  Before she could respond, a cry rose overhead, and a mother’s instinct made her look up. A thin iron ladder crawled up the wall to a high platform.

  “Georgia…”

  “Yes, little bird.”

  “What have you done with my child?”

  “You mean the brat you’ve foisted onto Stiles?”

  “She’s his daughter.”

  He let out a laugh. “The odds are against you being able to identify her natural father.”

  “I’ve never been with anyone except him!”

  “We can soon change that.”

  Her skin crawled, and she fought the urge to retch. Beyond Roderick Markham on the aviary floor, lay a body, limbs twisted as if it had been engaged in a macabre dance. Pale, sightless eyes looked upward. Blood coated her lips where she had bitten her tongue, purple to match the lesions on her throat.

  It was Georgia’s governess.

  “Miss Jones!”

  He tightened his grip on her wrists, running his fingernails across her scars.

  “Foolish little slut,” he said. “Willing to do anything for a few shillings. But aren’t all women the same? They’d sell anything for the right price. If you don’t want the brat to suffer the same fate, I suggest you give me what I want.”

  “What is that?”

  “What’s rightfully mine,” he said. “Victory over Stiles.” He traced the outline of her lips, then forced his thumb into her mouth.

  “You want to bite me, don’t you?” he said. “I see it in your eyes. Do it, and your little bastard will suffer.”

  Another flurry of wings beat at the air, and blurred shapes flew overhead. Roderick’s smile broadened, his teeth glittering.

  “I must remember to thank Lord Mulberry.”

  “Lord Mulberry?”

  “Edward Langford, Lord Mulberry,” he said. “Not especially bright, but very talkative about his childhood and the little grub he used to tease. He told me a very interesting story about a disused outbuilding, a flock of birds, and a common little slut who aspired to mingle with her betters.”

  He gestured around him. “Do you like my aviary? I invested in some more livestock especially for you.”

  Another cry rose up in the distance.

  “What have you done to her!” Frederica cried.

  “All in good time, little bird.”

  “She’s my daughter, you’ve no right to torment her!”

  “Your daughter’s life is a privilege you must earn,” he said smoothly. “I’m prepared to be generous if you’re prepared to be accommodating.”

  “What must I do?”

  “What a charming offer, my dear.”

  Choking down her hatred, she held her breath.

  It was all a game to him. He was stronger than her in body, but if she could make him think she yielded, she might be able to seize an opportunity, however small, to defeat him. The prey might overcome the predator.

  Thick, hard fingers circled her throat.

  “Kiss me.” />
  She shook her head, and his grip tightened. “If you continue to resist, let me provide a little incentive.”

  He circled his free hand around her arm and pulled her toward the iron ladder.

  “Look up. Look up and see your reward.”

  Through the mesh of the platform, a shape moved.

  “Georgia!”

  “Mama!”

  “Dear God!” she cried. “She could fall!”

  Her captor laughed softly. “I’ve secured her well. You think I’d risk damaging the goods?”

  “Why put her up there?” Frederica asked. “She’s terrified!”

  “Security, my dear,” he said. “You cannot reach her without me.” His eyes darkened. “Now, kiss me.”

  The air thickened with the sour male scent of him, the stench she had forced into the back of her mind.

  “It’s time to stop denying me, little bird,” he said. “Not even that pathetic creature I married can give me the pleasures I intend to take from you.”

  Hatred fueled her strength, and she pushed him back but could not free herself from his grip. “Do you force yourself on Alice?” she spat.

  “She knows where her duty lies and spreads her legs at a word from me. But she’s a bland little creature who’s failed to give me an heir. Child after child of mine she’s killed before it’s even born.”

  A rush of wings beat in the air behind him, and she shrank back. His fingers dug into her, claw-like in their sharpness, mirrored by the claws which flashed past her. A larger shadow shifted outside, but her vision, blurred by fear, couldn’t discern anything other than a dark form.

  “You’ll be mine,” Markham said. “You’ll take pleasure from serving me and comfort from saving the life of your brat. I hear Stiles is rather fond of her, even if he loathes his wife.”

  He squeezed her throat. “They’re better without you, little bird. You’re nothing but a disgrace, the by-blow of a scrubbing maid, a madwoman…”

  Another cry rose from above her, ripping through her heart.

  “Mama!”

  She lifted her leg and rammed her knee into his groin. He loosened his grip and staggered back, fury raging in his eyes.

  “Bitch!” he roared. “You’ll pay for that! You should have stayed with me when you left Stiles, not run off into the night like a thief. Admit you came back for me. Admit it, and I’ll let you live.”

  “I didn’t come back for you!” she cried. “I came back for him! Everything I did was for him!”

  “But he doesn’t love you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Markham,” a deep voice said.

  Hawthorne appeared behind Roderick, the pink sunlight forming a halo around his hair. Beside him stood a woman, thin and gaunt, as if she would disintegrate at the lightest of breezes.

  “I’ll thank you to take your filthy hands off my wife.”

  *

  Hawthorne approached Markham, his body as tight as a bow, ready to let the arrow fly. The bastard had his filthy hands on Frederica, but what made Hawthorne any better?

  Markham’s wife trembled beside him. When Hawthorne had arrived at Hackton House, beating on the doors, roaring to be heard, Alice had initially resisted him. But her terror of her husband had won, and she’d led Hawthorne to the aviary.

  “You don’t want your wife, Stiles,” Markham sneered. “Why not let me have her? I’ll make use of her.”

  “Like you make use of your own wife?”

  Alice flinched as Markham’s gaze landed on her.

  “What are you doing here, bitch?” he snarled.

  Hawthorne touched Alice’s shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. “You’re not worthy to be called a man, Markham, if you cannot treat your wife properly.”

  “And how do you treat your wife?” Markham sneered.

  Frederica remained in Markham’s grip, eyes glistening with fear, a helpless little creature in the jaws of a predator, thinking she had none to champion her.

  Hawthorne’s conscience stabbed at his heart. He had led her to this. Her gaze darted about, lifting up to where Alice told him Markham had secured Georgia, before it settled on Hawthorne himself.

  “I love her,” Hawthorne said, keeping his focus on her. “I always have. She is everything to me. Everything.”

  Markham ran a fingertip along her chin. “But she abandoned you.”

  “And I understand why,” Hawthorne said. “She sacrificed herself for me, because she believed I valued my career and social position more than I valued her. And because she feared for my life, feared what you would do. I had the best woman in all England, yet I was weak enough to let my doubts get the better of me. And you exploited that, didn’t you, Markham? That, and the rivalry which has plagued us since our schooldays.”

  He held his hands out, palms up. “My wife is innocent,” he said. “You and I are the guilty ones. She is far superior to either of us, and I have loved her since I was capable of understanding what true love means. A love that great, that deep, can never be destroyed, Markham. Not even by you.”

  Markham wrapped his fingers round Frederica’s throat.

  “Stay back, Stiles, unless you want her to die.”

  Hawthorne drew his pistol and aimed it at Markham’s head.

  Markham barked with laughter. “You don’t have the mettle! If you shoot me, it would ruin your precious career.”

  Hawthorne cocked the weapon. “My career means nothing compared to the woman I love. What matters most is that I endeavor to deserve her. I would gladly face the gallows for her.”

  “Would you die for her, Stiles?”

  Frederica’s gaze met Hawthorne’s, and she shook her head, a gesture he recognized for what it was. She was pleading with him not to risk his life for her.

  “Always,” he said.

  She blinked, and a bead of moisture splashed onto her cheek. Her lips moved in a silent whisper.

  Hawthorne…

  “Then so be it.” Markham sprang forward and rammed Hawthorne with his body.

  He fell back and crashed to the ground, Markham on top of him. His hand tensed on impact, and he dropped the pistol. An explosion rang out, followed by splintering glass. Shards fell from the roof, and a flock of birds flew into the air, screeching.

  Hawthorne lashed out, and his fist connected with Markham’s jaw. With a roar, Markham rained blow upon blow on him. Hawthorne lifted an arm to defend himself and with a scream of fury, Markham dealt a kick to his stomach. Alice stood paralyzed by fear. In the background, another figure moved toward him, fighting off the birds which swirled around in the air. His little changeling, his avenging angel, advanced on Markham from behind, then launched herself at him.

  “Roderick, behind you!” Alice screamed.

  Markham turned just before Frederica reached him, and tossed her aside as if she were a child. Fury twisting his features, he advanced on Hawthorne once more. Hawthorne pushed himself up and tried to stand, but was too late. The last thing he saw was a polished boot, then his head shattered with pain and he fell back, his mind tortured with one final thought before oblivion claimed him.

  He had failed to save her.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Frederica saw her husband drop to the ground. Alice stood beside him, whimpering. Markham nudged Hawthorne’s body with his boot.

  “Roderick…” Alice moved toward him, hands outstretched. “Roderick, are you hurt?”

  “Get back into the house.”

  “But…”

  “I said, get back into the house!” Markham roared. “Foolish bitch, why can’t you do as you’re told?”

  “But I’ve just saved you from…”

  “Who brought Stiles here?” he asked. “I told you not to admit anyone tonight. Go back to the house and I’ll deal with you later. I’ve not finished here yet. I must deal with the brat.”

  “Georgia!” Frederica sprang into motion, but Markham was too quick for her. He sprinted toward the ladder and began to climb.
r />   “Mama! Help me!”

  “Don’t worry, little brat,” Markham called, mock concern in his voice. “Soon you’ll join your Papa.”

  Alice let out a wail. “Roderick, be careful!”

  By the time Frederica reached the ladder, he was almost beyond her reach. She grasped the rungs and pulled herself up in pursuit. He was bigger and stronger, but she had climbed trees most of her life, which gave her an advantage. As he neared the top, she had caught up with him. She reached up, and her fingertips brushed his boot.

  He lifted his foot, then stamped on her fingers. Hot, sharp pain burst in her hand, and she lost her grip and swung out into the air while she clawed at the rung with her other hand. She kicked out with her legs until she found a purchase. Ignoring the flames of agony in her hand, she reached up again and grasped his ankle. He kicked out, but she tightened her grip and pulled. Cursing, he slipped and crashed onto her.

  She held on to the rungs while he clawed at her, but he lost his grip and, with a scream of rage, he fell. His screams were cut short, and she looked down to see his crumpled form on the ground, a pool of dark liquid already forming under his head. Alice flung herself on top of his body.

  Beyond Alice, blurred shapes moved, morphing into human form. With screeches and a flurry of wings, a flock of birds flew up in front of them, up toward where Frederica clung to the ladder. Her limbs went rigid with panic until a plaintive voice cut through the nightmare.

  “Mama!”

  She pulled herself onto the platform. At the far end, Georgia sat, her hands bound. Frederica crawled along the platform until she reached her daughter and wrapped her arms around her, breathing in the scent of her child.

  “I’m here, angel,” she whispered.

  With trembling hands, she fumbled at the knots. Markham had tied them so tight, they chafed against Georgia’s skin, leaving marks to mirror those on Frederica’s own wrists. She tore at the bonds with her teeth. They worked loose, and she drew the trembling, crying child into her arms.

  The platform shook, and she looked up to see a man crawling toward her.

  “Stay back!” she cried.

  “It’s me,” a familiar voice said. “Don’t you know me?”