To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1)

by Nicola Davidson

  “Weapons?”

  “Do you know how to shoot a pistol?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll give you some daggers. If you need to use them, do so. And do so with force. You might not get a second chance, Caroline.”

  Her shivering turned to full body shudders. This was becoming all together far too real. “Where should I aim f-for?”

  “Soft tissue. Shoulder. Stomach. Thigh. Hard and purposeful, in and out. All right?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Now,” he said, reaching down for a cloth-covered bundle, unwrapping it to reveal a stunning array of daggers. Some short with fat blades, some long and slender, but all polished to a shine and each tipped with a tightly woven, three inch cloth sheath. “I think two tucked into your stays, one strapped to your thigh and one bound to your upper arm under that perfectly loose sleeve. We also need a spot they could easily find. They’ll expect you to have at least one sort of weapon, and if they remove that, they might not necessarily look for others.”

  “My pelisse has a pocket.”

  “Excellent.”

  Numbly she let him attach the daggers to her body, winding a length of linen tightly around her upper arm, tucking the weapon in and securing it with two borrowed hair pins. Then he did the same to her thigh. For her stays he slid one short dagger either side, so the hilts rested against the soft skin between the top of her breast and her underarm. They were uncomfortable, cool and sharp, yet she instantly felt safer.

  “What about you, Stephen?”

  “I’ll take these,” he said, shoving two pistols into the waistband of his trousers, another into his jacket pocket, and daggers into his left sleeve and both boots.

  The carriage came to a halt.

  Oh God.

  Tears filled her eyes and spilled over. Was this it? Their last time together? “Stephen…”

  “Caroline,” he said fiercely. “If everything goes wrong…if I’m injured or killed…promise me you’ll run and not look back until you reach this carriage. They will take you to safety.”

  “No! I won’t leave you. Damn it. Don’t ask me to do that!”

  “Promise me.”

  She breathed deeply, trying to control her panic. “I’ve already forbidden you from dying, so it’s a moot point really.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and brushed the moisture from her face with his thumbs before encircling her chin and lifting it for one final, hard kiss.

  “We have to go,” he said gruffly, pushing open the carriage door.

  They climbed out, nodded at the grim-faced staff and made their way towards the horribly neglected-looking dwelling in the distance. Even from here she could see shutters hanging drunkenly from their frames and a large sag in the roof thatching.

  Cold chills danced up and down her spine, especially when the cottage door opened and a familiar red-headed figure limped out. Hatred surged through her body so strong she actually stumbled, but Stephen quickly slipped a hand under her elbow and steadied her.

  Mr. Captain Tavistock Martin would pay for what he’d done to her husband.

  She would make sure of it.

  ***

  “Lord and Lady Westleigh. How kind of you to finally join us. The accommodations aren’t quite perhaps what you are used to, but please do come inside.”

  Strolling unconcernedly took every bit of Stephen’s willpower and then some. Yet he continued towards the cottage, Caroline on his arm, as though they were walking down one of the lantern-lit walkways at Vauxhall Gardens. There was no way in hell Tavistock Martin would get a reaction out of him. No matter what the bastard did from this moment forward, it would result in nothing but impassiveness. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing his rage. His hatred.

  His fear.

  All three emotions were so strong it felt like he might explode. Perspiration trickled an itchy streak down the back of his neck, his hands were cold and clammy, and his teeth probably ground down to half their original size, but not by so much of an eyelid flicker would Taff realize the full extent of the leashed danger he faced.

  Caroline knew. Just as he knew the combination of terror and fury which caused her to stumble mere minutes ago. It was now a matter of the two of them controlling their emotions and using them at exactly the right time.

  “Martin,” he replied evenly. “Where is my mother?”

  “The dowager is presently resting on the chaise. Not feeling overly well, I daresay.”

  “Oh?” said Caroline. “A summer cold?”

  Taff sighed. “No. There was an unfortunate laudanum incident. It really doesn’t agree with her. We were concerned for a while she might not wake up, but she did eventually. Although her mind wandered all over the place and she retched and coughed like a young man after his first May Day.”

  “Oh dear,” said Stephen. “How unpleasant.”

  “Indeed,” mused Taff, staring at him for a very long moment, his brow furrowed.

  No, you bastard. I won’t blink first.

  “You said ‘we’, Martin. Who else is attending our little gathering?”

  “Come inside and see for yourself, Lord Westleigh. You, too, Lady Westleigh.”

  Stephen pushed the door with the toe of his Hessian and it swung open with an abrasive, nerve-grating creak. Ducking under the rather low frame, he stepped inside and pulled Caroline behind him so her back nearly touched the wall. Or at least what was left of the wall.

  Jesus. The only fit use for this filthy, single-roomed dwelling was the start of a giant bonfire. Feathers, fur and droppings indicated a resting place for every rodent, bird and small wild animal within a twenty-mile radius. Two of the walls had gaping holes where stone pieces had dislodged and timber beams rotted and fallen away. Tufts of grass were poking up between large cracks in the floor, and the tattered remains of what might have been curtains hung limply from the broken windows.

  But far worse than this derelict building was the sight of his mother lying on a lumpy, uneven chaise, her hands and feet tied with thin rope. Not to mention Sir Albert Bruce perched next to her holding a pistol.

  “Are you going to untie my mother, Sir Albert?” Stephen asked casually.

  “Not at this stage, Lord Westleigh. But I must reassure you we have no quarrel with the dowager. She will be freed eventually and permitted to continue on with her life.”

  “Unless of course we change our minds,” interjected Taff.

  Stephen stared incredulously at the man. “You don’t honestly think you will get away with hurting an earl and two countesses, do you?”

  Taff laughed. “We got away with murdering an earl and a viscount, my lord. It’s not especially difficult.”

  Shock held him immobile. “Excuse me?”

  “They were the poachers, Stephen,” rasped his mother, in a terrible, rusty voice that sounded like chains being dragged through hell. “At Nexham’s estate. They killed your father and Gregory.”

  Agony tore through his body. He forced himself to breathe, to remain calm and in control.

  Just a few more minutes…

  “We know what happened, Mr. Martin,” said Caroline softly into the silence. “To you and Hermia. We understand the anger and hatred towards Hallmere. But why did you-”

  “My name is Taff. And the previous Lord Westleigh died because he had to. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

  “Two for one? I don’t understand,” said Stephen.

  “Two for two,” spat Sir Albert. “My daughter was carrying your brother’s child. She’d just informed him when he killed her.”

  Oh Christ. Oh hell.

  “But…then surely the ledger is now squared?”

  “No,” said Taff. “No, no, no. You have bad blood just like your brother and must be stopped. I know you j
oined the Society, that you went to meetings, and their offices at the docks. And another woman died.”

  “Wait!” cried Caroline. “You’ve got it wrong, Taff. Stephen didn’t join them at all. The meeting at the docks opened our eyes, then with the death of poor Clara…we wouldn’t befriend those men if they were the last on earth. They are criminals!”

  “Liar! You’re his wedded whore, of course you would defend him. That makes you just as bad. Well, my dear Lady Westleigh, are you prepared to die? Are you?” Taff snarled as he pivoted, cocked his pistol and pointed it straight at Caroline’s head. She swallowed hard then slowly raised trembling hands, palms outward in a show of complete surrender.

  A split second later, Stephen pressed the dagger from his sleeve hard against Taff’s neck. “Put your pistol down, Mr. Martin. It will take me less time to sever your spinal cord than for you to pull that trigger.”

  A discreet cough sounded and Stephen glanced sideways. Only to see Sir Albert holding a cocked pistol to his mother’s forehead.

  For a long moment all sets of eyes flicked back and forth. Finally Stephen dropped the knife, trying not to wince as it bounced and clattered on the stone floor.

  “What do you want, Taff?”

  “I want us all to take a nice stroll outside. Uncle, if you would untie the dowager. Lady Westleigh, I would ask you to remove your pelisse.”

  “I’d rather not,” said Caroline. “I’m a trifle chilly at the moment.”

  Stephen nearly smiled. Clever wife. “Come on, Taff, if you want to walk, let’s walk.”

  “We won’t be walking until the countess removes her pelisse. If I have to ask again, I’ll be removing it from a cooling corpse.”

  Her chin lifting, Caroline removed the light garment and threw it onto the floor, the knife hidden in plain sight also clattering as it hit the stone. “There.”

  “Excellent. Now we can depart.”

  After leaving the cottage they turned right and walked down a rough, graveled path. Sir Albert and his mother in front, Caroline and Taff at the back and him in the middle, both the other men with trained loaded pistols on the women.

  Soon he could smell the tang of sea air, hear waves beating against uncompromising rock, and his head swam. The cliff top. Taff was taking them to the place where it had started four years ago.

  Far too soon, Sir Albert came to a halt. “Here?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” replied Taff. “I want the three of you to walk right to the edge. Carefully mind, the gravel is slippery for ladies in heels. But look. Take a long, hard look at the drop. How far down it is to the ocean. How sharp and unforgiving the cliff face, not to mention those rocks below. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no one to save you. How does it feel?”

  Stephen fought the urge to react with violence, as the two pistols in his waistband practically gouged holes in the small of his back. But they only had one shot each, and both would have to count. Even though he still had a dagger in each boot, his skill with them was far too erratic to rely on. Really, it was the pistols or nothing. Heart or between the eyes to be sure.

  “I’m not…” he began.

  “Not in a talkative mood, Westleigh? Perhaps you need a task to occupy yourself. Uncle. The rope?”

  Ice slithered down Stephen’s spine as Sir Albert removed two lengths of rope from around his shoulder. What the fuck was this?

  “Don’t look like that, Westleigh,” chuckled the baronet. “It’s not a hard task, even for a Londoner. Two lengths of rope, one for each lady. Tie one end around their waist and leave the other end free.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snarled. “No.”

  Taff blinked. “If you won’t, we’ll have to put a bullet in both pretty blonde heads right now. But if that’s your decision, it will make this faster. Not nearly as satisfying, but faster. Uncle, on three. One…two…”

  “Wait,” Stephen roared, the word torn from somewhere deep in the abyss forming within his stomach. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good decision,” said Sir Albert, handing him the rope.

  He walked over to his mother.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” he breathed, hoping she knew he meant for everything. Their fight, his stupidity, all the days he hadn’t been there for her. Hell, all the occasions he’d screwed up, even the ones he couldn’t remember.

  Jane lifted her arms in the air. “Make sure you tie it n-nice and tight, my darling. A decent sailor’s knot if you p-please.”

  “For me too,” added Caroline, stalking over to stand next to Jane.

  God, but they were incredible, his mother and his wife. Not two peas from the same cursed pod, but the same infinitely blessed one.

  Swiftly he tied the rope around each of their waists, tugging on the end to ensure the knot wouldn’t slip loose. Every instinct he had screamed it was important the knot hold under very heavy pressure, although he was careful when attending to Caroline that he didn’t restrict access to any of her hidden knives.

  “There,” he said frigidly. “Done.”

  “All right,” said Taff, gesturing with his pistol. “Now tie both the ends around that stump there.”

  Do not pass out. Do not lose control.

  Stephen glanced at his mother and Caroline. They both nodded, so he knelt down and looped the rope twice around the fat, heavily rooted stump before securing it. It would take several close-range cannonballs to dislodge something like that from the ground.

  “Anything else?” he said, still endeavoring to keep his voice even.

  “Just one more thing,” replied Taff pleasantly, lifting his pistol.

  Then he aimed.

  And fired.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Westleigh was a hard nut to crack.

  Even lying on the ground with a bullet in his shoulder, the screams of his wife and mother still echoing around them, the earl hadn’t made a sound. Instead, he sat up, a bored look on his face, removed a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly to the bloodstained wound site like he was attending to a troublesome splash of brandy.

  Taff ground his teeth. If that was the way the bastard wanted to play the game, so be it.

  Tossing the used pistol over the cliff, he removed a fresh one from his jacket pocket and marched over to the dowager countess.

  “Come along, my lady,” he said, clamping a hand around her arm and propelling her towards the cliff edge. “We’re going to test your son’s rope tying ability.”

  She regarded him with a cool stare, managing to look down her nose at him even though he must be at least a foot taller. “I have no doubts regarding my son’s abilities. He has talents you’ve probably never even heard of. It’s only a matter of…ahhhhh!”

  The dowager’s shriek was gratifyingly loud as she dropped, but the rope was only long enough for a several-foot descent before it tightened and jerked and she swung back into the cliff. Amused, he watched her grapple with the lifeline and attempt to get a foothold in the treacherously slippery rock.

  How well he knew the futility of that particular exercise.

  “It seems you did an admirable job for your mother, my lord,” Taff said, over his shoulder. “Although she is rather small. A far better test will be your wife. Come along, Lady Westleigh.”

  Caroline Forsyth glared at him and spat on his boot. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Martin, you can comprehend basic English. That’s one skill at least.”

  Taff chuckled. Then cocked his pistol and pointed it at her head. “I like your spirit, Lady Westleigh. Always have. But now is really not the time.”

  “If you think I’m just going to-”

  “Jump off a cliff? Yes, I think you will,” he said quietly, lowering his arm until the muzzle dug into her belly. “Unless you’d prefer I shoot you now? Right here?
Tell me, my lady, have you done your duty yet? Or is it too soon to know? It would be particularly appropriate, would it not, if you were with child.”

  Her face turned stark white and she sagged against him. Perfect. Or at least it might have been if the damned woman didn’t weigh half a ton.

  Half-walking, half-dragging Caroline’s limp body to the cliff edge, he shoved her over. The rope creaked audibly but held, and like her mother in law she swung several times, except her inertness led to one wince-worthy connection with the rocks.

  “Ouch,” he said, turning and walking back to where the earl sat hunched over on the ground. “Someone is going to have a bit of a headache when they come to. Now, how’s that shoulder, Westleigh?”

  “Not too bad, thank you,” Westleigh replied impassively, his ashen, perspiration-coated face and a spreading bloodstain on his linen shirt and jacket sleeve making a complete lie of the words.

  “Hmmm. It’s just that I wanted this experience to be truly authentic. So you understand what it feels like to only have the use of one arm in a critical situation.”

  “If authenticity were the aim, why didn’t you use a dagger?”

  “Because,” snorted Uncle Albert from where he stood a few feet away, “despite the lessons I gave him, Taff is like you and far more adept with a pistol. So a pistol it had to be.”

  “Yes,” said Taff. “But that is by the by. Now comes the advanced level of the game. I like to call this version ‘who do you love more?’”

  “Don’t think I know this one,” Westleigh replied, but his stormy expression spoke volumes.

  “Quite simple really. Two women. Two ropes to be cut. One viable arm. Who do you save?”

  ***

  Her husband had called her bold and brave and clever. The good news, Stephen was definitely in love with her even if he hadn’t yet said the words. The bad news, he was definitely in love with her because he couldn’t be more wrong.