Even with Sir Malcolm, she’d never known such mind-numbing terror in her life. The feeling only intensified as her gaze flew between three things: a thin, creaking rope, the only barrier stopping her from a deadly plunge to the rocky, churning ocean below. The unforgiving cliff face which already wore a chunk of blood-smeared skin from her temple. And Jane, weeping softly while she gripped her piece of rope, her heeled slippers scratching fruitlessly as she tried to gouge out a small hold.
Yet closing her eyes didn’t help either. Much as she wanted to pretend this was all just a vivid nightmare, that she was actually in bed wrapped in Stephen’s arms, she had to face reality. If the rope snapped, she was a dead woman.
Caroline shuddered, her teeth chattering. The sun’s faint warmth had been replaced by clouds and a brisk breeze, yet perspiration still trickled down her neck and between her breasts, making them itch. Her hands were so clammy and trembling they kept slipping. The rope around her waist bit cruelly through her gown and into her flesh, yet there was no way to ease the pressure of her weight.
Not to mention the debilitating fear. She’d already had two severe frights, the first when Taff shot Stephen and he slumped to the ground. Despite an oath to herself to remain calm, to not give the twisted creature any kind of satisfaction, a scream had torn from her throat. Seeing her husband lying motionless on the gravel path, blood spurting from a bullet wound, was a memory she wanted entirely erased from her mind. The second, when Taff shoved the pistol muzzle into her stomach and asked her if she was with child…
Because she just might be. Her courses usually plagued her at the start of each month, and twelve days later, still hadn’t arrived. Of course the delay might well be related to all the awful recent happenings, except her stomach had also been unsettled and her breasts unusually tender. She hadn’t breathed a word to Stephen, or anyone for that matter, just in case she was mistaken.
Oh please God, let us survive this.
Craning her neck, Caroline attempted to peer through the heavy grass, twisting vines and medium-sized rocks covering the top of the cliff. It was torture not knowing what the men were doing; maddeningly, the length of the rope meant she hung just low enough to only be able to catch sporadic glimpses of them.
Was Stephen all right? She hadn’t heard another shot fired, or any sounds to indicate a fight, no matter how hard she strained her ears. Not necessarily a good thing.
If he were dead already.
“Caroline. Can you see anything?” muttered Jane, startling her enough she actually flinched and jerked on the rope, making it creak and moan.
Please, please don’t break.
“Not really,” she whispered back. “Stephen is still on the ground I think.”
“I’m going to kill that Mr. Martin. Once I get back on s-solid earth. I just wish I had something sharp.”
On another occasion she might have smiled at Jane’s tear-clogged yet fierce tone. It was hard to imagine her swatting a fly, let alone killing a man. Then again, under the circumstances…
“Can you reach me, Jane?”
Her mother in law flattened herself against the rock face, then inched a hand sideways. “Nearly. Wait. If I swing a little…”
“No! Don’t swing. The ropes will rub against each other. I don’t know how old they are, they might unravel at any time.”
“I’m fine. See? What do you have?”
Slowly, carefully, one hand gripping the rope, Caroline reached into her bodice and withdrew the first dagger hidden in her stays. “This.”
“Keep it for yourself.”
“I have others. Take the knife, Jane. Dig it into the rock.”
Holding her breath, she didn’t relax until Jane patiently worked the razor-sharp dagger halfway into the rock face. Thank God the surface was just soft enough to do so.
“Done.”
“Excellent. All right, come back and get this one,” Caroline replied, tugging out the second dagger and holding it out to her. “Slowly, slowly. That’s it.”
“Now what?”
She paused, mentally crossing her fingers and toes for luck. Then removed the knife from under her sleeve, tearing away the sheath with her teeth and burying it into the rock face. The one strapped to her thigh was far harder to access, but eventually, after several fervent prayers and some painstaking maneuvering, she also had two daggers in the rock above her head.
“Hold onto them no matter what, Jane. Inch them upwards to level ground if you can. If the rope breaks or if it is cut, they will at least give you a chance…oh hell, they’re walking this way. All three. Don’t let them see.”
“I won’t. Good luck, my darling.”
***
The burning, coiling agony in his shoulder was so bad he wanted to vomit. Or pass out. Every time the muscle flexed another gush of blood soaked his shirt, and he could practically feel bullet and bone grinding insistently against each other.
But he couldn’t think about that now. Not when his wife and mother were both swinging from a cliff top, a deranged killer strutted in front of him and a battle-hardened soldier waited behind. Somehow one foggy brain, two syllabub legs and one trembling arm had to defeat two perfectly healthy men, each with cocked pistol in hand.
This is why you’ve never enjoyed gambling.
Bloody, great and nightmare were the only words to adequately describe the current situation, yet it did have one tiny positive. The two women were currently well out of the line of fire.
“You still haven’t answered Taff’s question, Westleigh. Who do you love more? Your mother or your wife?”
Stephen glanced backwards at Sir Albert as a wave of rage surged through his body, so unrelentingly powerful his shoulder agony dulled to a throbbing ache.
One chance. Right now.
Do it.
He laughed heartily, as if the baronet had just made a particularly amusing joke. Then in one fast, brutal movement, he pivoted and smashed his right fist into the older man’s face. Sir Albert dropped like a stone, blood gushing from a broken nose, and his pistol clattered onto the path. The impact was enough to discharge the bullet, but it caused no more damage than a deafening thunderclap and violent spray of gravel.
‘Westleigh, you bastard, you’re ruining our plan!” screamed Taff, uncocking his pistol and throwing it onto the ground before grabbing Stephen’s injured shoulder, wrenching him around and landing a fierce blow on his chin.
The combination felt like the stab of a thousand knives and Stephen’s legs buckled while his stomach roiled unmercifully. Yet seconds later the rage surged again and he kicked out a foot, hooking it around Taff’s knee.
As Taff wobbled, he lowered his good shoulder and charged. They both tumbled onto the grassed verge and rolled back and forth, one on top then the other, their heads hanging over the cliff edge as they exchanged uncoordinated but fierce blows.
Finally, somehow, he managed to land a punch that left Taff reeling. Pinning him on the ground with one knee, he reached behind into his waistband for one of his pistols.
Only to drop it on the way back.
Blood pounded through his veins and the world around him faded. Numbly, his head swimming, he watched the weapon bounce on the verge, almost straight into Taff’s hand.
“Well, well. Looks like the fates are smiling on me today, Westleigh,” Taff said, gripping the pistol and lifting it until the muzzle rested in the center of Stephen’s chest. “Say goodbye. I’m going to put a bullet through your heart, just like I did Hallmere. Then I’m going to cut the ropes and watch those two blonde whores get smashed to pieces on the rocks. Today is definitely a gooaaaaahhhh…”
Stephen blinked. Why the hell had Taff screamed? When did the temperature plummet? How could his throbbing shoulder get so perfectly in sync with his heartbeat?
“Shoot him, darling. Now!”
At
the sharpest tone he’d ever heard his mother use, the fog lifted and he saw Taff’s shoulder. Or rather the dagger half-protruding from Taff’s shoulder.
“Goddamned bitches!” Taff hissed, writhing in pain, his hold on the pistol visibly loosening. “I’m going to…kill you both…”
Stephen grabbed the weapon, using every bit of his remaining strength to turn the muzzle around so it instead pointed at Taff. With trembling hands he cocked it and squeezed the trigger. The explosion echoed loudly, so loud his ears rang and burning hot gunpowder flew into his face, stinging his eyes and mixing with his sweat.
But he could still see Taff’s face. The stunned confusion as he realized his life was now bubbling up and trickling away onto the pale brown rocks and rough grass beneath them.
“You. Shot. Meeeeee,” Taff gurgled, coughing out a stream of dark red blood as he grabbed a fistful of Stephen’s jacket. “Bas…tard…die…”
Stephen wrenched from his grasp and Taff’s hands dropped limply to his sides. Minutes later he stopped moving altogether.
Panting hard, so cold his teeth were chattering, Stephen shoved Taff’s blood-soaked body out of the way and crawled to the cliff edge. “Caroline…Mama…”
“Darling! Can you lift us up?” said his mother.
“I’ll try,” he rasped, glancing over his shoulder. Sir Albert still lay on the path, yet his arms and feet were twitching. Fuck. The baronet was waking up.
Shuffling sideways on knees and elbows, every movement causing fiery pain to tear through his body, Stephen rolled onto his back and braced his feet against the stump. As black spots danced in front of him and a roaring sound grew louder in his ears, he began to pull the first rope. Inch by agonizing inch he tugged on the coarse fiber until after what seemed like a thousand years, his mother’s head appeared above the grass.
“Hold. Ground. Mother,” he slurred and she grabbed some fistfuls of vine and swung her legs up onto the top.
“Stephen! Oh my God!”
“Help. Get. Caro.”
Yanking the rope over her head and heaving it away, Jane kicked off her heeled slippers and dropped down beside him. Together they pulled on the second rope and eventually his wife scrambled over the grassed verge and into his arms.
He smiled, trying to fight the heavy darkness encroaching on his vision. “Caro…”
Then everything went black.
***
So much blood. Stephen’s jacket and shirt were soaked and now his eyes were shut and he wasn’t moving.
Gently drawing his head into her lap, Caroline began smoothing his hair over and over, her body shaking uncontrollably as hysteria gripped her.
“Stephen,” she babbled. “Wake up now. Come on, wake up, my love.”
“What are we g-going to do?” said Jane as she crouched beside them, tears running down her face.
Glancing up, Caroline scanned their surroundings. All was quiet and still except for Sir Albert, who was attempting to get onto his hands and knees. Very carefully, she rolled Stephen and removed the second pistol from his waistband. “Jane, would you…”
“My pleasure,” her mother-in-law replied, taking the pistol and strolling over to Sir Albert like she was ascending the stairs to Almack’s. One sharp blow to the back of the head, and the baronet again slumped on the ground. They were now marginally safer, although she wouldn’t feel truly safe until they were all back at Forsyth House and Stephen was being attended by the best physicians in England.
“One of us needs to go for help. Stephen’s carriage, with his footmen and coachman, is only about a half mile from here. If they can bring it close enough we can carry him.”
“I’ll go.”
“Are you sure, Jane?”
“Absolutely, darling. Your place is beside your husband.”
“Can you shoot a pistol?”
“Yes. Andrew insisted I learn. You keep this one, I’ll take Taff’s. Back soon, just hang on,” Jane finished, kneeling down to kiss Stephen’s forehead. After slipping her shoes on and collecting the abandoned pistol, she ran down the path toward the cottage.
The silence twisted and stretched Caroline’s shattered nerves. Surrounded by a dead man, an unconscious man and a horribly injured man, her cut forehead stinging painfully, she busied herself tearing a section of her gown hem and pressing it firmly against Stephen’s shoulder to stem the blood flow. Yet still he didn’t move, only very shallow breathing letting her know he lived.
Where was Jane? What if something had happened to her?
Tears trickled down Caroline’s face.
“Come on, Stephen,” she whispered. “You know damn well I’ve forbidden you to die, so open your blasted eyes and look at me. Look at me!”
He didn’t so much as twitch.
She buried her face in his neck, sobbing until her eyes were so raw and gritty it hurt to hold them open. Her husband was dying. After everything they had been through, that damned bastard Taff would still win.
Pulling Stephen closer, she started rocking him. And humming a ridiculous lullaby she’d overheard a nurse singing to a young charge, interspersed with the words ‘please don’t leave me’. Again and again she sang the tune, sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, unable to make herself stop.
Until the softest of groans sounded.
Freezing, she peered down at him. “Stephen?”
Silence.
“Stephen?” she said again, louder this time, even shaking him lightly.
One eye opened. “War…” he muttered.
“War? What do you mean war? Stephen?”
“No. Warbling. Stop.”
Tearful laughter erupted. “Are you c-casting aspersions on my singing, h-husband?” she said, her voice wobbling dangerously.
“Not. Singing. Warbling. Awful.”
“Well then, I guess you’ll have to live. It’s the only way to silence me.”
“Doing. Best. Hurts. ”
She pressed a soft kiss to his damp forehead. “I’m not surprised, my love. But very, very soon your mother will be back with the men and the carriage and we will whisk you to London. That Dr. Murray will fix everything and have you in tip top shape in no time. As a matter of fact,” she said joyfully, her ears pricking up at the sound of gravel crunching. “Here they come now!”
“Took. Long. Enough.”
“I know! For heaven’s sake, did you walk back on your hands,” she finished, glancing teasingly over her shoulder.
The world tilted.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Not Jane and help. Baron Kimbolton, Sir John Smythe and Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne. Halted into a semi-circle, their arms folded as they regarded the scene in front of them.
“No! Get back!” Caroline cried, scrabbling for the pistol. Even though she understood one against three was the worst of odds, and not even knowing how to fire the weapon made her beyond useless as a protector.
Sir John stepped forward. “Well, well. Lord Westleigh and dead bodies. Such a déjà vu scenario, yet this time it appears he is also in a bad way. How unfortunate.”
Stephen flinched in her lap and turned his head. “Sir John. Always. Unpleasant. See. You. Why. Here?”
“I’m sure you know we have informers everywhere, dear boy. When we received word regarding your very sudden journey to a certain cottage in Kent, naturally we were intrigued.”
“Very interesting being back here, I must say,” mused Kimbolton. “Such memories.”
“Ha,” said Wynn-Thorne. ‘You’re only thinking about all the times you tupped Hermia Bruce. Never met such a whore in all my life. Completely willing to spread her legs for anyone.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Sir John with a low chuckle. “More like sometimes willing, sometimes not. I particularly enjoyed the latter occasions. So much more fun when a woman needs to be…p
ersuaded.”
Bile rose in Caroline’s mouth and she coughed several times. Monsters. If only she had three pistols, she would give shooting them all a decent try.
“…Rock liked that too,” Sir John continued reminiscently. “Until Westleigh killed him, of course.
“Goddamned fools. Westleigh didn’t kill Major Rochland. I did.”
Five startled gazes flew to Sir Albert as he staggered upright, rubbed the back of his head and stalked forward, his gait getting faster and steadier with every step.
Caroline stilled and hugged Stephen closer, every hair on the back of her neck rising as a gust of wind swept across the path. The ex-soldier must have a head of cast iron.
“You, ragged-pants?” said Sir John derisively. “And who might you be?”
The baronet smiled coldly. “Just a simple, retired soldier.”
Seconds later, in the crisp movement of a true expert, Sir Albert removed two knives from his jacket and buried them in Sir John and Lord Kimbolton’s chests. Tilting his head, he watched them fall to the ground and writhe in pained shock. “However, also father of a dead daughter and hell bent on justice,” he continued. “Sir Albert Bruce, at your service.”
Caroline choked as bright red flowers began to bloom on both men’s shirts. Not more blood. Not more death. And yet a tiny part of her wanted to cheer, to celebrate a victory.
“Well, Sir Albert,” snarled Wynn-Thorne, his face twisting with anger as he withdrew a pistol from his jacket. “Consider me a grieving friend hell bent on justice…”
“Don’t even think about it, my lord. Drop to your knees and put your hands on your head.”
Caroline jerked her head up at the now-familiar voice. Mr. White! And behind him a dozen soldiers all armed to the hilt, with Jane. And…George?
Joy and relief, such beautiful relief swirled in her head, making her dizzy. Could it really be over? “You took your sweet time, Mr. White,” she called unsteadily.
“My apologies, Lady Westleigh. The location was a little hard to pinpoint.”
“I’m sh-shocked. You are after all, the intelligence arm of the government.”
To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 29
