by Pamela Clare
She’d always imagined her wedding day would be the happiest day of her life, not the most desperate. But she’d never imagined any of this. She was about to be made Geoffrey’s wife, his chattel. The thought nauseated her, chilled her to the bone. She could not conceive of spending even one night in his bed, let alone a lifetime. She could not imagine dining with him each night, sharing holidays or entertaining his guests. She could not bear to think of Alec’s child calling him “father.” But unbearable as it was, barring a miracle, that was what her future held.
She’d tried to persuade the slave who helped her dress to let her escape, but the woman had become all but hysterical, describing how the master would punish her. Cassie had also considered telling the reverend there was no baby. Except, of course, that she was carrying a child, Alec’s child.
Was this God’s way of punishing her for the wrongs she had done? She had lied, forged her father’s signature, and taken a man to her bed without wedding vows. She had lived more or less as she pleased, ignoring most of the rules church and society forced upon young women. Could she be paying the price now? Cassie thrust the notion from her mind. A God who claimed to love could not be so cruel.
Yet here she was.
Geoffrey had not spoken to her the past week since that horrible night when he’d forced her to dine with him. He’d watched in anger and disgust as she’d thrown up on the floor, taking it as a personal affront. He’d banished her to her room, where she’d spent the week alone, tortured by her fears. What was happening to Alec and Jamie and all those she loved? Did they blame her? Did they hate her? How long could she hide her condition? Would Geoffrey believe the child was his? What would he do to her and the baby if he did not?
She had been dreading this morning as a condemned criminal dreaded the day of execution. That was what it felt like—an execution. But now the day had arrived, beginning before dawn with a turn of the key in the lock. Geoffrey had entered in his dressing gown, ordered her to bathe and dress, and presented her with a gown of rose-colored silk that he intended to be her wedding gown. The feral look in his eyes had stilled her protests before they’d reached her lips. Silently, she’d done as he’d demanded—for her babe’s sake and Alec’s.
“We are almost there.” Geoffrey interrupted her thoughts. “Try to look a bit less glum and more like a bride, my dear. It is your wedding day.”
The carriage lumbered around a bend in the road, the forest opening to reveal the familiar façade of St. Mary’s White Chapel and a host of outbuildings. Dread flowed ice-cold through Cassie’s veins.
God, please don’t let this happen!
The carriage drew to a stop at the church steps.
“Come, my dear.” Geoffrey alighted, then turned to give her his hand.
Legs trembling, Cassie rejected his offer, clutching the door handle for support instead, and stepping unsteadily to the ground. Reverend Dinwiddie stood in the chapel’s doorway, hands clasped together, brow rolled into a thick frown, the ruddy color of his round face standing out against the white of his satin vestments.
“A good morning to you, Reverend.” Geoffrey led Cassie up the steps. “I trust you are well.”
“Good day, Geoffrey. Catherine.” The reverend eyed her disapprovingly.
Geoffrey pressed Cassie through the door ahead of him, his hand firmly on her back. Sunlight streamed weakly through small windows on either side of the chapel, the lone stained-glass window above the altar splashing color across the polished wooden floor. A handful of candles flickered off to one side, each one a prayer for divine intervention. Propelled by Geoffrey, Cassie followed the reverend up the center aisle, repeating her own silent prayer.
“I must say I do not like this, Geoffrey. It pains me to go behind your father’s back. He has contributed generously to this church through the years, and I hate to deceive him. Fathers should oversee such decisions, especially when matters of estate are at stake.” The reverend’s voice echoed through the empty space. “You are your father’s sole heir. He would want you to marry a woman of consequence.”
Cassie was not insulted by the snub, hearing hope instead in the reverend’s words. If Reverend Dinwiddie had misgivings about performing this ceremony, she might be able to talk him out of it. Did she dare take the risk?
“I assure you my father will be most grateful you helped avert a scandal. His gratitude will no doubt take the form of further charity. You might even find yourself with another colored window. Perhaps in the narthex.”
“Let us both hope you are right, Geoffrey, or I might be sharply pressed to help secure an annulment. That would no doubt prove most difficult with a child on the way.”
Cassie felt blood rush from her head at the mention of her unborn child, the one Geoffrey thought was merely a ruse.
“What is it, dear? Are you feeling unwell?”
Geoffrey’s use of endearments and his false concern sickened her.
“You know full well I’m here by force.”
He merely smiled.
“Master Geoffrey has already told me of your unwillingness to marry, Catherine, and I must say I’m of a mind with him.” Reverend Dinwiddie shuffled through the Book of Common Prayer that sat on his lectern. “Your father never taught you your place, and now that indulgence has borne fruit, as it were. Your refusal to be sensible only proves the need for a strong hand to govern you. If you will not be ruled by common sense—as, God knows, few women are—those who know what is best must make decisions for you.”
Cassie felt her temper rise. “Is it not against the decrees of the Church to marry a woman against her will?” Her throat was tight, her voice unsteady.
“If the edict were strictly followed, my child, there would be fewer brides and many more bastards. In my experience, it is not uncommon to see an unwilling bride brought in shame to the altar, only to see her return a few months later, babe in arms, contented.”
“Then you … you will go ahead with this unholy farce?”
Reverend Dinwiddie looked up from his lectern, fixing her with a stern, rheumy gaze, but said nothing.
Tears spilled over onto Cassie’s cheeks, her last hope shattered.
“Did I not say she was willful?” Geoffrey laughed.
Reverend Dinwiddie cleared his throat. “We have come together in the presence of Almighty God to witness the joining together of this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”
Cassie fought back sobs as Reverend Dinwiddie read the words that would consign her to a life of misery, her mind beyond thought, her heart beyond feeling. Tears poured down her cheeks, the world a shifting blur around her.
This cannot be happening!
“Catherine, will you take this man to be your lawful husband, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, obey him, comfort and honor him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”
The reverend’s voice drifted to her ears as if it came from far away. Try though she might, Cassie could not form the words she was expected to say.
Geoffrey’s fingers bit painfully into her arm. “Ask her again,” he demanded, his face twisted in an angry scowl.
“Yes, ask her again, good Reverend, by all means.”
Cassie spun toward the sound of that familiar voice to find Alec leaning casually against the doorjamb. He was covered from head to toe with mud. In one hand he held a pistol, its barrel pointed casually at the floor.
“You!” Geoffrey snarled.
“Alec!”
How could it be? Relief surged through Cassie, leaving her weak, breathless. She would have run to him had Geoffrey not grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in front of him like a shield.
“Did you truly believe you’d get away with this, Crichton?” Alec walked slowly toward them, the pistol now raised and unwavering, his eyes as hard and cold as slate. “You must have known I would come for her as soon as I was able.”
“I’ve
had dogs looking for you day and night. You should have made good your escape when you had the chance, convict. Now you’re a dead man.”
Dogs? Escape? Cassie did not understand, unless …
Geoffrey had lied!
“There will be no bloodshed in the church!” cried Reverend Dinwiddie, suddenly rediscovering his tongue.
“Let her go, Crichton, or the good reverend will find himself with quite a mess.”
“You’d fire and take the risk of killing her? I think not.”
Slowly Alec drew back on the hammer, training the pistol at Geoffrey’s head. “My father took my education in firearms quite seriously. At this range, I can crack your skull like a melon and not get a drop of blood on her gown.”
Cassie’s breath froze in her throat. She felt Geoffrey’s grip tighten, crushing her. Then she found herself stumbling forward as, with a shove, he released her. She caught her footing, lifted her skirts, and ran to Alec, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as she buried her face in his chest.
“I don’t blame you for wanting her, convict,” she heard Geoffrey say. “She does know how to please a man in bed, doesn’t she?”
She felt Alec’s body grow rigid and started to tell him she was untouched, but was cut off.
“If I thought you had forced yourself on her, Crichton, you’d be dead where you stand.” The deep baritone of Alec’s voice rumbled in his chest, where Cassie’s head rested. He looked down at her. “Are you hurt, sweet?”
“No.” She looked up into his blue eyes, scarcely able to believe he was really there.
“Who are you, man?” Reverend Dinwiddie stepped forward, puffing himself up to his full size.
Alec pressed Cassie to safety behind him.
“He is a convict, one of Blakewell’s servants, Reverend,” Geoffrey answered. “Catherine fancies herself in love with him and even took the man to her bed.”
Reverend Dinwiddie looked horrified, appalled.
Cassie lifted her chin, unashamed. “Yes, Reverend, and it is his child, not Geoffrey’s, that I carry.”
Reverend Dinwiddie gasped.
Geoffrey looked stunned, then disgusted, his lips curling with contempt.
But Alec’s reaction so warmed Cassie’s heart, she nearly forgot about the other two. His gaze dropped in awe to her belly before coming to rest tenderly on her face. “A baby?”
“Aye.”
“Take the little bitch!” Geoffrey shouted. “Leave while you can.”
Alec’s face hardened. “Cassie, listen carefully,” he said, speaking so only she could hear him. “Outside you’ll find Crichton’s horses unhitched and waiting for us. Ride for the island. I’ll be right behind you. If aught should go amiss, seek help from Robert Carter. He’s a man I think you can trust.”
“But—”
“Go. Now! I don’t want you to see this.”
“What—”
“Go!”
Cassie lifted her skirts and ran toward the door.
“You and I have a score to settle, Crichton,” she heard Alec say.
Terrified of what Alec might do, Cassie found she could go no farther. She whirled around to see him walking menacingly toward Geoffrey, the pistol tucked in his breeches.
Geoffrey took several stumbling steps backward.
Alec slammed his fist into Geoffrey’s face, knocking Geoffrey backward until he collided with the wall and sank to the floor, blood pouring from his nose and onto the lace of his jabot.
“Lucky for you we’re in a church. But be warned—if you ever set foot on Blakewell’s land again or come anywhere near Cassie, I will kill you!”
The last four words were spoken slowly, ominously, their echo filling the little church.
Without a backward glance, Alec turned and strode toward Cassie. He took her by the hand and led her out the door. “Don’t you ever do as you’re told?”
“I was afraid—”
“That I would kill him? I wish I had.”
Geoffrey’s horses stood tethered to a tree branch, their tails swishing nervously. The animals wore no saddles, but Cassie had ridden bareback before.
“Where’s the driver?” She looked toward the vacant carriage.
“Sleeping off a bump on the head.” Alec took the horses’ reins. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Cassie saw Geoffrey emerge from the church. He had something in his hand, something that gleamed silver in the sunlight. “Alec!”
Alec whirled about, then thrust Cassie behind him. Her father’s pistol magically appeared in his hand, and he fired.
Geoffrey staggered, a pistol falling from his grasp. Clutching with both hands at the gaping hole in his throat, he collapsed on the church steps, his eyes wide, his body arching, twisting in pain.
“Cath—” he choked, reaching for Cassie with one bloody hand. He writhed for a moment. Then, with a jerk, he lay still.
Sickened, Cassie turned away to feel Alec’s arms enfold her, his hand pressing her against the warmth of his chest.
“We must ride. Do you have the strength?”
Cassie nodded.
“Let me help you mount.”
Cassie reached up and took a handful of the horse’s red mane. She felt Alec’s hands encircle her waist and lift her until she was able to swing one leg across the horse’s back.
The animal shifted nervously beneath her.
“There they are! Stop them!”
Cassie turned to find Reverend Dinwiddie pointing, three men running toward them, one of them struggling clumsily to load a musket as he ran.
“Ride, Cassie! Stop for nothing!” Alec slapped her horse hard on the rump.
The horse sprang forward at a gallop. Fighting to keep from falling, Cassie gripped its flanks tightly with her thighs and held fast to its mane.
“Alec!” She tried to look over her shoulder, struggling to keep her balance.
“Ride!”
A glimpse told her he had made it safely to his horse and was riding after her. Cassie fought to turn her mount’s head toward home, the ground passing in a blur beneath her.
She had not yet reached the bend in the road when the sickening crack of gunfire split the air, followed by the scream of a horse. Her heart pounding frantically in her breast, Cassie tried to jerk her mount to a stop, but it reared again, terrified, and she found herself holding on for dear life.
Then, over her shoulder, she saw him. “No!”
Alec lay in the dirt, fighting to free his leg from beneath a dying horse. Blood poured from the bullet hole in its neck. Not far behind him, the man with the musket was reloading, Reverend Dinwiddie and the two others closing in.
Without thinking, Cassie turned her horse about, but she was too late.
No sooner had Alec pulled himself free than the men fell upon him, beating him and yanking him to his feet.
“Alec!”
“Go!” he shouted. “Ride!”
The horse stamped beneath her.
“I won’t go without you!”
“You must! Go!”
Through a fog she realized that the man with the musket was still reloading. Terror clutched at her heart. He was planning to shoot Alec on the spot! Then, as the man’s gaze met hers, she realized with a gasp that he meant to aim for her.
“Cassie, for God’s sake, ride!” For a moment Alec’s gaze locked fiercely with hers. Then he turned and threw himself on the man with the musket, dragging his two captors with him.
Cassie spun the gelding about and kicked it to a gallop, tears streaming down her cheeks, Alec’s name on her lips. When the musket fired again, as she feared it would, a sob rose from her throat, leaving her bereft of all but heartrending grief. Alec was dead.
Chapter Thirty-one
London
Matthew tapped impatiently on the sturdy oaken door with his cane.
“Come in, please, Lieutenant,” said the bespectacled young clerk who opened it. “The magistrate will be here presently.”
Matthew entered to f
ind a garishly appointed office. Ornate Oriental carpets covered the floor, their rich claret hues struggling violently with the purple of the velvet draperies and the pink and green of the gilt French chairs. Shelves on both sides of the room held a wealth of leather-bound books, their authors and titles spelled out in gold leaf: Aristotle, Cicero, Dante, Chaucer. Matthew retrieved one volume from the shelf, and realized it had never been opened, when its stiff spine creaked in protest as he turned back its cover. Likely the entire collection was for show. As were, no doubt, the oil paintings on the wall. One featured voluptuous naked women being carried off by rugged men in Roman dress, a poor copy of The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus, by Reubens.
The other, a portrait, seemed to have been painted by the same awkward hand. It tried to be a Dutch masterpiece, but wasn’t. It pictured an overdressed man staring with exaggerated severity at the viewer. These were the trappings, Matthew judged, of one who was new to wealth, and Matthew was fairly sure where the money had come from. One could grow very rich running a gaol. No doubt his visit today would cost Matthew a fistful of good coin.
“Ah, Lieutenant Hastings. I see you’ve discovered my book collection.”
Matthew turned to see the very man whose portrait hung on the wall emerging from a back room. He was portly, clad head to toe in silks, brocades, and lace. Though it was clear the man frequented a talented tailor, he had not learned which colors went with which.
“I was just admiring the paintings, Magistrate Woodhull.”
The magistrate swelled with pleasure, as Matthew had expected he would.
“I’ve acquired an artist who can mimic any style, any masterpiece. As soon as I saw his work, I knew I simply had to patronize him.” He clasped his hands above his large belly. “One can never have too much refinement in one’s life.”
“Well said, Magistrate. Your library is worthy of any gentleman.” Matthew handed the book he held back to its owner.
“Would you like a brandy?” Woodhull beamed at Matthew’s compliments.
“No, thank you. I make it a rule never to mix business and drink.”
“A wise rule.” Woodhull chuckled. “Though I’d have precious little to do if everyone were as prudent as yourself.”
