by Amy Corwin
Her brief moment of defiance ended abruptly when he hit her savagely on the left shoulder with a cane—a weapon she hadn’t seen him holding in his right hand.
Pain exploded in her arm. She stumbled and nearly went down on her knees. Her right hand flew to her shoulder. Shock and the freezing wind kept some of the agony at bay, but in the back of her mind, she knew it would grow unbearable soon.
She forced the thought, and her growing fear, aside.
“Now, Miss Cowles. Walk. Or I will beat you to death where you stand and drag you.” He shrugged, holding the dagger in one hand and the cane in the other. “It matters not to me.”
Staggering and cradling her left arm against her waist, she moved toward the cliff.
Think! There has to be a way to escape.
The rising storm howled in a burst of energy, tearing at her as if to force her away from the danger ahead. Her face stung under a sharp splattering of icy rain. Even the heavens seemed to rage and wail against them, trying to push them back to the safety of the house, but the vicar pressed on. He hit her again on the left side.
This time, she felt the pain clearly. A sob broke from her, and she stumbled, falling to her knees. Her entire arm and shoulder burned, throbbing with each heartbeat. Still, she couldn’t give up, couldn’t let him win. There had to be something she could do.
Once again, she staggered to her feet, looking around. They were closer, now. The edge was only twenty feet away. Crossing her right arm over her chest to protect her left side, she edged sideways.
“Why now? Why at three in the morning?” She had to yell to be heard over the increasing tumult of the storm.
Carter’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Three is the most honest time of the day. Did Blackwold not tell you? It is well known. Amongst the Hodges, at least. We are all poor sleepers, and three has always been the time for confidences. The truth.” He shrugged, his greatcoat flapping around his legs. “It seemed appropriate. And I knew you would come if you thought he’d summoned you.”
She shook her head.
“I felt sure he would have enlightened you.”
“Just what are you suggesting?” She tried to sound insulted instead of simply terrified. If she could maneuver him closer to the cliff, perhaps… She took another step to his left, courting the dagger rather than the brutal cane.
“Exactly what you believe.” His mechanical voice was clear above the wind. He sounded bored.
What she thought, any questions she had, were unimportant to him. Their conversation, brief as it was, was finished. She flinched further to his left.
The vicar raised his cane again, a monstrous black figure against the swirling gray clouds above.
Then something dark barreled out of the night. It slammed into the vicar. His dagger flew one way and his cane the other as he landed on the ground. Hannah dashed around the writhing figures and picked up the dagger in her good hand.
Low grunting revealed the presence of another man. The two rolled through the mud, locked together. Glancing around, Hannah ran to the cane—it had more reach than the dagger—she couldn’t let Carter get it. But her left arm was useless, and she couldn’t hold both the dagger and the stick. Without thinking, she threw the dagger over the edge of the cliff and picked up the cane.
If Carter managed to free himself… She was not going to let him force her—or anyone else—over the cliff.
The rain was pouring down in heavy sheets, and she blinked, trying to clear the water out of her eyes.
First one man and then the other got to his feet. They faced each other, hunched like two animals preparing to fight.
“Stop!” she yelled. “There is no need…”
One of them—Carter—she recognized his white face—glanced at her and then back at his opponent. He seemed to straighten. Standing at the edge of the cliff, he appeared immensely tall against the chiaroscuro background of the storm clouds. His hat was gone, and he raised his face to the rain.
Washing his sins away. The thought rushed through Hannah as she impulsively took a step forward. Don’t…
Then he was gone.
“No!” she screamed, horrified. Burning tears mingled with the cold rain sluicing down her cheeks.
“He chose his own way. As usual.” Blackwold’s deep voice carried over the sounds of the storm. “Are you injured?” He moved closer to her, but didn’t touch her.
The rain made it difficult to see him clearly, but she had the notion that his cravat was missing, his waistcoat undone, and his jacket was rumpled and clotted with mud.
She’d never seen anyone so dear to her in her life. Laughter—partly hysterical, partly relief, and mostly just the sheer joy of being alive and in love—bubbled out of her.
“Are you well?” he asked, sounding very unsure.
“Yes—no. I’m just so glad to see you.” The words gushed out of her.
When he moved to put an arm around her, she backed away.
“My arm—” she stammered.
“Is it broken?” He stopped a foot away, his arms bent as if he wanted to hold her but was afraid of breaking her into tiny pieces.
“Yes—I don’t know—perhaps.” Now that she had the luxury of experiencing every little ache and pain, she found it hurt even to talk. Every breath, every small movement, sent another hot stab of agony through her shoulder and radiating down her arm.
He moved around to her right side, slipped a gentle arm around her waist, and urged her toward the house.
“Carter—”
“Do you truly want to discuss him now?” Blackwold asked.
“It is better than thinking about my arm.”
Blackwold chuckled and then sobered. “Sorry—didn’t mean to laugh. You are in pain.”
“I’d rather laugh than cry,” Hannah remarked, doing her best not to moan, be sick, or fall to her knees with hysterical sobs.
“Precisely.” He held the door for her and ushered her inside. “Can you make it to your room?”
She gritted her teeth. “It’s my arm, not my lower limbs.”
“Oh? I didn’t know ladies had lower limbs.”
A laugh escaped her, followed closely by a moan. “Stop it,” she gasped. “You’re just tormenting me for your own foul purposes.”
“Fowl?” He glanced around. “Oh, you must have heard the gardener’s rooster. Crowing a bit early—the storm must have roused him. Is that what awakened you?”
She tied her shawl to support her left arm and clutched the banister with her good hand. “Go away.”
“Mary will attend you shortly.” He leaned over the handrail, caught her chin in one hand, and pressed a kiss on her lips. “Followed by Dr. Burland.”
Despite the unexpected pleasure of his kiss, she groaned again and shook her head, hoping he wouldn’t notice her flushed cheeks.
“Be of good cheer. Even though you lack a fever, I’m sure he’ll be happy to bleed you. Just ask him.”
She sighed and tried not to roll her eyes.
He grinned and stood back. “And I will check on our supply of linen bandages.” One of his brows flew up. “You are awfully prone to accidents, you know. Are all Americans so careless?”
Caught between a fresh burst of laughter, agony, and complete aggravation, Hannah gripped the banister and moved as gently as she could to avoid jarring her aching arm. “I refuse to respond to that ridiculous question,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Is that not a response?”
“Go away! Fetch the doctor. I can only hope he manages to drain every last drop of my blood this time so you will all leave me in peace.”
“Hope does seem to spring eternal,” he called before slipping away into the shadows.
Chapter Twenty
The physician didn’t bleed her after all, and he was huffily disappointed by that and the fact that her arm and shoulder weren’t actually broken, just badly bruised. And perhaps a small fracture, though he couldn’t be sure. The thought created a small, t
ight smile on his serious face. By the time he stopped poking and prodding Hannah, she was ready to pick up the cane she’d inadvertently carried to her room caught in her shawl and beat him over the head with it. Just to give him an idea of what her shoulder felt like.
Unlike Lady Northrop, Dr. Burland had no scruples about the liberal use of laudanum. He ensured his patient had a generous swallow of the milky liquid, mixed into a glass of water, before he left.
Feeling overly warm, the ache receded, and Hannah slept.
When she awoke, muzzy-headed and slightly sick to her stomach, Gina was sitting next to her bed, reading a book. Hannah blinked, and the light from her window dimmed and brightened. Lady Alice moved into view, followed by Mary, who was frowning at the two young women.
“I warned you girls to leave her in peace!” Mary complained. She spread her arms and walked toward Lady Alice as if to shoo her out of the room.
“But I want to talk to her!” Gina wailed, closing her book. She glanced at Hannah and back at Mary, her chin rising and lower lip thrust out defiantly. “And she’s already awake, so there is no point in us leaving, now.” She held up a hand. “You cannot blame us—you are most likely the one who awakened her.”
“How are you feeling, Miss Cowles?” Lady Alice asked shyly from the foot of the bed.
Terrible. Hannah forced a smile, but didn’t dare move. Her arm and shoulder did not hurt at the moment as they were still warm and numb with sleep. However, she had the feeling that once she fully woke up and moved, the pain would return two-fold.
“Please, call me Hannah,” she said to Lady Alice. She looked at the bedside table. No tea or water. Her mouth felt sticky, with an unpleasant taste in it.
Lady Alice smiled with pleasure.
“Tea—that’ll be what you need.” Mary slipped past the girls and left, her determined footsteps clacking down the hallway.
“What happened to you?” Gina asked, leaning over the edge of the bed.
Hannah opened her mouth and then shut it again. She could hardly tell the girl that her uncle had tried to murder her. Her eyes glanced around the room before she focused on Gina. “Have you spoken to Lord Blackwold?”
“Oh, yes!” Gina clasped her hands together. Her eyes glittered with excitement, and then the glow suddenly vanished like a candle blown out. “Poor Uncle Carter. You did your best to save him, though.” She grasped Hannah’s good wrist and gave it a squeeze. “You cannot blame yourself—you were so brave—you did everything you could, I’m sure.”
So Blackwold had not told them everything.
Hannah sighed and shifted in bed. She immediately regretted the small movement. A bolt of pain shot through her arm. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, trying not to be ill.
“It is so tragic,” Lady Alice said. “But how did you happen to see the vicar out on the lawn?”
“The curtains were slightly open—I got up to close them when the storm started.” Hannah stared at the open drapes, trying to order her thoughts and guess what tale Blackwold might have told to explain what had happened. “I saw him in the gardens and was worried for his safety.”
“Why did you not ring for Mary?” Gina asked. Her gaze was a trifle too sharply inquisitive for comfort.
“I did not think about it. With the storm coming—I thought Mr. Hodges was in danger—I wanted to warn him.”
“But why was he out there?” Lady Alice studied her, her hands clasped around one of the bed poles. She leaned forward, the sunlight gilding her fair hair and turning her pale blue morning gown white where the beam played over the sleeves and shoulders.
Lies, partial truths, and the complete truth whirled through her. “I truly don’t know. I saw him in the garden and went to warn him. By the time I reached him, the gale winds had pushed him toward the cliff. There was nothing I could do—I am truly sorry, Georgina.” She used Gina’s formal name because, in some strange sense, she did feel responsible for the death of her uncle.
Gina didn’t know what her uncle had been doing to increase his wealth. The thought made her feel ill. The money Mr. Hodges had obtained from the wreckage of the Orion had probably been sufficient to allow him the luxury of hiring his new curate, Mr. Furlong, for one thing.
Well, Gina definitely didn’t need to know that.
Gina sniffed and touched a flimsy, lace-edge handkerchief to her eyes. Her small nose was crimson, and her eyes were rimmed with red, and Hannah recognized the signs proving that Gina had been crying before she came to Hannah’s room.
She couldn’t move her bruised arm, so she shifted her right wrist enough to catch Gina’s hand and give it a squeeze. “I truly am sorry.”
“Uncle Carter was always k-kind to me,” Gina said, her voice shaking and catching on her words. “I could not believe it when we awoke to the news that he had fallen from the cliff. Why was he there?”
“I don’t know, Gina. I doubt we shall ever know.” She gave the girl’s hand another warm squeeze. “Perhaps you ought to see how your grandmother is—this cannot be easy for her, particularly when she’s been so ill.”
Gina sniffed and rose to her feet. “She was asleep the last time I went to her room. It grieves me so—I can hardly face her.” A sob broke through her voice, and she covered her face with her hands before turning and dashing through the door.
Hannah let out another sigh before a movement caught her attention. Lady Alice remained standing at the foot of Hannah’s bed.
“How terrible—I hope it does not prevent Georgina from joining us in London. A woman cannot put off her Season too long—each year makes such a difference. One loses her bloom and freshness so quickly, as I’m sure you have realized.”
Hannah gave her a sharp glance, but there was no malice in Lady Alice’s face. The girl simply had an exceedingly unfortunate way of phrasing her sentiments.
“Perhaps I should go, as well. You will need your rest.” Lady Alice took a step toward the door.
“Wait—I have wanted to speak to you.” Hannah raised her right hand and gestured to the chair next to her bed. “Are you completely happy with your betrothal?”
“Happy?” Confusion wrinkled her brow. She raised her left hand and chewed on the edge of her index finger before she realized what she was doing, flushed, and lowered her hand to her lap. “It is an excellent match.”
“But don’t you wish to marry for love? Or at least, affection?”
“Of course.” Lady Alice smiled.
“But you don’t love Lord Blackwold, do you?”
She shook her head and giggled uncomfortably. Her gaze refused to meet Hannah’s and drifted over to stare at the window. “No, of course not. He is so, well, rumpled. How could anyone admire that?”
“Then why marry him?”
“He’s a marquess!” Lady Alice flashed a wide-eyed, startled glance at Hannah.
Hannah studied her. “Is a title so important that you’d marry someone you don’t even care for, when there is someone nearby you do admire? And who admires you?”
“Admires me?” Her delicate hand flew to press against her heart. Her blue eyes glowed above flushed cheeks.
“Yes—Mr. Henry Hodges. Surely, you’ve noticed—a blind woman would have noticed. And he admitted it to me.”
“Henry? Did he truly tell you that he admired me?” She half-rose off the seat and clasped both hands together. Her eyes blazed as she looked at Hannah.
“Yes, he did.” Hannah relaxed and took a deep breath. “I wanted to ensure you knew.”
All of a sudden, Lady Alice plunked down on the chair. The wooden legs screeched against the floorboards, but the girl didn’t notice. The color in her cheeks faded to gray, and her gaze hardened. “Nonetheless, my mother will insist. He is a marquess, after all.”
“Henry is the cousin of a marquess—surely that counts for something.”
“It is not a title. He is Mr. Hodges.”
“And you shall still be Lady Alice, one way or the other. So I can’t see
that it matters so much.”
“It does. It matters a great deal.” Lady Alice sighed and rose to her feet. “I should allow you to rest. I am so sorry you were injured.” She nodded and slipped out of Hannah’s bedroom before Hannah could reply.
Why did so many people refuse to take the road that might lead to happiness? She’d only wanted to help Lady Alice, and spare her a loveless marriage to a man for whom she obviously cherished few—if any—tender feelings.
And Blackwold… What would his life be like, married to a woman who would forever be trying to manage him and make him into something he was not? Who didn’t even understand his sense of humor?
Hannah was well aware that she had no hope in that direction—she was not a fool, even if she’d fallen foolishly in love with the wrong man. But her decision to return to Boston now felt as firm as if she’d already purchased the ticket. That decision left her with the sense that she needed to do something to set things right at Blackrock before she left. There had been too many tragedies already.
Lady Alice should marry Henry Hodges, not Lord Blackwold.
Blackwold would find some other lady in London. Hopefully, one who laughed at his terrible jokes and would find the lock of shaggy hair hanging over his eyes charming.
And Gina should marry Mr. Furlong. It was rare to find someone who shared the same interests—too rare to toss away. She remembered her parents pouring over maps, sharing their deep love of travel…
Before Hannah could decide on a strategy, Mary returned with tea and a light breakfast. Fragrant buns, still steaming under a linen napkin, filled the room with the scent of warm, yeasty bread, and pots of marmalade and fresh butter framed a gilt-edged china plate. Hannah’s stomach burbled with emptiness.
Despite Mary’s attempts to keep her in bed, Hannah convinced her to help her dress, and left her room in search of Henry Hodges. The longcase clock in the hallway chimed a single mellow tone as she went downstairs and wandered into the library.
“Miss Cowles! Should you be downstairs?” Henry leapt to his feet, scattering the sheets of a newspaper over the floor and the small table next to his chair.
