My Fair Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Of course, excellent as that plan might seem, actually making it work was not going to be easy. He would, he knew, have to stay alert and think quickly.

  Aware of St. George’s rapidly waning patience as the minutes passed, Rafe scanned the countryside for a stopping place. So long as the land wasn’t too muddy, he supposed any location would serve. As they rounded the next curve, Rafe saw a heavily wooded area that showed definite promise.

  “Here, this is it.” Rafe pointed toward a large tree. “This oak is the one. I walked inland just there for several yards.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I’m not likely to forget where I buried twenty thousand pounds. You don’t mind if I dismount, do you?”

  St. George motioned his agreement using the business end of his pistol. “Lead the way. But I’m warning you, Pendragon, no tricks or I’ll shoot.”

  St. George would shoot anyway, he knew. Once the viscount had what he’d come for, St. George would make sure to rid himself any potential liabilities—namely him. Dead men, as the saying goes, tell no tales. Although considering Hurst’s journals, that wasn’t strictly true, he thought wryly. Hurst had told a considerable amount even from his grave.

  Boots sinking lightly into the half-thawed spring ground, Rafe began walking into the woods, St. George close at his heels. Overhead, naked tree branches spread outward like thick gnarled fingers, green buds still held snug in their cocoons, nearly ready to unfurl.

  Imperceptibly, Rafe drew a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, aware that he required all the calm he could muster. When the right moment came, he would have to recognize it and act without hesitation. If he failed in the first attempt to free himself, he would not be getting another.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Rafe said, hoping a little conversation might divert St. George’s focus, “how did you know I had the journals?”

  St. George gave a laugh. “I didn’t know for certain, but I decided to take a chance and assume you did. I figured even if it wasn’t you, kidnapping your wife would be good for squeezing money out of your pockets. Besides, who else could it have been? Who else bears me such a deep and abiding grudge?”

  “Oh, I’m sure there must be several others. Eleanor Winthrop’s father, for one.”

  “Annoying old fool. Even with the so-called proof he believes he has, his claim against me will come to naught in the end. Once I destroy the original journals, those copies will appear as nothing but a fraud, manufactured to disgrace me. The marquis will look like exactly what he is—a grieving father unable to let go of his loss.”

  “And what of Hurst? Bow Street knows you poisoned him.”

  “Do they? His death was ruled a spasm of the heart. If he was poisoned, it was by drinking far too much for far too long.”

  “So you’re staying with that story, hmm? Why bother when we both know the truth? You are planning to kill me as well, are you not? Why bother with secrets now?”

  “Keep walking, Pendragon.” St. George prodded the gun against Rafe’s shoulder.

  “No, really. I’m just wondering why you feel so confident about getting away with murder.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve done it before.”

  “Your wife, you mean?” Rafe questioned as he led the way down a small incline.

  “Perhaps, but there’s another. In fact, since we’re sharing confidences, it’s someone near and dear to your heart.”

  A chill ran through him. “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered at Papa’s death?” the viscount drawled. “How he went so suddenly, and at such a young age?”

  “It was a seizure.”

  “And so it was. Poison is an interesting thing. I’ve made a bit of a study of it over the years. Some varieties are completely tasteless, did you know? While others need the addition of something stronger to conceal the flavor. Alcohol is a good medium, especially when the recipient is in the habit of drinking a particular variety. Papa preferred brandy. He drank a snifter every night after dinner.”

  It took all of Rafe’s fortitude to keep walking. Mother of God, St. George killed our father!

  “It was simple, actually. Murder is, once you get up the nerve to do it the first time. He didn’t even realize what I’d done, not until the last, when I leaned over and whispered it into his ear. I can still remember the look in his eyes, the horror of knowing he was going to die and by my hand.”

  “Why?” Rafe asked, his voice low and strained. “Did you hate him that much?”

  “Hate him? Of course not. I adored him. No one was more devastated at his death than I. But he said unforgivable things to me, said I wasn’t suited to be the future head of our family. He claimed I was selfish and unfeeling, cruel to those I do not deem my equal. He told me he wished you were his heir, wished you’d been the one born legitimate so you would one day hold the title. He said of the two of us, you were the better man.”

  He prodded Rafe again with the pistol. “Who’s the better man now? Which one of us, I ask, is going to walk out of here the victor?”

  Not you, Rafe thought as he reached up to push aside a mass of low-hanging branches. And that’s when he knew.

  Now!

  Sweeping the branches aside, he paused for a fraction of a second so he could hurry under, then he let them fly.

  The tree limbs raced backward, striking with an impact Rafe knew had to be painful.

  St. George howled, beating at the rough tangle of branches as he fought to free himself from their clutches. As the viscount spun and slapped his way clear, Rafe lay in with his fists.

  Pain shot through Rafe’s right hand as his knuckles connected with St. George’s jaw. He barely noticed the discomfort, though, too focused upon his goal of wrestling away the pistol. Clamping his fingers around the viscount’s wrist, Rafe squeezed, flesh grinding against flesh, bone against bone, as each of them struggled for possession of the weapon.

  Seconds later, the pistol popped free, soaring through the air for a long moment. A muffled thump echoed as the gun landed at the base of another tree.

  Rafe dove for it, satisfaction roaring through him as his fingers curled over the wooden grip. Rolling, he brought the weapon up and aimed it straight at St. George’s chest. Keeping the gun steady, Rafe regained his feet.

  The viscount stopped, frustration and hatred shining in his sky-colored gaze. He spat out a curse but made no further move to retake the pistol, obviously knowing he was bested.

  “Go ahead, Pendragon. Shoot me,” St. George said. “You know you want to.”

  “You’re right. I do. But that’s the difference between you and me, St. George. I don’t kill in cold blood, not even when I know the world would be made a better place by the act.”

  “Coward.” The viscount spat.

  “We’ll see who the coward is when the hangman slips a noose around your neck. With my testimony and the rest of the proof against you, the Lords will give you death for sure.”

  St. George blanched, but said nothing further.

  “Get going,” Rafe commanded. “You lead the way back this time.”

  The return walk seemed shorter, the horses whickering a soft greeting as Rafe and the viscount emerged from the forest.

  “Wait here and don’t move,” Rafe told St. George as soon as both of them were once again standing on the road. Before he and the viscount began the journey back to the cottage, Rafe planned to make sure St. George had no further means of escape.

  Keeping the gun leveled, Rafe moved to his horse to retrieve a length of rope from inside the saddlebag. With the binding in hand, he approached St. George.

  He was about to order the viscount to place his hands at his back when there came a rumbling of coach wheels and horses’ hooves plodding quickly against the dirt road.

  Glancing up, Rafe felt his eyes widen as he recognized the driver.

  With a soft command, Ethan drew the team to a halt. “Well, this is a fine sight. I’
m relieved to see you are the one now holding the gun.”

  “I managed to resolve the situation. But why are you here? You’re supposed to be with Julianna.”

  “He is,” Julianna declared, lowering the coach window and leaning out. “We came to help.”

  Rafe’s heart gave an uncomfortable double beat.

  Ethan had the grace to look sheepish. “She insisted.”

  “Well, I insist you take her back now, out of harm’s way. St. George and I will be along in just a few minutes.”

  “We’re not leaving you alone with him,” Julianna said, plainly aghast at the idea. “Lord Vessey, assist Rafe.”

  “Ethan, stay where you are.”

  “No,” Julianna said.

  “Yes,” Rafe answered back.

  “Maybe I should help you, Rafe,” Ethan began. “I don’t trust him to—”

  In an unexpected flash of movement, St. George shifted, slamming his elbow into Rafe’s stomach. Pain shot through Rafe’s belly, but he ignored it, fighting to keep the gun away from the viscount.

  Suddenly a jolt reverberated up Rafe’s arm as the gun discharged, the bullet whizzing harmlessly off into the woods. Realizing the weapon was now useless, Rafe tossed the pistol aside and prepared to use his fists.

  Spinning away, the viscount bent down and reached into his boot. Metal flashed, silver glinting with wicked intent as Middleton straightened to display a knife clasped in his hand. Yelling a profanity, he charged at Rafe.

  From inside the coach, Julianna watched, breath trapped in a painful bubble inside her lungs.

  The two men circled, Middleton doing his best to stab and slash at Rafe, while Rafe managed to leap clear. Coming forward again, the viscount struck out wildly in an attempt to draw blood, the lethal blade missing Rafe by mere inches.

  Above her on the coachman’s seat, Julianna saw Ethan reach for his gun. A faint snick sounded as he cocked the trigger. But even as the marquis took aim, he held his shot. The men were too close and moving too erratically, Julianna realized, for Ethan to fire without risk of hitting Rafe instead of Middleton.

  Rafe barreled forward, catching hold of Middleton’s wrist and bending it inward. Locked in a furious scuffle, the men fought on, each move vital, each one possibly the last.

  Down they went, striking the earth like a pair of enraged bulls. The men rolled, adding punches and kicks, the blade now lost somewhere between them.

  The fighting continued for another long minute. Suddenly Rafe jerked and fell still, Middleton sprawled above him.

  Julianna’s heart stopped for a full beat.

  No, it can’t be! she cried silently. Rafe!

  Without conscience awareness, she pushed open the coach door and started down. Stumbling as her feet hit the ground, she steadied herself against the vehicle.

  Then she saw movement, catching a glimpse of Rafe’s hands as he pushed Middleton up and off him, the blade buried to its hilt in the viscount’s chest. Gleaming wetly, blood was smeared over both men, Rafe’s hands and clothes soaked red.

  Hurrying forward, she fell to her knees beside him. “Are you hurt? Did he cut you?” Frantic at the sight of so much blood, she ran her hands over him, searching for wounds.

  Rafe shook his head, panting for breath. “No, I’m fine.”

  A deep groan rose into the air, making her jump. Glancing over, she met Middleton’s eyes, the blue irises cloudy with shock and pain. Shifting his gaze, the viscount fixed a hate-filled look on his half brother. “May I see you in hell, Pendragon!”

  A last harsh breath rattled from his lungs, a crimson line of blood trickling from his mouth as his body went limp in death.

  Wrapping her arms around Rafe, Julianna closed her eyes and burrowed close. A shiver raced through her, together with a sense of relief that the ordeal was finally at an end. Rafe’s arms came around her, holding her close as he rocked her against him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, brushing his lips against her forehead. “Did he hurt you? Your wrists—I couldn’t say anything before, but—”

  “I did that to myself when I was trying to escape. Otherwise, I’m fine, just scared, I—Oh! Owwwww.”

  Pain jabbed through her middle as if she’d been pierced with a blade, the agony bending her forward even though she was huddled within Rafe’s arms.

  “What? What is it?” he questioned, alarm plain in his voice.

  Unable to speak, she could do nothing but wait and hope the misery would pass.

  “Is she all right?” Ethan stepped forward, leaning over in concern.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it’s the child. Is she in labor?”

  “Labor!” Rafe repeated. “But she’s not due for another three weeks.”

  “Babies rarely care about schedules. They come when they want.”

  As she listened, the pain began to ease, muscles she hadn’t even realized were clenched relaxing as the spasm subsided.

  “Julianna? Talk to me. Is it the baby?” Rafe’s eyes were deeply green and filled with a kind of anxiety he’d never displayed before, not even when he’d been battling the viscount.

  She nodded. “I think Lord Vessey may be correct. This isn’t the first pain I’ve had today.”

  Rafe released her long enough to climb to his feet. Reaching down, he gently lifted her up to stand beside him. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Let’s get you into the coach.” He turned toward the marquis. “Ethan, do you think you can deal with St. George’s body? If not, we’ll have to leave him here and return later.”

  “I should be able to get him up on one of the horses. Don’t worry about me. Go on.”

  “Julianna and I will see you at the cottage, then.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” she stated. “I am not going back there.”

  Rafe’s brows furrowed. “What’s that?”

  “I spent three miserable days in that cold, awful place and I’m not spending another moment. I most certainly am not giving birth there.”

  “I can understand you not wanting to return to the cottage, but you can’t give birth here.” He set a fist on one hip in thought. “I’d take you to the inn where Hannibal is waiting, but it’s rough and isn’t much better than the cottage. Ethan, what about Andarlly?”

  “Certainly you are more than welcome to go to my estate. No one is expecting us and the house won’t be prepared, but my housekeeper is a good woman; she’ll know what to do. The trip shouldn’t be much above an hour from here, assuming Lady Pendragon can make the journey.”

  Rafe bent his head toward Julianna. “What do you think, Julianna? Do you think you can wait that long?”

  “Chances are good I’ll be fine. It’ll probably be hours yet before I deliver, and Ethan’s home sounds wonderful.”

  “Then let us pray you don’t give birth in the coach,” he murmured. Sliding an arm beneath her knees and back, he swept her off her feet. As gently as he could, he settled her inside the coach. “Yell out, if you need me.”

  She gave him a small smile and a nod, watching as he shut the door.

  A new pain lashed her as he vaulted into the driver’s seat and set the horses in motion. Biting her lip, she rubbed a hand over her belly and urged the baby to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  YOU ARE GOING to wear a hole in the carpet if you don’t cease that infernal pacing.”

  Rafe ignored Ethan’s comment as he continued to stride up and down the marquis’s sitting-room floor, exactly as he’d been doing off and on for the past fourteen hours. Dread tightened like a fist inside his gut.

  She’s been up there too long, he thought, and still the baby isn’t born.

  When Julianna had said it would be some while before she gave birth, she had not been exaggerating. But what at first had seemed only natural was now beginning to take on worrisome proportions.

  The midwife, who had been called to attend his wife, had come down a few hours ago to inf
orm him that Julianna’s labor was progressing, albeit slowly.

  “Some babies,” she’d told him in an echo of Ethan’s earlier remark, “like to take their own sweet time before making an appearance into the world. Nothing yet to trouble over,” she’d reassured.

  But that had been four hours ago. Hadn’t he the right to be just a bit troubled now?

  A rippling wail rang out from upstairs, sending a fresh shiver of apprehension down his spine. Julianna’s cries of pain had reverberated throughout the house for hours now—all during the endless afternoon and evening and on through an interminable night. The first rays of daylight were just beginning to peek through the windows, sunshine rising to replace light from the candles that were even now guttering out, burned down to nubs.

  She moaned again, the sound loud enough to drift down the stairs.

  Dear Lord, how much more can she endure?

  Dragging his fingers through his already tousled hair, Rafe stepped out into the hall and cast his eyes up the staircase toward her bedroom. “Perhaps I should go to her?”

  “And do what?” Ethan asked from his seat on the sofa. “The women have things well in hand without any interference from you or me. Come, why don’t you have a bite of this breakfast Cook made us before it goes cold.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Ethan gave a snort of disbelief. “You haven’t eaten a decent meal in days, nor have you slept more than a handful of hours since well before we left London. The strain is beginning to show. Frankly, you look like the very devil.”

  Rafe supposed he did look rather worse for the strain—his cheeks rough with stubble, his hair standing on end, his cravat gone, flung aside hours earlier along with his bloodstained coat. But what did it matter how he looked? Whether or not he’d eaten or slept? His wife was lying upstairs, in torment as she tried to bring their child into the world.

  What will I do if she dies? How will I ever go on without her?

  Of course he knew he mustn’t think like that, but still, what a tragic irony if he had saved her from St. George only to have her die in childbirth!