Papa had not yet let go of Callie’s hand. “Let’s go home, dear. You’ll see. It will be just like you never left.”
Callie wasn’t sure precisely when she’d decided to stay with Ren forever.
Perhaps it was this moment, right now, even in the face of his fury and fear and desolation.
Perhaps because of it. She could not allow him to be right about her, about the world, about life. She would not.
“Go on, Dade, Papa. I shall be fine where I am.”
Dade turned to her, aghast. “You cannot mean that! Stay with that madman? You heard him! He had no regard for you—no family feeling at all! How can you choose him over your own family?”
Callie gazed evenly at her elder brother, whom she had adored all her life. “You don’t understand. I am not choosing him over you. I am choosing me over you.” She kissed Dade on the cheek, then Papa. “Tell Mama I shall write soon.” Then she turned away from them and walked quite serenely back into the smoking debacle that was her first ball as Lady Porter of Amberdell Manor.
* * *
Button surveyed the empty and echoing ballroom one last time. It was well into the next day and he’d yet to offer any commentary on the events of the evening before.
This worried Cabot. Button without commentary was like Button without air to breathe.
“Sir, the er … staff has mostly gone. They did what they could without paint and plaster. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
Button gazed at the ring of scorched marble in the center of the ballroom. “Have you ever seen a battlefield, Cabot?”
“No, fortunately.”
Button sighed. “You have now.”
Cabot latched his hands behind his back, carefully not looking at his master, yet entirely aware of him all the same. “May I ask, sir … who lost?”
Button looked away from the damage at last, casting a look of rueful weariness over his shoulder at Cabot.
“I suppose we might try to gather a few hours of sleep at the inn.”
“Before we set out for London?”
Button said nothing for a long moment. “Do you think he knows that she didn’t leave?”
Cabot, who was heartily sick of all things Porter, only snorted.
“Do not mock what you do not understand, young fellow.” Button, his romantic soul yet uncured, waved a hand to dismiss Cabot’s scorn. “He was so close…”
Cabot tried again. “Shall I pack our things to return to London today?”
Button tilted his head back and gazed at the mostly sputtered-out chandeliers above them with his eyes narrowed. “We did.”
Cabot frowned. “We did what?”
“We lost the battle.” Then he turned to send Cabot a gaze with a glimmer of revived mischief held within it. “But we may yet win the war!”
* * *
If Dade had just finished the job in the first place, none of this would have happened. Callie would be back home where she belonged and all would be right with the world.
Atalanta Worthington had never been much interested in the out-of-doors—except of course in the capture and identification of poisonous creatures and plants that made one itch—but she had become an accomplished rider out of pure survival. One never knew when Cas or Poll might decide to put a burr under one’s saddle, or emit a shrill whistle guaranteed to startle the most somnolent mount into a frenzied gallop.
Attie did not believe in going unarmed—hence the array of toxic defenses she kept at hand—but the bundle in her arms was a new and intimidating weight. She raised her chin and quieted the sickening flutter in her belly. Callie needed rescuing and not one of her brothers, not even heroic Dade, was willing to do the job properly.
So, tucked and stuffed and rolled into Lysander’s country tweeds, for Zander was still thinner than any of the other boys, Attie made her way into the rickety stable far behind the Wincombes’ house. Friends of the family, Papa had called them. They’d all stayed the night there before dressing for the ball … yesterday?
Worthingtons didn’t bother with excess servants so it was with easy confidence that Attie saddled and bridled Dade’s beautiful gelding, Icarus. Not that Dade had ever allowed her to take Icky out by herself before. In fact, it took some grunting and hopping and sprawling—and an overturned water bucket—before Attie found herself upright on Icky’s broad back. Just one more quick adjustment to her position—facing the proper direction was imperative to her mission—and Attie was ready to ride the twenty miles back to Amberdell Manor.
Chapter 32
Callie opened her eyes. For a short but happy moment, she thought about nothing at all. She’d had a nice dream but it drifted away, leaving her mind quite empty of anything but thoughts of sleepy warmth and comfort.
Then the faint acrid odor of burned silk teased at her nostrils and the entire awful evening came crashing back down, unrelieved by a night’s distance.
It was every bit as horrific and humiliating in memory as it was in the moment. Worse, perhaps, because in memory there was no hope. It had happened. She cast a wary glance at the sumptuous ruin of her gown lying across a chair. It, too, was beyond saving.
It now remained to see if her marriage could be. If her new life could be. If Ren’s feelings for her could be.
Those feelings, those poor, newborn, pale sprouts of love … at least, she’d hoped they were. It might have been simple friendship … and lovemaking.
Yesterday she’d wanted more. Now she would be glad to have back even half of what she’d had.
She’d not dared to seek him out last night after she’d ushered the many guests from the hall with slightly limping dignity. Even Button’s stately friends had taken their leave, thankfully. The house had at last gone silent and still once more, as empty as the first night she’d seen it.
She rose and dressed in her old blue muslin. In her excitement over her Persephone gown, she’d forgotten to ask Mr. Button about the rest of her order. It hardly seemed to matter now. Her things might yet come from home anyway, now that she’d thrown her family away.
Mama would understand. Papa would take a little longer. Dade … oh, dear, and Attie … Callie felt the burn of tears and shook it off fiercely. She was a Porter and Porters never surrendered, not even when bleeding and dying on some filthy dock!
As she searched for her other shoe, she saw the bowl of pearls on her vanity. She picked it up and began to lay out the pearls in a line across the inlaid surface. Then she fetched her small sewing box and began to string the pearls.
As she strung each pearl, it was as though she remembered the very moment she’d received it.
This was the first night together as man and wife.
This was when I took him in my mouth and knew he was mine.
Each pearl was a memory, a moment, a step on the road that had brought her and Ren here … wherever here was.
After three quarters of an hour she sat back blinking her eyes to reset her focus. One hundred pearls. There remained a few more pearls rolling about in the bottom of the bowl, but Callie took a dismal enjoyment in the nice round amount of a full hundred. She stroked the long strand with a tender touch, smiling with damp eyes. One hundred perfectly matched pearls.
Some things belonged together.
Today was her tenth day in the Cotswolds.
Ten days … a lifetime.
She heard uneven footsteps in the hall outside her room. As she listened, they paused outside her door. She held her breath but the steps moved on after only a moment. If she meant to stay—and she bloody well did!—she was going to have to do something about Ren’s tendency to retreat.
He doesn’t wish to see me.
Well, that’s too bloody bad for him.
* * *
Callie ran down the stairs shoving her arms into her spencer.
Outside the day was windy but clear. Ren was nearly out of sight, luckily heading up the hill to the northeast. Callie ran for a bit, but his legs were too long and his strid
e too furious. Soon Callie had to slow down. She walked, pressing a hand to her side to still the stitch there.
She crested the hill and saw Ren walking down along one of the dry stone walls bordering the fields. Callie called out to him, but the winds caught her voice and carried it away. She trotted down the hill, picking up her skirts again and calling his name.
He turned at last and watched her stumble down the slope toward him.
When Callie came closer, she slowed. He looked quite wild. Without his hood in the daylight, he stood waiting for her with his long hair whipping about his face and his lean form tight with something she’d never seen before.
“I—I wished you had stopped to greet me this morning,” she began cautiously. “I heard you go out. I thought that…”
“I thought you left.”
She frowned at him. “I never had any intention of leaving with them. I simply wanted them to go knowing I was not upset with them.”
“Not upset? What ball did you attend last night?”
Callie didn’t defend her kin. She was too glad he was speaking to her, though she kept her distance from that feral light in his eyes. “Ren,” she said gently. “Come inside. I am cold. I’ll make some tea…”
She trailed off. He wasn’t responding to her at all. “Ren, darling, what is it?”
“You turned your back on me and walked out. I was there, alone, facing everyone.”
Callie’s belly went cold. She pressed her fingertips to her lips. “Oh, Ren. I—”
He half turned away, hiding his scarred face. “I realized something last night. You didn’t choose me.”
Callie shook her head. “No, Ren, I told you—I stayed! I did choose you.”
“You chose to stay … this time. But you didn’t choose me—I happened to you, like the flash flood on a bridge. The bargain, the marriage, that was you saving your family from the aftermath of that flood.” He looked up at the sky and gave a bitter laugh. “I will never be more than the lesser of two evils, will I?” He turned cold eyes upon her. “That is, until the day when I am not. What will your choice be then, Calliope?”
She took a step forward. “No, I—”
She was in motion when the bullet hit her full in the back. At first she thought someone pushed her from behind. She fell forward, and then she rolled down the grassy hillside, coming to rest in Ren’s arms.
She looked up at him. “I fell…”
She blinked at him; he was shouting at her … but she couldn’t hear him for the humming in her ears. She lifted a hand to the beloved ruin of his face. “I choose…”
Callie went limp in his arms. Ren shook her but her head flopped limply on her neck. Good God, his hands were covered in blood.
He’d thought he’d heard a shot just before she fell, but it had been carried away. He sent a glance around the hills for the rifleman, but he didn’t even care about catching the bastard.
God, so much blood.
* * *
At the Wincombes’ house, Elektra Worthington dropped the bed skirt and climbed to her feet. “She isn’t under here,” she called out. Across the hall, Castor let out a bellow. “Nor here!”
They met in the hall. Cas’s habitually cheerful expression was now grim and tight. “Where else would she be? It’s not as though this is our house. She hasn’t been here since she was a an infant.”
Ellie shook her head. “I barely remember this place! She wouldn’t be on the grounds, would she?”
Poll joined them. “I checked the grounds. Dade is canvassing the village. Lysander thinks she’s gone back to Amberdell.”
Ellie frowned. “But how? I know she’s brilliant and bloody-minded, but she is still a twelve-year-old girl! What coachman would take her?”
Cas and Poll exchanged wary glances. Ellie, ever alert to the twins and their mischief, pinned them with equal glares. “Speak.”
Cas shrugged. “It was only a game.”
Poll nodded. “She didn’t come to any harm.”
“Although we told her never to try it on her own.”
“Still…”
Ellie bit back the urge to scream. “What?”
“It was just a ride we cadged.”
“On an old freight wagon.”
“Just out of the city a bit.”
“And then back, of course—”
“It was just a day out—”
“But—”
“You idiots taught her how to stow away on a freight wagon?” Ellie frowned. “Back to see Callie?”
Then she smiled. “Well, that’s simple enough. Those things travel much more slowly than our carriage. She’ll still be on the road to Amberdell. We can catch up to her easily.”
“No we can’t.” Dade entered the hallway. “She didn’t take a freight wagon, she took Icarus.”
Impressed, Cas let out a low whistle before Ellie’s glare shut him up.
Dade ran frantic fingers through his hair. “It gets worse.” He gazed grimly at his siblings. “She took Aunt Clemmie’s hunting musket.”
* * *
Up on the hillside near Amberdell Manor, Attie let the musket drop from her numbed hands. Callie?
Attie had been so focused on aiming downhill against the wind, that she’d never even seen Callie approach. When Porter had finally stopped moving, Attie had rejoiced and closed one eye to gauge the shot better. It wasn’t until after she’d pulled the trigger that she’d seen a figure in blue step into her narrowed view.
Then it was too late to call back the bullet. Carried downhill, aimed and fired by a good marksman, it would not have hit her. But Attie had had very little practice with Aunt Clemmie’s favorite firearm.
And now Callie lay dead, limp and bloody in that Porter’s arms. Attie began to shake. She’d shot Callie.
Callie was dead.
She’d not thought it through, she realized dimly. Everyone said it all the time.
Elektra had told Cas and Poll, “I’m going to kill the both of you.”
Dade had cursed Porter’s name. “That man needs a good killing.”
Aunt Clemmie: “I’ll hang his head on my wall!”
It was just what people said.
Somehow, Attie had not realized, not all the way deep inside her, that when one killed someone … then they were dead. Dead was forever. Dead was never, ever coming home. Dead was a great eternal hole ripped into a little sister’s heart.
Callie was dead.
Attie’s knees gave way. She fell to all fours and retched up the buns she’d stolen for her breakfast.
When she was done, she shakily sat up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She couldn’t bear to look but she did.
Callie was gone. Porter must have carried her away. Back to his big nasty house. Didn’t he know that Callie liked to be outside?
But Callie didn’t. Callie was dead and she would never like anything ever again.
Attie crept down the hill, leaving the beastly musket where it lay. She hoped it rusted into dust. It was easy to find the spot. The grass was all trampled and mashed … and there was blood, glowing red and hot on the green of the new grass.
At the sight of it, Attie stumbled back, falling down and scrambling backward until she couldn’t see the blood anymore.
Callie is dead.
Attie stumbled to her feet and began to run.
But no matter how fast she fled, she couldn’t escape it.
I killed Callie.
Chapter 33
Ren lurched and stumbled and pumped his aching legs as fast as they could go through the high grass. Back up the hill and back down again. He ran hard, clutching Callie’s limp body to his chest, unmindful of the agony in his shoulder, uncaring about the hot lightning shooting up his once-broken leg with every step. The warmth of Callie’s blood soaked through his sleeves. Too much. Too fast.
She’s leaving me.
He ran faster.
Yet when he got to the house, he realized his fatal mistake. There was no
help there. The manor was deserted—he’d made sure of it. He carried Callie inside and brought her into the first room he thought of, the front parlor, where she and her family had come the first night.
He tenderly placed her on one of the sofas, then stripped off his bloodstained coat and covered her with it.
She lay white and still. He tried to feel for her pulse but his own was pounding too hard. He couldn’t feel anything.
No.
“Callie! No!”
“Oh, my God.”
Ren jerked his head up to see a miracle. In the open doorway stood a young man in elegant clothing, carting an armload of flat dress boxes.
The fellow tossed the boxes aside, spilling shimmering silks, stockings, and shoes in a fountain over the side of a chair. He knelt next to Ren.
“What happened?”
Ren shook his head. What did it matter? “I think … a shot—perhaps a poacher … or someone … someone…” He couldn’t speak.
If he’d only stopped and spoken to her this morning, she wouldn’t have followed him out. If he’d only stopped the first time he heard her call his name, before he crested the hill. If he’d only kept far, far away from the lilting voice in the dark hallways of his hell.
“I think … I think she’s gone…” His throat closed.
Cabot pushed Sir Lawrence’s bloody shaking hands away and felt for Lady Porter’s pulse. “She lives.” He stood and turned to go.
Sir Lawrence clutched at his wife’s hands. “Get help—there’s—somewhere in the village, there … is there a doctor close by?”
Cabot turned and gazed at the man everyone else wanted to save. Personally he couldn’t imagine why. “Help is closer than you think,” he said shortly and left.
This would not do. Cabot would not allow Lady Porter to die, for it might upset Button and Cabot couldn’t allow that.
Porter didn’t deserve her … but then again, being deserving didn’t always get one what one wanted, either.
* * *
She was swimming. Callie moved her arms and legs in perfectly even strokes. She could thank Dade for that, for thinking a girl needed to know how to swim as properly as a man, not simply splash about in the shallows afraid to wet her hair.
When She Said I Do Page 29
