The scent of the dew swept over her. Dew unwarmed by the dawn meant darkness. It must still be night. Hope swelled in her. She might be able to elude him until the morning brought assistance from those who would be searching for her.
She scrambled over broken beams and walls, which had fallen when the roof tumbled into the fire. If only she knew where she was among the cells. They twisted in a serpentine path along the hillside. She had to find her way out and back to the main section of the house.
Forcing her groan of pain to remain unuttered, she backed away from whatever her shin had encountered. Georgie would be nearly as unable to see as she was. She tried to remember if anyone had said anything about the moon being bright last night. Nothing came into her reeling head.
Dust rose to clog her senses. Thick with ash, it reeked of the long-dead fire and the dampness which had soaked into it.
A wall halted her. She put her hands up to search among the rocks for a way out of this maze. Blood ran along her fingers as she desperately explored the stone. There must be another way. To go backward would mean her death. She could hear footsteps behind her, hesitant as they navigated the piles of stone.
When hands grabbed her, she screamed and cowered away in mindless terror. She was pulled against a night cooled shirt as arms went around her to comfort her in an aura of familiar cologne. Instantly, she raised her head as she whispered in disbelief, “Ian?”
“Mariel, what are you doing out here? We have been searching all over the Cloister for you.” He kissed her lightly. “I thought you would be waiting for me when I came back to our room. Why did you leave for a walk now?”
“It wasn’t my choice. Georgie abducted me from our room.”
“Georgie?” Bafflement colored his voice, and she sensed his gaze roving over her to be sure she was unharmed. He was sure to see immediately the blood and rips on her ruined nightgown. “Why are you out in this dangerous area? Because of a dead man?”
“He’s not dead! He is Walter Collins! He fixed the automobile to malfunction. He wants to kill me.”
He shook her gently. “Honey, you are hysterical.”
Viciously, she stated, “I have a right to be! Ian, if we don’t—” She paused as she heard the soft crunch of two rocks against each other. “Ian, behind you!” she shrieked.
He whirled as a dark form leapt from the shadows. Ignoring Mariel’s scream as he went down before his attacker, he twisted from beneath the man. He reached for his cane which had flown from his fingers. The other man jumped toward him again. With a victorious laugh, Georgie kicked the ivory-handled staff away. His other foot settled in the center of the auburn-haired man’s stomach.
Ian gazed up into a face twisted by madness. In the moonlight, he could see the bloodshot eyes of the Cloister’s mechanic. He did not move as he waited to see what Collins would do. Not Collins, he corrected himself mentally. Gregory “Georgie” Wythe, heir to the title of Lord Foxbridge.
“You hurt our Mariel,” whined the man staring down at him. “Naughty man for hurting our Mariel.”
“I have never hurt Mariel,” he said carefully.
“We heard her. She said she hates you and never wants to see you again.”
Ian did not dare to pull his eyes from Wythe’s as he heard Mariel’s gasp of horror. That loud disagreement had been months ago, during her recuperation, but this sick man had lost track of time. He remembered only what fit in with his distorted view of the world. He did not recall that since the argument, Mariel had announced her love for Ian before all the witnesses at their wedding.
Gauging the man’s actions, Ian slowly lifted his hands. He held Wythe’s eyes as he listened to his senseless ranting. With a sudden shout, he grasped the ankle of the boot in his stomach. Exerting all his strength, he twisted the leg at an impossible angle. Georgie went careening to the ground. Ian grasped the cane and clambered awkwardly to his feet. He did not curse his leg as he raised the staff and brought it down on the other man’s head. Georgie moaned once and was silent.
Ian bent and placed his fingers against the man’s throat. The pulse was strong, but slow. He smiled with satisfaction. Cousin Georgie would sleep until he could be collected and returned to safekeeping.
When he heard Mariel cry, “Ian? Ian, are you alive?” he walked away from the motionless man.
“I am fine,” he murmured as he drew her into his arms. Her tear-streaked face dampened his shirt. “A few bruises and a ripped coat, but other than that, I am fine. Let me take you back to the house. We can send someone down here to take Georgie back where he belongs.”
She nodded, too fatigued to feel anything but relief. Following Ian’s instructions, she walked around the many obstacles, which had daunted her on her flight through the cells. She was surprised how quickly they emerged from the burned structure to the fresh wetness of the gardens. The cool night breeze evaporated the tears on her face, leaving her skin tight.
Answering his questions, she felt his fingers tighten on her shoulder. His anger at her cousin was lessened only because of his pity for the man. When he paused and turned her to look at him, she knew he was examining her for the signs of Georgie’s abuse.
“I am fine, Ian,” she whispered. “He did not want to hurt me. That is what saved me. The part of him that is still Georgie loves me.”
He touched her bruised cheek. “The part of him that is not certainly had no compunctions about hitting you. Until we know he is secure, I think you should leave the Cloister, Mariel.”
“Leave? Where would I go?”
“Take Rosie to London. Stay with my mother. Just—”
Caught up in listening to her husband, Mariel did not notice the sound of sneaking footsteps immediately. Then, with a screamed warning, she tried to flee. Ian released her to face the madman again.
Mariel shrieked again as she heard Georgie’s most insane voice rise in laughter. “Ian! Ian!” Putting out her hands, she ran to where her cousin chortled.
When she fell over something on the ground, she did not need to touch the motionless form to know it was Ian. She did not have time to check what Georgie had done to him before she was jerked mercilessly to her feet. Her head spun as she was shaken by strong hands.
“Georgie Porgie waited for the boys to come out to play,” he crowed. “Georgie Porgie did not run away.”
“No,” she whispered. “Georgie did not run away. What did you do to him?”
“Our Mariel hates him. He hit Georgie. We hit him.”
“With what?” She tried to keep her hysteria from her voice.
“Just a rock.”
She moaned. Georgie’s “just a rock” could have killed the man she loved. When she twisted to pull out of his arms, he surprisingly released her. As she dropped to her knees to search for Ian, she heard her cousin’s most childish voice return.
“Mariel, are you angry with me?”
Salty tears burned in her eyes as she murmured, “Oh, Georgie, how could you do this?”
Fingers picked up hers and placed them on Ian. Her heart broke for her cousin who in his lucid moments loved her. As she sought along the unmoving man for where Georgie had struck him, she heard him beg her forgiveness.
“Do you love me, Mariel?”
Her hands found a damp stickiness on the back of Ian’s head. Trembling fingers reached for the pulse in his neck. He must be alive. He could not die now.
“Do you love me, Mariel?”
Before she could answer, she heard a sharp detonation. In terror, she wondered if the whole world had gone mad. A heavy form dropped to pin her to Ian. She could not move or scream. For an eternity, she struggled to breathe. Then the body was pulled off her.
“Mariel, are you safe?”
“Ian? Uncle Wilford, is Ian alive?” She did not think of anything else as she reached again for the man she loved.
“Careful,” came a soft warning in Ian’s beloved voice. “I am alive, honey, but let me sit up. I don’t need you poking those inquisi
tive fingers into my aching head.”
She listened as her uncle helped him to his feet. Then Ian offered her his hand. “Georgie?” she asked.
“He’s dead.” Wilford Wythe whispered with the sorrow that had never faded, “At last that tortured soul has escaped the voices which have taunted him all his life.”
Ian hushed Mariel as he watched Lord Foxbridge kneel by his son. The older man did not cry as he closed the wide eyes of the corpse.
“Take her to the house,” the lord ordered.
“Uncle—”
“Now!”
Taking her by the shoulders, Ian turned her toward the Cloister. Behind them, they left the man and his son. The moonlight glinted off the rifle in Wilford’s hand, the rifle he had used to kill his only child.
Epilogue
Screams echoed across the garden. Childish cries, exuding an excitement overwhelming in the summer sunshine. The noise drowned the tempo of the waves on the not distant shore.
Footsteps. Pounding feet struck dully on the soft ground beneath the luxurious carpet of grass. Coming closer. The shout changed into a shriek.
“Look out!”
Mariel ducked automatically as the whirr of a ball passed over her head. Reaching out a hand, she snared the child ready to run past to collect the toy.
“Isaac! You know you shouldn’t be racing past this blanket. What if you stepped on your baby sister?”
Laughter sounded behind her. She smiled as she stated with mock anger, “Uncle Wilford, I will never teach these children any sense of responsibility if you continue to egg them on.”
Bending, he picked up the ball and ruffled her neatly plaited hair. “We promise to be more careful, lamb. Come on, boy. Let me see if you can hit it farther than Rosie.”
Another hand settled on her shoulder. She reached up hers to caress the strong fingers which brought her more happiness with each passing year. A rich voice stated, “He is incorrigible.”
“Ian, I thought you were going to be busy all afternoon. A wedding.”
“I decided not to stay for the reception.” He looked down into her brilliant eyes, which rivaled the blue of the summer sky. Sitting beside her, he put his arm around her slender shoulders.
Silently, he watched the present Lord Foxbridge play cricket with his niece and the four-year-old heir to his title. His eyes dropped to the one-year-old, napping on the blanket while being guarded by faithful Muffin, whose snores were louder than the baby’s soft breaths. Three children to complete their family circle.
He brought Mariel’s head to rest against his shoulder. “I looked at the bride today, my love, and I thought of the day you walked along the aisle of that church to marry me. That day, I wondered if I could ever be as happy as I was when I saw you in your bridal gown. Now I know the answer.”
“And?” she asked, running her hands along the front of his shirt. The firm muscles beneath her fingers had not changed with the passing of the years.
“I have learned that with you I am that happy every day. I love you, Mariel.”
“Now?”
“Now?” he repeated with a laugh. “Always.”
She rose and brushed grass from her light wool skirt. Holding out her hand to him, she asked, “No, I don’t mean that. I mean, do you want to love me now?”
When he stood, he listened as she called to Phipps. The woman greeted him warmly, then picked up the baby in the basket. She took the child to the spot in the shade where she had been reading.
Ian took Mariel’s hand as they walked toward the Cloister. The sun dappled the stones with light. As they stepped onto the heated surface of the terrace, he turned her in his arms. The kiss he pressed into her welcoming mouth was no less warm.
As if there had been no break in the conversation, he answered, “I want to love you now and forever, my love.”
“As Fatima, princess of the desert?” she teased with the name that had become a private joke between them.
“As Mariel Beckwith-Carter, possessor of my heart.”
They laughed as they hurried into the house and the privacy of their rooms. Behind them could be heard the joyous sounds of the cricket game being played with youthful exuberance. Wilford Wythe’s shouts were as enthusiastic as the youngsters. Nowhere in the Cloister hung the shadows of one man’s blind obsession to destroy a woman who wanted only to forgive him.
About the Author
Jo Ann Ferguson is a lifelong storyteller and the author of numerous romantic novels. She also writes as Jo Ann Brown and Mary Jo Kim. A former US Army officer, she has served as the president of the national board of the Romance Writers of America and taught creative writing at Brown University. She currently lives in Nevada with her family, which includes one very spoiled cat.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1989 by Jo Ann Ferguson
Cover design by Julianna Lee
ISBN: 978-1-4804-1644-4
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
THE FOXBRIDGE LEGACY
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