Every step brought her closer until she reached the tower, soaked to her skin and shivering from head to toe. The thick, wooden door shoved open into darkness, but she could hear footsteps scurrying up the stairs spiraling in the center. Another flash of lightning illuminated the area, showing her where the steps began.
Her heart was pounding, and her breathing sounded harshly in her ears. She could feel her nails biting into her palms from how tightly she was clenching her fists, but she didn’t care. Nothing mattered except Winters and what he had done to Drake.
Without hesitation, she darted toward the steps, rushing upward.
When she reached the top, she heard scuffling to her right and jerked away, but not quite quickly enough.
She felt the edge of the knife kiss her neck, and her hand flew to the wound, relieved to find little more than a drop of blood.
Here at the top of the tower, there were windows, letting in the short bursts of light from the storm. In between were rumbles of thunder and utter darkness.
A flash of light illuminated Winters before he dove for her, the knife gleaming in his hand, a wild glint in his eyes.
Sarah dodged. She needed to form a strategy. Dodging his blows required her to raise her skirts, which left her with no hands to defend or attack. The curst skirts would be the death of her unless she could figure out a way to fight despite them.
She could hardly hear her own thoughts over the storm. The rain was falling relentlessly around them, beating the stones furiously, but the thunder was worse by far, like a stampede of buffalo.
She had no weapon. Her only advantage was her sanity, though one might also argue Winters’s insanity might be to his advantage.
“Look who came to me.” He laughed, a shrill, maddening sound, and fear crawled up her throat. She was trembling, soaked to the skin and freezing, and scared as hell.
He stalked toward her, and when the lightning flashed, she saw he was smiling, a sickening sneer curling up the corners of his mouth. Then there was darkness.
She strained to hear his progress along the wooden floor, but the storm was too loud. She knew he was coming, though, and that he would be here soon.
When the lightning flashed again, he was upon her, the knife inches from being plunged into her chest.
A cry ripped from her throat, fear tightening her chest. She gripped his wrist with both hands and twisted, but the knife only slightly changed its course. She couldn’t overpower him, so she braced her foot against the wall, using it as leverage, then pulled back her fist and let it fly.
“Witch!” he cried out, still gripping the knife.
She hit hard, but it wasn’t enough. She shook out her throbbing hand, pulled it back and struck again. This time, she aimed lower, for his throat. Or, at least where she suspected it would be.
He dropped the knife with a gurgled cry, but his hands didn’t stay empty for long. They encircled her throat, cutting off her air. She struggled, kicking and scratching. She grabbed at his hands to pry them off, but they were like metal bands. Her eyes burned, her head began to swim.
The darkness lifted as a flash of light brightened the tower. His crazed eyes were fixed on her. He was laughing, but she couldn’t hear him over the storm. Then there was darkness again, the rumble of thunder… next her life would end.
She shook the thought. She still had strength. She hated the thought of fighting unfairly, but she hated the thought of dying more. She pushed her knee between his, jerking it upward with every ounce of strength she had.
He let out a shrill grunt and his hold on her loosened enough for her to free herself. Air rushed into her lungs, burning them. She braced herself on her knees until she recovered enough to stand. She had barely straightened when a fist collided with her cheek.
Lights flooded her vision without any help from the storm, and she fell against the wall. She shook her head to clear it. She needed to see, to think.
When lightning once again illuminated the space, she saw he was coming for her.
She pushed away from the wall and lifted her fists. His hands went for her throat, but she ducked and landed a blow to his ribs. He grunted, twisting to grab her arm and yank her down. She hit the floorboards with a grunt, landing on her shoulder. Pain radiated down her arm and through her torso, but the glint of steel kept her going. The knife had dropped only a few inches away.
When his shadow loomed over her, she reached for it. And when he bent down to grip her throat, she plunged it into his chest. Still, his fingers tightened around her throat.
She fought to loosen their hold, but he was oblivious to her fists and nails.
Blood dripped onto her dress, mixing into the sopping wet material.
She pulled the knife from his chest, and stabbed him again. He grunted, but didn’t let go, so she stabbed him again. And again. And again.
Finally, his hold relaxed, and he fell to the side, propped against the wall.
Sarah stood, breathing heavily, still trying to regain her footing. Darkness surrounded them, but she knew he was dying against the tower wall. He might already be dead.
Using the wall as support, she took a step down the stairs.
He grunted. He was still alive, then, but he wouldn’t be for long. No one could survive those wounds.
She took another step, and the sound of the knife whizzing past her ear caught her off guard. It shouldn’t have. She should have been ready for anything, but she was tired, and in pain, and in shock.
She lost her balance and the steps disappeared from under her.
Chapter 20
Drake awoke on the floor, his entire body in more pain than he had ever experienced before in his life. His shoulder throbbed and his middle… Gad, he couldn’t possibly describe the pain he felt there.
He rolled to sit upright. How long had he been out? Last he remembered, it was dark, storming, Winters had arrived…
The sight of Sarah disappearing after Winters flooded his mind. She had gone after that lunatic!
He tried to calm himself. Nick would have gone after her after he had locked him in this room. He could protect Sarah. He could kill Winters. He had been an assassin back in the day. The man could handle a single crazed murderer.
Voices sounded in the hall. Nick and the boy.
He forced himself to his feet and pounded on the door. “Where is Sarah? Pembridge, answer me! Let me out of here, you dandified popinjay, or I shall have you arrested for interfering with an investigation! I shall have you… I shall …”
The voices had faded down the hall. There was no point in yelling threats to an empty hallway.
He growled into the door.
Billy had bandaged him up rather well. The bleeding had stopped, and he could walk, though not overly well. Still, he eyed the door. Perhaps he could break through it. But then he would have to get past the earl and an army of his own footmen.
Lightning brightened the room, followed by the crack of thunder. By some shock of insanity, the window caught his attention. That route was nonsense and most probably deadly. The bedchambers were four floors up. The drop, were he to fall, would be merciful only in the fact it would be a quick death.
Though, the gargoyles might give him something to grab on to, as long as they didn’t give way. They were three hundred years old, after all.
He went the window and looked down below. Several footmen were streaming out of the house, some mounting horses. Pembridge was there, barking orders, though Drake couldn’t make out the words over the storm.
Realization left him chilled. He hadn’t found Sarah. She and Winters were still out there somewhere. And the footmen were going in the wrong direction, heading over the moors instead of toward the cemetery or tower, where one might hide or find refuge. Winters wasn’t stupid; he would know the only shelter would be the cabin, which would be searched first.
No, he was either in the mausoleum at the cemetery, or in the tower.
Drake tried the door, shoving as hard as he dare
d, but the bloody thing wouldn’t budge. He turned again toward the window with grim resolution. It was his only option.
The window opened to strong wind and rain. The frozen droplets stung his face, but he ignored it, grunting as he lifted his legs one at a time over the sill.
The wind whipped at his coat. It was strong enough to rip him from the castle wall without the stones being slick with rain. He looped his arms around a gargoyle and swung himself down, fumbling to find a foothold.
“Stupid!” he forced through a shiver. “This is the stupidest thing I have ever done!”
Lightning flashed, striking a tree near the castle. Thunder cracked and rumbled. His side screamed in agony, and his arm was weak. He couldn’t be sure how long it would be before his body failed him.
Another set of gargoyles stuck out fifteen feet below him. He had one chance at this. If he failed, he would be a flattened mess on the terrace.
He took a deep, steadying breath and let go, somehow catching the next gargoyle and slipping only a little before finding another niche for his foot.
Only one more set of gargoyles, and then a twenty-foot drop onto a terrace.
He grunted, the pain in his arm traveling to his shoulder and blending in with the pain in his core. He ground his teeth and let go again, but after grasping on to the next gargoyle, it slipped through his hands.
He reached for the windowsill as he fell, grabbing on for a brief moment, but that was too slippery to hold also, and he was becoming too weak. He landed on his shoulder on the terrace, knocking the air from his lungs with agonizing efficiency.
He lay there, trying to breathe, realizing he was, somehow, still alive. Though, if he didn’t sit up soon, he might drown. The rain was coming down in sheets on his face.
Thankfully he didn’t land on his wounded shoulder. On the other hand, now both shoulders hurt like Hades.
He lifted himself into a sitting position, propping his arm on a bent knee. Nothing felt broken. At least, nothing felt any more broken than the rest of him.
He stood carefully, then began making his way toward the watchtower. He would check there first.
By the time he arrived, the lightning had faded into the distance, the rain just a light drizzle. Too little too late, Drake thought bitterly. He was already soaked to the skin and bruised all over, and Sarah had been out in an electrical storm for over an hour. Longer, if he misjudged how long he had been unconscious.
The tower door was ajar, and he knew she had been here. Someone had. A tower that had been unused for centuries would not be left open to the elements.
He stepped inside and ascended the steps. The tower was dark and wet, the rickety steps squeaking beneath his weight. Here and there, he heard the scurrying of rodents, but nothing that sounded like it could be Sarah or Winters.
He was only halfway to the top when he felt a bundle blocking the way. He knelt, ignoring the fear thickening in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. He knew it was Sarah before his hands found her familiar curves, the thickness of her hair, wet and missing half of its pins. He clutched her to him, breathing a shaky sigh of relief when he found a pulse.
“Wake up, my darling,” he mumbled into her hair. “I shall need a comprehensive report from you. Every detail,” he choked out, emotion, dark and painful, building up in his chest, his heart. “I may be jealous if you shot him, my love. Tell me you gave him a shiner. Tell me anything; just wake up. Please.”
“Drake,” she breathed. “You found me.”
“Of course I did, my darling,” he said, pressing small kisses over her brow and cheeks. “I shall always find you.”gh he were a sofa.er entranec dexamine Sarah. room. The physicain ian was in eaming im as though he were a sofa.er entranec d
He stretched out on the steps. He was well aware he couldn’t possibly carry her back to the castle as he was, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to leave her here. So, he stayed and held her in his arms.
That was how he was found the next morning. Sprawled out, with Sarah lying on top of him as though he were the most comfortable bed in England. Her face was peaceful, her breathing even, and her pulse steady.
His arms tightened around her. She was alive.
“What the bloody hell is this, Steel Breeches?” Nick barked from where he stood a few steps below Drake. “You could have left a note. Instead, the entire castle is out looking for you two.”
Drake smiled. “And here we are.”
“And here you are, you smug bastard.” His eyes lit before a smile cracked and spread over his face. “You are mad as a hatter, aren’t you?”
“Utterly demented,” Drake agreed.
“You had better be as happy as you look for all the trouble you caused.”
“Nonsense, every able-bodied man would have been searching for Sarah whether I was safely in my bedchamber or not.”
“That may be true, but your disappearance doubled the worry. You should see your poor mother. The woman is beside herself.”
Drake paused, his brow deeply furrowed. “Mother is here?”
Nick nodded. “As is Lady Umberton. Did you find Winters?”
Drake shook his head. “I can only assume he got away.”
Pembridge’s attention shifted to the top of the stairs. “Perhaps.”
Drake straightened as Nick stepped past him, disappearing higher into the tower. Several minutes passed before he reappeared with a body flung over his shoulder.
“I found our villain. Your little wife made mincemeat of him.” He shook his head warily. “Remind me never to anger that woman. Are you well enough to walk?”
Drake blinked, surprised that he was surprised. Of course Sarah had tracked down the homicidal maniac and ran him through.
He eased himself onto his feet, testing his body. “I think so.”
“Well enough to carry your wife?”
He glanced down at the woman in his arms, unable to bear the thought of letting her go. “I can carry her.”
Or he would die trying.
Pembridge lifted a brow. “I can carry her for you, and come back for Winters.”
“I said I can carry her.”
“Yes, you did, and I find it difficult to believe you haven’t taken your current physical state into account, so I shall assume you are merely overcome with relief at surviving last night’s… whatever that was, and have finally gone mad.”
“I recommend never arguing with a mad man.”
“Oh, far be it from me,” Pembridge agreed. “Besides, anything I could say would pale in comparison to what your dear mother is going to unleash upon you the minute we return.”
Drake grunted as he started down the steps. He deserved whatever tongue lashing his mother gave him. Were he to do this all over again, there would be things he would change, keeping his mother in London was not one of them. She wasn’t safe here. But that didn’t change the fact he kept things from her and had a secret ceremony without her.
As far as things he would change… He should have used a decoy and left Sarah in London with his mother. He should have taken more care, employed spies in the village to spot Winters. He should have known the storm would not stop him.
He gravely underestimated Winters, believing him to be a common country outlaw. The man belonged in an institution.
The journey back to the castle was not an easy one. He was furious with himself, shaking with a healthy mix of anger, exhaustion, and pain. He was bleeding again. He felt the sticky warmth gathering on his side, soaking the already bloodstained shirt and waistcoat he wore. His arms ached and his side was in agony, but he carried her all the way up to her room.
The physician Pembridge had sent from the village was waiting there to re-bandage his wounds and examine Sarah. Maids were bustling about, taking orders from the doctor for hot water, bandages, and blankets. But when he laid Sarah on the bed, the room went still.
The doctor was blinking at him like a stunned owl. “My lord, you are wounded.”
He gl
anced down at himself. “It looks worse than it is.”
“My lord, I must tend to you immediately.” He moved swiftly to Drake’s side, gesturing to the patch of fresh blood. “If this wound gets infected—”
“No.”
“B-B-But, my lord, the blood!” He began pulling at the soaked clothes to examine the wound.
Drake shoved him away. “Good God, man. Have you never seen blood before?” he bit out irritably. “I have plenty more, I promise you.”
“Do you think?” Pembridge drawled from where he was leaning against the doorframe.
Drake sent him a quelling glare, then turned to pin it on the physician. “You tend to my wife first, or you tend to no one. Is that clear?”
Drake sincerely hoped he was clear. The blood loss was causing his mind to swim, his muscles felt the weakest he ever remembered them, and he wasn’t at all certain the words that came out of his mouth were coherent. They might have been broken Latin for all he knew.
Dr. Hensley’s mouth pressed into a thin line in disapproval, but he eventually nodded. “Very well, then. I need everyone except these two maids to clear the room.” He pointed to two women, one with a tower of towels, and the other with two buckets of steaming water.
The good doctor was demanding Drake leave while Sarah was examined, but there was no way in hell he was leaving this room. Not until he knew she would fully recover.
“Come along, Sober Sides.” Nick shuffled toward the hall, along with the dismissed servants.
“Over my dead body,” he growled.
“That may very well be the case if you continue to stand there, bleeding all over everything,” Nick shot back through the open doorway.
“How long before Dr. Meade will be available?” he asked, his glare darkening, purposefully intimidating the idiot demanding he leave.
Dr. Meade was employed by the Home Office. He was the best. He ought to be caring for Sarah.
“Days, at least. Now stop being an idiot and leave him to his métier,” Nick insisted, blatantly annoyed. “She needs medical attention now. So do you, for that matter.”
Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 26
