Surrender Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  A warm glow spread through her body at the thought of her husband and his rage at her abduction, his determination to find her. Yes, Marcus would be looking for her and she knew he would not easily give up. The image of his beloved face floated before her and, despite her best efforts to hold gloomy thoughts at bay, she wondered bleakly if she would ever see him again. Or her son? What of Edmund? If she were to die, he would well and truly be orphaned and her heart ached for him and what might be. Edmund would mourn her loss, but he would survive. He had a loving grandfather and she knew that Marcus would care for him and see to his future.

  And what of Marcus? How would he react to her death? Oh, she knew he would suffer; he could not have made love to her the way he had without having some depth of feeling for her. A soft smile curved her mouth. Few men would have reacted as he had when he had discovered the truth about Edmund. If she had not already loved him, that moment alone would have won her heart. She never doubted that he held her in high affection and she had enough sense to realize that it was more than just honor, more than just a shared history or propinquity that bound them together.

  There was no question about her feelings. She loved him. It seemed she always had. A small sob rose up within her. But I never told him, she thought miserably. I never once let him see what was in my heart. I was too busy hiding my secrets, too busy pretending that he meant nothing to me ... when he means everything to me!

  She sat there sunk in bitter remorse, cursing herself for all the opportunities she had squandered to tell her husband how much she loved him and swearing that if she lived, she’d not be so foolish in the future.

  Her stomach emitted a very ungenteel growl, telling her better than anything else that the hour was very late. How much longer would she be held captive?

  That thought had hardly crossed her mind when she heard the sounds of hoofbeats. In a mixture of relief and terror, she listened intently. One horse or two? One, she decided quickly. The gentleman or the other? Or someone else entirely? Whitley? She shivered. Please not Whitley.

  The new arrival approached the hut and the door opened. “I see that you have been busy trying to escape,” said the one she had dubbed the gentleman and she sighed with relief. She had hoped it would be him. She had no reason to trust either one of her captors, but intuition led her to believe that the gentleman was the lesser of two evils.

  “And if you are uncomfortable,” he said without a hint of compassion, “you have only yourself to blame.”

  Isabel muttered furiously from behind her gag.

  He laughed. “Yes, yes, I know you would like to put a dagger in my liver, but since I am rather fond of it, I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t oblige you.”

  She hurled another garbled insult at him, but he only laughed again and easily plucked her upright. “Come along,” he said in a kinder tone. “Your ordeal is almost over.”

  With that he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her away from her place of captivity. Reaching his horse, he laid her carefully across the pommel of his saddle and mounted behind her. Making certain he had her securely in front of him, he kicked the horse into a brisk trot.

  Isabel shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and again received a sharp smack on her bottom for her efforts. “If you want to fall off, just keep that up,” said her captor. “So far nothing has gone as I’d planned and the last thing I need is for you to get your neck broken falling off my horse. Behave yourself and I promise this will all end happily.” He chuckled. “Well, not for everybody, but in the main.”

  Despite his outward confidence, the gentleman was worried. It had been a number of years since he and Collard had worked together, and Collard’s killing of Whitley disturbed him. When he’d had to leave to fetch Mrs. Sherbrook, he’d been uneasy about leaving Collard behind tonight. He no longer trusted him to follow orders and he’d had to choose between having Collard watch Sherbrook or having him go get Mrs. Sherbrook. He grimaced. He didn’t like either choice, but in the end, he had not been willing to risk Isabel Sherbrook’s life to Collard’s less-than-tender mercies. If Collard would stick to the plan, all would be well, but he suspected that Collard had a different scenario than the one they’d discussed. He sighed. Christ. He supposed he would have to kill Collard, after all.

  Uneasy about what Collard might or might not do, he urged his horse into a gallop. The horse surged forward and Isabel gasped. “Yes, yes, I know it’s uncomfortable, poppet,” he murmured, bending low against the horse’s neck, “and I apologize, but it’s necessary, so hang on.”

  The ride was very rough and she lost all sense of direction. Fortunately, it was not a long journey and, just when Isabel thought her head would become disconnected from her neck from the constant jarring motion of the horse’s gait, the gentleman slowed his mount. The horse walked quietly for several minutes before the gentleman halted the animal. After sliding from the animal and tying it, he unloaded Isabel and once again slung her over his shoulder.

  He was moving very carefully and silently and Isabel had the impression that he was sneaking up on someone or something. He stopped for a second and then she heard the opening of a door and he stepped inside a building. Walking swiftly, he hurried toward some destination. As she was carried along she sensed the restive movement of animals, the smell of grain and hay, the distinctive scent of horses. Was she in a stable? He paused, opening another door. The next instant she was laid on the ground—ground that was heavily bedded in straw.

  A stall? she wondered. It was obvious she was in a stable somewhere; even if she hadn’t recognized the common smells, the blowing and snorting of the nearby horses would have alerted her, but where was she?

  “This wasn’t part of the plan,” her captor said softly, “but I think you’ll be safe here.”

  He moved and the next instant, she felt the rope that had linked her hands to her feet fall free. He patted her slightly on the cheek and whispered, “You’re a smart little baggage. I’m sure that you’ll manage to free yourself.” He laughed low. “Eventually.”

  And then he was gone.

  When she was certain he really was gone, Isabel wiggled around in the straw, struggling to get her hands from behind her back. She was agile, but it was not easy, the skirts of her riding habit thwarting her efforts to get her hands over her feet. After several fruitless attempts, she paused in her efforts. Breathless, she lay there listening, wondering where she was and what was happening with Marcus.

  Isabel and her fate were foremost in Marcus’s thoughts as he prepared to meet her abductor. The place for the exchange was not far, less than two miles away. The site was a well-known landmark: a huge, lightning-blasted oak tree in a small clearing adjacent to the trail that led to Manning Court.

  Even though he had the forged memorandum, Marcus had still considered many different plans to free his wife in the intervening hours. Isabel’s safe return was his main goal, but it galled him to just tamely hand over Whitley’s greatcoat. He had no way of knowing if Isabel’s abductors would keep their word, no way of knowing whether she was alive or not, no way of knowing whether he was riding into a trap... .

  The idea of setting his own trap had crossed his mind, and more than once he’d reached for paper to write Jack and ask his help. But each time, fear for Isabel’s safety stopped him. What if, through his actions, he caused the very thing he feared: Isabel’s death?

  Through the long hours, he’d desperately tried to conceive of a way to thwart the enemy and regain his wife—alive. In the end, concern for Isabel’s safety defeated him. He dared not risk her life in pursuit of revenge. The forgery was risky enough and he would take no further chances with Isabel’s life.

  His spirit in turmoil, Marcus stared blindly into space. His cousins Julian or Charles would have known precisely how to handle something like this, and they would have, he was convinced, come up with some daring plan. He cursed himself for having preferred the quiet, the mundane life. If I had been more ad
venturesome, he berated himself, I would have been able to free Isabel in one clever move and confound her captors. His gaze dropped to Whitley’s greatcoat and disgust roiled through him. And what do I do? Instead of riding with sword drawn to save the woman I love, I forge a bloody memorandum!

  Another glance at the clock on the mantel told him that he had run out of time, that within the next several minutes he would either have his wife back or ... He furiously shook his head, unable to complete the thought. Hopeful, angry, eager, and anxious, Marcus rose to his feet and picked up Whitley’s greatcoat. With the greatcoat hung over his arm, his jaw set, he walked from his office toward the front of the house, where his saddled horse awaited him.

  Having safely deposited Isabel in the stables, the gentleman swiftly exited the building. If all was going as planned, Collard should already be waiting for Sherbrook near the lightning-blasted oak and Sherbrook was either on his way or would be leaving the house within the next few minutes to meet him. He stopped and rubbed his jaw. Collard wouldn’t be happy when he didn’t arrive with Isabel, but he wasn’t particularly worried about it. Collard could think on his feet and he would, most likely, fob Sherbrook off with some excuse for her absence. He sighed. There was no avoiding it: Sherbrook was going to have several nasty moments before he arrived home and discovered that all was not lost. The gentleman smiled. Once Sherbrook arrived home, he would find his wife safe and sound waiting for him.

  The sudden jabbing of a pistol in the middle of his back wiped the smile from his face and he stiffened. In a low voice from behind him, Collard said, “Now, fancy meeting you here. Lucky I spied you sneaking around the stable and waited for you to come back out. Since she ain’t with you anymore, you must have dumped her inside. I don’t remember this being part of yer plan.”

  “It wasn’t,” the gentleman said levelly. “But leaving her here doesn’t change anything. Sherbrook still gets her back, just not when and where he thought he would.” A feeling of helpless rage swept over him. Collard was going to ruin everything. “And you?” he asked coldly. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be waiting for Sherbrook?”

  Collard laughed nastily. “Why should I have to follow the plan? You haven’t.”

  “Very well, I didn’t follow the original plan, but shouldn’t one of us be meeting Sherbrook?” he asked sarcastically.

  Jabbing the pistol deeper into the gentleman’s back, Collard said, “Oh, I’ll meet with Sherbrook, all right, but I did some thinking while you was gone and I was left to watch Sherbrook, and I’ve made my own plan.” Greed and excitement coloring his words, Collard added, “Everybody knows that Sherbrook’s a warm ’un; he’ll pay her weight in gold to get her back. Dealing with the frogs don’t suit me. I’m taking the woman from you and getting good English gold for her return. What you do is your business.”

  “You fool!” the gentleman burst out angrily and started to turn and face Collard, but the pistol stopped him.

  “Don’t move,” hissed Collard, poking him harder. “I ain’t made up my mind about whether to kill you or not, but you give me trouble and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Yes, that would be smart,” the gentleman drawled. “By all means shoot me and rouse the entire household. The moment you fire that pistol, how long do you think it would be before this place is swarming with men? Enough time, do you think, for you to retrieve her from the stall where I put her? It’s a big stable. Do you really think you’ll find her and reach your horse and simply ride away before they catch you?” He laughed without humor. “Somehow I think not.”

  “Shut yer bone box!”

  A woman’s voice rang pure and clean through the still night air and the gentleman knew that Isabel had finally managed to get her hands in front of her and remove the gag. In moments, the stable yard would be filled with sleepy servants, with Sherbrook at the fore. If all was not to be lost, the gentleman knew he had to end this. Now.

  Startled by the sound, Collard half turned to glance in the direction of the voice and the gentleman used the distraction to pivot on his heel and attack him. They grappled together, both fighting to gain control of the pistol. It was a deadly battle, their bodies locked against each other as the pistol wavered between them, their breathing labored, their muscles straining to overpower the other, each aware of the passing seconds—seconds that could not be spared if they were to escape.

  The pistol exploded between them and a form slumped to the ground. With a curse, the survivor threw the pistol to the ground and fled into the night.

  In the act of mounting his horse, as the sound of the shot shattered the air, Marcus jerked around to stare in the direction of the stables. Fear such as he had never known bloomed in his chest and he kicked his horse into a mad gallop, swiftly covering the scant quarter mile between the house and stables.

  Jerking the horse to a sliding stop, he leaped from the saddle, his heart jumping like a wild thing when he heard Isabel’s raised, frantic voice coming from the stable. Lanterns were already lit in the sleeping quarters of the stables and sleepy-eyed stable boys were tumbling outside. Heedless of the body lying inches from his snorting horse’s hooves, heedless of anything but Isabel, he raced past the first of the servants and charged down the aisle, following the siren song of his wife’s voice.

  Finding the stall where she lay still bound, he flung open the door and in one long stride was by her side. Kneeling beside her, he pulled her into his arms and rained kisses across her face.

  “Oh, my little love,” he cried brokenly. “I feared never to hold you again.”

  It took him but a moment to cut her bonds and, with strands of rope dangling from her wrists and ankles, Isabel looped her arms around his neck and melted into his big, warm body. She was safe at last. Marcus had her. Her cheek resting against his shoulder, the fear and terrors of the day vanished. She was home. And Marcus loved her!

  Cradling her next to him, Marcus rose to his feet, and oblivious to the gasps and startled glances of the curious servants he passed in the aisle, like a conquering hero he strode from the barn, his most precious treasure held securely in his arms.

  Chapter 18

  Walking outside into the cool night air, Marcus and Isabel were met with a barrage of astonished gasps. Worley, with young Ellard at his heels, came rushing up.

  “Sir! What is going on?” Worley demanded anxiously. In the light of the lantern he held, his anxious gaze took in Isabel’s smudged, exhausted features, her creased and dirty riding habit, the pieces of rope dangling from her ankles and wrists, and the bits of straw clinging to the fine material and her hair, and he exclaimed, “Madame! Are you all right? What has happened to you?”

  Nestled in her husband’s arms, Isabel smiled wanly and said, “I am fine, Worley. It has been an exciting day, but it ended well. Do not worry.”

  Not convinced but knowing he would get no more than that, Worley turned his eyes to Marcus. “Sir,” he said with commendable aplomb, “there is a dead man lying over there.”

  Unable to keep quiet a moment longer, forgetting both his place and his manners, Ellard said excitedly, “It’s the smuggler Collard, sir! He’s been shot dead.”

  Marcus said nothing for a moment, then glancing down at Isabel he asked softly, “Could you identify him as one of your abductors?”

  She shook her head. “No. I know that there were two men, but they attacked so swiftly, enveloping me in a blanket or something, that I never saw either one of them. Before they removed the covering, one of them knocked me out, and when I awoke, I was blindfolded.” She sighed. “I could recognize their voices, but other than their voices and my impressions of them, I can tell you nothing.”

  Every word hit Marcus like a blow and he fought to contain his rage against the two men that had laid rough hands on his wife, had dared to touch her at all. Dying had been too easy for Collard, he thought savagely. He hugged Isabel tighter to him. She was safe, he reminded himself. She was safe and that was all that mattered
.

  Pushing aside thoughts of vengeance, Marcus said to Worley, “Wrap the body in a blanket and get it out of sight. At first light send someone to notify the constable and the squire.” Looking at Ellard, he added, “I have a horse somewhere around here. Will you fetch it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  A second later, Ellard returned with Marcus’s horse from where it had been contentedly cropping grass near one of the paddocks. Reluctantly, Marcus set Isabel down, just long enough to mount his horse. She came up easily into his arms and with her sitting in front of him, her arms once more looped around his neck, her cheek against his shoulder, they rode slowly home.

  By now Sherbrook Hall was brilliantly lit and Thompson and a half dozen servants were anxiously milling around the front of the house, peering intently in the direction of the stables. As Marcus and Isabel appeared out of the darkness, almost as one they surged toward them.

  “Master!” cried Thompson. “What has happened? We heard the sound of gunfire. Is everything all right?”

  Similar sounds and questions came from the others around him. Peggy, her blue eyes worried, pushed herself to the front of the crowd. “Oh, my sweet mistress! What has been done to you?” she demanded, taking in Isabel’s bedraggled state.

  Isabel forced a smile. “I have had a most exciting day, Peggy, an adventure, but it ended well and now I simply long for a bath, and perhaps Cook or someone else could find me a few morsels to eat?”

  It was precisely the right thing to say: Peggy drew herself up like a general preparing for battle and said briskly, “I shall see to it immediately.” Turning away, she pointed a finger at a couple of the younger maids. “Come with me, madame’s bath water must be heated.”

  Thompson looked at George, the footman, and said, “Go this instant and wake Cook. Tell her that madame has come home unexpectedly and has not eaten. She is to prepare a tray for her immediately.”

  The servants vanished into the house as if by magic, leaving only Thompson, Isabel, and Marcus standing in front of the house. His features kind and concerned, Thompson said, “Madame, may I help you down?”