"I promise you, it will all come right," Atwood protested. "I stake my life on it."
Fraser raised one bushy brow with such eloquence Atwood was hard pressed to keep his knees from knocking together. He stole a glance behind him, half expecting some sinister form in black to be preparing to slip a stiletto between his ribs.
"Mr. Fraser, I..."
But his words were cut off by a wave of Fraser's hand, as the big man rose from his chair and went to the window.
Hoofbeats. How had the wily old bastard heard them, long seconds before Atwood had picked up the sound? Both men stared out the window, Atwood's hand curved on the dragoon pistol shoved into his belt.
But when the rider broke through the trees, Atwood all but cried out in relief, even Fraser giving a grunt that was both surprise and satisfaction.
Emily d'Autrecourt looked like the embodiment of spring, a flowing green cloak rippling back from her shoulders, a white mare beneath her. Glimpses of primrose colored petticoats were visible in the gap of the cloak, while her arm was crooked in the handle of a split-oak basket. Some mysterious bundle lay inside it, wrapped in a pale blue cloth.
"How the devil did she know to find me here?" Atwood muttered.
"She wasn't looking for you," Fraser snapped. "She was looking for me. The girl is disgustingly honest and well bred—I have it on the highest authority from someone who was acquainted with her in the days before her disgrace. Had she not been such a dependable sort, I would have hardly put myself through the trouble of dredging her out of the rabble in London. She is probably coming to confess the whole disaster very prettily, and save your worthless hide."
A discreet knock on the door made Atwood lunge toward it, but Fraser held up a warning hand, and called out. "Come in."
The girl opened the door, and stepped inside, just a little hesitantly, her cheeks pink, her eyes just a trifle nervous.
"My dearest Emily," Fraser said, "don't hover in the door, child."
She slipped through the opening and closed the panel softly behind her.
"What a happy coincidence," Fraser observed with that hearty chuckle Atwood had learned to mistrust. "The good Captain and I were just talking about you."
Those purple-blue eyes flashed to where Atwood stood, and he saw her blush prettily, and step forward, one hand outstretched.
"Mr. Fraser, you must have been speaking of the... difficulty I had. I want to assure you that it was not the Captain's fault. I was totally to blame for the loss of the doll, and the somewhat unorthodox way that we dealt with the problem."
"It was a very messy business, I'm sorry to say, and I quite detest such entanglements. You must understand, that in our line of service, they can be quite costly."
Her knuckles whitened on the handle of the basket. "Of course." She lifted one hand to the edge of her hood, lowering it from her dark curls. Fraser took unholy pleasure in the fact that her fingers trembled, and felt a reluctant sense of respect as he saw her forcibly still them.
"You must have heard by now that we have been searching for an outlaw by the name of Pendragon. Quite a troublesome scoundrel, eluding us these many months. Taunting the soldiery and harassing his majesty's tax collectors, while courting the loyalty of the rabble by flinging coin their way."
"I have heard something of Pendragon since I arrived here," the girl said slowly.
"Well, then, you can imagine our outrage. Some poverty stricken widow suddenly has funds for a new cow, some chicks for the yard. We know she hasn't any coin, but she insists the money fell like manna from heaven. A farmer who has had an accident and cannot even get out of bed suddenly has the money to pay his majesty's taxes, but we know he has already spent his savings merely attempting to feed his children. A family with a rebel son spouting treason finds a way to send him off to Barbados or France just before he is to be made accountable for his transgressions." Fraser's lips pursed, as if attempting to stop himself from listing more of Pendragon's sins.
"Yes, my dear child, it is most aggravating to be made to look like a fool in the eyes of those you are trying to subdue. And these colonials take the greatest of pleasure in watching Atwood's soldiers run about like school boys whose breech-legs have been stitched together, falling all over each other in their quest to bring Pendragon to justice."
There was an uncertain light in the girl's eyes, as if the incidents he'd recounted had stunned her, troubled her. But not in the way Fraser had intended. "I am certain that you will discover his identity," she said, with a touch of reluctance.
"In good time, no doubt. In good time."
Suddenly she seemed very eager to finish her business. She set the basket on the table before him. "I have brought the lost doll." There was such an innocent distress in her eyes, that Fraser was reminded of lambs being led to the pens where knifes waited to slit their throats. "It took a little while to find it, but nothing has been harmed." She took the bundle from the basket, unwrapping it. Fraser's hands closed upon it, so tightly one of the wooden arms snapped.
The girl winced, as if the doll were alive, but Fraser only held it tighter, savoring the anticipation of splitting it open and taking out the message inside.
"I thank you for your good service, Emily. Your benefactor was right. You are a most resourceful young lady."
"Benefactor? I have no benefactor."
"Yes, you do, my dear. And a very powerful one. I am vastly in his debt for having brought you to my attention. Now, is there anything that I can do to repay you for your tenacity in recovering this important bit of communication?"
"No. I mean, yes. Yes there is." Her fingers knitted together, and she looked at him earnestly. "Mr. Fraser, I am afraid that I can no longer be in your employ."
"What?" Fraser exclaimed, taken aback.
"I cannot be in your employ any longer. I can pass no more messages, nor be responsible for them."
"But my dear," Fraser objected, "you were so eager to have your own millinery shop when first I proposed this arrangement. You wanted to be independent. A woman of substance."
"I know. But the things that I want are different now." Her cheeks were scarlet, her voice low. "I have fallen in love, sir."
"In love?" Atwood's gruff scorn made Emily turn her gaze again to the room's floor.
"In the time I was at Blackheath Hall, I came to know its master. I came to love him."
Atwood's face washed dull red. "You're not saying Blackheath has promised you marriage?" the captain blustered. "By God, madam, you can't believe him."
"He has offered me nothing. Not in so many words. But still, I am certain of the feelings we have for each other."
"So the legendary satyr of Blackheath Hall has enslaved yet another woman," Atwood spat out.
"Apparently so," Fraser said. "You must tell me how he does that sometime, dear. It could prove quite useful in convincing people to part with information."
The girl grew paler, more stiff. "I only wanted to return the doll," she said, "and tell you that I'll no longer be working with you. Ian once said he would buy out my indenture papers from my owner, so if you will figure out how much is owed you—"
"Did you truly believe that you could just come here today, and bid all this farewell?" Fraser chuckled, incredulous. "No one is able to just quit this type of calling, my dear. It is possible for you to take a brief respite. But I think you could be very useful to us if you were Ian Blackheath's wife. He has a most eccentric circle of friends."
Fraser took the doll in one hand, a penknife in the other, his eagerness to get to the message making him pry at the wooden peg that concealed the hidden compartment. "It is possible that through Blackheath's friends you might find out something useful, Emily. After all, once Pendragon is hanged, we will have to busy ourselves with other pursuits."
"Mr. Fraser, you don't understand. I cannot—will not—be a party to this anymore."
At that moment the peg in the doll pulled free, Fraser's fingers dipping in to slip out the message,
unfold it. He read the missive, his eyes widening with triumph.
"What does it say?" Atwood clamored, straining to see over Fraser's shoulder. The Englishman hid the message against his waistcoat, his mouth splitting into a smile as terrifying as that of a crocodile with a child's leg dangling over its mouth.
At that moment, it was as if Emily could feel those cruel jaws close around her.
"My dearest Emily, I fear that I shall have to detain you, for a little while," Fraser said.
"Detain me?" Foreboding crushed her throat. "I don't understand."
"It seems I suddenly have the most urgent need for you at the moment. You see, you are going to be the bait that lures our most estimable enemy, Pendragon, to his death."
"You're mad! Pendragon has nothing to do with me!"
"I'm afraid he does." Fraser's voice was poisoned silk. "You see, my dear, he was to have been your lover. Unfortunately he will have to face a traitor's death instead."
"Ian? Pendragon?" Her mind whirled, the image of the paperweight on Ian's desk at its center—a miniature sword in a stone, the heart of the Arthurian legend. Pendragon. The once and future king...
Horror raced through Emily, her numb hand clutching at the table to steady herself. "That's insane! Ian would never... could never..."
"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, my sweet. It was the most diabolically clever disguise ever invented. There is a touch of evil genius in it. Enough that we might never have discovered the truth. Fortunately, my dear, we had you to destroy him."
"No," Emily breathed, feeling as if she were going to retch. Of course Pendragon was Ian. She should have guessed, should have known. A man who would not hold slaves would not allow others to be enslaved, even by their king. A man who would give a child a pianoforte would scarcely stand by and watch a widow-woman's children starve, or an injured farmer lose his land. Those long, late nights, his solitary rides, the gash on his forehead, even the outrageous entertainments that he'd boasted about had all been his effort to hide his heroism.
And now, because of her, he was to die.
"You are wrong, Mr. Fraser," Emily lied desperately. "Ian Blackheath is no patriot. Much as I love him, he is exactly what he seems. A scoundrel who would never sacrifice himself. Not even for me."
Fraser smiled that cunning smile. "By your own words you give me the power to condemn him. If he is indeed the kind of rogue you claim, he will abandon you, my poor lamb. But if he is Pendragon, he will ride like the wind to rescue you, his lady love."
Fraser's words scraped like a dull blade against her nerves, spilling terror in their wake. For Ian would come, heedless of his own safety, wanting only to free her. And when he did, he would meet his own Armageddon.
No.
Emily spun toward the door, intending to run, to warn him.
But at that moment Atwood lunged for her, manacling her wrists with hands hard as iron.
"It was very unwise to allow us to see how much this rogue means to you, my dear child," Fraser tsked.
"No!" Emily cried. "I won't let you hurt him!"
"We'll do worlds more than hurt him, my dear. Because of you, we will not only capture Pendragon. We will drag from his very mouth the name of every man who serves under him."
"Ian would never betray them!"
An evil smile creased Fraser's face. "True. Nobility of spirit can be such an inconvenient obstacle at times. But there are ways to break even the most honorable of men. Ways to make them beg."
"Ian would die before he'd let you break him."
"Undoubtedly. But tell me, Emily Rose, how long do you think Blackheath could endure watching you suffer in his place?"
"Just a minute, Fraser," Atwood blustered. "Mrs. d'Autrecourt is innocent of any wrongdoing in this. She could not have known that Blackheath was a traitor to the crown!"
"Twice now Emily has shown a distressing lack of common sense in her romantic entanglements. Unfortunately for her, I predict that this episode will have consequences that are every bit as tragic as those from her liaison with Alexander d'Autrecourt."
Emily gaped at Fraser. "How—how do you know about Alexander?"
"I am a master at discovering people's secrets. Solving puzzles. I anticipate with great relish solving the riddle of how much pressure I'll have to apply on Ian Blackheath before he tells me everything I wish to know. How many lashes do you think he could watch Atwood deal you? Splitting that velvety skin upon your back? How long do you think Blackheath can stay silent as he listens to your screams?"
Bile rose in Emily's throat, but she lifted her chin in defiance. "You can't make me scream."
"Don't make vows that you shall tempt me to challenge, Emily. It is a very dangerous game. But even if you were to remain... resolute in the matter, there are other ways to make a man like Blackheath shatter. Other methods far more devastating to a man than the bite of the lash."
Emily shuddered inwardly, struggling to keep from showing her terror.
"Fraser, damn it, enough!" Atwood burst out. "I protest this."
"Ah, yes, I'd forgotten that you hold a tendre for the lady," Fraser continued. "Perhaps we should press it to our best advantage, Captain. I wonder what Blackheath would do if he were compelled to watch while his woman was forced to receive another man between her thighs?"
Horror. Stark. Relentless. It ravaged Emily as her mind filled with images of the torture Fraser had planned—a torture more hellish than anything Emily could imagine.
"I'm a soldier, curse you, not a rapist!" Atwood shouted. "I'll be damned if I'll be party to such savagery!"
"You'll be damned if you refuse me, sir. Your position is already tenuous at best after your part in this debacle. Tell me, Atwood, what would your esteemed father say if he found out about your distressing lack of loyalty? Especially after he purchased you this commission to keep you from being hurled into gaol for the unfortunate death of that young man in the tavern brawl at Brighton?"
Atwood paled and Emily could feel the blade-edge of Fraser's evil as if it were pressed against both of their throats.
How could she have been so blind when Fraser had come to her with his offer? How could she have believed him for a moment?
It is perfectly safe, my dear, he had said in that grandfatherly voice. You cannot think I would endanger such a lovely young lady as yourself one battered by misfortune...
He had been as shrewd as a snake poised to strike, just waiting for the moment when he would fill her with his venom.
There was such consummate satisfaction on his face, such scorn. The same scorn Emily had seen on the Duke of Avonstea's face the day he had taken her daughter from her.
No. She was not that frightened girl any longer. She would not allow anyone to manipulate her that way again, or hurt someone she loved.
Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the penknife Fraser had abandoned. Far better to take it and plunge it into her own heart, than allow such a monster to use her as a weapon to rob Ian, not only of his life but of his very soul.
For that is what Fraser would do if Ian suffered the fate planned for him.
Ian, that tattered knight errant, that bold, generous, most loving of men, would never be able to watch her be raped. He would never be able to keep silent, no matter what the cost.
The cost... oh, sweet Jesus, the cost...
Emily felt Atwood's hands loosen on her in his own sick horror.
Desperate, she slammed her elbow back into Atwood's ribs, ripping free, but just as her fingers reached the knife, Fraser snatched it away, the blade slicing Emily's finger.
In a heartbeat, she was staring down the barrel of a pistol in Fraser's other hand. She started to fling herself toward him, wanting nothing more than to feel the hot piercing of lead through flesh, to be certain she could no longer be used to destroy the man she loved.
But that instant, Atwood recovered himself, grabbing her arms.
"No! For God's sake, he'll kill you," the Captain warned, his fingers t
ightening around her until they crushed, bruised.
"He doesn't understand, does he, Emily Rose?" Fraser purred, those opaque eyes assessing her with a sly amusement that terrified her. "You'd like nothing more than to have me pull the trigger. Destroy you, before you can be made a part of Blackheath's destruction. But it's too late. You have already sealed his fate, my dear. His torture and death will be on your conscience, regardless of what happens now."
Fraser laid the pistol upon the table, smiling with unholy glee. "For the instant I send a note to Blackheath Hall regarding your tragic plight, I am dead certain Pendragon will dash here at the speed of lightning, rushing to your defense. And when he does, my dearest Emily... when he does... we will be here. Waiting."
Chapter 16
The late morning sun gilded the meadow with the pastoral loveliness of a Gainsborough landscape. Ian leaned against the pasture fence beside the unusually quiet Tony, drinking in the beauty of the scene so that he could remember it forever.
Lucy was knee-deep in flowers, her rose-pink dress making her look like a blossom herself, her curls glistening like sunshine as she attempted to feed blades of grass to the wobbly newborn colt.
Ian sighed, remembering how unsettled he'd been when he'd awakened alone, how he had gone to search for Emily and ended up seeking her in the stable.
When Buckley explained that Emily had ridden into Williamsburg on some errand, Ian had been unable to suppress a stinging sense of concern, but he had quelled it. It was not as if she had to ask his permission to go on a simple errand. It was not as if he had any real hold on her.
The thought had been troubling, bringing with it the wistful yearnings he had felt as he'd fallen asleep last night with her in his arms. The feeling that things were impossible between them. That they could never be.
He had attempted to drown the emotions by focusing on something tangible—the long-anticipated arrival of Mordred's colt. Ian grinned, remembering how he and Tony had pulled off the incredible deception at Pendragon's lair. Even Ian's head groom still believed that the colt was spawned by Tony’s stallion when in reality the foal had been the issue of the mount ridden by Pendragon.
The Raider’s Bride Page 24
