She pushed the gate open and walked on. Her instincts had been right; she wanted to go to the cottage. Perhaps needed to be within those walls to revisit her feelings of yesterday and delve past the superficial to see what lay beneath. Besides, she was sure Michael would call soon—he’d know where she’d gone.
Eyes down, for once blind to the beauties of the countryside around her, she walked steadily on. And returned to her interrupted thoughts. To, perhaps, the most crucial point. Where, ultimately, was her liaison with Michael and the emotions that generated leading her? And was it, all aspects and feelings considered, a place she was prepared to go?
Michael left Atlas with Geoffrey’s stableman and walked over the lawns to the house. He half expected to see Caro drift out onto the terrace to meet him. Instead, Elizabeth walked briskly out from the drawing room, looking about. She saw him and waved, then looked to his left.
Following her gaze, he saw Edward striding up from the summer-house. The younger man waved and strode faster; premonition, faint but real, caressed Michael’s nape.
Edward spoke as soon as he was within hearing distance. “Caro’s gone off somewhere. She was on the terrace, but…”
He glanced at Elizabeth, who’d come down from the terrace to join them. “She’s not in the house. Judson said she’s probably gone down to the weir.”
Edward looked at Michael. “There’s a cottage—a retreat she often disappears to. She’s most likely there.”
“Or on her way there,” Elizabeth said. “She couldn’t have left that long ago, and it takes twenty minutes to walk there.”
Michael nodded. “I know the place.” He looked at Edward. “I’ll catch up with her. If she’s not there, I’ll come back.”
Edward grimaced. “If we find she’s still here, I’ll stay with her.”
With a salute for Elizabeth, Michael strode back down the lawn, then took the path through the shrubbery, retracing the route he and Caro had taken the day before. He reached the gate; it wasn’t latched. He’d latched it yesterday when they’d returned.
Going through, he strode quickly along the path. It didn’t surprise him that Caro had a habit of walking alone through the countryside. Like him, she spent most of her life in ballrooms, drawing rooms, and elegant salons; the sense of peace he felt when he came home, the blessed contrast, the need to enjoy it while one could, was something he was sure she shared.
Nevertheless, he would much rather she wasn’t rambling all alone. Not just at present, when he felt sure someone had designs on her life. Designs he didn’t understand; designs he absolutely could not allow to succeed.
He didn’t question from where the grim and steely purpose behind that “absolutely could not allow” came; at the moment, wherefores and whys didn’t seem that pertinent. The need to protect her from all harm was deeply entrenched, as if etched on his soul, an immutable part of him.
It hadn’t always been so; now it simply was.
Premonition stroked, chillingly cloying, again; he strode faster. Cresting a rise, he saw her, clearly visible in a pale muslin gown, her nimbus of fine hair glinting in the sunshine as she strolled across a meadow some way ahead. She was too far away to hail; she walked steadily on, looking down.
He’d expected to feel relief; instead, his instincts seemed to tighten—to urge him to hurry even more. He couldn’t see any reason for it, yet he obeyed.
A little further on, he broke into a loping run.
Regardless of his insistence on watching over her, his rational mind did not expect another attack, not here on Geoffrey’s land. Why, then, was his chest tightening—why was apprehension filling him?
He was running when he broke into the final clearing—and saw, across the meadow, Caro halfway across the narrow bridge. She was still steadily walking, looking down. Smiling, pushing aside his distracting premonition, he slowed. “Caro!”
She heard. Straightening, lifting her head, she turned, reached for the handrail as she grasped her clinging skirts and flicked them about. She smiled in glorious welcome. Grasped the rail as she released her skirts and raised her hand to wave—
The handrail broke. Fell away as she touched it.
She valiantly tried to regain her balance, but there was nothing to clutch, to cling to.
With a faint shriek, she toppled from the bridge, disappearing into the swirling mists boiling up from the racing waters funneling through the narrow gorge, hurling themselves into the deep waters of the weir.
His heart in his throat, Michael sprinted down the meadow. Reaching the bank, he frantically searched, simultaneously hauling off his boots. He was shrugging out of his coat when he saw her surface, a bobbing white welter of muslin skirts flashing into sight at the mouth of the weir. Her silk-fringed shawl dragged at her arms as she struggled to raise them, to stroke, to float.
The rushing current pulled her back down.
She was not a strong swimmer; the current, fueled by the torrents gushing past either side of the island, was sweeping her into the weir.
He dived in. A few swift strokes brought him to where she had been. He came up, trod water, trying to glimpse her, to more accurately gauge the current’s direction. The undertow was ferocious.
She resurfaced, gasping, some yards farther on. He plunged back into the swirling waters, went with the tow, added his own powerful strokes to it—glimpsed a murky whiteness ahead and lunged for it.
His fingers tangled in her gown. Grabbing, grasping, he closed his fist about a handful—remembered just in time not to yank. Wet muslin would simply tear, rip away; desperate, he lunged again, touched a limb—latched his fingers around her upper arm and locked them.
Battling the powerful undertow, he fought not to get swept further into the convergence of the two arms of the stream. There, the water churned, its force powerful enough to pull him under, let alone her.
She was exhausted, gasping, fighting for breath. Steadily, he pulled her to him until her clutching fingers found his shoulders, until he could wrap one arm about her waist.
“Easy. Don’t thrash!”
She responded‘ to his voice, stopped flailing, but gripped him harder. “I can’t swim well.”
There was panic in her voice; she was battling to contain it.
“Stop trying—just hang on to me. I’ll do the swimming.” Looking around, he realized the only safe way out was to move sideways into the quieter body of water between the two tumbling currents created by the arms of the stream. Once in the relative calm, he could tow her back to the island.
He juggled her, moving her to his left, then, still fighting the tow that wanted to swirl them on, he edged them inch by inch, foot by foot to the left. Gradually, the force pummeling them lessened until finally they were in calmer water.
Drawing her to him, brushing the wet hair from her face, he looked into her eyes, more blue than silver, darkened with fear. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Just hold on—I’m going to take us back to the island.”
He did, exercising great care not to get swept back into the currents racing past on either side, then, as they neared the island, wary of rocks beneath the surface.
With an effort she lifted her head and gasped, “There’s a small jetty to the left—that’s the only place where it’s easy to get up.”
He glanced around and saw what she meant—a jetty less than a yard square stood out from the island, a few sturdy wooden rungs providing a means to climb up to it. Just as well; the sides of the island, now he could see them clearly, worn and cut by decades of floods, rose up, relatively sheer, no useful hand- or footholds, and with an unhelpful overhang at the top.
A narrow paved path wound up from the jetty to the cottage. Readjusting his hold on her, he set course for the jetty.
She was exhausted and trembling by the time he got her onto it. They slumped side by side, gasping, simply waiting for some semblance of strength to return.
Lying back, shoulders propped against the bank, he stared unseeing at the
sky. Her head lay cradled on his arm. After a few minutes, she turned his way, weakly raised a hand to touch his cheek. “Thank you.”
He didn’t reply—couldn’t. He caught her fingers, trapped them in his, closed his eyes as reaction—realization—poured through him, so intense it was frightening, a fright that shook him to his soul.
Then her weight against him, the faint warmth reaching through her drenched clothes, the gentle intermittent pressure of her breast against his side as she breathed, registered, and relief flooded him.
He realized he was squeezing her fingers; he eased his hold, raised them to his lips. He looked down; she looked up. Her eyes met his, a frown dulling the silver.
“You know,” Caro murmured, trying valiantly not to shiver, “I think you’re right. Someone is trying to kill me.”
Eventually, they climbed up to the cottage. She refused to let Michael carry her, but was forced to lean heavily against him.
Once inside, they stripped; there was clean water to wash away the mud and linen towels with which to dry themselves. Michael wrung out their dripping clothes, then they hung them in the windows where the sun streamed in and the warm breeze could catch them.
She speared her fingers through her toweled hair, combed out the tangles as best she could. Then, draped in shawls her mother used to use in winter, she crawled into the V of Michael’s thighs as he sat propped against the head of the daybed, and let him wrap her in his arms.
His arms tightened; he held her close, leaned his check against her damp hair. She crossed her arms over his and clung.
Simply held tight.
He didn’t exactly rock her, yet she felt the same sense of caring, of being cherished and protected. They didn’t speak; she wondered if he kept silent for the same reason she did—because her emotions were so stirred, roiling so close to her surface that she feared if she opened her lips, they’d come tumbling out, willy-nilly, without thought for what they might reveal, where they might lead. What they might commit her to.
Gradually, the slight shudders that still racked her—a combination of cold and fear—eased, driven out by the pervasive heat of his body, by the warmth that seeped slowly to her bones.
Yet it was he who stirred first, who sighed and eased his arms from under hers.
“Come.” He placed a light kiss on her temple. “Let’s get dressed and go back to the house.” She shifted to face him; he caught her gaze, continued in the same even, determined voice, “There’s lots we need to discuss, but first, you should take a hot bath.”
She didn’t argue. They dressed, pulling on their clothes, still slightly damp, then left the cottage. Crossing the bridge was no real problem; although it was narrow, she’d crossed it so often, she didn’t truly need the rail.
Michael stopped just before he followed her off the bridge. Crouching, he examined what remained of the post that had supported the rail at that end. He’d caught a glimpse of it as he’d rushed down to the bank, before he’d dived in; what he saw now confirmed his earlier observation. The post had been sawn almost through; barely a sliver had been left intact. All three of the posts had been treated similarly; the upper portion of each had been virtually balancing on the lower section from which it had been all but severed.
No accident, but a callously deliberate act.
Rising, he drew a deep breath and stepped down to the bank.
Caro met his gaze. “I don’t usually use the rail all that much, just for crossing. Did you, yesterday?”
He cast his mind back… recalled putting a hand on the post at the bridge’s other end, not far from where Caro had grasped the rail today. “Yes.” He refocused on her eyes, reached for her arm. “It was solid, then.”
Had the perpetrator known that only Caro and Mrs. Judson used the bridge, and, it being Tuesday, that it was most likely Caro who would use it next?
Lips setting grimly, he steered her up the meadow. They walked back to the house as fast as she could manage. They entered via the garden hall; he parted from her in the corridor with a stern reminder of the advisability of a hot bath.
She cast him a sharp glance, with a glimmer of her usual manner tartly replied, “I’m hardly likely to want anyone to see me in my present state.” Her wave directed his attention to her hair—now sun-dried, it seemed twice its normal volume and even more untameable than usual. “I’m going up the back stairs.”
He caught her gaze. “I’ll go home and change, then I’ll meet you in the parlor.”
She nodded and left; he watched her go, then headed for the parlor. As he’d hoped, the door was open; Elizabeth was on the window seat embroidering while Edward sat in a chair poring over some papers spread on a low table. Standing in the shadows of the corridor, out of Elizabeth’s sight, Michael called to Edward.
Edward looked up; Michael beckoned. “If you can spare a moment?”
“Yes, of course.” Edward shot to his feet and strode to the door, eyes widening as he took in Michael’s state. He pulled the door closed behind him. “What the devil happened?”
In a few short sentences, Michael told him. Grim-faced, Edward swore he would ensure that after her bath, Caro came straight down to the parlor and stayed there, safe in his and Elizabeth’s company until Michael returned.
Satisfied he’d done all he could for the moment, Michael left to ride home and change out of his bedraggled clothes.
He returned two hours later, resolute and determined.
While riding home, then bathing and changing his clothes, calming Mrs. Entwhistle and Carter, eating a quick luncheon, then riding back to Bramshaw House, he’d had plenty of time to think without the distraction of Caro’s presence. Plenty of time not just to dwell on what might have been, but to draw some conclusions, firm enough for their purpose, and from that see ahead to how they should go on—what they needed to do to unmask whoever was behind what he now firmly believed were four attempts on. Caro’s life.
He walked into the parlor. Caro, recognizing his step, had already looked up, was already rising. Edward rose, too.
Elizabeth, still ensconced on the window seat, beamed a bright smile his way. Gathering her emboridery she got to her feet. “I’ll leave you to discuss your business.”
Sunnily assured, she swept out. He held the door, then closed it behind her. Turning, he looked—just looked—at Caro.
She waved and sat again. “I don’t want her to know and worry, and even less become involved, and she will if she knows, so I’ve told her you and I have some political business to discuss, and given the ambitions we all hold for Edward, that he should stay.”
Edward shot him a long-suffering look and resumed his seat.
Michael took the armchair opposite Caro. He wanted to be able to see her face; she was often difficult to read, but given the subjects they had to discuss, he wanted to catch as much as she let show.
“I think,” he said, glancing at Edward, “that we’re all in possession of the relevant facts?”
Edward nodded. “I believe so.”
Michael looked at Caro. “Do I take it you now accept that someone is intent on causing you harm?”
She met his gaze, hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Very well. The question we clearly have to answer is: Who would want you dead?”
She spread her hands. “I don’t have any enemies.”
“I’ll accept that you don’t know of any enemies, but what about enemies who aren’t motivated by personal connection.”
She frowned. “You mean via Camden?”
He nodded. “We know of the Duke of Oporto, and the interest he apparently has in Camden’s papers.” Michael looked at Edward, then back at Caro. “Can we agree that it’s possible there’s some hidden reason in whatever’s at stake there that the duke believes you know, that’s sufficient to convince him he needs to do away with you?”
Edward considered for only a moment, then nodded decisively. “A possibility, definitely.” He looked at Caro. “You must agre
e, Caro. You know as well as I do what’s at stake at the Portuguese court. Murder has, indeed, been committed for less.”
Caro grimaced; she glanced at Michael, then nodded. “Very well. The duke is one suspect—or rather, his minions.”
“Or, as it might be, Ferdinand’s minions.” His softly voiced correction drew a sigh, then a reluctant inclination of her head.
“True. So that’s one potential nest of vipers.”
His lips quirked, but only briefly. “Are there any other nests of that type?”
She met his gaze, then exchanged a long look with Edward.
It was Edward who finally answered, “I honestly don’t know of any.” His careful tone stated that that was the truth as far as he knew it, yet he was aware of the limits of his knowledge.
Michael watched Caro’s face closely as she turned to meet his gaze. She noticed, searched his eyes, then smiled—lightly, genuinely; she’d realized what he feared. “Nor I.” She hesitated, then added, “Truly.”
The directness in her gaze assured him that was indeed the truth. With some relief, he let go of the worry that she would feel compelled to conceal something she considered diplomatically sensitive even though it might be a potential source of threat to her.
“Very well. So we have no direct personal enemies, and only one known from the diplomatic front. Which leaves us with Camden’s personal life.” Sitting back, he caught Caro’s eye. “Camden’s will—what did you inherit under it?”
She raised her brows. “The house in Half Moon Street, and a rea-sonable fortune in the Funds.”
“Is there anything special about the house—could someone else covet it for some reason?”
The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels) Page 29
