Had he been shot? He knew he’d been stabbed, it was quite possible his arm was broken, and he had a hell of a lot of bruises.
He lifted his head, certain he’d drop dead any moment, to find Ravensdale standing alone, staring down at him.
“You’re not dead.”
Adam lifted his head from the pavement, one eye swelling to the point he could barely see out of it. “You, either.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Are they dead?” Ravensdale looked around. “Where’s your gun?”
“I didn’t bring one.” In hindsight, that seemed inordinately stupid.
“Well, I didn’t shoot him. Hell, maybe he shot himself. Not all that bright.”
Ravensdale tilted his head side to side, wincing every other second. “Bloody hell, this is going to smart in the morning. You do realize Blythe will never believe we were attacked by someone else.”
Adam dragged himself up inch by inch until he was standing. He perused the men lying on the ground around them, presumably dead. “There is no gun here.”
“There has to be.”
“I don’t see one.”
Ravensdale snorted. “Can you even see straight?”
“One eye would be plenty to find a blasted gun, and there is nothing here.”
If there was no gun, then how... He looked around, seeing no one or anything that might indicate who the hell had shot their assailants. Unease prickled. “This doesn’t make any bloody sense.”
“Let’s not wait for another go-round, shall we, in case they aren’t dead? We need to go home, get cleaned up.”
“We need answers.”
“Don’t be an ass. You cannot even stand up straight. That’s not exactly intimidating, and I doubt they will offer up any answers because you say please.” Ravensdale stretched an arm out. “Home first. Plenty of alcohol to follow.”
Adam shook his head like a wet dog, trying to clear the fogginess. “If she didn’t leave on that ship, I need to find out what that man knows.”
“He isn’t the man you need to talk to. Wade is.”
“Wade thought I’d be alone.”
“And you would have undoubtedly died at the hands of four thugs.” Michael smacked the side of his head with the heel of his hand. “Or was it five?”
“A bloody setup.” The realization sent rage searing through him. “To get me out of his way? For what...? If Aria wasn’t on that ship, then he—damn him to hell, he knows where she is, Michael. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Then that’s what you’re about to do.”
The words were not Michael’s.
Adam snapped around and was rewarded with a strong shot of pain on the left side of his head. A few feet away stood a man, broad shouldered and tall, shadowed by the dim light behind him.
The gun pointed at them, however, was in full view.
The man stepped closer. “If you care for your life, you’ll take me to my daughter.”
One more step and he was out of the shadows. Gaunt. A thick, dark beard framed eyes filled with fury. Familiar eyes.
The face of a man who was supposed to be dead.
The recognition floored Adam. “Whitney?”
“Where the hell is my daughter?”
“Holy mother of—you’re alive?”
“Disappointed?” He stepped closer, gun still aimed at Adam. “Take me to my daughter.”
Adam’s head had started to throb, and he reached up to wipe away a trickle of warm, sticky blood, wincing as he touched the open cut above his eyebrow. “Did you set these men upon us?”
“No. I saved your sorry behinds, but I will finish the job if you don’t start talking.”
Michael stepped forward. “This conversation will go much smoother if that gun is pointed elsewhere. He’s not your enemy.”
Whitney’s gaze swung between them. “I saw Wade at your door. And here you are. You were easier to follow. If one hair is harmed on my daughter’s head, I will see you dead.”
“I am no friend of Wade’s. I am Aria’s betrothed.”
Whitney’s jaw tightened and he hitched the gun up in a firmer grip. “Now I know you’re lying. Aria would never marry a nobleman.”
“Much has happened since you disappeared. And she has been throwing her life to the birds trying to find you. Damn it, man, put the gun down. We can help each other.”
Whitney stared back in resolute silence.
“You and I have done business together,” Adam snapped against the pain. “I am not some stranger.”
“Neither was Wade.”
Adam was finding it difficult to maintain a stiff back in their standoff, and finally his body sagged, needing support to stay upright. “I would never harm her. I have been trying to help her find you.”
“Where is she now?”
Adam pressed a firm hand against his side. Something was broken, maybe a few things. “I think Wade has her.”
Slowly, Whitney’s gun descended. “Tell me where to find him.”
* * *
Aria sat in the blue chair that faced the fireplace in her room, staring as the flames jumped and destroyed the wood they surrounded. The flames ran their course, leaving only charred remains behind. Logs slowly turned to ash. When the room grew chilly, someone would come in, put another log on. Then once again, the flames would tease the edges, until they consumed. Until they destroyed.
Each and every time.
Had John died already?
Aria tugged the woolen blanket over her shoulders tightly in, but it did little to ward off the constant chill inside her. Even with the room heated from the fire, she couldn’t find warmth.
If only she’d convinced her father to take her along. The day he’d left for the trip to Egypt she’d been angry at his decree that she would stay in England.
He’d wanted her to find love, to find someone to spend her life with.
To have children, for God’s sake, and she’d been a petulant child. The regret churned inside of her, growing thicker, weighing her down until movement seemed impossible.
If she let her eyes glaze over, the walls blurred and she could pretend she was in her own room. She could see her father at the door, bursting through, arms akimbo and inviting her hug.
She could hear his laugh. Feel the tickle of his whiskers on the top of her head.
Her vision sharpened, narrowed on the flames as they destroyed the wood.
But her father was never coming through her door again.
If only she had been logical that day, she could have laid out all the reasons he should have taken her with him. He would have capitulated eventually. She knew how to work around his objections. She’d done it before.
But she’d been too furious to try. He had wanted her to spend time with the woman he’d married, to get to know her, to stay with her when she was carrying his child. Her sibling.
In that moment, Aria hated herself.
Because of her. The words replayed over and over in her head, like discordant strains of a song she couldn’t stand. John. Her father. Adam.
Because of her.
“Please, God, please forgive me. Forgive me.”
So many things she would do differently.
That night she’d met Adam, she’d seen the flare of interest in his eyes. She would have turned away. Honored the rules of society.
She would have refused his betrothal after her own arrogance had caused their scandal.
She would have turned away the night they’d met. Or walked away the night she’d discovered he had nothing to do with her father’s disappearance. She would never have admitted to him that she cared.
And for all that was holy, she would never have accepted his help.
The click of the door bein
g unlocked sounded behind her, but Aria wasn’t about to give Wade even the power of her gaze.
A presence loomed over her shoulder. “You haven’t touched your breakfast.”
The tray of food sat empty on the table by the window, as had the tray before that, and the one before that. How many trays had they attempted to give her? Three? Thirty?
“Wilkens informed me you haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Patrick said, displeasure sharpening the edges of his words.
She saw no call to respond.
“You need to eat. You need to keep up your strength.” His voice changed and became soft, almost like a caress. He moved in front of her, crouched until they were eye level. His hands landed on her thighs, and she flinched at his touch.
“I know you’ve had a shock, and I am doing my best to be patient and allow you a measure of time to grieve.”
“How kind of you.”
He smiled and Aria studied him, startled by his ability to look like he truly cared. His eyes radiated warmth and concern, like the man she’d once thought so good, so full of charm. Yet underneath the warmth, she saw hints of something darker, colder—as if the goodness was nothing but a thin layered mask spread over the sharp, hollow bones of a skeleton. One he peeled off at will.
Why hadn’t she seen that before?
All the times they’d spent together. The nights at the theater, the opera, with Emily. A dozen evenings at Covent Gardens. She had inspected the memories for signs. For something.
She had been fooled, so completely.
“Get out,” she said, turning her head away. Her emotions were distant, shoved down a black well that threatened to swallow her whole.
Patrick offered a short exhale and stood. “Once my men have returned from the docks, I am certain you’ll be able to move on.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “Your men have not returned? Then you don’t know if they succeeded.” Hope flickered, a tiny flame in the middle of her stomach.
“I do not allow failure,” he replied flatly.
“You failed at winning me. The only way you could keep me from marrying another man was by abducting me. That is failure by any standard.” His face twitched slightly, and she enjoyed the moment. “Adam may have bested them.”
“One man against four? If my men are dead, so is he.”
“And you don’t care, do you? Life means nothing to you.”
“I do not tolerate those who disobey.” His tone was casual, unconcerned. “You would be wise to heed this advice.”
Disgust curled her lip, tasted sour on her tongue. “I will never obey you. I would rather die than spend another godforsaken day with you.”
Leaning down, he picked up a couple of logs and dropped them in, stoked a flame and turned away as it began to lick at the wood.
“So be it.” He flicked a wrist and in walked the mountain of security that loomed around her at any given time. “I would prefer to see my bride-to-be happy and excited tomorrow, but since you assure me that shall not happen, drugged and quiet will suffice.”
“You’ll never find someone to marry us if I cannot even speak.” She prayed. “If I’m drugged enough to stay quiet, no one will believe I’m there willingly.”
“It won’t be a problem.” His lips pursed and he turned to watch the fire flicker. “And I imagine you’ll enjoy the festivities better upon Mrs. Whitney’s arrival.”
Hatred, red hot and all consuming, rose from her toes to fill her with the desperate need to hurt him. It pushed her to stand. “You will not touch her. You will not do anything to hurt her or—” she paused, choking on the fury, “—that child.”
He lifted a casual shoulder. “Seeing you happy and excited for our wedding will put me in an excellent mood, so truly her well-being depends on you. It’s really that simple.” Patrick picked up the tray and set it down on the table next to her. “Eat. Please.”
Her entire body shook, and her eyes burned. Her regrets tangled into one giant desperate need to destroy the man who had destroyed everything dear to her.
She would not let him have Emily. She would kill him before he harmed her unborn brother or sister.
She picked up a slightly warm piece of cheese. Whatever it took to keep them safe. She popped it into her mouth, chewing as he watched with a pleased smile on his face.
“That’s my good girl. The modiste will be here this afternoon for your fitting. I think you will be pleased with your wedding gown.” He turned to head toward the door, pausing as his hand landed on the doorknob. “Oh, and darling, she’s being paid quite handsomely for this job. If you wish her and her five children to stay alive, do not involve her in our private affairs. What occurs between a husband and wife should stay between a husband and wife.”
The door shut behind him and his lackey, and Aria continued to shove food in her mouth. Before long, she’d finished the entire tray and swallowed a cup of tea. The sluggishness set in, as she’d expected it to, but her rage and hatred burned the edges away. It flooded her veins, keeping her sharp. He’d been right about one thing. She needed to keep up her strength.
She had failed everyone, but she wouldn’t fail now.
If someone else was going to die because of her, it was going to be Patrick.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Adam, Ravensdale and Whitney retreated to Adam’s study. With every step Adam took, his body protested, though a little less so in the steps toward the sideboard where he filled a couple of liberal drinks.
He shoved one at Ravensdale, another at Whitney. Downed his. Poured another.
A few hours of repeating it might kill the pain.
Whitney finished his drink and set the glass back with a hard fist. “Start talking.”
“Why don’t you start,” Adam replied. “Where the hell have you been?” He aimed for the nearest chair and sunk into it. Hitting the seat a little too hard, he pressed his hand against his side to ease the pain. He could breathe, so his ribs probably were not broken. “Aria has torn herself apart trying to find out that answer.”
Whitney met Adam’s threatening tone with a scornful glare. “I was beaten, shot and dumped in the water.” He shed his coat, then reached his right arm over to push up his left sleeve, revealing nothing but a stump below his elbow, wrapped tightly in bandages.
Adam sucked in a breath, then muttered a curse at the shot of pain in his chest.
“He thought he’d killed me. He nearly did. But he’d shot my arm near gone, clear through the bone.”
Even though a part of him was gone, the man still filled the room with his presence. The set of his shoulders inside the threadbare, ill-fitting coat made it clear he was ready to tackle the world head-high. His weathered face was full of hollows and valleys that laid claim to adventure, celebration and hard work. This was not a man easily put down.
And in the man’s confident way of moving through the world as though it would lie at his feet, Adam saw Aria.
“Somehow,” Whitney continued. “I kept awake long enough to drag myself to the edge of the water. An old couple found me. Took me in. She nursed me to health. When I could travel, I came to England.”
“Who is ‘he’? You said, ‘he’ thought he’d killed me.”
Whitney met Adam’s gaze. “Patrick Wade.”
Adam’s hand tightened around his glass.
“He showed up at my camp,” Whitney continued, dropping his sleeve in place again. “Now that I think about it, no one else knew he was there. He asked for Aria’s hand in marriage, I said no. I never liked the man. He was never quite as charming as he tried to appear, and I knew Aria didn’t love him. I thought that was the end of it.
“But he came back with reinforcements. I never saw it coming. By that time, we’d celebrated ourselves into a stupor. Easy pickings.” He turned to pace in a tigh
t circle. Suddenly stopped. “What about John?”
“Alive, but not good,” Adam told him.
His shoulders sagged with grim relief. “He’s alive. Better than I hoped for. And Em? Is she well? The babe?” His voice softened.
Just then, Adam’s mother opened the door and walked in. She took immediate measure of Adam’s condition, which was only slightly worse than Ravensdale’s.
“What happened?” Adam’s mother turned an accusing eye at each of them, then did a double take as she saw Aria’s father in the corner. “Mr. Whitney, unless you are somehow responsible for their respective conditions, I am pleased to see you safe and alive.”
“He saved our hides,” Michael answered, as he refilled glasses. He handed one to Adam, another to Whitney, and downed the liquid in his own.
“Saved your hides from what?” Blythe walked in the room, just as Hypatia hurried out. Blythe stopped, mouth ajar, as she spied Whitney. “You’re alive.”
Whitney ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “This is a theme. How many know of my supposed death?”
“Enough,” Adam offered. “And Emily and the baby are both fine.”
Whitney bowed his head in relief. But the pain Aria had been in for weeks kept animosity rolling through Adam, and he pushed. “Why haven’t you contacted them?”
“I was near death myself, and I didn’t want to put them in danger,” Whitney said hotly, as though he could sense the pulse inside Adam.
“Your wife believes you are dead.” Adam was blunt on purpose. “Aria has tortured herself, refusing to believe it, attempting to find out what happened to you.”
“And what happened to you two?” Blythe asked. She stood at Michael’s side, inspecting the cuts and bruises beginning to form on his face. She ran hands over his torso, muttering under her breath at every wince and gasp of pain he tried to conceal. She turned an accusing eye toward Adam.
“This has to stop. Now. You are grown men, for God’s sake.”
“It’s not what you think,” Adam replied.
“I told you she’d think the worst,” Michael muttered. “Didn’t even ask what happened.”
Cloaked in Danger Page 25
