by Liz Carlyle
The dark, narrow gaze had returned. Slowly, very resolutely, Lowe shook his head. “You’ll not plead your way out of this one, Helene. Nor will you delay us any further. I’ll not leave the whole of my life behind without recompense. Treyhern has everything, but he shan’t have my child—the only thing left of Cassandra on this mortal earth. Nor shall he have you.”
Helene gasped aloud. “Oh, yes,” he said softly, a wicked light in his eyes. “You will help my child. You will repair all the damage that her beautiful whore of a mother has done, do you understand? And from now until we leave England, we are ... we are Mr. and Mrs. Smith! How droll! And if you give me a moment’s trouble, Helene, you may depend upon one thing. It shall be your last.” Roughly, he shoved her toward the carriage.
Cheston-on-the-Water was deadly quiet. The two horsemen reached the village in a few short minutes, and discovered nothing. There, in the interest of time, Cam set off alone in the direction of Fairford, sending Bentley to check the roads leading west and south.
It took the better part of an hour for Cam to confirm that no curricle matching the description of Thomas Lowe’s had been seen along the road from Cheston to Fairford. Given the unseasonably warm day, he had had no trouble finding farmers clearing hedgerows and housewives scrubbing doorsteps. All of them knew the rector, and all were confident that he had not passed in their direction.
At the fourth cottage, instinct kicked in, and Cam felt sure he was wasting his time. With a jerk of the reins, he wheeled his mount around in a tight circle of dust, then headed back down the hill toward Cheston. He was suddenly very thankful that he had listened to Bentley, and had sent him out to check the other roads.
His confidence was doubly rewarded not five minutes later when he met his brother, riding fast uphill, his finely boned face set into stark, angry lines. Bentley drew up in a clatter of hooves, his horse whirling, pawing, and anxiously working the bit. Cam knew just how thwarted the horse felt.
“On the post road,” Bentley panted as soon as Cam reached him. “An ostler at the King’s Arms saw ’em. Headed south, not two hours past. Flying, he said. Seems they never went toward Fairford at all.”
“You were right. And I bloody well don’t like the smell of it,” said Cam. “I don’t like it one damned bit.” And then, with a swift and certain jerk of his head, both horses set off at a furious pace. It was a given that they would follow Lowe until they found him, and that they would do it together.
Later, Cam was unable to say at precisely what point in their long journey the gnawing anxiety in his belly shifted to outright panic. Maybe it was when they discovered that a speeding curricle had all but overturned a farm cart near Latton.
But by the time they paused near the Cricklade cross-roads to speak with a farmer who was wearily reshocking his corn, Cam was seeing blood. Specifically, Thomas Lowe’s blood, for after a bit of cautious prodding, the farmer told an alarming tale of having seen a curricle and four pull off beside his copse of trees, and he made mention of the fact that he had seen the woman backhand the gent with a fair right arm.
It had to be Lowe, the fiend. And it was Helene who had struck him, Cam had no doubt. He knew perfectly well that under the right circumstances, she would do it without hesitation.
But how could Lowe be the villain in such an escapade? Perhaps he had merely taken an improper liberty? Were the circumstances not so despicable, it would have been laughable. If the pious, self-confident rector had tried to steal a kiss and been smacked for it, so much the better.
But it was worse than that. Cam felt it in his bones. And there would be no resolution to the mystery until they caught up with Lowe. After five minutes, they were back in the saddle and on their way again. It took but a few short miles before Bentley gave voice to Cam’s fears.
“If that bastard has hurt Helene or Ariane,” said Bentley grimly, “I swear I’ll unman him with my bare hands.”
His temper already in a lather, Cam snapped. “You’ll damned well do nothing of the sort, Bentley! If Lowe is to be dealt with—and he is—then I’ll not be denied the pleasure.” Cam focused his determined gaze on his brother. “I mean to marry Helene, you know, as soon as this nightmare is over.”
“Oh, bloody hell, Cam!” muttered Bentley staring down at the reins clutched limply in his riding gloves. “I know that.”
Cam continued to stare at him, yet barely seeing his brother through his anger. “You knew that? You knew that? And yet, you dared to touch her? You pawed my wife-to-be like one of your tavern wenches? And do not dare hide behind Helene’s skirts on that score, for I’ll have the truth from her sooner or later!”
“Blister it, Cam! I didn’t know it then,” his brother mumbled, now addressing his wilted neckcloth. “It’s one thing to fly in the face of one of your arrogant commands. But it’s another thing altogether to trifle with a woman for whom you feel a real tendre! What kind of scoundrel do you think me? My God! Cat just told me the whole of it yesterday.” He scowled bleakly. “Warned me off, good and proper. And told me about Joan, too.”
“What do you mean—told you about Joan? Did you not believe me when I said our betrothal was ended?”
“Oh, damn me for a fool—!” said Bentley, jerking up his head, his expression stricken. “You just got back from town, didn’t you? You’ve likely not even heard ...”
“Heard what?” asked Cam suspiciously. This day was getting more unpleasant with every passing mile.
Bentley stared sightlessly over his horse’s head and down the road, blinking rapidly. “Well, I daresay you’ll not believe it. Indeed, I know I scarce can. But Cousin Joan has been ... er, trifling with Lowe’s curate. In the vestry. And now she’s—” he cast his eyes down at the roadway. “Well, suffice it to say that we shall soon be welcoming two new members into the bosom of our family.”
“No!” breathed Cam. “It cannot be!” Slowly Cam shook his head, and then he remembered his valet’s carefully veiled hints. The old man had known—or at least suspected. “Crane,” he muttered irascibly, “you old devil!”
Bentley shot him a cynical, sidelong glance. “No, I’m pretty sure it was Basil. Joan would never trifle with servants.”
Staring straight down the road, Ariane sat quietly upon the carriage seat, never so much as twitching, though once or twice, her nose tickled madly. From long experience, Ariane knew that the quieter she was, the less grown-ups would notice. Certainly, they would not ask questions.
But she knew, too, that the quieter she was, the more she could hear. And today, she had heard plenty. And guessed even more. Ariane was quite good at guessing. She had suspected all along that the rector was a bad man. The baddest sort. He had always made her feel bad in her tummy. But other people did, too. So until now, it had meant little.
But now, she realized that the rector was the watcher. She was almost sure of it. In fact, she could almost remember ... something. Something wicked.
Miss Helene was angry. Angry that the rector was taking them to Southampton. Why they must go there, Ariane did not know. The rector’s horses were very tired. Miss Helene had begged him to change them out. But the rector had merely whipped them harder.
In the distance, she could see something high and silvery, almost shimmering against the late afternoon sky. Could that be Southampton?
No, this was something she knew! Forgetting to be still, Ariane slid closer to the edge of the seat, watching the sky as another farmhouse flew past. And then another, and another. Yes, this was it. Her favorite place in all the world. There was no mistaking the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, soaring high against the southern sky.
Papa had said that the spire reached up to God, and Ariane thought that if she could just get there, if she could just climb up it, maybe God could look down and find her papa. Then he would come and fetch them. It was silly, she knew. But it was something to pretend. And she was very, very good at pretending.
Soon, the rector’s carriage had taken them deep into the town. Of
ten the spire was hidden behind tall houses and shops. Then they would turn a corner, and the spire would peep out at them, like Boadicea peeping around the furniture. On some of the corners, she saw things that looked familiar. A house with a blue door. A shop with teapots in the window. Perhaps she had been to these places?
Perhaps not. Perhaps she was merely a stupid little girl. She shook her head, and fought back the hot press of tears. She would not let him see her cry. No, not him. Not never. He was very bad. She must never, ever talk about him. He had made her mama cry.
Had he? The memory flashed, and then was gone, just like the spire.
“Here we are,” the rector announced at last, pulling up his horses. They had stopped in a wide but quiet marketplace, with shops all around. In the center sat a market cross, and across the lane was a narrow inn. She tried to read the sign, mouthing the words behind her scarf.
“The Haunch of Venison,” murmured Helene in her governess voice, as if it were something important. Something, perhaps, that she should remember? Ariane was not sure, but she knew she could remember it. She tried very hard to remember everything nowadays.
But the rector was pulling out a portmanteau, and handing the horses over to a dirty little man who had crossed the street toward them. “It’s a decent enough place,” the rector said, still smiling at them, as if nothing at all were amiss. As if they were off together on a pleasant journey, instead of a very bad one. “The rooms above are quite small, but the food is excellent. I do not think you will be uncomfortable here.”
Miss Helene gave the rector a very angry look, but said nothing.
“Ah,” said the rector cheerfully, taking Ariane by the hand and proceeding across the lane. “I see that Mr. and Mrs. Smith are to play the squabbling couple. Come! Let us act out our little farce for yon innkeeper.”
With one hand lifted to shield his eyes, Cam turned in the saddle to look past Bentley’s shoulder and into the setting sun, now burning an uncharacteristic shade of crimson against the western horizon. The late afternoon chill was seeping into their clothing, and it had become increasingly clear that time was of the essence. It would be full night by the time they reached Salisbury, from which a half-dozen roads departed. That would surely complicate their search.
Cam now had no doubt that Helene and Ariane had been abducted. An innkeeper in Boscomb had reported seeing all three of them pass through little more than an hour before Cam and Bentley. His description of the carriage and occupants fit too well to be a mistake.
Cam shook his head. The fellow had described Lowe’s horses as being in a fair way to floundering, which meant that he had pushed his team too hard. And why? Surely Helene would not ...
No! She had not. Cam had doubted her once. He’d be a damned fool to do it again.
Thomas had seized Helene and Ariane against their will. The thought was wildly preposterous, yet Cam reminded himself that the man was smitten with Helene. But to kidnap her? And Ariane? It made no sense.
Yet that was just what had happened. And Cam meant full well to kill him for it. Gingerly, he bent forward to withdraw the knife from its sheath in his boot cuff. It was there, safe and sound, its newly sharpened blade glinting in a low shaft of dying sun.
Bentley’s words cut into his thoughts. “If you were an abductor, Cam, why would you take this road?”
“What?” Cam twisted about in his saddle to face his brother.
His brows drawn together, Bentley stared almost blindly down the road before them. “What I mean to say is—just supposing that old Thomas has lost his wits and snatched Helene in a fit of jealous rage—why this road? Where would he be headed?”
Cam shuddered at his brother’s spoken musings, so horribly parallel to his own. “If he has taken them,” he answered grimly, “then he must be mad, and madmen have no logic.”
Tactfully, his brother cleared his throat. “Now there’s where our opinions diverge, brother. And I daresay I’ve come across a few more desperate characters than you—no insult intended.”
Cam elevated his brows and shot his brother a vaguely amused look. “None taken, to be sure! Have you a point?”
His eyes narrowed against the sky, Bentley nodded. The boy looked far more serious, and far more mature, than he’d ever seemed before. “Why go south?” he asked. “Why not set out for London, if one has no wish to be found? Or head north to Scotland? If Lowe meant to ask a ransom—or God forbid, to ... to injure them—he’d have done so ere now.”
The words hung in the falling dusk for a long moment. Cam willed his voice to be steady. “You have a theory?” he asked sharply.
“I believe the bastard’s trying to make the port.”
“Southampton? Surely you cannot think that he would ...” The thought was too terrifying to comtemplate.
Solemnly, Bentley nodded. “Every day, a dozen ships put out for the four corners. But we will catch up to them in Salisbury, Cam. I am as bloody-minded about it as you. And I’ve more experience dodging the bailiffs.” The boy’s jaw was set at a grim angle. “Lowe’s horses are nigh to dead. He must either change ’em, or rest ’em. There are but four small coaching inns from here to there, all easily checked as we go.”
Implacably, Cam stared across the narrow lane to meet his brother’s determined gaze. Suddenly, it dawned on him how very much they shared. In looks, certainly, but also, it would seem, in temperament. “And if the bastard makes Salisbury, how many liveries can supply him with fresh horses?” Cam asked.
The boy squinted. “At least three, possibly more.”
Cam nodded. “Aye, we’ll split up, then, and meet on the south side of town. If Lowe has the will to re-harness and move on, we’ll do likewise. Otherwise, we’ll rack up and begin anew before dawn. He’ll not make it far if he’s bound for the port. There’s naught but one main road.”
“That’s as may be,” muttered Bentley, spitting out a mouthful of road dust. “But one never knows which way a snake may slither.”
Cam grunted his agreement, and the weary horsemen lapsed into a watchful, pensive silence. Other than the occasional barking dog or passing gig, the farms and villages of lower Wiltshire were dishearteningly quiet. As mile after mile passed with no sign of the curricle, Cam gradually slipped into a brooding silence.
Only one small thought consoled him. His daughter would be safe with Helene. As safe as she could possibly be. That was one thing of which Cam was certain. He had every confidence in Helene’s judgment and vigilance, and he knew that as long as it was within her power to protect Ariane, Helene would do so. Or die trying.
Oh, God! That was just the sort of thing Helene would do—break her neck or get herself shot trying to protect his daughter. That painful realization, and the sudden understanding that followed it, brought tears to his eyes.
Had it taken a crisis such as this to make him acknowledge what he had long known to be a fact? Helene might be rash, yes. But she would never be reckless. Not when it truly mattered. Not when someone’s well-being was concerned.
Cam swallowed hard, and admitted the truth that had nagged at him for weeks. There was nothing wrong with Helene. Nothing at all. She was a spirited and passionate woman, it was true. And an unabashed hellcat between the sheets, he had learned. But the vivacious, imprudent girl she had once been had matured into a woman who had a good head to match her good heart, and whose glowing character remained intact.
The problem was not Helene. It was him. It was his own duality of character, his own passionate nature that so desperately frightened him. Had he not proven that when he all but assaulted Helene in her own bed? Dear God! His fear and frustration had had nothing to do with Helene. She was merely the key that unlocked his own aching hunger; indeed, his very soul. And she always had been.
With Helene, there could be no pretension, no hiding from the truth of himself. Cam knew it was time he admitted that there was a large part of him which simply could not be controlled. Until now, that had been something he’d been unable
to accept.
When Helene had been taken from him, it had served only to prove his mother’s point. And then, driven by an irrational fear of becoming like his father, he had somehow repressed all emotion, all pleasure, and almost all of his love. Until he had become something worse. Perhaps much of what Bentley said was true. To much of the outside world, he had begun to look like a despotic, cold-hearted bastard. Only his love for Ariane was proof he was still human.
What a waste he had very nearly made of his life! He’d been afraid to give love unreservedly, out of fear that such giving would somehow diminish him. Yet Helene embraced her emotions, her zest for life, and yes, her capacity for lust and love.
And yet, Helene was never rash or reckless, or any of those other foolish words he had so flippantly ascribed to her. Despite all that she’d been through, and all that she had made of her life, her passionate spirit was intact.
How fortunate he was to know and love such a woman. How fortunate he was to have found her, the better half of himself, a second time. Before it was too late.
And now, he had to find her yet again.
20
And a little child shall lead them
Ariane awoke to find that the silence of the night had seeped into the room. But it was not the sort of silence that surrounded Chalcote. It was a quiet filled with waiting, with the creak of people climbing up the stairs and the rumble of carts rolling down the street.
Once a man strolled beneath the window singing a very loud and naughty song. Ariane knew most of the words, though, because Bentley often sang it. And just as badly, too.
With great care, she sat up and studied the bed which was shoved securely against the wall on her side. The headboard and footboard were high, requiring Ariane to carefully crawl along the foot, then slither off the lower corner.
Lightly, she stepped over the trundle, watching to ensure that he didn’t wake up. Then she crept toward the window to peer down into the street. It was far, far down. In the moonlit marketplace below, she could see the stone market cross, with the booted legs of a man protruding from it—the singing man, most likely. Bentley slept a lot after singing, too.
