by Shana Galen
Brook took the wine back. “This is no time for delicacy. Drink like you mean it.” He gulped from the flagon, exaggerating the gesture by throwing his head back. She laughed, took the bottle, and attempted to mimic his gesture. She looked ridiculous, but he admired her willingness to try.
They shared the simple meal, Lila brushing crumbs from the sheets and Brook telling her they could just shake them out and not to bother.
“I can’t help it. When I was young I’d sneak cake into bed, and I was always so afraid of being caught, I’d try to erase all evidence.”
“You were a wicked child,” he teased.
“Not as wicked as Ginny.”
“Your young sister? I thought her rather adorable.”
“Ginny? You met her?”
“We played a brief game of hide-and-seek.”
“Her favorite. You’re right. She’s not a wicked child. She’s actually very sweet and good-natured. At least, I think so. The Vile Valencia won’t allow me be near her for more than a few moments for fear I might contaminate the child.”
“Contaminate her?”
“I’m infected with a horrible disease—the inability to marry.” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She had lovely ears, small and shaped like shells.
And if he was admiring her ears, he was truly daft.
“Ah. That is a dreadful ailment,” he said with mock seriousness, “but I hardly think of concern to a child of three or four.”
“It’s an excuse. My stepmother hates me, and she would keep me from my father and my sister as much as possible.”
“What crime did you commit?”
“I’m the daughter of my father’s first wife.” She looked down at the mention of her mother, but not before he saw the sadness.
“You still miss her.”
“Every day. She was the most kindhearted woman. She might have been a busy duchess, but she always made time for Colin and me. I remember her sitting on the floor with us in her silks and satins, playing with a wooden ball. She doted on me, gave me anything I wanted.”
That explained quite a bit, Brook thought, although as the daughter of a duke, Lila would likely have been spoiled regardless.
“But do you know what I remember most?”
“What is that?” he asked, admiring the way her wide eyes shined.
“She always listened to me. I must have been a silly child, always prattling on about imaginary balls and gowns and princes. I hear Ginny playacting, and it makes me smile. I’m sure I was the same. But unlike Valencia, my mother listened to me. When I’d concoct some story about a knight and a dragon, she would crouch down, look into my eyes, and focus all her attention on me.” Lila’s gaze had drifted to the fire, and he knew she was far away. She’d gone back to the time when her mother was alive, when her life was still simple.
“She made me feel important,” Lila said. “She made me feel loved.”
Brook kissed her then because he could imagine her as a pampered but lonely child. All she’d wanted was love. That was all she still wanted, and damn him if he was another person who could not give it to her.
* * *
The rain woke him. The steady patter of it made him want to roll over and settle himself next to the warmth of Lila in the bed with him. But when he tried, he realized she wasn’t beside him.
He sat, finding her immediately. She stood near the door, fastening a cloak over her shoulders.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
She started and cut a look at him, her expression one of surprise but not guilt. “I’m thirsty,” she said. “I thought I’d go to the well and draw a bit of water. Since I was up, I built up the fire and put more wood on it.”
Brook stared at her. She’d stoked the fire and would go out into the night in the rain to fetch water? They should have had water inside the cottage, but he’d dumped it over her head. If anything, he should be the one to fetch water.
“I’ll get it,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
“No.” Lila held up a hand. “I’m already dressed and ready. Besides, the rain has slackened for the moment. By the time you dress, it’s likely to start pouring again.”
“Do you know the way?”
“Of course.” She reached for the handle on the door, unchaining the lock. Then she peered back at him over her shoulder. “And when I return, you can warm me up again.”
Brook watched her go, trying not to give in to the deluge of erotic thoughts that suggestion elicited. Instead, he lay back and closed his eyes. For the first time, he didn’t look forward to the annulment of their marriage. He didn’t want her to go, didn’t want her to leave his bed. But he could hardly keep her as his wife until he tired of tumbling her and then seek an annulment. Even though the king had promised him an easy annulment, Brook could hardly justify treating the daughter of the Duke of Lennox—or any woman for that matter—in such a manner.
They could always stay married. They had passion, and in time he might grow to feel more for her. He might one day forgive her. She had a title and wealth and a long line of prestigious ancestors. That would please his mother. She’d give him children one day, which would also please his mother.
If he remained married to Lila, he’d have fulfilled his obligations as the second son of an earl quite sufficiently. He didn’t care much about such matters, but he knew how Society worked and knew what was expected. Brook had never been against marriage. Even after the debacle with Lila when he’d been four and twenty, he knew some day he would propose again.
He just hadn’t thought it would be to the same woman.
Now that he had her, why not keep her?
His chest tightened at the thought.
Why not? Because she hadn’t wanted him. Because she’d laughed at him. Because she’d made him hate himself.
And yet, she was outside now—in the cold and the rain—fetching water. She’d tried to warm bread for him. She’d tended him when he’d been injured. She wasn’t the same woman who’d refused his proposal.
And if he was honest with himself, he was beginning to like her, despite himself. He’d never spent much time talking to the women he bedded. For the most part, they were vapid actresses or widows. They wanted a bit of fun and not much more. Brook had thought he wanted the same, but was that all he wanted? He hadn’t realized what it would be like to whisper secrets and confide intimacies with a woman. He hadn’t known he wanted anything more than a tumble.
And perhaps he hadn’t.
Until Lila.
He wanted to know everything about her, from the time she’d fallen off her pony jumping a fence to the first time she’d been kissed. And he’d found himself telling her about his life too, about his favorite dog when he’d been a boy and how he and Dane had played at Colonists and Red Coats. Brook, being the younger, had always had to be George Washington.
Even worse, in Dane’s version, Washington surrendered to Cornwallis.
Brook hadn’t known he wanted someone to share his life with, not simply his bed. Lila had shown him that. But why the devil did it have to be her to show him what he was missing? The one woman he could never forgive, could never love.
The mother cat padded over to the door and made a soft meow. Brook sat. He supposed that meant the cat wanted out, but why would she want out in the rain and cold of the middle of the night? The cat lowered her head, sniffing at the base of the door, and Brook realized something had attracted her attention. Had she heard a mouse or did she anticipate Lila’s return?
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Shouldn’t Lila have returned by now?
Heart beginning to thud, Brook pulled on his trousers, boots, and coat, not bothering with a shirt. She’d gotten turned around on her way to the well or back. He’d find her and bring her back before the rain started in earnest. Pushing his feet into his boots, he opened the door.
“Lila?” he called.
No answer.
The wind blew rai
n into his face, and he wiped it out of his eyes and squinted at the darkness. “Lila!”
The tree branches swayed, and in the distance, thunder boomed. The storm was coming closer. He needed to bring her inside before it worsened. He kept his gaze on the yard, fixed in the direction of the well, and when a burst of lightning lit up the sky, he was ready. But the lightning revealed nothing more than what he’d seen in the gloomy darkness.
The yard was empty.
Lila was gone.
Eighteen
From behind the kitchen building, Lila saw the weak glow of light from the direction of the cottage. She’d known he’d look for her. She’d known he’d come. He might not love her, but he would fight for her.
Over the howl of the wind and the growl of thunder, she heard his voice calling her name. She tried to answer, but the man tightened his hold over her mouth.
Beezle.
She didn’t know how long he’d been lying in wait, crouching in the shadows behind the cottage. Had he been there when Brook had put out the fire in the kitchen? Had he been there when they’d made love?
He’d been waiting for his chance, and she’d inadvertently stepped right into his clutches. He hadn’t grabbed her when she’d first stepped outside, though he must have been watching. Instead, he waited until she’d made it all the way to the well, used precious energy to attach the bucket and draw up water. She’d carried the partly full bucket almost all the way to the cottage when he’d come up behind her and grasped her around the waist with one hand, his other coming up to cover her mouth.
She’d never even had a chance to scream.
The bucket had fallen from her hands, the water spilling out as it rolled aside. Beezle had dragged her behind the kitchen building and shoved her against the rough wood.
“Thought you could get away, didn’t you?” he said, his fetid breath near her ear.
She tried to scream, but his hand on her mouth held fast. She’d known who he was. She remembered his voice and the smell of him. He had the stink of Seven Dials on him, an odor she would never forget.
She fought to loose her arms, and even managed to free one before he caught it again, wrenching it viciously to her side.
Tears stung her eyes.
How had he found them? Would he kill them both, first her and then Brook?
No, he could never kill Brook. At least she’d die knowing Brook would win in the end.
And yet she held on to the sliver of hope that she might be saved. When Brook had called a second time, she fought with everything she had to break free of Beezle’s hold. It was no good. He was too strong.
Lightning flashed, and Beezle used the burst of light to his advantage. He yanked her to her feet and dragged her away from the kitchen and toward the wooded area behind them. In this darkness, it would be almost impossible for Brook to find her among the trees and bushes. Beezle could slit her throat and leave her for dead, and she’d be cold and stiff by the time Brook stumbled on her body.
If some wild animal didn’t eat her first.
She shivered from cold and fear, dragging her feet in an effort to slow Beezle. She squirmed and fought and slowed their progress as much as she could. His arms were thin but wiry, and his grip almost painful. She could feel the indents of his fingernails in her cheek, where his hand still covered her mouth, and he’d pressed her injured wrist hard against her body. The ache from her smashed wrist threatened to overwhelm her. But she’d feel much more pain if she didn’t keep fighting.
The rain came down harder, the water running over her face and obscuring her vision. She blinked it out of her eyes, seeing the tracks her boots had made in the soft dirt behind the kitchen. All Brook need do is walk that way, and he would know where she’d been taken. But of course, he’d look for her at the well. By the time he thought to circle around to the kitchen, it might be too late.
Fighting the feeling of helplessness, she dug her elbow back and into Beezle’s stomach. It wasn’t a very good blow, but it was enough to dislodge his grip slightly. His rain-slicked hands slipped when he grasped her again, and for a moment, she broke free. Lila stumbled forward, lurching back toward the kitchens and Brook. But her feet caught on the hem of her dress, the slight delay giving Beezle enough time to catch her again.
Her grasped her injured wrist, twisting it behind her back. Lila screamed in pain. Beezle’s hand clamped down on her mouth, but she shook her head until his hand slipped away.
“Brook! Here! Broo—”
Beezle covered her mouth again. For a moment the agony of her bent wrist subsided, and then pain exploded in her head. The blackness of the night widened and darkened, and when she saw the next flicker of lightning in the night sky, it was from beneath a canopy of branches.
He had her in the woods. She was as good as dead.
* * *
Brook headed toward the well, wishing for more light so he might track her footprints. He could see the evidence of tracks back and forth, but they’d both been over that way many times the last few days, and he wasn’t certain which were hers and which were fresh. He was almost to the well when he spotted the indistinct shape on the ground. As he neared it, he made it out to be the bucket.
Brook’s throat closed, his lungs constricting painfully. He bent and righted the bucket, his fingers brushing the pool of water near the overturned opening.
Pieces clicked into place like the parts of an unfinished portrait. Investigations were always thus for him. He would see part of a nose or a mouth and when he had the whole image, that was when he knew what had happened or who was to blame.
The overturned bucket was one piece. She’d made it to the well. She’d filled the bucket. She’d been on her way back.
Why had she dropped the bucket? Where was she now?
The portrait might have lacked detail, but he could make out the face well enough.
Somehow Beezle had found them, and now he had Lila.
He thought he heard something—a voice—over the wind and rain, but when he stood and cocked his head, he couldn’t make out anything but the crack of lightning and the whistle of wind through the tree branches. Brook stood, hands on hips, and stared at the yard. Beezle couldn’t have gone far. Where would he have taken her?
The woods or the road. One would provide more cover; the other would provide a quick escape. They were in opposite directions, so Brook knew he had to choose well and choose quickly.
Beezle would want the woods if he intended to hide or if he intended to kill her. The fear punched him in the gut at the thought of Lila lying dead among the wet leaves and low-hanging branches. He pushed the fear back, unwilling to acknowledge it. Fear clouded his senses, and he needed all his wits about him.
He looked toward the road. Beezle hadn’t walked from London. He had a horse or cart waiting for him somewhere, most likely somewhere off the road that ran in front of the cottage. He’d take her toward the road if he wanted to bring her back to London.
The road was three-quarters of a mile in front of the cottage, and the woods ran several miles behind it. If he made the wrong choice, it would cost him his life.
No—it would cost Lila her life. But with a dawning horror, he realized losing her would mean the end of his life too.
Brook stood in the cold rain and turned toward the road. Then with a roar of frustration, he headed toward the woods.
He found the trail immediately. If it was Beezle, he’d been alone. She’d fought him. He could see Beezle had struggled to drag her away. The tracks hadn’t been filled with water yet, so the trail was still relatively new. He was right behind them.
And then reached the spot where the hard impressions of her smaller boots faded. For whatever reason, she’d stopped fighting, and Beezle had pulled her into the woods with much less effort. In the darkness, Brook had to stop and examine the ground, the rain washing away the trail in places and clouding his vision. He might have been close behind, but Beezle had been wise to take her at night and during a s
torm. Brook could find anyone and anything in the labyrinth of Seven Dials or Spitalfields, but in the open country, he was not quite as skilled. He’d never felt the lack of his experience so keenly as when he reached the edge of the forest and the first covering of leaves.
Brook swore under his breath. Now the trail was even harder to make out. He’d start down one way, realize he must have missed a sign, and have to double back again. The only thing that kept him going was sheer determination and the fact that he hadn’t found her body yet.
Finding her dead seemed all but inevitable at this point. The search was taking him too long. Beezle had had more than enough opportunity. Brook regretted not donning a shirt. He was stiff and cold, his clothing soaked through to the skin. The discomfort was nothing. Brook wouldn’t give up until he had her in his arms again. A couple hours ago, she’d been warm and alive, curled beside him, safe. In a moment, his world had spun around, and everything he’d cared about, held on to—his pride, the past, her spoiled behavior—no longer mattered.
He just wanted her safe. Alive. Back in his arms.
Realizing he’d lost the trail again, he backtracked, forcing himself to concentrate. He couldn’t think of her dead. Couldn’t allow himself to imagine the bleakness of his life without her.
He let the numbness seep into his bones, his mind, his heart. With renewed purpose, he once again picked up the trail.
* * *
“He’s like a buff in search of a bone.” Beezle swore. For the first time since he’d dragged her into the woods, Lila felt a sense of hope. Brook was following them. Brook would find her. Save her.
Beezle had dragged her for miles, through the pouring rain, across freezing creeks, over fallen logs. When she’d fallen, he’d kicked her until she rose again. When she asked a question, he cuffed her. Her breath came in short gasps, puffing into the cold, gray dawn like smoke. He hadn’t killed her yet. She still had a chance to get away.
Beezle dragged her along behind him, his hand clamped around her upper arm. He’d quickly learned pressure on her injured wrist incited her to obey. If she slowed, he jerked her arm, and she’d cry out and try to increase her stride.
