A Clockwork Christmas

by JK Coi, PG Forte, Stacy Gail; Jenny Schwartz

  A hailstorm of gunfire had followed, hitting the ground around him from all sides. Surrounded and outgunned, getting out with his life had been a miracle. He’d limped to the safe house at Amiens, forced to lie low to heal and make sure he wouldn’t be followed when he finally risked coming back home.

  Callie would be angry, but she could never stay mad at him for long. He tapped his chest where the long, slim box in the inside pocket of his jacket rested, hoping he’d chosen the right bauble to ensure his acceptance back into her good graces sooner than later.

  He was surprised when young John didn’t meet him halfway up the drive to take Silver to the stables. Jasper continued on alone. He tightened his hold on the silk scarf he carried with him always, although now it was stained with his blood.

  Inside the stables, he rapped on the door before ducking his head into the small room adjoining the stalls. He shrugged when he saw nobody sleeping in the cot, a little irritated at having to rub the horse down himself when all he wanted was to hurry into the house to see Callie. If he found that rascal had been in one of the maids’ beds, he was going to invent a towering pile of particularly dirty chores to keep him busy instead of underneath all the women’s skirts.

  Once inside the house, he started to get worried when there was no one to greet him at the door either, not even Murphy.

  Leaving his overcoat hanging off the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, he headed up with weary steps.

  Something wasn’t right. He felt the wrongness in his bones, a thudding, tight ache that threatened to rip his chest in two. He began to move faster, taking the last few steps two at a time and then rushing down the hall to their bedchamber. He threw open the door. “Callie?”

  She wasn’t there.

  The bedding lay strewn across the floor as if someone had been sleeping. Sleeping, and perhaps…dragged out of the bed.

  His blood turned colder as he tore through every room, looking for her, calling her name.

  When he ran back down the stairs, he followed a muffled banging noise to the pantry closet just inside the kitchen. The servants had been bound and gagged and stuffed inside it. Malcolm was there too, unconscious with a deep, nasty gash in his head that had bled onto the floor.

  He untied them and forced Malcolm awake, all the while his heart hammering with a desperate fear. Where was Callie?

  “What happened here?” he asked, unable to control the terse, frantic tone of his voice.

  Cook twisted her hands together, tears running down her plump cheeks. “My lord, ’twas a band of thieves. They hid in the stables and attacked Mr. Malcolm here when he went to check an’ see why young John hadn’t come in fer dinner. We didn’t know what were happenin’, but suddenly we heard Lady Carlisle screamin’ in her chamber. One o’ ’em dragged her down the stairs by her hair and the others held guns to our heads and threatened to kill us all.”

  Malcolm groaned and touched a hand to his temple, swearing when it came back sticky with blood. “Colonel, it’s my fault,” he said. “They should never have been able to take me off guard.”

  He shook his head in impatience. “Never mind that now. What did they do with Lady Carlisle? Where’s Callie?”

  His wife’s young maid piped in, “She bargained for us, my lord. She tole the demons that if they left us alone, they could take her.”

  Oh God.

  “How long ago?”

  The cook and the maid glanced at each other with wide eyes. “Not sure, my l-l-lord,” Cook stuttered. “But I’d say we were probably locked up in there at least three hours.”

  No. That was too long. Three hours was long enough for them to have done just about anything to her.

  He couldn’t think about that. Not yet. Find her first. “Malcolm, get my shotgun.”

  “Right away, Colonel.” The man had already struggled to his feet, and now stood tall and strong, ready at Jasper’s side like he’d been on the first day they’d donned army colors together.

  “My lord.” The light-haired maid stopped him before he made it to the hallway, her voice cracking. “Did ye find our John?”

  “He wasn’t in the stables. You and the others search for him while I’m gone.” He kept moving, meeting Malcolm in the front hall. “What about Murphy, where is he?” The lieutenant had disappeared from his side shortly after the gunfight started. Jasper hadn’t been too worried at the time. Murphy was nothing if not resourceful, and he’d assumed the man had taken cover and made his way back home on his own.

  “He arrived two nights ago, but took himself off early this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure.” Malcolm shrugged. “But he’s been hot for the new serving girl at the inn.”

  Grabbing the weapon from Malcolm, Jasper walked out into the night. “I don’t care how long it takes. We don’t come back without her,” he said, his voice filled with the ice that rushed through his veins.

  Malcolm nodded. “Agreed.”

  They’d just saddled two horses and were halfway down the lane that would take them to the main road when Jasper saw movement. He pulled his horse to a stop and jumped down. “John, is that you?”

  A figure hunched over, clutching his belly as he stumbled toward them. Jasper called over his shoulder to Malcolm as he ran to the boy’s side. “Hurry and get someone out here to help him.”

  “My lady. She—” The boy coughed. Blood bubbled from his mouth.

  “What happened, John?”

  “I was in the woods this eve, lookin’ fer some o’ that wild garlic to give to the mare, ’cause the flies have been botherin’ her somethin’ fierce.”

  “What happened?” he repeated, trying not to lose his patience. Malcolm was already on his way back with Cook, who’d brought some towels and bandages. Jasper reluctantly moved aside to let them tend to the boy.

  “They came from the direction of the house, sir. All carryin’ guns, and one of ’em had my Lady Carlisle thrown over his shoulder like a sack of feed.” He gazed up at Jasper with a pleading look, as if begging for forgiveness. “I didn’t know what to do. They were three big bastards, and only one of me…so at first, I just followed ’em.”

  “How did you get hurt?”

  If possible, the boy turned even whiter. “Well, when they got deeper into the woods my lady, she started fightin’. She were kickin’ and scratchin’ to get away. The one guy, he dropped ’er, but she tripped and fell over her skirts tryin’ to run, and he just grabbed ’er back up and hit her in the face.”

  Jasper’s hands clenched into two tight fists at his sides. This couldn’t be happening.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence, either.

  “I couldn’t let them hurt her, my lord. I mean…I tried. I tried not to let them.” Tears had gathered in his eyes, and he lifted a bloody hand to swipe them away. “I jumped in, but one of ’em stuck me. A knife. I…I couldn’t—”

  Jasper put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, John. Did you see where they were headed?”

  “I think the direction of Lord Folderall’s old huntin’ lodge. You know it?”

  The shack was just beyond the border of Jasper’s property and hadn’t been used since the old Earl keeled over almost ten years ago. Jasper remembered playing there when he was a boy. “Yes, I know it.”

  He looked to Malcolm, who frowned. “It’ll take longer with the horses. We’d have to go around. Better to cut through.”

  Jasper agreed. He was more concerned about the passage of time than losing their way in the dark. He’d grown up in these woods and knew every stone and every bush.

  He thanked John for everything he’d tried to do to save his mistress, and told the others to take good care of him.

  Then he ran.

  Even with a head wound, Malcolm did a good job keeping up with him. The moon was high and full, which helped them see where they were going even though Jasper was moving only on desperation and instinct. He ran faster and faster, without feeling tired or out of br
eath, every one of his senses and all the muscles in his body in complete accord with his objective—to reach Callie.

  Halfway there, they splashed through the narrow stream that marked the boundary of the two adjoining properties, but Jasper didn’t even pause. Tree branches slapped his face and shoulders. He dodged the rocks and roots cropping up in the path, and tried not to think what was happening to his wife. But as they neared the hunting lodge and all was quiet, he feared they were already too late.

  A hundred yards from the small cabin, he glanced at Malcolm. “It doesn’t look like they’re here, but run a check of the perimeter. I’m going inside.”

  “Aye, Colonel.”

  As he approached the door, his belief that nobody had been here changed. He still couldn’t hear anything and there was no window to see inside, but the oily stink of violence and death was all around this place.

  Please, no.

  When he opened the door, the scent of freshly spilled blood hit him first. He couldn’t hold back the terrified hiss that spilled from his mouth. Callie’s blood. He didn’t even have to see the room to know it was covered in Callie’s blood.

  But he did see. And she was there. Tied to a chair.

  Thick, coarse rope wrapped around her torso, and more of it bound her ankles to the chair legs. A crude table had been pulled up beside her. There were tools still lying on it.

  A hammer.

  A saw.

  A knife.

  “Callie!” He dropped to his knees on the floor in front of her. He moved to reach for her, but pulled to a frantic stop, arms hovering in the air between them. He didn’t know what to do first, what to check first. There was blood everywhere. On the floor all around her, seeping through the knees of his pants. It covered every inch of her nightdress like the cloth had been dipped in a vat of dye. It was all over her face, her hands…

  Oh God, her hand.

  “Callie,” he moaned. “Oh no. Oh please, no. What did they do to you?”

  Her head hung lifelessly, chin touching her chest. Some of her dark hair fell in wet ropes over her face, while the rest had been caught beneath the twisted strip of cotton tied over her mouth and around her head as a gag. He pushed the strands gently aside and groaned at the sight of the blood running from her eye. It stained her cheeks and ran down her face in thick trails that had been stopped by the gag, which was no longer white.

  He could see that the blood seeping through her nightdress came from a wound in her side, and her legs were sticky with wide dark streaks.

  She’d been tortured. Brutally. Thoroughly.

  He knew right away this was no chance attack by thieves. Colonel Wyndham had been tortured like this too. His broken, lifeless body was found after animals had scavenged it from a shallow grave on the southern edge of his own property. Apparently, the colonel had recently been suckered into the spy game after resigning from more active duty. He’d just returned home from a mission and hadn’t even had the opportunity to report in to the War Office before the bastards got him.

  The Ministry had wanted Jasper to find out what was going on. Find out how their operatives’ identities were being leaked to the French, and he’d been sent over the border to meet with the contact. Leaving his family vulnerable in a way he’d never even considered. But should have.

  He glanced up at the table. The “tools” were black with thick, half-dried blood. By all accounts Callie should be dead, but she wasn’t. Thank God, she was still alive. Just barely by the looks of it, but she stirred when he touched her face and ran his hands lightly down her arms. Her lips cracked open on a whispered hiss of pain.

  “Malcolm!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  A moment later, the other man burst through the open door, but came to a sudden stop just inside. “Oh no,” he whispered.

  Jasper’s gaze remained fixed on her. He couldn’t see anything else. “Give me your knife. I need to cut the ropes.” He refused to touch the knife that had been left behind.

  “Let me do it.”

  “Just give me your knife and then get out of here.” In the back of his mind he knew he wasn’t being rational, but the only thing he could think of was that he didn’t want anyone else seeing her like this.

  “Let me do it, Colonel,” Malcolm repeated. “Those ropes are the only thing keeping her upright and she’s going to need someone to hold her once the bonds are cut away.”

  He groaned. “All right. Just—God, be careful. And don’t…touch her.”

  Malcolm came forward and stepped around the chair. He cut the bonds at her ankles first, and then moved to the rope wrapped around her waist and chest. Jasper got to his feet and grasped her shoulders gently until she was free and he was finally able to pull her into his arms, being extra careful of her broken legs.

  She whimpered. “Shh, Callie,” he whispered against her hair. “You’re safe now. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.” She jerked against him as if shying away. Only semi-conscious, she reacted instinctively out of the memory of fear and pain. He didn’t want her to wake completely. Not here. Not like this. But he hoped his voice would reach her and somehow soothe her, and so he continued to whisper reassurances in her ear.

  Her eyelids quivered, but the blood and gore had glued them closed. “Don’t try to see right now, all right? Not yet.”

  Her hand and eye needed to be bandaged. There was a huge bump on her head, and he wanted to examine the damage to her legs. But first he had to get her outside. He couldn’t bear for either of them to be in this shack of terror and death for another minute.

  Chapter Five

  Jasper woke with tears running unchecked down his face, but that was nothing new. While he usually managed to keep it together in the daylight hours, there was no controlling himself in sleep.

  However, the warm body curled into him was new—at least in this reality, the one where revenge and guilt were his constant companions and he was forced to live without Callie.

  Callie.

  Had he lost her? It seemed a lifetime since he’d left her in the doctor’s care and went in search of the men who’d hurt her. Even now that he’d returned to bring her home, Jasper still wasn’t sure.

  She stirred at his side. He tightened his arm around her shoulder, but she shot upright suddenly and without warning. “Callie. Are you all right?”

  She slipped from the bed without a word. The fire had died down to softly glowing embers while they slept and provided no light, but the sure-footed clunk of her solid steps on the wooden plank flooring suggested she had no difficulty seeing in the dark.

  He scrambled to his feet to go after her, but realized she wasn’t actually leaving the room when the door remained closed. After a long moment he found his way to the dark hearth and put a few logs on the fire, stoking it back up until it provided a weak light to see by. Turning, he found that she’d curled up in the window seat once again.

  “Callie, please come back to bed.” He was so tired. Tired down to his bones.

  “Why did you finally decide to come?”

  He barely heard her soft whisper. He took a few steps closer, but stopped when she looked at him with a raised brow that dared him to try touching her again.

  At least she was talking, and seemed calmer than she’d been since his arrival.

  “Callie, love. Do you recognize me? They said you might not…remember.”

  “They’re right, I think there’s probably some of it that still hovers in the mist. Lucky me though, more and more has been coming back every day.” Her voice had changed. His Callie had the voice of an angel, her light soprano flitting across his senses to tease him when he was grumpy and soothe him when he was frustrated.

  This Callie’s mocking voice was hoarse and rough…painful. He thought of the dark bruises painting her throat when he’d found her that night. Later, the doctor had told him that—in addition to her other injuries—she’d been strangled near to death, her trachea all but crushed, and every word she spoke for the rest of h
er life would be both a miracle and a torture to her.

  “Ah, but how could I forget you, Colonel?” Her tone was heavy with a strangled outrage. She sighed and swallowed. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I didn’t know where all these scars came from, or why my body was then mutilated with iron?”

  Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The bounds of his self-hatred kept expanding, and as selfish as it was for him to admit, he thought it would have been better if she had forgotten. Better for both of them.

  He cleared his throat. “Callie, I’m so—”

  “You should have stayed away, Jasper.” She turned away.

  “No. And I would have come sooner, but your recovery depended—”

  She laughed, a broken sound that tore at his heart. “Recovery. Don’t you mean my resurrection?”

  “You didn’t die.” He tried to see her reflection in the window, but only one pale cheek was visible.

  “Part of me did,” she muttered. “The rest should have followed, and would have if not for…” She trailed off with a shake of her head.

  He wanted to pull her into his arms, but her stiff posture forbade it. Or take her hand, but she’d hidden it in the folds of her skirts. He wanted to put his fingers in that short, curly hair of hers, but it looked too soft to be real. He desperately wanted to kiss her, but very much feared she would jerk away from him in hate.

  Instead, he stood before her like a statue, the tornado of emotions he was trying to hide leaving him torn. “Callie.”

  “You should have let me die.” She lifted her gaze. Her sorrow and pain were plain even though she shed no tears. “Damn you. How could you let them do this to me?”

  “I love you.” As if that said it all. As if it could excuse his need and his desperation, his refusal to give her up to such a brutal end.

  She recoiled.

  “I could not have borne it if you died.”

  She snarled and rose to confront him. “But this…this you could bear? A broken thing for a wife? A monster, barely human?”