Devall's Angel

by Allison Lane

  Terror nearly choked her. “The only way you can make me happy is to leave. Now.” Rage shook her voice. “Release the bridle and depart.”

  “There is no need to continue the game, Angela,” he said, his voice now revealing dangerous undertones. “You will come with me. I have a special license, so we can be married immediately. You must not be left to the mercies of an evil world.”

  “Absolutely not!” She sliced her crop across the hand that held her bridle. “The only evil I see is in you.”

  A snarl bared his teeth. “Do not strike me again, my love, or you will force me to punish you. Punishment is painful; so very painful. Don’t put me through that again. You have caused me enough agony.”

  Dear God! What could she do? His obsession had clearly crossed into madness. How did one reason with a madman? Panic darkened her mind. Unwanted images rose of Lydia and Ned Parker.

  The moment he pulled up next to his coach, she leaped off her horse, running wildly. But there were no people nearby, no other carriages, no horsemen. The street was deserted. His arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her from the ground. A hard hand slapped her face, stopping her voice in mid-scream.

  “The game is over, my love,” he repeated softly. “You will come home now, and I will take care of you forever.”

  He deposited her in the coach, his face twisting in pain when she broke into sobs.

  “Don’t cry, my love,” he crooned, cradling her and stroking her head as if she were a child.

  Hysteria threatened, but Angela fought it back as the realization hit. For some reason, he needed to care for her. When she appeared vulnerable, he became soft and gentle. When she countered him, he turned vicious. Her only hope lay in humoring him until she could escape. But she must be patient. Her next attempt had to succeed. God only knew what he would do if he caught her.

  “Wh-where are we going?” she sobbed, trying to force her body to relax. Her skin crawled at his touch, and it took all her determination not to scream.

  “A special place where we can be alone,” he whispered, the sensual voice eliciting new shudders. “The world won’t intrude on us. We will be married tonight.”

  Panic inched closer. Surely he couldn’t get away with forcing her into wedlock!

  But he was the beautiful and beloved Earl of Atwater, who could undoubtedly convince a vicar to ignore her protests. And she was of age, so she did not need permission from Andrew. Only by postponing the ceremony could she hope to escape.

  “You cannot expect me to wed in this old riding habit.” Her voice shook, but she could do nothing to control it. And she didn’t dare look directly at him lest he see her hatred. “Are you not worthy of a splendid gown?”

  A frown puckered his forehead even as he jerked her arm, leaving a bruise. She bit back a protest. “Why have you put me through such pain?” he demanded.

  She forced her hand to rest soothingly atop his. “I thought you understood,” she whispered at last. “I had to get rid of my mother. She would have hung on you and squandered your fortune.”

  “You never meant to hurt me? Your love is true?” His eyes blazed with increasing ferocity.

  “Of course.” Bile rose higher with each new lie. “Will you allow me to dress properly?”

  “That primrose gown you wore last night will be suitable.” He resumed his quiet stroking. She shuddered, praying he would interpret the movement as pleasure. “We will marry tomorrow. I can retrieve your wardrobe by then.”

  “Would it not be better to collect it now?” she dared.

  “No!” He shook her violently several times, snapping her neck. “You will not leave me. Not like the others. I can never allow that again.”

  Dear God! How was she to escape such a madman? She choked back words and forced relaxation on battered muscles still taut with horror. Her tongue was bleeding by the time her tears finally calmed him. He resumed his crooning. Barely able to control the revulsion sweeping through her, she pressed close against him, allowing her rending sobs to continue. It was the only sound that didn’t incite attack.

  The carriage stopped on a street of small houses that gave no clue to their location. How much time had elapsed? It could have been minutes or hours. Her terror mounted as he carried her inside. How could she return home? She had few coins in her reticule and no idea how far they were from Clifford Street – or even in which direction it lay.

  How was she to escape? Even if he left to fetch her wardrobe, he would undoubtedly post a guard. His cunning still functioned. He was not mad enough to leave her alone. Somehow she must get word to her family.

  “If we are to marry tomorrow, I must invite my brother to the wedding,” she tried softly. “Perhaps you can talk to him when you fetch my gown.”

  “Impossible,” he declared calmly. “He is still at the Court. How can you tolerate his disinterest? That country squire mentality will always place his estate above his sister. But you are first in my heart. Nothing is more important than protecting you from harm.”

  She stiffened, then forced herself to relax, not daring to mention her sudden suspicion. Was Atwater responsible for the fire that had taken Andrew from town? If so, then this was something he had plotted for some time.

  That last fear was confirmed when he carried her upstairs to a back bedroom and laid her on the bed. A sturdy lock gleamed in the door – a brand new lock. One glance took in the Spartan furnishings – bed, stand, chest, chair, heavy draperies pulled tightly across the single window.

  “Will you get me something pretty to wear?” she asked softly. “This wrinkled habit seems so dowdy next to your splendor.”

  “Later, my love,” he said absently, locking the door and sliding the key into his pocket.

  Her breath caught, her body turning rigid with fright.

  “You are mine now,” he repeated. His coat dropped to the floor. “I will show you how much I love you.”

  She rolled off the far side of the bed and bounded to her feet. “We are not married, my lord.” Somehow she kept both fear and accusation out of her voice. “If you truly loved me, you would never debauch me in so vile a fashion.”

  “Fustian.” No force underlay the exclamation. His voice remained calm – almost dead – more frightening than his earlier violence. His waistcoat and cravat joined his jacket. “We are already married in spirit. The ceremony is but hours away. You know that I will care for you. Yet I sense fear. We must banish that. Prove your love. Now.”

  “This has nothing to do with love. I will not be used in such a fashion outside of marriage.” Anger crept into her voice despite her efforts. Her eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking a weapon. Sidling to the night stand, she idly fingered the candlestick.

  His eyes turned blank. A bulge strained at his breeches. The gaping neck of his shirt bared half his chest, exposing a mat of dark blond hair.

  “This is what you were born for, my darling Angela, my divine angel,” he crooned. “You will serve me always, running my home, satisfying my needs, bearing my children. I must get an heir, you know. My cousin is deranged. We will start one now.” With a sudden lunge, he sprang across the bed.

  She swung the candlestick, smashing the base into his face even as she whipped around the bed and across the room. Frantically, she tried to recall everything she had read about the art of fighting. It wasn’t much. Unusual though her education had been, she had never expected to need such information.

  Contrary to her expectations, he did not fly into fury, but his restraint increased her terror. None of his previous actions had so clearly demonstrated his madness.

  “I cannot accept that,” he stated calmly, smiling as he walked slowly around the bed. Blood dripped from his nose and from a cut on one cheek, landing unheeded on his shirt. Despite the wounds, he looked angelically handsome, the answer to every maiden’s prayers. Gentle. Caring. Excitingly sensual. But his eyes – dear God, his eyes. They held no trace of warmth. Or of intelligence. Reason had fled, leaving a
hulking shell bent on a single purpose.

  “Now be a good girl and come to bed.” His hand stretched out in command.

  Hampered by her habit skirt, she was not sure she could elude him again. One hand gathered its bulk out of the way, even as fresh terror engulfed her.

  He was unfastening the buttons on his breeches.

  One…

  Two…

  Three…

  One side of the panel fell open, the bulge growing larger as its shackles loosened. He stepped closer.

  Four…

  Her eyes stared at his fingers, terror making her own reason waver. Another step.

  Five…

  She launched a vicious kick at his manhood even as her free hand crashed the candlestick into his head.

  Furious bellows reverberated around the room. Gone was the handsome, immaculate gentleman. Gone was the gentle, crooning lover. What faced her now was a savage beast with the strength of Atlas and the ferocity of a wounded bear. She had failed to knock him senseless, and now she paid in full.

  She swung again, rapidly backpedaling as she tried to place the bed between them. Her next swing caught his chest, but he tore the candlestick from her hand and hurled it away. Blows rained over her body. Pain exploded through her midsection, her shoulders, her arms. Desperate, she landed a second kick to his groin, raking her nails deeply down his face and chest, biting savagely at the hand he held over her mouth.

  But his superior strength made defeat inevitable. Too close to kick, she tried to use her knee, but her skirt hampered its motion. It glanced harmlessly off his thigh. He picked her up, shaking her mercilessly, snapping her neck until she feared her head might fall off. She clawed at his face, trying desperately to dig into his eyes. With a feral roar, he hurled her against the wall.

  Stars burst through her skull, followed by darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sylvia returned from afternoon calls, still smiling at the latest tales. She was handing her parasol to Paynes when a footman clad in Atwater’s livery arrived. The butler accepted a letter, slipped a coin to the man, then closed the door with a frown.

  “Is that for Miss Warren?” she asked.

  “For Lord Forley.”

  From Atwater? What did the earl want with Andrew – unless he was starting new rumors against Angela. He could not like the way her reputation had recovered.

  “I will take it to the study,” she offered, unsure what to do about this latest twist. With Andrew out of town, it would be days before they knew what it contained.

  Paynes handed her the note.

  “Is Lady Trotter here?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “How about Miss Warren?”

  “She has not yet returned from her ride.”

  Sylvia frowned, heading not to the study but to the room she shared with Angela. The brief outing to Green Park should have concluded. Angela would need to change before Major Caldwell arrived. Had she met friends and lost time talking? But despite her improved image, Angela had few friends in town.

  Atwater’s note burned through her glove. If he was launching a new campaign, they needed to know the details immediately. She paced as she wrestled with her conscience. Awaiting Andrew was impossible. That much delay could only play into Atwater’s hands. Barbara would not return until dinner, but she should at least wait for Angela.

  Within five minutes, curiosity overcame manners. She broke the seal only to gasp and sink into a chair.

  Forley,

  Miss Warren has reconsidered her hasty decision and accepted my hand in marriage. Due to the distressing situation in London, we will wed privately and retire immediately to the country.

  Atwater

  Could it be true? Could Angela really have eloped? She had certainly chosen the ideal time to slip away. Everyone else was occupied. Directing the note to Andrew allowed ample time to make an escape. Under normal circumstances, no one would dare open a letter addressed to another.

  But reason quickly returned. Angela had been too enthusiastic about returning to the country to have planned such an escapade. Hart’s groom had accompanied her – not someone Angela would take on an elopement. Nor was she the sort to hide behind secrecy. She hated Atwater. Her intense bitterness could never have been feigned. And girls who eloped usually left their own notes behind – or did nothing. Sylvia had never heard of a case where the groom sent round a note after the fact.

  So Atwater must have abducted her. Hands shaking, Sylvia reread the message. Dear Lord! What could she do? He had been very clever about it. No outside markings identified the author. The footman had not indicated any urgency. If she had not noticed his livery, the note would have remained unopened until Andrew returned. Paynes would not have mentioned it.

  Poor Angela. She would be ruined if this came out. Either she would spend the rest of her life shackled to a man she despised, or society would shun her for confirming all the rumors. She was hopelessly compromised.

  In tears, Sylvia paced the floor, devising and discarding one plan after another. The abduction could not be made public, so she could not summon help. She must act immediately. But she could think of nothing she could do.

  Biting her lip, she considered the few men who had been helping them. Ashton was out of town. She did not know the major well, and had no idea where he was staying. He would arrive in an hour – which gave her a back-up plan – but she hated to wait that long. Every minute Angela remained in Atwater’s clutches increased her danger.

  Her eyes suddenly lit on a letter atop Angela’s escritoire. It was in a masculine hand, but neither Andrew’s nor Atwater’s. Abandoning all scruples, she unfolded it and gasped. It was from Blackthorn. But her horror at his description of Atwater’s venality died under her growing elation. She had forgotten that he and Angela were friends. If anyone could help, it would be the Black Marquess, a man who never allowed convention to curb his behavior, a man whose antipathy to Atwater was well-known. Jotting a brief summons, she sent their footman running.

  Please let him be at home!

  * * * *

  Devall paced the Forley drawing room as Lady Sylvia explained her fears.

  “What?” he demanded when she thrust Atwater’s note into his hand.

  “It cannot be true,” she sobbed, her nerves giving way now that she could share the burden. “Angela hates him. She would never consider wedding him.”

  “It does not seem like her,” he agreed, thrusting down terror. Was Atwater trying to destroy her? He could not like the way she had recovered from his slander.

  “Excuse me, my lady,” said Paynes from the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Frank, my lady. He just returned with a tale you should hear.”

  “Send him in,” she ordered.

  “Who is Frank?”

  “The groom who accompanied Angela on her ride.”

  “Dear God!”

  Frank’s disheveled condition and the huge bruise on the side of his head warned them that his story would be ugly.

  “You accompanied Miss Warren today?” asked Sylvia.

  “Yes, milady. We was ridin’ in Green Park, as she likes to do, when an ’orseman pulled up beside me. Fancy cove, but I ’ardly got a look afore ’e off and conked me. When I waked up, both she an’ me ’orse was gone.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” he confessed. “’bout a hour after we left. I ’spect she was ’eadin’ for ’ome.”

  “That would be about an hour ago,” guessed Sylvia.

  “Did you recognize the gentleman?” asked Devall.

  “No, milord. I never saw ’im afore. You’s the only one she ever talked to on ’er rides.”

  “Describe him, please.”

  “It ’appened fast. An ’at was pulled down over ’is ’air an’ ’e was wearin’ a cloak. But ’e ’ad a look I’ll never ferget. ’Is face was like a child’s, almost purty, but the devil ’isself peeped outta ’is eyes. Mad.�
��

  Sylvia broke into sobs.

  Devall felt the cold wash over him. Mad, mad, mad… The word echoed in his mind. He had no doubt that it was Atwater. And that explained so much. Mad … mad … mad…

  “Dear God, where can he have taken her?” asked Sylvia. “The poor girl.” Fresh sobs choked her voice.

  “Thank you, Frank,” he said gravely, trying to inject some sanity into the room so he could think. “You had best see to that head. I will send word the moment we discover anything.”

  Frank’s eyes widened at this courtesy, but he nodded and bowed himself out. The knocker sounded.

  “What—” Sylvia’s question died when Devall dashed away.

  “Paynes!” he called down the stairs. “Who is at the door?”

  “Major Caldwell, my lord.”

  “Send him up.”

  Jack’s brows nearly reached his hair when he discovered Devall alone with Lady Sylvia. A few crisp words filled him in.

  “That bastard!” he exclaimed in shock. “Beg pardon, my lady.”

  “Think nothing of it. But what are we to do?”

  “Perhaps I know where he took her,” Devall said slowly. At least he hoped so. If he was wrong, Angela might not survive. She wasn’t the sort to tamely submit. “I believe he is the anonymous purchaser of that Kensington cottage that Devereaux unloaded.”

  Jack bit off a comment. “It’s worth a try.”

  “Send regrets to whatever events you were scheduled to attend this evening,” he ordered Sylvia. “Even if we find her, she will be in no mood to do the pretty in public.”

  “Try not to worry,” added Jack as they headed for the door.

  Sylvia nodded.

  “What are you going to do?” Jack asked as he joined Devall in the hall.

  “Check out that cottage. The rest depends on what we find.”

  Jack shivered at the grim voice. Devall was out for blood, but this time Jack felt no urge to deflect his hand. He admired Miss Warren. She was one of the few women he had ever considered a friend.