Rhys recalled the cravat pin. To A, with love, From E. It had not been from Elise to Alistair, it had been from Eleanor to his father, Alexander. He'd known of course that his father had been faithless but that he'd indulged in an affair with Eleanor was hard to imagine.
Alistair jabbed the barrel of the pistol tight to Emme's cheek, the metal digging into her flesh. Fear, unlike anything he'd ever known, claimed him.
"I'd give you the title if I could. For the love of God, Alistair, just let her go! It doesn't have to be this way,” he urged, uncaring of the desperation in his voice.
Alistair's expression was a twisted mockery of a smile. “Is your touching display of concern for your lovely wife or for the bastard growing in her belly?"
Rhys tried to remain calm, he kept his voice pitched low and his tone even when he said, “It's me you hate. I'm the one who is depriving you of your title. Kill me; you can put that ball in me right now. Michael and Spence will swear that it was an honorable duel. Just let her go."
Emme shook her head at him, unable to speak. She couldn't believe what he was proposing. “No,” she managed to croak out.
Alistair laughed and the sound was filled with madness. “So touching. She's such a whore. They're all whores, just like my mother, just like Elise. Especially Elise, but she was special because she never denied it, or attempted to hide her true nature. She was perfect for me in that regard. She adored it when I punished her for her wickedness."
"And Melisande?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft.
He shrugged; the casual gesture at odds with the hellish light in his eyes. “Well, it was unfortunate. I had gone to the tavern in town, intending to tumble a maid there who had been more than willing. But then Jeremy had charmed her away from me. It was just something else of mine that he had stolen. I was walking back here, furious over the incident when I found her. I decided then that I would take something that was his. I would use his precious baby sister and leave her worthless. Oh, I admit, it wasn't a well thought out plan, not in the least, but I was young and hot-headed then."
He was completely insane, Emme realized. She began her struggles anew, fighting against the vicious hold he had on the ribbon, tethering her.
"But my dearest mother came to the rescue then. She finished the job. There was all that blood and I had panicked. I didn't have a taste for murder, yet. It doesn't bother me so much now."
Emme could feel the ribbon growing tighter. In his excitement he gripped it tighter and tighter as he spoke. Consciousness was fading. She looked at Rhys, memorizing every detail of his face. She wished then that she'd told him, that she'd been brave enough to say that she loved him when she'd had the chance.
Rhys watched Emme's eyes growing heavy lidded. He could see Michael approaching from behind Alistair. No one could move as silently as Michael and that was perhaps the only thing that would save them all. “Let her go, Alistair. I will give you whatever you ask, if you let her go. Your secrets need not come out."
"What I want is the title. And the only way I will get it is if you die and the whelp she's carrying dies too. I can't risk it you see. I can't risk that she might have a son."
Michael continued to approach stealthily, creeping ever closer. Rhys never blinked, never acknowledged, but kept his gaze steadfastly fixed on Alistair. Suddenly, Emme went limp, sinking against Alistair as she lost consciousness. He stumbled with her weight, the pistol wavering. Michael sprang, knocking him to the ground. The pistol fired and Rhys felt the familiar burn in his shoulder. He ignored it as he rushed forward and caught Emme as she fell, pulling her away from the two men locked in battle. His right arm was useless, the ball lodged firmly in his shoulder. He collapsed to the ground beside her as Spencer rushed into the clearing.
Spencer raised the pistol that Larissa had brought. With a steady hand and the same cool manner that had made him such an excellent marksman on the battlefield, he aimed and fired.
Alistair's struggles ceased immediately. There was a small neat hole in the center of his forehead. Rhys didn't have to look to know that the exit wound would not be so pretty.
Spencer lowered the weapon and met Michael's gaze. “I couldn't let you kill him. You have enough on your conscience already."
Emme stirred, her eyelids fluttering.
Rhys touched her face. “It isn't over yet, love,” he said.
"Alistair?” she asked, her voice hoarse and low. Bruises were already forming about her neck.
"He's dead. But he didn't kill Melisande or Elise. It was Eleanor,” Rhys said.
Emme slipped into unconsciousness again
Michael looked at Spencer, “Since you're the one with the brute strength, you carry Her Grace, and I will assist His Grace back to the house. Where is Larissa?"
"She's hiding a few yards back,” Spencer said as he strode forward and picked her up.
Michael helped Rhys to his feet and removed his cravat. He applied a temporary bandage to his wound. “We'll do a better job of that at the house."
They made the trek back to the house in uneasy silence. Rhys was losing more blood than Michael was comfortable with and Emme still had not regained consciousness. When they reached the house, Rhys finally spoke, “Take her to my chambers. I'm not letting her out of my sight."
Michael didn't protest because he knew it would be pointless. Spencer cast him an arch look. Both of them were aware that Rhys was in no condition to protect anyone. They sent Rhys’ valet to fetch clean water and bandages.
Taking a pair of shears, Michael unceremoniously cut away Rhys’ jacket, waistcoat and shirt. The poor valet was near to tears. It was the second set of clothes to be sacrificed to a gunshot wound.
"Better to mourn a jacket than to mourn a master, Tinsley,” Michael said dryly, which immediately shushed the man.
The wound was ugly. It cut a deep furrow into the skin of his chest and shoulder. Carefully, Michael cleaned the wound, removing dirt and bits of fabric. Rhys was stoic throughout.
When Michael reached for the decanter of whiskey, he poured a healthy measure into a glass and handed it to Rhys, before pouring an equally healthy measure onto the wound. The fire the bullet had created was nothing compared to the agony of the whiskey pouring over the wound.
His breath hissed out through his teeth as Rhys said, “God above, you're a cruel bastard!"
Michael merely shrugged. “I treated every wound the two of you received while fighting Napoleon's troops on the peninsula. You both came home with all of your limbs and not rotting in a box. It might hurt like the devil, but it is effective."
Rhys drained what was left in the glass and said nothing further as Michael dressed the wound.
"Rhys?"
The voice was barely audible coming from the large bed. Michael nodded at Spencer and they made a hasty retreat as Rhys went to his wife. He lay down on the bed beside her.
"You've been hurt,” she said, dismayed.
He noted the darkening bruises on her slender throat. “So have you."
Emme's throat ached. In fact, her entire body ached. Being dragged about by the hair had left her with bumps and bruises all over. But bumps and bruises were a far cry from the bullet wound he had received. “He's dead. I remember you telling me that before I lost consciousness. And that Eleanor murdered Melisande, but so much of it is a blur. It was all I could do to keep breathing."
Rhys rolled onto his back, ignoring the pain. He'd never felt such fear in his life. He'd faced down Napoleon's greatest soldiers. He'd endured some of the worst battles of the war, often charging right into the thick of it, but nothing had prepared him for what he had endured that day. “Alistair claimed that he was in fact my father's eldest son; that my father and Eleanor had been carrying on an affair while Uncle Reginald was dying. It may have been true. He hated Jeremy and he hated me for taking the title he felt should have been his."
Spencer and Michael stepped out of the room and into the small sitting room, granting them a measure of pr
ivacy. They decided amongst themselves to have Spencer gather the others, leaving Michael close by to attend the injured.
"I went to the south wing because of Melisande. I saw her, but then Alistair came, and I thought that would be the end of it. No one knew where I was, or how to find me."
"What he did to Melisande—it was to punish Jeremy for stealing a tavern wench from him. When the deed was done, he panicked, ran to Eleanor, and she killed Melisande to hide the truth of her son's monstrous nature. Her motives for murdering Elise are yet unclear."
It was horrific. “What will you do? She must be completely insane, Rhys."
He sighed. “Michael and Spencer will fetch her and Mother. We found evidence in the tunnels. You were correct about that. The dress she wore was hidden there, still stained with Melisande's blood."
There was a commotion outside the door, and then Lady Phyllis entered. Eleanor was at her heels as usual. Michael and Spencer followed with Larissa, who appeared pale and wan.
Ever the gentleman, Spencer led her to the settee where Larissa sank gratefully onto the thick cushions.
Phyllis was breathless when she spoke. “Rhys, my darling boy! Whatever has happened? Michael wouldn't tell me anything other than that you were injured!"
Rhys looked at Eleanor and then at his mother. “I think it best if you both sit for this; the explanation will be quite difficult, I fear."
When the ladies were seated, Michael and Spencer remained at the door. It might have appeared polite, as there were limited seats in the room, but in truth they were standing sentry.
"Emme was abducted this afternoon. She was taken at gunpoint from the south wing."
Eleanor's already wan face paled considerably. “The south wing?"
"Yes,” Rhys replied coolly. “Your son, Alistair, abducted her. We followed and confronted him in the woods, in a place that has already seen too much tragedy. He claimed to be the eldest son of my father, stating that you, Lady Eleanor, had been involved in an affair with him while Uncle Reginald lay dying."
Phyllis gasped but Rhys continued. “He admitted to raping Melisande as a means of avenging himself against Jeremy and myself, whom he saw as usurpers, but he denied killing her."
"Where is my son?” Eleanor demanded.
"He is dead, madam,” Michael interjected.
His voice was cold, so cold that Emme felt the chill from it. Rhys grieved, but Michael suffered the guilt of his horrible memories.
"He is as dead as poor Melisande, who suffered at your cruel hands."
"No!” Phyllis screamed. “No! Melisande was murdered by a footpad!"
"There are no footpads on the estate, Phyllis,” Michael said, and both Emme and Rhys wondered at what it cost him to gentle his voice when he spoke. “There have never been footpads on this estate. Eleanor killed Melisande to protect Alistair, to hide his crime, to hide the horror of what he had done to his own cousin, perhaps his own sister."
Eleanor stood. “You can't prove it. I loved my son, but it is obvious that he had gone mad."
Spencer still had the satchel over his shoulder. He reached in and pulled out the dress. “Do you recognize this?"
Phyllis fainted and Larissa gingerly patted her cheeks as she removed a vinaigrette from her pocket. Eleanor glared at him, cold disdain marring her features. “You are all so clever. Yes, I killed her. But it wasn't simply to protect Alistair. The stain of what he had done would have damaged the entire family. We would never have been able to show our faces in society again. I couldn't let that happen. Better to be at the center of a tragedy than a scandal!"
"And Elise?” Rhys asked. “What was your motive for killing her?"
Eleanor's face twisted with fury as she explained. “Alistair, in a fit of drunkenness, had confessed to her. He'd gloated about what he had done. Elise, amoral as she was, didn't care in the least, but she made a vital error when she attempted to blackmail me with the information. She would have spread the gossip far and wide. I chose the lesser of two evils. I knew that at least some people would believe she was a suicide. Oh, there would be whispers, but it was better than the alternative,” she finished. Her head was high, her back perfectly straight. She spoke of murder as calmly as she might have discussed a garden party. “What are your plans for me?"
Rhys couldn't bring himself to see her dead, either at his own hands or at the hands of the hangman. “You will go to an insane asylum. You will be cared for, against my better judgment. I cannot bring myself to kill you and I doubt the magistrate could either. A mental break brought about by the tragedy of your only son's death will be far less scandalous than a trial for murder, will it not?"
She smiled at him then, a cold mockery of amusement. “I've taught you well."
"Lock her in the tower room until we can sort things out,” Rhys instructed.
Spencer took her.
Michael watched her pass with cold fury. “It is better than she deserves."
"I know,” Rhys said simply.
Michael turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Phyllis was regaining consciousness. She moaned and then began to weep softly. “My poor Melisande. How could she? How could she have taken my little girl?"
Larissa comforted her. Emme rose from the bed and went to her as well. Together they helped Phyllis back to her room. Larissa stayed with her, comforting the woman as she grieved for the loss of her child and the loss of the woman who had been her friend and companion for decades.
Emme couldn't shake the overwhelming sadness that filled her as she returned to their chamber and to her husband. So many lives destroyed, so many lives taken, all for the sake of preserving appearances.
She entered their chamber and returned to the bed, where she placed her head on her husband's uninjured shoulder. His injury might be mild, but she wasn't foolish enough to think him safe just yet. She would wait to see if fever set in.
"How is she?” he asked softly.
"She is heartbroken, grieving for her child and for her friend. But she is stronger than she realizes, and she will recover. And so will you."
He pulled her closer. “I have everything to live for. Of course I will recover."
"You are a blessed man in spite of these last days,” she whispered, her voice teasing.
They needed a moment of levity in the whirlwind of violence that had nearly consumed them.
He smiled down at the top of her head, his gaze tender. When she looked up and met his gaze, he stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “I am a blessed man, indeed. I am blessed with a wife whom I adore, with a wife that I love."
Her heart stuttered in her chest, skipping alarmingly. “You love me?"
He pulled her up, and claimed her lips in a searing kiss. “Yes,” he said, the word feathering over her lips, “I love you. And today, I nearly lost you. I couldn't bear it if something were to happen to you. You are my life now."
She kissed him then, pressing against him fervently, her spirit soaring. “I feel the same. I've wanted to tell you, but I am such a coward. I love you!"
He clasped her more tightly. “Say it again."
"I love you, Rhys. With every breath in my body, I love you. You are everything to me."
He kissed her, tenderly, attempting to show her the depth of his love. He caressed each bruise and scrape, damning himself all over again for failing to protect her. “I didn't believe love was possible until I found you."
Rhys awoke to darkness. Disoriented from the laudanum Michael insisted he take earlier, he reached for Emme. The empty bed beside him brought him to abrupt awareness. A scream echoed through the halls.
He rose quickly, ignoring the leaden feeling in his limbs and the dryness of his mouth from the drug. He donned his dressing gown quickly and stepped out into the hallway.
Michael was just emerging from his own door further down the corridor. The scream came again, sharp and piercing. At the end of the long hallway, he noted that the tower room door was open. With a h
eartfelt curse, he ran toward the narrow stairs with Michael following close behind.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he could see his breath. The room was frigid cold. Eleanor cowered in the corner, her hair wild and tears streaking her face. Emme stood only a few feet from her, but he knew that she was not truly Emme in that moment. Elise had come for her revenge. Michael would have pushed past him but Rhys raised a warning hand. He couldn't risk any harm to Emme. Elise, even in death, was vicious enough to harm her out of spite.
"Make her stop! She's the devil!” Eleanor screamed. She tore at her hair as she shook her head from side to side.
"There is only one devil here and it is you.” The voice was chilling. It was Elise in full fury. “You murdered a child. I've done many things, but never that! You lied for and protected your son who was nothing but a vile rapist, a violent, misanthropic drunkard!"
"Don't! Don't say those things about him, you vicious whore!"
Elise smiled through Emme's eyes and the effect chilled him straight through. “Your son was a wastrel, a whoremonger, and a murderer but then with you for a mother, how could he be anything else? You don't really believe that Jeremy fell from his horse, do you? It was part of Alistair's plan. I was going to be the Duchess but Rhys was never to be the Duke! No, he would die on the battlefield, reckless as always and Alistair and I would wed. But Rhys proved lucky as usual and once again Alistair was a resounding failure!
"Then he drank himself into a stupor and told everything. He told me about your affair and Melisande's murder! And now his corpse is rotting in the dirt with a pistol ball buried in his brain. I would say it was a waste, but we all know he didn't deserve to live after everything he's done and neither do you."
"Shut up!” Eleanor screeched. “Stop talking about him! Go back to hell!"
"Not without you,” Elise whispered.
Eleanor lurched to her feet and charged toward Emme, her fingers curled into talon-like claws. Rhys reacted without thought, he simply grabbed Emme and hauled her back.
Eleanor's momentum carried her forward and at the top of the stairs, she struggled to regain her balance. Her feet tangled in her skirts and she stumbled but caught herself on the doorframe. A gust of frigid air burst through the room though all of the windows were still locked tight. Eleanor released the doorframe and covered her face with her hands, as if warding off an attack. She screamed and tried to step back, only to stumble again and this time there was no correcting her misstep. She tumbled through the open door of the stairwell with a loud shriek but her scream ended abruptly.
The Haunting of a Duke Page 24
