***
As night set in, Lucia staggered through the forest just out of sight of the road, terrified that she would somehow stumble back into Sir Winston's path. Hunger and pain stunned her mind and raged like wild fire through her body. Unaware that she was leaving a trail of blood, she was weak and cold and dizzy from the loss of that precious fluid. Her energy and strength almost spent, she knew she needed help as soon as possible.
She recognized her surroundings, at least. She was in Essex and the private drive to Brackenwell Hall was only four miles down the road from where she had left Rochedale's carriage. Three miles beyond that lay Saddewythe Manor. Perhaps, in the unlikely event that a coach passed by at this time of night, she could flag it down and prevail upon the occupants to take her to Brackenwell Hall. Otherwise, she would be forced to walk the whole distance. She was not sure she could do it.
Her vision blurred. She stumbled over a tree's root and clung to its trunk, her dirt-streaked cheek pressed against the rough bark, until her dizziness passed. Exhaustion overwhelmed her and she leaned heavily against the tree to keep from fainting. Sinking to her knees, she prayed that God would send someone to rescue her.
Black oblivion was invading the edges of her mind when she suddenly heard the steady squeak of wheels moving toward her in the dark stillness. Picking its way slowly and carefully through the night, a carriage drove into view, its burning lanterns swaying orange stars against the ebony trees.
Resolutely, Lucia let go of her tree and stumbled out into the middle of the road. She stood her ground as the coach lumbered toward her, hoping that the driver would see her in the darkness.
At the last possible moment, so it seemed to her, the carriage halted. She staggered up to the coachman, raising her hands in supplication. "Please help me! I've...I've been injured and my...my home is not far from here. Take me to Brackenwell Hall! You will be well re...reward...ed." A blackness darker than the night engulfed her. She staggered forward, grabbing at the carriage in an attempt to steady herself, then sank, unconscious, to the ground.
The vehicle's passenger was pounding on the roof, demanding to know the cause of the delay. The coachman took the carriage lantern and descended the box to lean curiously over the fallen figure. "'Tis a man, milord! 'E were askin' fer 'elp, then 'e jus' fainted dead away!"
Giles's head popped half way out of the carriage window. "Drive on, Madden! I want to get to an inn before the moon rises and highway robbers are out in force."
Madden walked to the window. "'E were askin' me to take 'im to Brackenwell 'All, milord!"
"Brackenwell Hall?" Mountheathe's eyes widened. "Is it in this vicinity?"
"Aye, milord. A few miles ahead. I grew up near there."
"I'll have a look at this mystery man of yours, Madden." Giles descended from the carriage and crouched beside the dark shape in front of the coach. He rolled the body over, motioning for Madden to shine his lantern on the stranger's face.
As the golden light spilled onto Lucia's delicate features, covered with blood and dirt, Mountheathe gave a low whistle. "If it ain't the Rogue's doxy! Shot, I'll be bound, but not dead! It would appear that Rochedale has muffed it, Madden! Well, he'll not chisel another penny out of me after this debacle! I suppose getting rid of my cousin's whore is a chore I'll have to do myself. Into the coach with her, then."
"'Er, milord?" Madden raised a brow.
"No time to explain now. Just grab her feet." The two men stowed the unconscious duchess in the carriage and Mountheathe ordered Madden to proceed to Brackenwell Hall.
As Madden urged the horses into a canter, Giles exulted. In the darkness of the carriage, Concordia sat propped up on the seat beside him, drugged into oblivion. On the opposite seat lay Lucia, pale and unmoving, a dark red stain across the torn shoulder of her coat.
Giles stared at her speculatively, trying to decide what he could do to her that would bring the Rogue the most torment. His gaze lingered lewdly upon the curve of her breast as it strained against her bloody shirt. 'Robin would run completely mad if he thought I had raped his strumpet,' Giles mused with an ugly smile. Alas, but he hadn't time for such sweet mischief, as exciting as the ducal doxy's screaming would be. Every delay in getting Concordia to Gretna provided Tracy more time to catch up with them. Still, he would thoroughly enjoy killing Amberley's bitch and, imagining the Rogue's devastation at her death, he laughed aloud.
The moon had just risen as Mountheathe's coach rolled into the deserted courtyard at Brackenwell Hall. Wrapping Lucia in her cloak to hide her masculine attire, Giles alighted and carried her to the door, nodding to Madden to ring the bell.
After a few minutes, footsteps sounded inside and the men stepped back as the heavy door swung open. A grey-haired old man in Amberley livery held a burning candle aloft and glared at Giles suspiciously. "May I help you, sir?"
"I am Lord Mountheathe, the Duke of Lynkellyn's cousin. I was accompanying Her Grace to Brackenwell Hall when we had a most terrifying encounter with a highwayman! The brigand shot Her Grace when she refused him her wedding ring and I fear she is gravely injured. May I carry her in?"
Carter, the butler, stared at Lucia's white face with consternation. "Yes! Yes, of course!" He stepped aside. "Her Grace! Injured! And we never even got word that she was coming! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
Mountheathe pushed past him and started up the staircase. Halfway up, he turned to the clucking butler. "Go fetch a doctor! Quick, man! 'Tis a matter of life and death!"
Spurred by Giles's frantic command, Carter hurried out the door. Under normal circumstances, he would have sent a footman after the doctor, but the staff was abed, except for him, and his sense of urgency compelled him to waste no time waking and dressing another person. He rushed to the stable, inexpertly saddled a horse, and galloped out of the courtyard.
With a mocking smile, Giles climbed the remaining stairs, the limp woman heavy in his arms, and turned into the first lighted room that he encountered. The room boasted heavy green velvet curtains and gleaming cherry furniture upholstered in emerald and white striped satin.
He laid his burden on a sofa and took a brandy flask from his pocket, carefully avoiding the drugged flask he had offered to Concordia at the ball. Tilting Lucia's head back, he splashed some brandy on her face. As she began to come around, he forced a little of it into her mouth. The fiery stuff coursed down her throat and she rushed, gasping and coughing, to full, agonized awareness. Gazing around groggily, she whispered with relief, "The Green Salon!"
"I'm so pleased you're awake, Your Grace!" Lucia's eyes swung around to lock onto Giles's pale face, striped with scratches and welts.
"Lord Mountheathe!" Panicked, she struggled to rise.
"I wanted you to be awake, doxy, so you could enjoy a nice, warm fire after your ordeal in the woods." Standing, he picked up a burning candlestick and caressed the curtains and some upholstered chairs with the flame. Several blazes leaped to life in his wake.
While Giles was setting his fires, Lucia staggered to her feet. She attempted to take a step toward the door, but her knees buckled and she collapsed.
Smirking, Mountheathe loomed over her, candle in hand. "How considerate of you to come to me bloodied, doxy. It will keep you from outrunning your fate this time." He bent down and tilted her face up to his. "Perhaps I should set your clothing alight and be absolutely certain of the work." His laughter was a cock's crow as he watched horror darken her eyes. "But no. Then your death would come too quickly. I want you to suffer and I want that lovestruck husband of yours to know it. Enjoy your trip to Hell, little slattern." He strode toward the door, turning on the threshold. "You should have been content with lifting your skirts for tuppence. Instead, you grabbed for the sun, my pretty jade, and now you're going to burn!" On a laugh, he was gone, slamming the door behind him.
Lucia crawled to the sofa, using all her strength to pull herself onto it. She watched, dazed and exhausted, as the flames cavorted around her, reaching out to devour the e
ntire room.
After resting a few moments, she gathered her courage and stood. A wave of dizzying pain engulfed her and she almost collapsed again, but, grabbing the back of the couch, she steadied herself.
Smoke stung her eyes and scorched her lungs. The heat intensified, sapping the small reserve of strength she had left. Sweat flowed in little rivers down her body, soaking her clothes. Her cloak hung heavily on her shoulders, its hem threatening to drag through the flames that surrounded her. She fumbled with the clasp until it opened and the cape fell in a heap behind her.
Trying to breathe the searing, smoke-laden air as little as possible, she let go of the sofa. Standing uncertainly for a second, she took a small, trembling step toward the door, then another and another, forcing her shaky legs to carry her. As she struggled toward it, the door seemed farther and farther away.
The smoke swirled around her, burning her lungs. Her strength gone, her will fading, she took a last wavering step and wilted,. Her head slammed hard against the blistering floor and she lay there, whimpering, unable to move. Her skin crawled in the heat, writhing like a dying snake as she panted and sobbed, desperate to breathe, her scorched lungs baking in the hot air. Blackness washed over her, taking her mercifully away from the smoke; away from the heat; away from the living.
***
Night had settled on the courtyard of the Swan and Trumpet Inn when Robin and his companions arrived. The gentlemen dismounted, looking about impatiently for an hostler. Although the inn itself was jammed with people, the courtyard was deserted.
With a shrug, Robin tethered his horse to a hitching post and went inside, Tracy and Peter following. They pushed through the crowd of hostlers and stableboys blocking the doorway and joined a throng of tenant farmers and townspeople. Penetrating the crowd a little further, they finally discovered the source of so much interest. A gruesome corpse, its face covered with a handkerchief, was lying on a blanket on the floor. A farmer stood over the dead man, holding his audience enthralled.
"It were 'orrible! I was walkin' down the road, goin' 'ome from the market like I always do on Wednesday nights an' I saw the coach asittin' there, all quiet an' 'aunted-like! Then I saw 'im!" The farmer gestured toward the dead man. "'E were covered wi' blood and 'is feet were 'anging out o' 'is coach! Ghastly, it was! And when I knelt down to see to 'im, I swear I 'eard 'is ghost, demandin' vengeance 'gainst those wha' done 'im in for 'is worldly goods." He shuddered eloquently while his listeners stared in wide-eyed silence.
"My good man!" Robin called. "Do you say this fellow was the victim of a robbery?"
"'E's a gentleman an' they never goes nowhere wi'out a lot o' jewels an' gold. This one 'ere didn't 'ave so much as tuppence when I found 'im! What else could it be but a robbery, sir? O' course, the innkeeper has sent a groom for the magistrate."
"Could I have a look at the body, please?" Robin asked. The crowd parted to let Robin and his two companions approach the blanket. They crouched beside the corpse while Robin uncovered the dead man's face. "Rochedale!" he muttered in an undertone that only his friends could hear. He let the handkerchief drop back into place, saying, "Was there no one with him? A coachman or a groom? A traveling companion, perhaps?"
"'E was all alone, sir! And that is passin' strange, think on! Mebbe it was the servants what done 'is business for 'im!" The crowd gasped and murmured. The farmer's eyes grew even rounder. "Did you know 'im, sir?" he said.
"His name was Sir Winston Rochedale. He was...an acquaintance. You're certain you saw no one else near the coach?"
"Oh, no, sir! If somebody else 'ad been there, I would 'ave seen 'im. I wouldn't want to slight no dead people. They might take it the wrong way and come a-'auntin' o' me!"
The innkeeper and the magistrate bustled into the taproom and sent all the locals and stableboys about their business. The gentlemen introduced themselves to the magistrate, identified the body, and lied a little to protect the duchess from scandal, saying that Rochedale, a slight acquaintance, had told them he planned to go hunting in Scotland. The magistrate accepted their story without question, especially after he learned that Robin was the master of Brackenwell Hall.
The gentlemen silently devoured a meal in the Swan and Trumpet's private parlor, then Norworth made some discreet inquiries about Mountheathe and Concordia. He rejoined his companions, shaking his head. "They haven't stopped here."
"We had best move on to the next hostelry, then." Malkent heaved out of his chair. He and Peter gathered their belongings, but Robin remained seated as if he hadn't heard. He stared out the window into the night's blackness, his mouth arched into a grim, pensive frown.
"Don't look so worried, Rogue! We'll find her!" Tracy said.
"In what condition, Tracy? Injured? Dying? Dead?" Robin gazed at the earl with hopeless eyes. "My wife is missing and the man who was thought to be with her has met a bloody end. Suppose whoever killed Rochedale has Lucia! Suppose that same madman is torturing her; raping her; murdering her! What if she is dying alone in agony in some ditch or thicket? Don't you think I have cause to worry?" Robin rose to pace the room.
"You may be jumping to conclusions, Your Grace." Peter said. "Perhaps it was Lucia who killed Sir Winston. If she went with him unwillingly, she may have been trying to escape when the unthinkable happened..."
"Nonsense!" Tracy snorted. "That pretty little lady couldn't hurt a fly, Norworth! I daresay she's never even touched a firearm, much less killed someone! She'd most likely faint at the very idea!"
"No, Tracy! What Norworth says could be true! Lucia's will to live is strong, make no mistake! And she told me once that she's a crack shot." Robin grasped at the hope Peter offered, the worried lines on his countenance smoothing a little as his eyes, suddenly bright again, met the viscount's.
The younger man smiled. "We'll find her, Your Grace, and Concordia as well. Let us be off!"
The gentlemen had called for their mounts and were settling their shot when a boy hurtled through the door, shouting the innkeeper's name as he scudded to a halt before the group. "Brackenwell Hall's afire!" the lad gasped.
"Brackenwell!" Robin shouted. He rushed out the door, the others following. The horses stood saddled in the yard. Leaping into their saddles, the gentlemen thundered toward Brackenwell Hall.
Chapter 27:
In Which Brackenwell Burns
The gentlemen arrived at the Hall to find the house engulfed in flames as queues of people slung water buckets back and forth. Pushing past the firefighters, Lynkellyn rushed toward Carter. "Did everyone get out safely?" he yelled over the roar of the flames.
"Oh, Your Grace! How come you here? It's the most terrible thing! I..." At the fierce intensity of Robin's gaze, the servant collected his wits and answered, "All the staff is accounted for and the stables are empty, Your Grace. The horses have been moved to the west pasture."
Robin led the older man a little away from the house where they could converse at more normal levels. "You've done well, Carter. Do you have any idea how it started?"
"No, Your Grace. When I returned from fetching Dr. Halcombe...or trying to fetch him, at any rate,... the Hall was afire. Most of the servants were out and we soon roused the rest."
"Dr. Halcombe!" Robin pounced on the word. "Why did you need a doctor?"
"For Her Grace! She'd been hurt, do you see, and..."
"Her Grace is here?" Robin almost shouted, his eyes searching the crowd.
"Well, she was here, Your Grace. Your cousin, Lord Mountheathe, carried her in. She was unconscious and he said she'd been injured during an encounter with a highwayman. I rode for the doctor, but when I returned, Lord Mountheathe's coach had disappeared and the house was ablaze. I assumed they had left..."
Robin clutched Carter's arms, his grip bruising. "Think carefully, Carter. Did you see them leave? Did you see Her Grace get into my cousin's coach and ride away?"
"Well... No, Your Grace," Carter admitted. "But, then, why...?"
"So you're telling me that
Her Grace could very well be in that house!" Robin shook the older man roughly. Intuition told him that Lucia was, indeed, trapped within those hellish flames and nauseating horror slammed into him like a battering ram.
Turning to stare at the blazing building, he scanned it desperately, seeking a safe passage into the house. Though fire danced at every opening, he wrapped his cloak around his face and body, leaving only his eyes uncovered, and raced toward the Hall.
Dimly aware that Peter and Tracy were chasing him, shouting his name and demanding he halt, he leaped onto the porch. With his hands twisted in his cloak, he wrenched open the door, swinging it wide. A blast of heat and flame thrust him backward into the arms of his friends. Seizing him, they struggled to hold him back.
"Let me go!" Robin screamed above the roar of the fire, trying to jerk away from them. "She's in there, Tracy! She's in there all alone and I'm responsible! I have to go in and get her! I can't let her die in that hell! Surely you understand that!" he sobbed. "I can't let her die hating me, never knowing... I have to save her! I have to, Tracy! I can't live without her!"
Tracy's hold on Robin tightened as he fought once more to plunge into the flames. "You don't know for certain that she's in there, Rogue, and if she is, it's too late!" the earl shouted over the thundering blaze. "It's too late! Only a miracle could save anyone trapped in that!"
***
With a gasp and a shudder, Lucia climbed to consciousness. Her aching body weak and leaden, she lay on the blistered floor, roasting in the heat of the blaze. While the flames cavorted around her, all green and blue, yellow and orange, she felt her baby move inside her for the first time. The wonder of that small miracle rose above her body's agonies and her soul's despair. In the midst of all this ashen devastation, she was, for a shimmering moment, ecstatically happy. Wishing the child could somehow be saved, she closed her eyes and made her peace with God, tears of surrender trickling from beneath her lashes.
"Surely you are not this easily defeated, Lucia, ma fille?" Her mother's soft, lilting voice suddenly wafted to her out of the fire's roar.
The Rogue's Revenge Page 38
