Light to Valhalla

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  Cursed.

  He contemplated the word. Yes, little doubt remained his was a cursed family, the Gypsy woman in Spain had told him as much.

  On the third day of May his second eldest brother, Timothy, had fallen from his mount in a steeple chase—a frayed stirrup strap snapped—and instantly broken his neck, just two weeks later Richard, his eldest brother, quite unexpectedly drowned in a rowing accident, and one week hence his only remaining brother, Christopher, contracted a sudden illness and died within twenty-four hours. One week to the day after Alex’s marriage to Charlotte and subsequent return to duty, his father had put a bullet through his right temple—succumbed to overwhelming stress perhaps? The physicians had speculated profound grief as the cause of the late Coverstone’s suicide, but Alex knew better. His father had possessed few admirable traits and grief was not among them. As such Alex inherited the title, and as such he hated it.

  Not that he put any stock in Gypsy hokum and blather. He’d been stinking drunk when that old woman had said, Quieres que yo te leo tu fortuna? Grasped his palm and run a gnarled finger over the broken line running down his palm. His life line she’d called it. Drunk as he’d been he remembered thinking nothing could bode well of a broken life line. A chill swept over him as his near death experience on the battlefield swept through his mind again.

  Alex shuddered and shoved the bizarre encounter from his mind along with memories of the Gypsy woman. Nothing could be foretold from looking at a man’s palm. Nothing.

  Using several pieces of paper he managed to contain the puddle of ink in the center of the desk, wiped his hand on a handkerchief located in the top left drawer, and considered his next move. “Bloody mess,” he muttered, admitting defeat and striding toward the door to enlist the services of a maid. He reached the clean hand down to massage the ache in his thigh. “My whole damn life is a bloody mess.” Literally. Metaphorically. Everything he’d worked toward… out the window.

  He stepped into the hall, surprised to find it empty, and at the same time relieved not to be met with a flurry of my lord, this and my lord, that.

  “Alex Rawlings, you son of a bitch! You might have written a time or two.”

  Alex pivoted, and a genuine smile split his face. “Sidney?” He strode forward, hand outstretched.

  “You might have mentioned you were coming home.” Sidney Harris, Alex’s first cousin and oldest friend, grinned jovially. Up until two years ago they’d done everything together, right down to joining the Army. “You won’t mind if I don’t shake your hand, Alex.”

  “Oh, of course.” He lifted the ink-coated extremity and shrugged. “Had a bit of a run in with the inkwell.”

  “By the looks of this I’d say you attacked it. Or did you mistake it for a French soldier?”

  Alex shook his head. Sid possessed a wretched sense of humor. “How did you know to find me? I’ve only been home an hour.”

  “I didn’t.” Sidney shrugged. “A couple days ago I promised Charley I’d drop these by.” He gestured toward a leather satchel loaded with books. “She’s rather fond of gothic novels. Reads one a day by my count.”

  “Does she?” Alex stared down at the blue bound book peaking from the top of the satchel, a poignant reminder that he knew nothing of significance about his wife. At least not any longer. That would have to change; ironically he’d reached a point where he needed Charlotte by his side, wanted her with him in every way.

  “Where is your comely little wife?” Sidney glanced around the tomblike hall, and winked suggestively. “Surprised you didn’t rush her straight up the stairs to your bedchamber. I tell you, Alex, if she was my wife, I would—”

  Alex raised a silencing, inky, hand. “I’m quite sure I know exactly what you’d do with her.” The fact Sidney may have done just that flashed through Alex’s mind. Quickly he shoved the thought aside. Even Sidney—who proudly wore his reputation as a notorious womanizer—wouldn’t stoop so low as to seduce the wife of a friend. “It’s a wonder you haven’t been shot by some jealous husband.”

  Sidney shrugged, a twinkle lighting his blue eyes. “Bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “I’d wager sooner. But you’ve just missed my wife. She’s attending an event of some sort hosted by the Countess of Carmichael.” For whatever reason Alex couldn’t quite bring himself to admit he’d sent her away. “Excuse me a moment while I find a maid to clean up the mess in my study, and a wash basin for myself, then we’ll have a drink.”

  “By all means. Where is everyone?”

  “I’ve no doubt my mother scared them away. She’s been chewing my ear off about the need for an heir and my responsibilities as marquis for the last hour.”

  Sidney winced, tossing him an apologetic glance. “Your mother could make Bonaparte quake.”

  “Perhaps we should ship her to France.”

  Four hours later the men sat on opposite sides of the plush wooden table in the late marquis’s study—Alex still couldn’t reconcile the room being his—laughing about old times. A candle flickered low on a stub of wax and less than a third of the brandy sat in a once full decanter.

  “Tell me, Alex.” Sidney tipped another draught into his sniffer. “Did you ever smooth things over with General Witherspoon?”

  Alex rapped his knuckles on the table and groaned. “Why did you have to go and bring that up? You and I both know he’d as soon see me dead as walking down the street.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “Hell, yes, I can blame him.” He twirled a glass between thumb and forefinger, mesmerized by the swirl of the amber liquid. “I lament the death of his son, but Tobias Witherspoon was hard headed as they come and refused to obey orders.” Not that the fact made Alex’s guilt any more bearable.

  Red kissed dusk sunlight trickling through the baby green leaves of spring flashed through his mind… the crunch of enemy horses’ hooves… the smooth wooden handle of his pistol cradled in his palm… the volley of gunshots.

  “You don’t have to remind me.”

  Alex snapped out of his reverie.

  “I was there.” Sidney knocked back his drink.

  Heavily Alex sighed and raked a hand through the thick mass of his hair, willing his shaking hands to still. “You know the official inquiry cleared me of any wrong doing?”

  “Never a doubt in my mind,” Sid responded confidently.

  “That may be, but Witherspoon’s uproar cast enough doubt on the situation for Wellington to take note.”

  All good humor fled Sidney’s face. “Christ, Alex, I’m sorry. What does General Covington say? Surely he holds some sway with Wellington and Witherspoon.”

  Alex shrugged, defeated. “He spoke on my behalf at the inquiry so I’m sure he’d do so again, but once the gossip mongers catch wind it won’t matter if the Prince Regent backs me.”

  “I take it Witherspoon is why you’re back in London?”

  “In part. I was ordered home.” Alex pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off the headache threatening to return. “Has word of this reached London?”

  “Not a whisper.”

  “Prepare yourself. Witherspoon is due back in country any day and he’ll be shouting murder.”

  “Dear God.” Sidney shook his head, a glint of horror lighting his eyes. “The scandal…”

  “Will be raucous,” Alex supplied.

  “You’ll be ruined.”

  Irritation tightened Alex’s grip on the decorative crystal sniffer. “I know.” He swallowed the brandy in one long gulp, relishing the burn, willing the pain to banish the miserable events from his mind. “In any case it’s good to be home. There is a great deal of turmoil in my life that needs to be put to rest.”

  “Would your wife be a part of that turmoil?” Sid cocked an ever knowing brow. “I know all is not well, Alex.”

  All is not well… if that wasn’t the understatement of the decade. How many men suddenly found themselves in possession of a lofty title and obligated to marry their childhood
tagalong? He couldn’t begin to hazard a guess, but he hadn’t handled the situation well at all. Though truthfully, Charlotte had ceased to fit in the classification of tagalong when he’d begun entertaining lurid fantasies of her. God, but he could still remember that first dream just after she’d turned seventeen; he’d just arrived in Spain…

  Alex faced his cousin. A shadow of wistfulness, mayhap even regret, touched Sidney’s visage bringing back the whisper of doubt that Sid and Charlotte may be involved intimately. A surge of jealousy, possessiveness, sliced through Alex. A vision of her standing wide eyed and innocent beside her bed seared his mind. The thought of another man touching her—

  “My lord.” Hastings scurried into the study.

  Glad for the distraction Alex pulled murderous thoughts away from Sidney and Charlotte stuffing the emotions back into the tiny crevice of his soul where they belonged. “I say, Hastings, why aren’t you asleep? The hour is near midnight.”

  The butler ignored the query. “This missive just arrived for you, milord. The currier stated it is most urgent.”

  “A missive for me specifically?” He shook his head. “It can’t be. No one knows I’m in London.”

  “The messenger specifically stated Lord Major Coverstone.”

  Witherspoon, Alex thought wryly, scraping his chair back and snatching the note. The general was one of few to know he’d returned to Town. He unfolded the missive and flicked his gaze across the bawdy scrawl.

  If you wish to see Lady Coverstone alive again bring 5000 pounds to the abandoned mill at Harvetshire Road. Send one man, unarmed, and on foot at six o’clock tomorrow evening. Failure to obey these instructions will result in the lady’s death.

  A cold rush washed Alex from head to toe, nullifying the liquor’s effects. He read the words a second time, struggling to digest the threat. Anger lashed his mind, and he leapt to his feet so quickly the chair toppled backward.

  “What is it?” Instantly, Sidney rose. “What’s wrong?”

  Result in the lady’s death… the lady’s death… The words swirled through Alex’s mind. Charlotte’s death. A vision of her years before, no more than eight, trembling and frightened, staring up at him with those huge green eyes pierced his memory. Protectiveness gripped his every instinct. Whether by choice or by circumstance Charlotte was his to keep and protect, and no one, no one, took what was his.

  “Alex?” Sid waved an irritable hand before his face. “Alex?”

  He shoved the note into Sidney’s chest, and scrubbed both hands through his hair. “Hastings, where is the messenger that delivered the note?”

  “Gone, milord.”

  “What do you mean gone? He can’t have gone far, go find him.” Dragging his gaze from the butler to his friend, Alex’s mind whirled, already forming a plan of action.

  All color drained from Sidney’s face. “Charley’s been kidnapped! How the hell did this happen?” The paper rattled between his fingers. “You said she was with Lady Carmichael.”

  “This is Witherspoon’s doing,” Alex growled. “I’d stake my life on it. The son of a bitch threatened to make me pay. I just thought he’d come after me directly instead of involving innocents like my wife.”

  “Do you have 5000 pounds?” Sidney grilled. “If not I’ll contact my solicitor immediately for the funds.”

  “You can’t think I’m going to pay the bastards?”

  Sidney stopped short, body rigid with disgust. “But you must.”

  “Never give in to blackmail, Sidney. Did the army teach you nothing?” Swiftly he tugged his red jacket into place and strode to the door. Blasted limp. “I’m going after her. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Of course.” Instantly Sidney fell into step beside him.

  “Hastings,” Alex snapped. “Have my horse and supplies enough for two days prepared.”

  “Certainly, milord, I’ll see to it straight away.”

  Fuming, Alex marched toward the stairs. To think he’d once thought General Witherspoon an honorable man. The bastard would pay for this.

  “Just what is going on here?” His mother’s shrill voice pierced the hall.

  Alex stopped and turned his gaze up the staircase. Regina stood halfway down the stairs, still fully clothed, one hand rested upon the rail. “A messenger just brought word that Charlotte’s been attacked and—”

  “Charlotte’s dead?” A hand fluttered to Regina’s breast as she slid coolly down another step. “How awful, Alex.” No remorse reflected in her face.

  “No, not dead! Abducted.” Alex shook his head, only his mother would jump to such a morbid conclusion. No doubt wishful thinking. He refused to entertain the idea Charlotte could not be saved. She’d saved him on the battlefield and if he did one thing right by her, it would be this. “A 5000 pound demand was made for her safe return.”

  “5000 pounds?” Sheer horror laced her expression. White knuckled, Regina grasped the rail and stumbled down two more stairs. “What greedy, underhanded rabble would dare to blackmail a peer? Alex, you cannot pay them. I forbid it.”

  Unwittingly a fist clenched at his Side. “No need to worry over the family coffers, mother. Sidney and I are riding out straight away to find her.”

  “No. Absolutely not. I forbid you to put yourself in danger yet again. Surely there are men more equipped and better trained for the task than you.”

  “Such confidence,” he quipped. More seriously he added, “Mother, you forget, I am a trained officer in his majesty’s service. As is Sidney. We are the men trained and equipped for just this situation. If you’ll excuse me,” he nodded dismissively, and backed away from the stairs. “I must see to the preparations.”

  “We’d be better off without her, Alex.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He pegged his mother with a reproachful glare, turned and fell into stride with Sidney. Casting his cousin a sidelong glance he muttered, “If my mother is the Devil what does that make me?”

  * * *

  Wind howled through the trees, blistering and nefarious, whipping shards of snow and ice across the ice-hewn ground. Inadvertently Charley shivered, hunkered beneath a shoddy wool blanket beside the fire. For hours she’d feigned sleep, praying for rescue… praying for a miracle… praying, at the very least, for the sun to rise and warm her.

  Ridiculous scenarios whirled through her mind.

  Alex charging on horseback into the clearing, resplendent in his crimson uniform, saber drawn as he bore down on her captors…

  Alex gathering her in his arms, whispering words of sweet nothing into her ears…

  “I still think we should slit ‘er throat and be done with it,” the man called Halverson grumbled from the opposite side of the fire.

  The words snapped Charley from her fantasy. She held her breath to stem the terrified whimper threatening to burst forth, and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. If only she could disappear.

  “If ‘is lordship don’t pay for her return we’ll slit ‘er throat and collect the 1000 pounds we was hired for,” Johnston, the man with the devil’s eyes, replied indifferently. Pure evil dripped from his tone.

  Charley shuddered. 1000 pounds to see me dead? The notion was unfathomable. Unwittingly she opened her eyes, but snapped them back shut the moment orange flames struck her gaze. Who would hire men to kill me? The terrifying question plagued her as she lay curled in a helpless ball on the ice hardened ground, deep in the forest. She had no real enemies. Except perhaps Regina, but truthfully whatever her personal feelings the dowager would never stoop to murder, and she’d never part with 1000 pounds to see it done.

  “I say we’re askin’ fer trouble not doin’ the job we was hired for,” Halverson argued. “Goin’ to get ourselves burnt with naught a penny to show fer it.”

  “Look, mate, when I saw Lord Coverstone ridin’ through London this evenin’ I knew we’d struck gold.”

  “‘Ow do ye know it was ‘im? And what makes ye so sure he’ll pay fer the lady?”
<
br />   “I served under Lord Major Coverstone back when ‘e weren’t no lord at all,” Johnston growled, his tone suggested a less than pleasant history. “‘E ain’t the sort to leave ‘is wife to our devices. He’ll pay.”

  “What of our employer?”

  Who? It took every ounce of Charley’s self-control to remain still and not scream the question aloud.

  “We’ll be clear to Scotland ‘afore Coverstone gets back to London with the little lady and anyone’s the wiser. Or… we could find a way to collect on both the original job and the ransom.”

  Silent tears trembled behind clenched eyelids, and panic threatened to consume her. The desire to jump up and run hell bent from the campsite was strong. Perhaps she could reach one of their horses and escape. She felt so alone. Completely exposed and vulnerable. Lord only knew what the brigand’s would do to her if Alex didn’t comply with their demands. And she had no reason to believe her husband would. He certainly wouldn’t rush gallantly to her rescue as her wild imagination so desired to entertain. With effort she reigned the rampant thoughts back in.

  Keep your wits together, Charley. You can do this.

  Control was key. She needed a weapon. Even a sharp stick would do. She cracked one eyelid, covertly surveying the surrounding area. The fire cast a glow of no more than ten feet around the menial encampment, beyond that shadows bobbed and weaved, glancing eerily off the trees. She gulped. Running alone through these woods was looking a decidedly undesirable option. The night was black as pitch, she had no idea where she was, and she had no sense of direction—had once gotten lost behind her father’s house; Alex of all people had found her and helped her home. Charley clamped a lid on those memories. That was a long time ago; he’d not be riding to her rescue or bailing her out of trouble this time.

  “Come to think of it.” Johnston dragged a lazy finger along his chin, and the fire illuminated his lanky frame as he stood. “I don’t see why we can’t have a little fun wit’ her after all. ‘Is lordship won’t know til after he’s paid up. The sum bitch owes me a woman anyway.”