“Come along then,” the dowager commanded, returning to take Cathleen by the elbow. Cathleen allowed the woman to lead her, her feet moving out of habit not purpose, oblivious to the dancers whirling on the edge of her vision.
They reached the matrons and Lady Malton made the introductions. Cathleen struggled through the innocuous pleasantries then stood silently next to Lady Malton, hearing nothing of the conversation except the occasional peal of hen-like laughter.
Thomas was dead. He’d died to save Devon, her husband, the person she’d looked to for strength and support during the trials of last night, the man who’d lived while Thomas perished, alone in the mud in France.
He should have told me. Cathleen gripped her fan so tightly, one of the wooden sticks cracked. Why didn’t he tell me?
“May I dance with my wife?” Devon’s strong voice pierced her haze. He stood beside her, smiling. She offered a terse smile in return and his eyes narrowed questioningly.
“Of course,” Lady Malton answered, waving them away with the sleepy spaniel.
Devon took her hand and she forced herself not to pull away. She didn’t want to dance, pretending to be happy while her heart constricted with new grief and her head spun with a tangle of anger, sorrow, regret and confusion. Over his shoulder, she saw the large open doors leading to the garden, tempting her with a way to escape. But with everyone watching, she couldn’t make a scene. Instead, she stopped on the dance floor when he did, startled when he placed one hand on her back.
“Shouldn’t we line up?” She didn’t want to be near him, not with everything so fractured and unclear.
“It’s a waltz.” He pulled her stiff body to his. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
The dance began and he guided her across the floor. Around them, other couples moved in coordinating circles and sweeps. She worked to keep up, to not trip and embarrass herself in front of all these curious strangers.
“What did you and my mother discuss?”
“Nothing of importance.” She felt him studying her but she couldn’t raise her eyes, afraid the flood of emotions she fought to hold back would break free.
“But something serious enough to trouble you.”
“What makes you think I’m troubled?”
“You haven’t smiled once since leaving my side. You’re not the same Cathleen I arrived with.”
“Nor are you the same Devon I married,” she snapped, her wits straining as taut as the violin strings governing the dance.
“What did she tell you? Whatever it was, I assure you it’s a lie.”
“No, it’s a terrible truth, one you should have told me yourself.”
The lines of his face hardened and she steeled herself, expecting him to storm away. Instead his hand tightened on her back and he looked over her, maintaining their steady sweep and flow around the dance floor.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.
“Would you have married me if I had?”
“No.”
“Then you have your answer.”
The music rose slightly then settled back into its rhythmic pace. “Did you think I’d never discover it?”
“I intended to tell you.”
“When?”
“When it no longer mattered.”
“No longer mattered,” she seethed at his straightforward answers. “My husband died for you, he sacrificed himself and my safety so you could live. When could it not matter?”
He crushed her against him, his gaze riveted to hers. “When we love each other enough to forget the past.”
The wind rushed from her lungs and she missed a step, gripping his arm to keep her balance. Was it possible? Did he truly want her love? No, it wasn’t possible.
“I know you’ve suffered since Thomas’s death. I’ve suffered too,” he added in a softer voice, his fingers easing on her hand.
“Yes, in your gilded tower, with no thought as to how you’ll eat or where you’ll live. Meanwhile my life was turned upside down, everything I loved torn from me.”
“I never asked him to make the sacrifice.”
“Yet that was the kind of man he was.”
“And every day I live with the guilt of having watched him die, unable to change it, unable to do anything to thank him for his sacrifice, until I met you. Yes, I should have told you, but you were so set against the marriage. I was afraid you’d hate me before you had the chance to know me.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me after the wedding?”
“Because I didn’t want it to come between us.” The music ended and they stopped dancing, his arms still around her while the other couples stepped apart to applaud. He leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper but stronger than any gale wind. “I love you, Cathleen—too much to lose you to the past.”
Cathleen stared at him, the stinging in her chest pressing up toward her eyes. She blinked back tears. It was all too much, too soon and it couldn’t be true. Or could it? No, it was only part of his penance, his obligation to duty.
He slid his arm from around her waist and gripped her elbow, leading her off the dance floor. “Let’s step outside.”
“No, I want to go home.”
He nodded curtly, escorting her to where his mother stood with the statuesque Lady Treston and the others. “Cathleen is not feeling well. We’re leaving.”
The dowager looked back and forth between them with a scowl, clutching the panting dog to her chest. “I’m not ready to leave yet.”
“Then I’ll send the carriage back for you.”
“Very well,” she huffed, turning to the ladies in a flounce of black silk.
Devon escorted Cathleen through the crowd, his hand tight on her elbow. People moved like water around them, parting when they approached and then falling together in whispering groups behind them. Common sense told her to smile, to look merry and mask the stony silence between them, but she didn’t have the strength to appear cheerful or care about their opinions. Instead, she remained focused on the darkness outside the double doors, trying to ignore Devon’s heavy presence beside her.
They left the warmth of the house, their breaths clouding in the stinging air as they descended the stairs. She shivered, resisting when he pulled her closer, preferring to be cold rather than draw comfort from the heat of his body. The clouds had cleared and a half moon sat low over the long gravel drive, its faint light lost in the dark carriages waiting for their owners.
They walked a short way down the line of coaches and the driver jumped from the seat to pull open the door. Cathleen stepped inside, snatched up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders to dispel the chill. Devon climbed inside and to her relief took the opposite seat. He said nothing as the carriage snapped into motion, his gaze focused on his hand tracing the length of his left thigh. She watched his fingers wrinkle the light breeches. It felt as if the whole English Channel and not the space of a carriage stretched between them.
How can we go on? Drawing the blanket closer, she watched the stars hanging over the dark countryside. Only a few hours ago everything felt so settled—her new life, her future with Devon. Now it all sat crumbled at her feet like an old stone wall knocked over a by a storm.
We can’t stay together. France and their experiences would always haunt them. She needed a way to leave before her heart betrayed her or his supposed love waned. Perhaps her barrenness was grounds enough for an annulment, assuming this last week of pleasure hadn’t produced a child.
Cathleen looked down, running her hands over the rich fabric covering her flat stomach. Everything would change if there was a child, but tonight, this week, her whole life had already changed.
Fingering the wedding band beneath her glove, she knew she couldn’t run away from Devon any more than she could run from the truth of Thomas’s passing, or the warm feelings slowly pushing aside the pain of Lady Malton’s revelation.
She stole a look at Devon, and the weariness in his
eyes made her heart constrict. He’d made the last few days some of the happiest of her life and sometime between the wedding and the ball, she’d fallen in love with him. Yes, she loved him, his strength and presence, his concern for his family and her. She needed him as much as he needed her, and they could have a life together if she gave him a chance and forgave him.
Leaning forward, she placed one hand on his knee and his eyes snapped to hers. “It’s not your fault Thomas died.”
His hand slid over hers, gripping it tightly. They leaned in to one another, their lips meeting across the distance of the carriage, joining them with a bond stronger than the past, or pain, or loss. Nothing mattered anymore except his touch, the love and tenderness in his lips, the steady beat of his pulse beneath her fingers.
A shot split the night and the carriage jarred to a halt, sending Cathleen crashing to the floor, her shoulder hitting the edge of squabs. Devon pulled her up into the seat beside him, the sound of a scuffle in the driver’s seat vibrating through the wood. The carriage lurched to one side and something thudded against the ground.
“Stay here.” Devon pushed open the door, but a pistol in his face stopped him cold.
“Get out,” a male voice demanded. Something in the tone of it seemed familiar but Cathleen, her shoulder stinging, was too scared to be sure. Then the gunman turned his pistol on her. “You too.”
Devon stepped from the carriage and helped her out. Two men stood in front of them, pistols raised. The driver lay on the ground and Cathleen moved to help him.
“Don’t,” the taller gunman spat.
Cathleen ignored him, kneeling next to the driver. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his head but he was breathing. “He’s wounded and needs help.”
“You’ll need help if you don’t obey. Now stand against the carriage.”
The second man yanked her up and shoved her against the back wheel, separating her a few feet from Devon.
“Hand over all your jewelry and valuables,” the taller man ordered, his voice muffled by the handkerchief tied around his face. A tricorn hat sat low over his eyes, further concealing his identity.
Cathleen worked to unhook one pearl earring, studying the smaller thief who held out a cloth bag, the sharp smell of wine heavy on his clothes. He was slight, his hands hidden by large gloves and his face covered by a hat and kerchief similar to his companion’s. The bigger man shifted from foot to foot, glancing back and forth between Devon and his compatriot.
“Hurry up,” the larger man insisted, waving his gun.
Cathleen dropped the now freed earring into the sack and, tilting her head to unfasten the other, watched Devon. He stood near the front wheel, slowly removing his watch and chain from his waistcoat. He held it out to the larger man, who reached for it with a shaky hand. Before he could take it, Devon dropped it in the dirt. Instinctively, the thief bent for it and Devon slammed his fist down on the man’s back, sending him sprawling into the mud, his gun sailing under the carriage.
“No,” his companion cried in a high voice, revealing himself to be a woman. She turned her pistol on Devon and Cathleen grabbed her arm, shoving it to the side. The woman swung around, trying to shake free of Cathleen, but she held on tight, scratching and clutching at the woman before one finger caught the mask and pulled it down.
“Martha!” Cathleen stumbled and Martha wrenched free, shoving Cathleen back before leveling the gun at her chest.
“Release him, Malton, or I shoot her.”
* * *
Devon looked up to see the pistol pointed at Cathleen’s heart. He held fast to Lucien’s arm, pinning it behind him, and the baronet squirmed underneath him, whimpering in pain. Devon eyed the gun under the carriage. He could lunge for it but could he reach it before Martha fired? He studied the woman’s face in the circle of light from the carriage lantern, trying to gauge if she had it in her to shoot. She watched him through narrow eyes with a hate he could almost feel, one finger caressing the gun’s trigger, challenging him to give her the slightest reason to pull it. Unwilling to risk Cathleen’s life, Devon shoved Lucien forward into the dirt and then stood.
“What do you want?”
“Only what we’re due,” Martha said while Lucien retrieved his pistol then rose, glowering at Devon like a spoiled child. “Consider it our reward for introducing the two of you.”
“A dangerous way to gain a few pounds.”
“Not a few pounds, your lordship. Cathleen’s widow’s portion.”
Cathleen gasped and Devon clenched his fist, feeling the danger tightening around them like a noose.
“Martha?” Lucien’s voice wavered. “What are you doing?”
“Be quiet,” she snapped.
“But this isn’t what we planned,” Lucien insisted.
“Yes it is. It’s everything we planned—all of us, even Cathleen.”
“No,” Cathleen gasped. “Never.”
“You’re lying,” Devon growled.
“Am I?” Martha smirked. “How do you think we knew where to find you tonight?”
Devon held Martha’s mocking eyes, doubt snaking through him. Cathleen’s interest in the Silver Swan tavern, the second ride she’d taken yesterday, the strange letters she’d posted in London and the one she’d burned. Anger shoved through his anxiety and he balled his fists, wanting to drive them into Lucien, the carriage, slam them into the wood until his knuckles turned bloody and the shame and hate roaring through him ceased.
He glared at Cathleen, her lips drawn thin across her mouth, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her. She met his accusing stare without flinching, shaking her head slightly, the orange carriage light flickering with the fear in her wide eyes.
“I don’t know how they found us,” she said. “But I didn’t help them. I promise. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
Through his anger, he could feel her voice, smooth as a ribbon, leading him away from his doubts like it had led him out of his nightmares. He unclenched his hand, his thumb seeking out the gold ring encircling his left finger.
No, she wasn’t with them, not this woman who’d been honest with him about their first night together when it could have cost her everything, who’d helped his sister and whose gentle touch made him feel worthy and alive again. The woman he loved and who loved him.
Lucien shifted, fear evident in the quiver of his pistol, and Devon saw his chance.
“Let us go, Lucien, and I’ll make a settlement on you,” he offered. “You may go to Germany or France and I’ll pay your debts.”
Lucien’s gun lowered. “All of them?”
“Yes.” He’d promise anything right now to stop this madness and keep Cathleen safe.
“Don’t be a fool,” Martha spat. “He’d be just as happy to see us swing as to see the backside of us heading across the channel.”
“You can keep Cathleen’s jewelry as a sign of our bargain,” Devon suggested, trying to draw Lucien in.
“Think of it, Martha,” Lucien pleaded. “No debts. Living abroad without worry. It has to be better than this.”
Martha swung the pistol at Devon. “No, I think not.” An evil smile curled her lips.
Before Devon could react, Cathleen lunged at Martha, pushing aside the gun before it fired. The ball hit the carriage and a sliver of wood sliced Devon’s cheek. The startled horses reared and bolted, pulling the carriage with them.
“Let go of me,” Martha screeched, wrenching free of Cathleen.
Devon sent Lucien reeling with a hard punch to the face and the man dropped his gun, grasping his face and stumbling backward. “My nose,” he whined, blood pouring between his fingers.
Devon lunged for Lucien’s pistol but Martha snatched it up and leveled it at him. “Now, you die.”
“No!” Cathleen jumped in front of him but he pushed her aside as the gun went off. Cathleen screamed, the force of the blow slamming her against Devon.
The smoke hung in the half-moonlight but Martha didn’
t wait for it to clear.
“You can both go to hell.” She bolted off into the darkness.
Lucien staggered to his feet and ran after her.
“Cathleen!” Devon lowered her to the ground, searching in the darkness for the wound and finding it when sticky blood from her shoulder spread over his fingers.
“Devon,” she moaned.
“Don’t speak. Rest.” He pressed his handkerchief to the wound, the white cloth turning dark beneath his hand. “I have to stop the bleeding.”
“I’m sorry,” she cried, pain edging her words. “I couldn’t let another man I love die.”
“Don’t apologize. Everything will be fine. Dr. Manning is at Malton Hall, he’ll see to you.” If we can reach him in time. His mind worked furiously for ways to get her safely home. He couldn’t leave her here, vulnerable and bleeding in the mud while he went for help. With the driver still unconscious, there was no one to send.
Think, bloody hell, think!
“I don’t know how they found us tonight. I was never with them,” she whispered. He felt the wet drop of a tear on his finger. Leaning over, he brushed her lips with his.
“I know.” Devon pushed her damp hair back from her cool skin then removed his jacket and draped it over her. “Rest now.”
She didn’t respond and his chest tightened. He placed one ear close to her mouth, listening for her breath but another, more sinister sound began to echo through the darkness.
The screams of horses cut through the still air, punctuated by the thick burst of cannon fire.
No. He rocked back on his heels, pressing the palms of his hands against his forehead, but still the memories filled his mind. Not now.
In a flash the world turned bright. Thomas’s red uniform cut across his vision, his saber meeting the Frenchman’s. Devon squinted against the glare of the Frenchman’s blade, yelling when it cut through Thomas with a sickening slice.
“No!”
Devon fell forward, his fingers clutching the mud, his lungs struggling to pull in breath after breath. Then, through the volleys of rifle fire and the shouts of soldiers, Cathleen’s voice began to emerge, faint at first but steadily growing louder. He focused on it, struggling over the din of war to hear the light, soft strains of each word until they rang clear in the night.
Georgie Lee Page 11
