Forget Me Not

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  Lydia’s mind spun as the night of her kidnapping swept fresh through her mind. I warned you, Lucas MacGregor. No one crosses me. My instructions were implicit. You were not to make a move until after tomorrow night. Keith’s voice rang with resounding clarity through her mind as the intricacies of the murder she’d witnessed coincided with the viscount’s plans. “Felix Keith killed Lucas MacGregor because he tried to murder my father too early,” Lydia murmured. “I saw him do it so in order to save himself Felix ordered his men to take me away, to kill me, even though it went against your plans. If he had succeeded you would have been left penniless.”

  “Very astute, Miss Covington. I am impressed, but then you always were a bit too intelligent for my tastes. Women should be silent and obedient like dogs and horses.”

  Bile welled in Lydia’s throat, she resisted the urge to spout epithets at the disparaging comment. Dogs. How insulting.

  She blinked the heavy torrents of rainwater from her eyes, trying to grasp just what was going on. She’d managed to evade Lord Northbridge’s advances in the library and run to the orangery to hide. To no avail, he’d found her just a few minutes later. It was painfully obvious Northbridge had something sinister planned, but she was yet to understand his plans or reasoning. At present he was dragging her toward the carriage house behind the stables. Would he take her from the premises? There would be no hope of her father or anyone finding her if he whisked her from Wheaton Abbey, worse no one would know to help Brian. The crashing of the rain left little hope that any would hear if she screamed but she had to try.

  “Help me! Someone please, help!”

  “Shut up! Just keep your damned mouth closed.” The viscount swung menacingly around a threatening fist poised directly above her face.

  Defiantly she glared back up at him. In an attempt to further thwart him she flopped to her knees, pretending to flounder in the sopping grass. The raised fist slammed into her jaw with crippling force. She fell limp into the lawn. Chilling rain soaked through the layers of her clothing and her head swam sickeningly from the force of the blow.

  “Get up,” he ordered. When she did not immediately comply he grasped beneath her upper arms and yanked, planting her on her feet. “Stop this foolishness and I promise this will be far less painful for you.”

  “What will be less painful?” She whimpered, wishing her voice sounded stronger. “I don’t understand any of this. Where are you taking me?”

  “Why to be married of course.” He sighed irritably as though the point was extremely obvious.

  “What? Married?” Lydia shrieked, jerking against the cruel vice imprisoning her arm. “I’ll certainly not marry you now!”

  A cruel laugh escaped the viscount’s twisted lips. “It doesn’t matter if you speak the vows, Miss Covington. I know a parson near as desperate as I. He will sign the marriage documents, you will mysteriously disappear, and your fortune will be mine regardless. If you decide to cooperate and make the marriage legal it may buy you a little extra time.”

  “You’re mad!” she spat incredulously. “How does hurting me or telling me any of this help you gain funds? My father will never hand over a dowry if he is not present for the vows, especially if I disappear or am harmed in anyway. You will never get away with this. My father—”

  “—Your father, your father, oh, pish posh. Your father will be dead within hours of your demise. Sir William will never have the opportunity to question our marriage much less your subsequent death. As will your prattling stepmother, and that horse trainer you’re so fond of. A political assassination, my dear. It seems a disgruntled follower took it upon himself to slay Sir William and his family before the next election. Your Brian Donnelly should suffice quite well in the role of assassin.”

  Cold horror shook her to the core. “No.”

  “Yes, my dear.” The viscount chuckled with a superior leer. “Unfortunately for you, I have thought of everything. Any who could speak against me will be dead by this eve’s end, our marriage will be officially, and unquestionably, documented, and I will be sole inheritor of Sir William’s fortune, investments and vast properties.”

  “No,” she breathed again. “There is another way. There must be. Allow me to speak with my father. I will say nothing of these plans, he will give you the money, as much as you want, I swear to it, and I will leave this place and never bother you again.”

  A bark of ironic laughter escaped the viscount. “Please, Lydia. Do you really think Sir William, General and hero of His Majesties service would give up any amount of funds as a result of coercion or without a just gain? Nay. This is the only way. The best way for me. No loose ends and no more incompetent fools like MacGregor or Keith to ruin everything.”

  It occurred to Lydia that everything could use a little ruining. “Why do you trust Jonathan Roark to do your bidding after he had a part in foiling your last plot?” She searched desperately for any manner of flustering the madman.

  “Roark took his orders from Keith. None of Felix’s men knew I was the backer.” The viscount brushed her point aside with what she hoped would prove a reckless nonchalance. “Jonathan Roark now takes his orders from me alone.”

  Dread licked Lydia’s spine. The carriage house closed rapidly in on them and not another soul was visible. Of all the days to have a storm worthy of forgoing all outside work, it had to be today. The viscount shouldered through the wooden door, pulling her into the dimly lit interior of the dusty carriage house. A large bay was hitched to a small covered curricle. It appeared the viscount planned to drive them to their destination all on his own. The man was proving considerably more capable and intelligent than she’d ever given him credit for.

  “Get in,” Northbridge demanded.

  Lydia balked. “Never.”

  “Move now you impossible little chit.” He twisted her arm behind her back until she cried out, forcing her to walk toward the carriage.

  She swallowed back a surge of fear. “You will never get away with this. One of your trusted lackeys will make a mistake and foil this plan the same as the last. You may even hang, my lord. At the very least you’ll be stripped of your title. How will a man of your breeding and tastes fare in prison?”

  “Bitch!” The back of Northbridge’s handmade sharp contact with the side of her face.

  “Oh!” Tears stung her eyes as she stumbled forward, pressing a free hand to her tingling cheek, it was sure to bruise. She had not wanted to cry out, hadn’t wanted him to see weakness of any kind, but the brutality of his touch and intentions was proving more than she could handle.

  “Listen carefully, Miss Covington.” He tilted his head from one side to the other until a vein in his neck popped. “I will only ask you to get into the carriage nicely one more time. Do not try my patience.” He faced her, the glowering razor sharp glint in his eyes sending shivers across her flesh.

  The silent warning to keep her mouth shut, not to test him further was implicit, but she was unable to resist a final shot. “That was asking nicely?”

  His face distorted in a vise of bitter rage. “You little bitch!” He shook her upper body so forcibly her teeth clanked together. “I’ll kill you.” His hands slid from her upper arms to her throat. “I will kill you here and now. I don’t need you for any of this! The parson will sign the marriage documents with or without your presence.” Slowly he began to squeeze. “I’d thought to wrap up this entire affair as cleanly as possible, kill everyone away from the Abbey to prevent a mess and then stage it all later for the magistrate.”

  Fear unlike she’d ever known descended upon Lydia, a sense of doom so acute she could actually feel the breath of death’s angel whispering down her neck. Pain seared her throat as the viscount’s grip tightened with his growing fury. His eyes blazed with evil. I am about to die, the certainty whisked through her mind, rooting in the depths of her soul. Pure panic spiked, driving her to action. She yanked at her attacker’s wrists, yearning for even a whisper of breath, but to no avail. Her
lungs burned. Her knees grew weak, and blackness rippled at the edges of her vision, closing in. For a fleeting moment the pain, fear, and uncertainty of death became so intense she lost all ability to fight or rationalize. Her hands fell limp from his wrists, and her legs gave out. She sank to the floor supported only by Northbridge’s grasp around her neck.

  But suddenly the fear was not so bad… her senses seemed blunted, almost blissful… and then she was floating. Floating away from the pain and burning… rising high above the anguish of death… Nothing was left to fear. She felt warm and fuzzy and perfectly content.

  * * *

  “Is he alive?”

  “Of course he’s alive, he’s breathing.”

  Familiar voices invaded Brian’s throbbing skull. Mrs. Hayes, Brandon… Oh, Christ, Sir William… Was that Molly as well? All he wanted was to slip back into blissful black oblivion he’d been roused from. What the hell had happened? The last thing he remembered was Lydia standing in a sea of multicolored roses, beautiful as the day is long and brilliant as the sun. He’d been about to propose, but—

  Abruptly he jerked upward, instantly regretting the quick movement. “Ugh, Christ in heaven,” he muttered. He tried to touch a hand to his searing temple but found his hands securely bound behind his back. Thick twine lashed his ankles as well.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Sir William sliced a sharp blade through the knots at Brian’s wrists and feet.

  The heavy lines fell away and Brian sat, closing his eyes against the sickening spin of the world around him. His fingers lightly feathered the side of his head and came away sticky with blood. “Lydia.” He struggled to get a leg beneath him.

  “I warned you about her, Donnelly.” Sir William dropped to a knee beside him, the knife blade less than an inch from his nose. “Now, I’ll ask again, what happened to you, and I’d better like the answer.”

  “Northbridge,” Brian mumbled, desperately trying to make sense of his thoughts and words, “is going to kill her.”

  “What?” Four incredulous voices echoed in tandem.

  “I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I’m near certain the viscount is Keith’s employer. The viscount also said he was sending Jonathan Roark to finish me off.” At long last Brian managed to still his swirling vision and focused on the stunned faces of Sir William, Mrs. Hayes, Olivia and Brandon. Murderous anguish lashed the general’s face. Brian prayed it was no longer aimed at him. “Help me up. There is no time to lose.”

  Sir William slid an arm around his waist to comply. “Donnelly, you’re in no condition to fight. Stay here, and I’ll get a few trusted men to handle this with me.”

  “Absolutely not. If anything were to happen to her…” There was no need to finish the sentence.

  Sir William nodded tersely. “Very well. Let’s get going.”

  With the general’s help, Brian stood, and staggered toward the orangery door. “How did ye find me so quickly, sir?”

  “Molly found you stuffed behind the door and that there chair. Brandon and I were about to play checkers when we heard her screaming bloody murder. Mrs. Hayes and Olivia arrived close behind us.”

  Brian turned to the girl he’d hurt beyond measure. “Thank you, Molly,” he said solemnly. “There’s little doubt in me mind that ye saved my life.”

  Molly just nodded, pale as a sheet, and shaking like a leaf in the breeze.

  “I was on my way to the orangery when I heard the screams,” Mrs. Hayes added. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donnelly, I may have arrived from my errand too late to help you.”

  “No need to blame yerself, Mrs. Hayes.” Brian sent a silent thanks heavenward knowing that if Molly had been any later Roark may have found him first. Then where would Lydia be? It was a thought he had no desire to entertain.

  “Well, Donnelly,” Sir William strode ahead of him through the orangery door, “any ideas where to begin looking for my daughter?”

  “I have a sneaking suspicion we should begin by the barn,” Brian said thoughtfully, thinking back to the afternoon he’d found Felix Keith’s body. “Just do me a favor, General Covington, and watch me back instead of aiming for it.”

  * * *

  The door to the carriage house exploded inward, admitting Jonathan Roark. “My Lord, we have a problem.”

  The viscount’s hands fell away from Lydia’s neck; she crumpled to the packed dirt floor. Slowly air filled her lungs. A rush of clarity invaded her senses but she remained perfectly still, praying the men would believe her dead.

  “What sort of problem?” Anger, cold and dangerous gilded Northbridge’s tone.

  “It’s Donnelly, milord, he is out looking for Miss Covington with Sir William and a handful of other men. They’re headed this way. There is no way you can leave in the curricle without them seeing.”

  “Damn it, man.” Northbridge grasped the front of Roark’s shirt. “Are you completely incompetent? All you had to do is go to the orangery, collect Donnelly, take the bastard to the woods and kill him. What is so difficult about that? You are as useless as Felix Keith, Roark. Completely inept.”

  “My lord, please,” Roark placated, “this is not the time. We must act before the situation gets out of hand.”

  “Out of hand?” the viscount roared caustically. “I’d say it is already out of hand, compliments of you, Mr. Roark.” He fell silent for a moment. “Just the same it does not change the fact we must now take care of the lot of them before leaving Wheaton Abbey. They’re headed this way?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then we will wait for them along the corner of the barn. How many ready pistols do you have?”

  “Two, my lord.” The ominous click of a pistol cocking reverberated through the narrow confines of the carriage house.

  “Excellent. And you were a soldier so I assume you can reload in a timely fashion.”

  “Very timely, my lord. What should we do about the girl?”

  “She’s dead,” Northbridge said flatly. “Wrap her in a horse blanket and stuff the body in my curricle. That should prevent anyone from happening upon her.”

  It took every ounce of willpower Lydia could muster to hold perfectly still and stem the unconscious urge to tremble as Roark rolled her in a musty smelling blanket. Roughly he hefted her limp form and flopped her onto the hard wooden seat like a sack of potatoes. A sharp corner dug into her scalp, she stifled a cry. With bated breath she listened to the men make final preparations.

  “We’ll wait for them behind the barn,” Northbridge said.

  Roark quickly agreed and the creak of hinges signaled the brigand’s departure from the carriage house. When she was certain they would not be returning she threw the dusty blanket off and began to clamor from the coach. She stopped short, spying a storage compartment hidden in the seat. Quickly she lifted the wooden panel.

  “Just what I was hoping to find.” She reached into the compartment and withdrew a single flintlock pistol. It was loaded. Rummaging through the box she located powder, ball and primer enough for one additional shot. Well, she mused, two shots is better than nothing. A confident marksman would believe one shot is all she needed. Surely Brian and her father were armed enough to take down an army brigade. Silently she thanked her father for teaching her to shoot, and scooted out of the curricle.

  Slowly she eased to the windows and peered through. It was near impossible to see anything through the hammering rain. The menacing clouds left the sky dark as the dusk. Carefully she edged toward the door, she knew Roark and the viscount would be hiding behind the barn, she would make her way there.

  She may be the only person able to save Brian and her father’s life. If Brian had been about to propose she was not about to let the viscount’s greed rob her of happiness. She would rescue Brandon and get around her father’s dire threats.

  Lydia stepped into the rain and dashed around the back of the carriage house toward the barn. She planned to sneak up behind Roark and Northbridge, observe how the events unfolded.
She could shoot and shoot straight, but held little confidence in her ability to fire off two rounds before at least one of the men turned on her. Not much of a plan, but it was certainly better than nothing.

  Lydia hunkered among the trees and shrubberies lining the yard around the stable. Soon the figures of Northbridge and Roark crouched beside a corner of the barn materialized about thirty paces before her. Roark held himself as one well trained in the art of battle. If the need arose she would shoot Roark first and worry about the viscount once the soldier was down. With any luck Brian or her father would be present and armed should the need to fire a weapon arise.

  Her hands shook with the mere thought of taking a life. “Them or us,” she murmured trying to calm her nerves. The pounding rain made creeping soundlessly forward easy, but just the same she moved carefully so as not to alert the men of her approach. She needed to be as close as possible to be aware of any sudden movements or changes.

  Lydia crept to within fifteen feet of the men before situating herself between a cluster of leafy bushes and an ancient oak. The tree provided little shelter from the rain but branched into a Y at exactly the right height for use as a gun rest. She slid the barrel into the crevice and cocked the hammer, holding her breath. Neither man so much as turned their head in reaction to the metallic click. A whoosh of relief sighed from her lungs.

  Voices rose over the din and her heart leapt into her throat as Brian’s hulking frame came into view. Even in the meager light he emanated an intimidating aura of poise and power. A thrill ran through her. Brian turned as someone called out to him, Jonathan’s Roark’s right arm raised leveling a pistol at Brian’s broad back.

  Pure dread gripped Lydia heart and soul. She reacted. Be it out of instinct or sheer desperation she would never know, but she must have been more fitted to a soldier’s life than she’d ever believed possible. Like a natural she turned a practiced eye down the barrel sites, found the hollow between Roark’s expertly rolled shoulder blades and fired.