Redeeming the Rogue

by C. J. Chase

  He stretched out a hand. “Give me the gun, Miss Fraser.”

  Another twinge of misgiving scratched against her conscience as she hesitated. And then footsteps rustled to her left. A servant? A friend? She whirled, swinging the pistol around to face this new threat. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the stock, the trigger.

  The gun exploded in her hand. The shock slammed Mattie into the wall behind her and knocked the breath from her lungs.

  “Maman!”

  Mattie sucked in great gasps of air and turned her head.

  The Countess of Chambelston stood in the doorway, the surprised circle of her mouth almost as big as the hole that opened in her side.

  Then she slumped to the floor.

  Chapter Twelve

  “No! No, no, no!” Mattie’s screams reverberated off the foyer’s high ceiling louder than any gunshot. White lights flashed behind her eyes as her mind tried to block the horror of what she’d done, but the sulfurous odor of gunpowder permeated her very being, allowing her no escape.

  The pistol slipped out of her numb fingers and clattered against the floor. Too late. Too late.

  Blood splattered the wall in a crazy pattern, as if a dog had shaken off red rain. One wide stripe streaked down the wall, pointing directly to the fallen Lady Chambelston.

  “Mattie? Why …?” Confusion and pain clouded her eyes, then her lashes drifted down to rest on her cheeks. The color leached from her face as the blood pooled below her on the parquet.

  Not unlike the strength seeping out of Mattie’s legs as bile—bitter, bitter bile—clogged her throat. She braced herself for her coming death. She didn’t fear it. She welcomed it. Somershurst would beat her just like her brother—but unlike George she deserved his wrath.

  But Somershurst dropped to his knees.

  His movements galvanized Mattie into action. Ignoring the ever-widening puddle of blood, she crouched beside the fallen woman. “Give me your cravat! We need something to staunch the bleeding.”

  He hesitated for two seconds, then his years of military training and experience awakened and he shook off his shock. He jerked the cravat knot undone, yanked the fabric from his neck and hurled it to her. “The wound on her back where the bullet exited will be worse. Start there. I’ll get more linen.” He vaulted to his feet and raced to a nearby door, his boots pounding against the floor.

  Mattie shifted the countess onto her uninjured side, yet despite her best efforts to be gentle the lady groaned as the pain of the movement reached into even her unconscious state. The new position revealed the ghastly hole. Mattie’s handiwork. She wadded up the cravat and pressed it to the wound, noting with dismay how quickly the fabric became saturated with blood.

  “I—I … Mattie?”

  She glanced up at the boy lurking outside the gaping front door, a witness to her evil.

  “Nicky!”

  Eyes round with shock and horror, Nicky retreated a step, his body coiled and tense and ready to flee.

  “Get Mr. DeChambelle and bring him here.” Pray God he had returned in the meantime. “Now! Run!”

  The lad sprinted away.

  The viscount rushed back into the foyer with a linen tablecloth which he commenced to shred. “You seem to know your way around gunshot wounds, Miss Fraser.”

  “My country was recently invaded by yours.”

  “War is an ugly business.” He passed her the pieces of tablecloth.

  “I never meant …” Indeed, would she have even shot Somershurst in the end? She had hesitated so long … but all for naught.

  “I know. Will you be all right alone here while I fetch a surgeon?”

  Mattie nodded, barely aware of his departure.

  The minutes ticked by. Mattie’s arms began to ache, yet she held her exhausted body rigid. Silently, she petitioned for the countess’s life.

  Petitioned whom? The God who’d ignored all her other prayers? She needed Alice and Lawrie Harrison with their simple faith to assure her there was indeed a God who heard, who cared, who loved.

  Instead she was alone. Alone with the woman she had wounded. Who might yet die?

  At one point Lady Chambelston’s eyes flickered in her pale face. “Mattie? Why …?” Her eyes again fell shut against the pain.

  Why? Why, why—oh, why? The question pounded through Mattie’s mind. Moisture filled her eyes but she dared not release the linens to brush it away. She dipped her face and scraped her eyes against the upper portion of her sleeve—the sleeve of her coat wherein she had so faithfully carried that gun.

  “I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

  “Mr. DeChambelle! Mr. DeChambelle!”

  Shouts, footsteps and the shattering of glass reverberated through the house, reaching into Kit’s room as he was ripping off his wet, torn coat.

  He dropped the much abused garment on the floor and ran into the hallway. Mrs. Parker clutched her bosom next to a shattered Ming vase. Higgins hurdled the stairs in a most undignified manner. Several steps ahead of the red-faced butler a small blur raced up the remaining steps, dodged a footman and a screaming maid, and wrapped itself around Kit’s leg.

  “Mr. DeChambelle!”

  Kit’s heart began to pound despite his effort to remain calm for the child. “Young Master Nicky, isn’t it?” And if he was here … Kit held up a hand to forestall Higgins before the butler snatched the boy and tossed him out.

  Nicky’s gasps echoed through the foyer. “Mattie … blood … help.”

  The muscles in Kit’s chest tightened around his ribs until he wheezed along with the boy. He crouched next to Nicky. “Where?”

  “S-Somershurst.”

  “Somershurst’s house?”

  The boy nodded.

  Kit rose. “Mrs. Parker, tell Cook that Master Nicky is to have his choice of anything in our kitchen. If my mother or father return, tell them I’m at Julian’s house.” Where something dreadful had happened.

  “Kit?” Caro stood in the doorway of her room, her eyes fearful and confused. While she oft failed to understand the nuances in the situations around her, she sensed any apprehensions they roused. And angst aplenty swirled around her right now.

  Despite his compulsion to flee, he paused long enough to give her a quick hug and an assurance he didn’t feel. “Don’t worry, Caro. I’ll take care of the problem.”

  He bounded down the stairs and out the door, sprinting along the streets to Julian’s townhouse. The rain collected on his spectacles, rendering the landmarks, obstacles and fellow pedestrians all but indistinguishable. Still he raced on, driven by an urgency that conquered fatigue. If Mattie were dead, he’d—

  There. He veered onto the last street and counted the shadowy forms until he reached Julian’s home. A final discharge of speed carried him the last few yards, then Kit burst into the foyer. And lurched to a stop.

  Blood! So much blood. Blood was everywhere—sprayed against the wall, pooled on the floor, running in rivulets along the parquet seams. The stench of it overpowered his senses and wrenched him back in time.

  He yanked the pistol from the waistband of his trousers and aimed at the familiar redhead crouching on the floor. “Laura!”

  Her head turned, vacant eyes staring through him. Mattie’s eyes, hauling him back to London, back to the present. Not Laura. Not France. And the body on the floor, not the young woman he’d killed.

  And yet, a frightening echo of that ghastly day pulsed through him, that day he’d nearly lost his life and surrendered his soul. Laura. He’d thought to use the French woman to capture an English traitor—and another had paid the price for his pride and arrogance. He gripped the door frame and fought to keep the nightmares at bay—in the past—as he stared at this new horror.

  Memories yielded to reality as the blurry scene sharpened into focus. Tears traced a path through the scarlet streak on Mattie’s cheek. Her hands were crimson and large splotches of the same color besmirched her coat.

  “Mattie!” Kit dropped th
e gun in his hand, his terror augmented by fury. As he shot to her side his foot kicked an abandoned pistol sending it skittering across the parquet.

  Mattie’s pistol.

  He plunged to his knees, only gradually becoming aware of the prostrate form beside her, still and silent. A familiar form.

  “Maman!” An ever-widening crimson stain discolored her gown. A pale arm peeked from her sleeve, the skin white and flecked with red.

  Mattie pressed saturated linens against Maman’s back and side. “Can’t. Get. It. To. Stop.” Her words were stiff and tight—like the hands that gripped the linen, as brittle as her hold on her emotions, reality. Sanity.

  “Let me.”

  When Mattie didn’t move, he nudged her fingers away and grabbed the cloth, bearing down on the wound. If only the bleeding would stop.

  Please, make the bleeding stop.

  “Make way.” A blue-clad arm elbowed Kit to the side. Sure and efficient hands seized the linen and peeled back an edge.

  Kit’s breath caught at the familiar sight he’d hoped to never see again, the jagged edges of flesh around an angry bullet hole. His heart pounded against his chest and the foyer’s blood-spattered walls seemed to contract around him.

  “Well?” Julian loomed over them. Rain soaked his hair and ran down his face.

  “Fortunately the ball missed her organs. We need to get a ligature on that artery and clean out any pieces of her dress but with care and rest she should recover. Let’s move her to a bed.” The surgeon glanced at Mattie as the three men positioned themselves to lift Maman. “Bring us lots of water.”

  Julian and the surgeon each took a side while Kit cradled Maman’s head. Blood soaked her hair and dripped to the floor like a sign marking their path.

  Kit glanced at Julian’s locked jaw as they carefully carried their mother up the stairs. “What happened?” And where was that incompetent Baxter that he hadn’t prevented this tragedy? Hopefully he’d at least gone after the perpetrator.

  “Later, Kit.”

  Later? And let the would-be killer try again? With horror Kit realized Mattie was downstairs getting the surgeon’s water. Alone.

  “This one.” Julian led them into the first room.

  They settled Maman on the bed. So deep was her swoon, she made not a sound the entire time. Kit positioned her head on the pillow, then whirled to—

  “Kit.” Julian clasped his elbow.

  Kit lunged against the hold, but his brother didn’t release his arm. “I’ve got to get to Mattie. She’s—”

  “It was Mattie’s gun.”

  Yes, he’d seen it lying on the foyer floor but what did that have to do with … “Mattie’s?”

  “It accidentally discharged.”

  But what was it doing here? And where were the men who’d shot at Mattie earlier? “What aren’t you telling me? And for that matter, what are you doing here and exactly where have you been?”

  “Now’s not the time, Kit.”

  Kit’s tenuous hold on his temper slipped. “Yes, now is a very bad time when several hours ago might have prevented a tragedy.”

  Julian hauled Kit away from the bed. “Very well, if you insist on knowing, I’ll not protect you. Mattie came to kill me.”

  “You?” For a moment, Kit considered finishing the job. And then the pieces aligned to form a picture. A very ugly picture. He swallowed the nausea surging to his throat but the bitterness remained in his mouth.

  Memories of another woman bombarded his mind. What a dupe he’d been then. And how history repeated.

  “Some assistance, gentlemen.”

  Kit and Julian sprang apart and hurried to the bed to support the surgeon.

  “I need someone to hold her while I stitch these wounds.” The surgeon frowned as he focused on the torn flesh. “And I need light—lots of light. It’s dark as the grave in here.”

  Julian struck the flint and lit a candle on the bedside table. “I’ll gather some lanterns.”

  “Miss Fraser—”

  “Isn’t going anywhere—except to get the water.”

  Bitterness flowed to Kit’s throat like blood from a wound. “Don’t wager your fortune on her reliability.”

  “She didn’t flee when given the opportunity.” Julian paused in the doorway. “I find her tremendously loyal. To a fault. But if it will ease your mind I will prevent her from leaving.”

  The surgeon fished in his bag and retrieved a hooked needle. “Slide that candle closer. And where is that water?”

  Where indeed? Kit’s mind was already leaping to the logical conclusion—despite Julian’s assurances otherwise—when Mattie shuffled into the room, her shoulders drooping with the weight of a full bucket. The candlelight shimmered on her hair but cast her face in shadow, leaving her expression unreadable.

  “Will this be enough, sir?” She set down her burden beside the surgeon but her head remained bowed like an abused dog.

  “Fine, fine.” He snipped a length of thread. “Now we’ll need lots of bandages. Get me several large strips of linen.”

  She nodded and crept from the room.

  For the next several hours Kit almost successfully ignored her as she moved hither and yon, doing the surgeon’s bidding. At one point in their ordeal, Julian ushered Father into the room. Dark hollows underscored his eyes, making him appear decades older than his sixty years.

  Words of comfort stuck to Kit’s tongue, glued in place by his guilt. He had been the one to bring Mattie Fraser into their house, into their lives.

  And she’d repaid their kindness with blood.

  Any minute, Mattie expected one—or all—of the DeChambelle men to haul her off to gaol for the oh-so-appropriate fate that awaited her. If they didn’t kill her here first.

  She hauled the rag out of the bucket again and attacked the foyer wall with renewed vehemence. Over and over, both hands pressing with all her strength. But no matter how much she washed, like Lady Macbeth’s spot, blood yet remained, faded blots on the white wall.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Her father was right after all—about both her and George. At least Father had drunk himself into an early grave before he witnessed her disgrace.

  “Don’t be so vigorous, Miss Fraser. You’ll scour the paint off my wall.”

  Her heart, which had begun to accelerate, thudded to a creep when she identified the speaker not as Kit but his brother. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll have to repaint as I can’t remove all the stains.”

  “I appreciate the effort. I sent the servants away several days ago when, ah, I feared things might become complicated.”

  They certainly had.

  “At least when my father comes downstairs again, he won’t have to see …” Somershurst studied her face. “You should get some sleep, Miss Fraser. You look exhausted.”

  She was exhausted but every time she closed her eyes she once again lived the horror of watching Lady Chambelston fall. Bleed. Die?

  “I have an extra room if you would like.”

  “No.” Mattie knew that like Lady Macbeth, what she’d done—the blood she’d spilled—would haunt even her dreams. “How is your mother?”

  “Resting. Father is with her.”

  And Kit? Probably talking to a judge right now. Mattie didn’t ask. She’d forfeited the right to know when she walked into this house with a pistol.

  “Would you care to join me in the library?”

  To talk or to … She nodded her acquiescence, tossed the rag into the bucket and dried her hands on her skirt.

  He picked up her candle and led her through the hallway to a smallish room where he proceeded to light the twin candles that flanked either side of a large desk. Their meager glow revealed several shelves—not all of them filled with books—and two chairs positioned before an empty fireplace.

  “Please, sit.”

  She backed toward the chair but rather than lower herself onto the upholstered seat, she slid behind, using the curved rosewood back as a shield and support. “I
think I would rather stand.”

  “As you wish. A drink, Miss Fraser?”

  “No, thank you.” The strangeness of his behavior befuddled her mind enough without the addition of alcohol.

  He poured a glass for himself from the decanter on the desk and dropped into the other chair. Rain tapped against the window in time with the gentle clicks of the mantel clock.

  Mattie traced her fingers across the patterns carved in the chair’s wood frame. “I know it probably means little to you, especially under the circumstances, but I am sorry about your mother. I lost my mother when I was eight.” Truly she had lost her entire family that day, only she hadn’t known it then. “Your mother has always been kind and gracious. I never heard a harsh word from her, not even about those who behaved badly toward Caro.”

  “Yes, Maman has demonstrated how to turn adversity into victory, not bitterness.”

  Mattie reflected on her father’s failure to rise above self-pity, even for the sake of his children.

  Somershurst stared at the drink in his hands, then lifted his gaze to her, the blue of his grim eyes as shadowed as the night.

  She’d wanted the Impatience’s captain to suffer, and she’d gotten her wish. After a fashion. A hollow victory indeed.

  “I didn’t get a chance to express my regrets to you earlier about the loss of your brother. I, ah, lost a brother myself only last year.”

  “The not knowing. That was the worst.” She stared at her white knuckles where they gripped the chair and marveled at their extraordinary conversation. Two people who’d wronged each other, conveying their condolences. “Waiting, and never hearing.”

  “Kit told me you received a letter from him.”

  Her nerves prickled. Simple conversation or a desire for information? “Only one, and recently, at that. But I don’t have it with me.”

  The clock on the mantel chimed the fourth hour. Mattie yawned.

  “You really should get some rest, Miss Fraser.”

  As if she could while her mind jumped from thought to thought. “What will happen?”

  “Happen?” He took a sip of his drink.

  “About … me.”

  “It isn’t my place to decide.”