One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  He understood all too well, for there were things he couldn’t say either.

  “Here we are.” They stood at the bottom of a long gangplank. Rose spied it with trepidation, then eyed the cold gray water lapping at the ship’s hull, below. Sailors hustled up and down the narrow walkway, nimbly navigating their way around each other while balancing crates on their shoulders. A uniformed man with a long but neat beard stood nearby, orchestrating the sailors’ comings and goings, inspecting boxes, and checking papers.

  He waved them over. “Passengers?”

  At Charles’s nod, he added, “I’ll need to see your tickets.”

  “Right.” He set down the bags in order to dig the tickets out of his pocket, then handed them over.

  The uniformed man checked them and nodded. “You’re free to board. I suggest that you do so quickly. We’ll push off soon.”

  Charles picked up the bags with one hand and offered his free arm to Rose. He stepped onto the walkway, slick with frozen pellets, and gently tugged her along. “You’ll be fine. Slow and steady.” He could feel her trembling, probably a combination of fear and the cold. Halfway up the gangplank, he heard a voice shouting from several yards away.

  “Halt!”

  Rose’s fingers dug into his elbow. “Charles?”

  His heart pounded, but he kept his tone calm as he spoke into her ear. “He could be calling to anyone. Let’s keep walking.” He had a sick, sinking feeling in his gut though, and his instincts were practically screaming at him to pick up Rose, dash up the gangplank, and find a spot for them to hide.

  But before they could take another step, the voice called out again. “Mr. Charles Holland and Lady Rose Sherbourne. Stop at once, or we’ll shoot.”

  “Oh, God,” Rose gasped.

  “Move behind me.” If there was a gun, he intended to be between it and Rose.

  “No! They won’t shoot a lady.”

  “I’m not taking a chance,” he said, carefully maneuvering on the slippery gangplank so that he shielded her from the two men brandishing pistols who charged toward them. They stopped on the dock, their guns aimed directly at Charles.

  “I’ll come with you, peacefully.” He slowly set down the bags and held up his hands. “Just let Lady Rose return to her family.”

  The taller man snorted. “She shot at a prison guard and helped you escape. She’s in as much trouble as you are. I’ll need to see her hands as well.” She released his arm and held up her palms.

  “I forced her to help me,” Charles called to the men, “and brought her here against her will.”

  “That’s not true!” Rose shouted.

  Hoping to drown out her denial, he kept talking. “Look at her. She couldn’t hurt a soul. I was the one who assaulted the guard.”

  “It’s over, Holland. For both of you. Leave your bags there and walk down the gangplank, nice and slow.”

  By now, a crowd had gathered on the docks, eager to witness the spectacle.

  “We don’t have any choice, Rose. I’m sorry that I let you down, but I’ll sort it out. I need you to deny all wrongdoing, do you understand?”

  “And let you take all the blame? I think not.”

  “Please, for me.”

  “I think I have another solution,” she said. “I just need to speak with Lady Yardley.”

  On the dock below, the taller man glowered and waved the barrel of his gun. “Stop talking. Start walking. Now.”

  Charles began inching down the plank, with her following close behind. In spite of Rose’s optimism, he knew with a certainty that his life was over. The worst part was that after they took him away he’d never see her again.

  And he’d never told her that he loved her. He’d wanted to wait, just in case she changed her mind at the last minute and decided to stay in London. He’d thought it would be easier for her that way.

  And now he might never have the chance.

  “If you care at all for me, do as I say. Go along with my story,” Charles instructed. “Seek help from your brother, and forget about me.”

  He wanted her promise, damn it, but she moved silently behind him, refusing to give it.

  Only a few yards of gangplank separated them from the armed men when a sudden gust whipped his hat off and into the icy water below.

  “Oh no,” Rose cried. He turned to make sure she was steady and offer her his arm. The wind had blown her hood off as well, and red curls waved wildly about her face.

  “Raise your hands!” shouted the man with the gun.

  “Rose!” Someone else called out her name from a different part of the dock.

  “Owen?” She spun half-way around, gave a little cry—

  —and then she was falling.

  As her feet flew out from beneath her and her body leaned to the right, Charles reached for her arm and held tight. But it was too late. Her head clipped the side of the gangplank a second before she plunged into the gray, churning water. Heart in his throat, he followed.

  The cold stunned him, making it almost impossible to breathe, but he didn’t let go of her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and kicked to the surface, battling the drag of his jacket and her skirts. It seemed he inched upward only to sink again.

  Rose felt limp and lifeless in his arms. He needed to get her help. Quickly.

  He followed the sound of muffled shouts from the dock and told himself they couldn’t be very far away.

  Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he kicked his way to the surface and hauled Rose’s head above the water. A crowd leaned over the side of the dock, yelling and waving. Someone tossed a thick rope. Charles grasped at it, missed.

  His head bobbed below the water, and he pushed Rose up, praying that someone would pull her to safety or that she’d at least take a gulp of air. He prayed that she would be all right.

  And then she was slipping through his arm, sliding up and out of the water, and he let her go.

  He surfaced, coughing and gasping for air. But he could see Rose on the dock, and she was sitting beside her brother, choking and sputtering, which was a good sign.

  Someone on the dock gathered the rope and threw it to Charles once more. This time he caught it and managed to haul himself out of the river with a little help from some onlookers. He collapsed on the ground several yards from Rose and expelled the remaining water from his lungs.

  The constables were upon him in no time. One aimed his gun at Charles, the other at Rose—and Huntford was none too pleased.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “She needs to come with us,” said the taller one.

  The duke snorted as he pulled off his greatcoat and slipped it around her shoulders. Charles felt overwhelming relief. If anyone could protect Rose, her brother could. “I am the Duke of Huntford, and this is my sister, Lady Rose Sherbourne. She’s not going with anyone but me, and she’s not going anywhere but home. Is that clear?”

  “She shot at a prison guard.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Charles interjected.

  “I’ll handle this, Holland,” snapped Huntford. To the constable, he said, “Do you realize how ridiculous that accusation is? My sister is a gently bred lady. The very idea is absurd.”

  “I didn’t shoot him.” Rose’s teeth chattered and her voice rasped. “But I did help Charles escape, and I’d do it again. He’s innocent.”

  “Rose, please,” Huntford said. “You’ve hit your head and are clearly disoriented. You’re in need of a doctor’s care. I doubt you even know what you’re saying.”

  The taller constable grabbed Charles under one arm and hauled him to his feet. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  Charles did as he was asked, and spun to face Rose. “Heed your brother’s advice.”

  “Wait,” Rose called. “I can prove that the charges against you are false. I have a letter. We can clear your name.” She reached into the pocket of her cloak and withdrew a handful of sopping wet pulp. Soggy pieces of paper slippe
d through her fingers and plopped onto the ground. “No,” she sobbed. “Please, no.”

  “Step aside,” said the stockier man, his gun aimed at Huntford. “Your sister is coming with us.”

  The duke rose to his full, considerable height and stared down his nose at the constable. “Over my dead body.”

  “Neither your title nor your money grants you immunity from the laws of this fair land, your grace. Out of my way.”

  The constable started to step around the duke, but Huntford shoved him in the shoulder, hard, sending him staggering backward several paces.

  “You bloody bastard!” the constable yelled, raising the gun once more.

  “Owen,” Rose cried out. “Stop this before you get yourself killed. I’ll go with them, and you can come for me later.”

  Huntford glanced over his shoulder at her. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  The crowd had formed a circle around the action and watched the scene unfold with unabashed curiosity. Half of the onlookers seemed to sympathize with the constable, and half with the duke—or perhaps, more specifically, Rose.

  “Move,” the constable ordered the duke. “Now.”

  Huntford planted his boots in front of his sister and crossed his arms.

  The hairs of the back of Charles’s neck stood on end—and not just from the cold.

  He didn’t like this public standoff. It was not going to end well for someone. If the duke was injured or, heaven forbid, killed, Rose might never recover from her grief.

  “Put away your gun,” Huntford said, “and I’ll forget about this entire incident. I’ll ensure that your superiors know your excellent decision may have saved the life of an innocent woman.”

  Another gentleman pushed his way through the spectators and strode over, limping slightly. He took in the scene and scowled. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Jesus, Foxburn,” said the duke. “What took you so long?” Without waiting for a response, he jerked his chin toward Rose. “Escort her home and call for the doctor at once.”

  Yes. Charles released a breath. Foxburn was the duke’s friend, and an earl, if he remembered correctly. If the gentleman could extricate Rose from the current drama, Charles would be forever in his debt.

  The stocky constable still had his pistol trained on Huntford, and his jowls shook with anger. “If your friend takes the girl, I shoot you.”

  The duke snorted, and called over his shoulder to Foxburn. “Do it. Get her out of here.”

  Rose lifted her head and pushed aside the wet tendrils that hid her face. “No! Owen, this is madness. Surely we can sort through—”

  “Now,” yelled Huntford.

  Foxburn hurried toward Rose, shielding her with his body. But Charles could see the horror in her eyes as she watched the constable begin to squeeze the trigger.

  “Owen!” she cried.

  And Charles knew what he had to do.

  He kicked the man holding his elbow, twisted free, and dove in front of the duke just as the constable fired his gun.

  The bang filled his head, drowning out the sound of Rose’s screams and the crowd’s shouts. He sailed through the air and slammed into the duke’s side.

  They both went down.

  Charles slid face first over the rough ground, losing a few layers of skin to the pavement. Huntford moaned and struggled to sit.

  Charles rolled off onto his side, unable to hear a thing. Chaos erupted around him. People were running, fists were flying.

  Where was Rose? He couldn’t see her, but he hoped she was far away from the crush. Somewhere safe and warm.

  As for him, he was grateful for the numbing cold.

  He could barely feel the gunshot in his shoulder. He might not have noticed it at all, if it hadn’t been for the warm blood seeping through his shirt and jacket.

  And after a few moments of lying there on his side, watching ships bob in the harbor, Charles felt nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Chapter Thirty

  Put me down!” Rose kicked her feet, but Ben, Lord Foxburn, continued walking toward his coach, with her slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

  “How can you leave them there? Owen is your friend. You should be helping him.”

  Ben sighed. “Believe me, I wish I was back there, fighting alongside him.”

  “Then why aren’t you?” Exasperation oozed out of her.

  “Because I know that if I were in his position and I had a sister, I’d want him to take her home.” He strode up to the coach and set her on her feet, but held tightly to her arm. As he opened the cab door he said, “Think about it for a moment. Getting away from that scene was the best thing you could do for your brother. As long as you were there, he could only think about you. Now he can take care of himself.”

  Rose swallowed. “A gun fired. What if he was shot? Or what if Charles, er, Mr. Holland, was? Maybe they both were. We must do something.”

  Ben frowned, and she sensed he was as frustrated as she. “If you promise to go directly home and have the duchess call for a doctor, I’ll go back to the docks and lend my assistance.”

  “I promise,” she said quickly. “Thank you.”

  He hesitated, then said, “One question. Did Holland force you to help him? Or to do anything that you didn’t wish to do?”

  “Never. He is innocent.” She raised her chin. “And he is my fiancée.”

  Ben’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus.” He helped her into the coach and spoke to the driver before addressing her once more. “Don’t forget your promise, Rose. Home, doctor, rest. I’ll return Owen as soon as I can.”

  “And Charles too?”

  The earl shook his head. “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do for him.”

  “But you’ll try?” she pleaded. Desperate, she added the one thing that might sway him. “You know it’s what Daphne would want.”

  At the mention of his wife, his blue eyes softened. “Very well. For her—and for you—I will try to help Holland. I hope he knows how fortunate he is.” He pulled a blanket out from under the seat, handed it to her with a smile, and closed the coach door. Almost immediately, the vehicle lurched forward, and Rose stared out of the window, watching Ben jog back toward the dock, favoring his right leg.

  He would do his best. But what if it wasn’t enough? She unfolded the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders but couldn’t stop her hands from shaking or her teeth from chattering. A dozen blankets couldn’t ease the icy dread she felt deep in her bones.

  A mere quarter of an hour later, the coach pulled up in front of the townhouse—her home. In spite of everything, she took some comfort in seeing the familiar paneled front door, the pretty fanlight above, and the columns on either side. This place was a part of her, and yet she would have gladly left it behind for Charles.

  The moment the coach rolled to a stop, the footman bounded into the house. Though Rose would have dearly loved to enter quietly and retreat to her room, it was not to be. Almost immediately, the housekeeper, Mrs. Pottsbury, rushed out the front door followed by Anabelle. Rose’s heart squeezed at the sight of her sister-in-law dashing down the walk.

  The coachman opened the cab door, and before he could help Rose alight, Anabelle was reaching for her and pulling her into a tearful hug. “Thank heaven above,” she choked out, nearly strangling Rose with the force of her embrace. “You’ve no idea how worried we’ve been about you. Owen’s barely slept, and I—”

  Abruptly, she took a step back and held Rose at arm’s length. “What’s this? You’re soaked, and half frozen as well. Are you hurt?”

  Rose shook her head. “No, but I went for a swim in the Thames.”

  A look of horror crossed Anabelle’s face. “Dear Lord. Let’s get you inside.” She pulled the blanket hanging from Rose’s shoulders more tightly around her and bustled her toward the front door.

  “I’ll have a hot bath prepared,” Mrs. Pottsbury announced. “And tea as well.”

  “Th
ank you,” Anabelle said to the housekeeper. “And please send for Doctor Loxton at once.” Rose opened her mouth to object, but then remembered her promise to Ben. “Also, please send word to Lady Daphne and Lady Olivia—they’ll be so relieved and happy to know Rose is home.”

  “Olivia’s home from Egypt?”

  “She and James returned two days ago. Isn’t it wonderful that you’re both home?”

  Yes, but Rose didn’t want a homecoming celebration—not while Charles and Owen could be fighting for their lives. She halted in the doorway, and from behind her spectacles, Anabelle gave her a puzzled look. “Owen and Ben are at the docks,” Rose said. “Owen was trying to persuade the constables to release me and when they refused, he became irate.”

  “Oh dear.” Anabelle’s forehead creased in concern as she pulled Rose into the warm foyer and closed the door behind them. “That can’t have gone well.”

  “There was a skirmish, and just as one of the constables fired his pistol, Charles dove in front of Owen.”

  Belle paled. “Were they shot?”

  “I don’t know. Chaos broke out, and before I could get to them, Ben whisked me away and put me in the coach. Then he returned to the docks.” She clenched her fists. “I should never have agreed to leave.”

  “No, you did the right thing in coming here.” But worry clouded Belle’s eyes.

  Rose clasped her hands. “We could return there now. Let’s go, before the coach leaves.”

  “It’s tempting,” Belle conceded, “but that would only complicate the situation.” She shook her head. “Besides, chances are the outcome has already been decided by now. The best course of action is for us to remain here and await news from the men. And in the meantime, I intend to see that you’re warm, dry, and well. You’ve been through a harrowing ordeal.”

  Rose’s legs suddenly felt weak and wobbly. “I’ve made such a mess of things, Belle. I’m sorry I caused you so much worry.”

  “Shh, don’t be silly.” She cast a sideways glance at Rose. “You love him, don’t you?”

  Choking back a sob, she nodded. “So much so that I almost left all of you. Seeing you now makes me realize how devastating that would have been…  but I’d make the same choice again if it meant I could be with him.”