by Allison Lane
His kiss was nothing like that test, though.
Was that why she’d fled? His lips had unleashed heat and a host of unexpected sensations. And his tongue…
She shivered recalling the delicious taste of the wine he’d been drinking mixed with an odd sweetness that must be Jack himself.
And his body! Her fingers curved into the remembered shape of muscular shoulders, strong arms, and a broad back. She was accustomed to her own supple body, but Jack’s was hard, an unyielding rock. And she lacked—
Her face heated at the memory of that hard ridge. She’d seen woodcuts of Greek statues, but none that hinted at such size. Not that she would ever feel it again…
It was over. And her flight condemned Jack, too. Melancholy still lurked in his eyes. Now that he knew she was hopeless, nothing would stop him from staging a new accident.
Pain released new tears. She’d driven him off by losing control of herself. Not only would she never see him again, but she would never hear about his end. Mrs. Hastings rarely shared neighborhood gossip and never mentioned death.
Are you giving up? asked Hutch. Will you sit here wallowing in self-pity instead of fighting? Surely Jack is worth fighting for!
“But what can I do?” she demanded crossly. “Until Halworth is under my control, I can’t leave. If I called at Seacliff, Barnett would lock me up.”
You can start by sending Jack an apology. Describe your cowardice as a setback, then beg for another chance. A soldier should know that no campaign is easy. Twelve years of weakness cannot be overcome in a single month.
“And how would I deliver such a letter?”
Send it with Hastings, of course. Must I think of everything? You know Hastings would walk on water if it would make you happy. He never approved of your solitude. And though he might question the propriety of meeting Jack alone, he would welcome the acquaintance of so honorable a man.
“Very well. I’ll grovel on paper.”
Sighing, she headed back to the house. It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. Imagining Jack dead froze her soul, so if a written apology didn’t work, she must call at Seacliff and pray that his staff would keep her visit a secret.
Mrs. Hastings was hovering outside Halworth’s side door.
Even without a mirror, Marianne knew her eyes were red from weeping, and her cheeks must be blotched. Speaking would reveal a hoarse voice, raising questions, so she circled around to the front.
Another mistake, she realized the moment she opened the door. A man was in the hall. For one glorious instant, she thought Jack had come after her, but this man was shorter and thicker.
Terror welled, but she fought it down. This was no time for fits. Something was dreadfully wrong.
“Hello, Marianne.”
Lord Barnett. The guards must have discovered Jack’s visits. His voice shredded another layer of her defenses, reviving twelve-year-old fears. That voice had assailed her for days, demanding, admonishing, and threatening until she’d feared for her life.
“Don’t you recognize me?” he continued.
She nodded dumbly. He had put on weight and lost some hair, but little else had changed, including his scent. She’d never liked musk.
He shook his head, examining her from head to toe, his eyes gleaming brighter at each sign of dishabille – wild hair, puffy eyes, stained gown, muddy half-boots. “Craven is right. You are hopeless, Marianne. Come along.” He motioned to the entrance.
“What?” She gathered her scattered wits.
“I had hoped that time would heal you. Since it hasn’t, we must take stronger measures.”
“What are you talking about?” She backed against the wall.
He grabbed her arm, shoving her toward the mirror that had always hung near the door. “Look at yourself! Running wild like a red Indian. Howling for no reason at all.”
“I—” she began.
But he talked over her. “Grief should have abated years ago. Since it hasn’t, I must seek help. It is my duty as your guardian. I’ve found a doctor who specializes in disorders of the mind. His facility is nearby. The staff can send your things later.”
“No.” She tore her arm free, loath to go anywhere with him. His touch raised memories of the journey to Halworth – dodging plunging horses as Barnett dragged her across a reeking stable yard, tiny inns choking with smoke and ale, hulking strangers leering from all sides, hands clutching at her gown…
Terror swelled her throat until she couldn’t breathe. Pain constricted her chest, radiating down her arms. Her heart battered against her ribs, too fast to count the beats.
“Yes.” His voice turned hard. “I have been far too lenient. It is time to accept my responsibilities.”
“No!” She backed, trying to hold the nightmares at bay. Jack. She must think of Jack. Without her help, he would die.
But Jack no longer wanted her. She was mad, disgusting, pitiably weak. She’d ruined any chance for salvation.
Lightning blazed through her mind, bursting the cages that held her demons.
“No! Don’t touch me!”
Barnett swooped closer, breathing hotly in her face, his fingers splayed like talons poised to carry her off to an aerie of death.
She struck out, shoving, clawing, shouting for help. A blow jerked her head back. He pinned her arms, but she fought harder, kicking and biting.
“Bind her,” he snapped.
Two burly men jumped forward. Screaming, she bucked, twisting away from their greedy hands.
Fight! ordered Jacques. You have to escape!
She freed an arm, smashing a fist against someone’s chin, clawing another’s face. One man went down, but victory was impossible. Three against one, the three too strong. Fog grayed her vision as they threw her to the floor. Renewed struggling couldn’t dislodge them. Reeking breath singed her face and neck. The fog thickened until she could see nothing.
Her screams echoed, deafening her to other sounds.
Hands pinned her as cords wrapped her arms until she was helpless, raising fear to heights she had not felt in twelve years. As the men tossed her into a carriage, the last of her senses shut down, leaving only terror.
* * * *
As the carriage approached a village, Lord Barnett pulled the blind so no one could see the animal that had once been his niece. He wished he’d brought a second carriage so he needn’t share with her. Craven was right. She should have been locked away years ago.
She lay on the opposite seat, quiet for the moment, though he doubted she would remain so. This journey was worse than the one to Halworth twelve years ago. Then she’d merely screamed if anyone approached her. Now she fought like a wildcat, screeching until she gagged, then wailing until she swooned. Within minutes she would awake to start the process over. Her clothes stank of vomit. His carriage would never be the same.
Holding a scented handkerchief to his nose, he waited until the village was behind them, then reopened the window. Surely they were nearing the asylum. Craven swore it was only fifteen miles from Halworth. But the rutted lanes made the journey seem interminable.
Morden Heath stretched to the horizon. Sheep wandered a distant hillside, but most of the land was empty. Carey’s asylum was isolated enough to discourage visitors – not that anyone would call on Marianne. Halworth’s elderly staff would move to retirement cottages within a fortnight. No one else knew her.
Half an hour later, the carriage drew up before a stone manor. Bars blocked its windows. A chill permeated the air, icier than October generally produced. But what had he expected? Asylums by nature were cold, comfortless places full of inhuman beasts.
Suppressing a shiver, he climbed down from the carriage.
“No visitors allowed,” said the porter, cracking the door in response to Barnett’s rap.
“I’m not a visitor. Tell Dr. Carey that his new patient has arrived.”
His words produced a flurry of activity. Two attendants carried Marianne inside while a third raced t
o fetch the doctor. The porter led Barnett to a small parlor.
Barnett had time to empty two glasses of wine and a plate of cakes before Carey finally appeared.
“Lord Barnett,” he said, bowing low. “My apologies for keeping you waiting, but we had to settle your niece. A difficult case, but she is resting comfortably now. When did her problem begin?”
“Twelve years ago. Her family succumbed to disease while traveling abroad. The trip back to England was arduous. She has been unable to live with others ever since.”
“It happens.” Carey steepled his fingers over his nose. “She undoubtedly suffered a milder form of their illness. Disease often weakens the mind, which would have magnified her loss and made the perils of her journey more frightening.”
“Can she be cured?”
“Improvement is rare, especially after so many years. Usually all we can do is make the victim comfortable.”
“I understand. I will expect a formal report within the week. If she is incurable, there are legal steps I must take.”
Bidding Carey farewell, he headed for Bere Regis, hoping the village inn would have a decent room – and a bath.
* * * *
Jack shoved the decanter aside. Overindulgence had caused enough trouble already. He should never have visited Marianne when he was the worse for wine. She was too innocent to handle a passionate assault – and too wellborn to dally with anyway.
He smashed his fist against his desk. Would she meet him again?
While stumbling home from Halworth, he’d worked his way through every curse he’d heard in fifteen years of warfare. How could he have been so stupid? It was bad enough that he’d kissed her, but terrifying her was insupportable. He’d thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, pulling her against an erection that must have felt like a club. He couldn’t blame her for fleeing.
Even worse, she would interpret her reaction as proof of madness.
The pain doubled him over.
After years of being told she was mad, she would never believe her fear was rational, though a virgin who didn’t run when attacked by a lust-crazed man was abnormal. Especially one as isolated as Marianne.
Without anyone to instruct her, she remained a total innocent. Most of society’s daughters knew what went on between men and women long before they reached London, even if that knowledge arose solely from warnings on what constituted unacceptable flirtation.
But Marianne knew nothing.
He forced his feet upstairs. Guilt made it impossible to think clearly. Wine and exhaustion didn’t help. He needed sleep. Only then could he devise a way to repair the damage he’d caused.
Three hours later, his butler shook him awake. “Mrs. Hastings to see you, Colonel,” announced Barton. “She swears it is an emergency.”
“The Halworth housekeeper?” Jack’s gut clenched as he bounded from bed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Put her in the library. I will be down in five minutes.” He was dressing as he spoke. There was no time to summon Jones.
Marianne might have sent her housekeeper to demand that Jack stay off her estate, but he doubted she would bother. Avoiding the cliffs for a few days would send the same message. Besides, such an errand could hardly be considered an emergency.
It was more likely that the housekeeper was here to castigate him for upsetting her mistress. He clung to that hope, though his heart feared a catastrophe. The certainty that danger lurked remained.
But whatever the errand, he welcomed the chance to question the woman. Who would know more about Marianne than her housekeeper?
When he arrived in the library, his heart hit the floor.
Mrs. Hastings was backed against a bookcase, hands white-knuckled as they gripped her reticule, eyes wide with fear. He’d seen panicked horses who looked calmer. Emergency, indeed.
“You have to find Miss Marianne,” she said through a sob. “He’s taken her away.”
“Who?”
“That demon.” Her voice rose in hysteria. “The master always said—”
“Calm yourself, Mrs. Hastings,” he ordered. “Take a deep breath and sit down.” He escorted her to a chair and poured her a glass of sherry, refusing to allow another word until she had emptied half of it. “Now, start at the beginning.”
“I know you and Miss Marianne have been meeting in the woods,” she began.
“As friends only.”
“I know. And we approve – Hastings and I. It’s done her a body of good to talk to someone. She is more interested in the world since you arrived. But now he’s taken her away. You have to stop him.”
“Who?” he asked again.
“Lord Barnett.” She sniffed into a handkerchief. “He came while Miss Marianne was out this morning. Just walked in like he owned the place. He had both guards with him, so we knew something was wrong. Hastings tried to put him in the drawing room, but Lord Barnett searched the house in case Miss Marianne was hiding, then stayed in the hall so he could pounce the moment she returned.”
“Dear Lord,” murmured Jack under his breath. She had already been upset. What would an ambush do?
“Hastings stayed with him – he hoped to ease him into the drawing room, for we didn’t expect her back for an hour or more.”
Jack cursed himself yet again. If he had behaved…
“I slipped away, hoping to warn her – I thought she was in the woods, so I watched that direction, but she must have come the other way. The next thing I knew, the poor girl was screaming worse than when that beastly Mr. Craven calls.”
Jack gritted his teeth.
“Hastings saw it all. Lord Barnett slammed her against the wall the moment she walked through the door. When she screamed, he slapped her. She tried to escape, but he held her down while the guards trussed her up like a Christmas goose. When Hastings protested, one of them struck him.”
“Did they hurt her?”
“How could they not? Everyone knows she can’t stand being touched. He deliberately used that against her. Hastings says Lord Barnett goaded her until he triggered a fit. He was gloating as they threw her into his carriage – she was retching by then, so what would he have to smile about?”
“Did Barnett say where he was taking her?”
“A doctor, though she’s not ill.”
Jack suppressed his fury – and his terror; even the strongest mind could break after such mistreatment. He had to think rationally if he was to help. “She claims that Lord Barnett thinks her mad. Why?”
“She’s not mad, but there is no denying that she’s been fragile since her family died. And who can blame her?”
“What did she say about her trip to France?”
“Not a word.”
“Damnation,” he muttered. France was the key, yet he knew no more today than he had twelve years ago. But her trauma was too intense to have come from an accident or illness. “How did her family die?”
Mrs. Hastings frowned. “Lord Barnett told us they died of plague – he’s the one who fetched her from Paris – but I’ve always suspected an accident.”
“He claimed to have fetched her?” Jack stared.
“Of course. And a dangerous business it was, what with the French breaking the peace, and all. They barely escaped with their lives.”
“He lied. I doubt he’s ever been out of the country. I first met her when she was fleeing France. The danger was true enough, but Miss Dubois was her only companion. They had no luggage and said only that Miss Barnett’s family was gone. I brought them back to England and delivered Marianne to Barnett Court. She stayed there for a month while Barnett came here to settle her father’s estate.”
Mrs. Hastings was shaking her head. “We didn’t see him until he brought Miss Marianne home.”
The Chancery suit. Barnett had lied to everyone. The moment he’d discovered the contents of his brother’s will, he’d gone to London to overturn it. But that wasn’t important at the moment. Fury had replaced fear in Mrs. Hastings’s eyes,
making her stronger.
Jack returned to business. “If I am to protect her, I have to know what happened in France. Are you sure she said nothing?”
“Not directly, but she suffered horrible nightmares for months, often screaming in her sleep. I sat beside her bed and prayed for her, though I quickly learned never to touch her. If the screams contained words, I couldn’t understand them. But she often shouted for Jacques.”
His heart contracted. “That was the name she knew me by.”
“She kept imploring Jacques to save them. I thought she meant her family, which is why I assumed there had been an accident that only she survived.”
“That may be, but she said nothing at all during that trip home.” Her reaction to his kiss hinted that she’d been raped. Her nightmares added evidence of an attack on her family. Save them! It made today’s assault even more despicable.
“But why would Lord Barnett lie? He swore he’d collected Marianne from Paris – made quite a tale of it. Their landlord had taken her in after plague killed the rest, hiding her from the police when they picked up other English travelers, then sending a messenger to bring Barnett across the Channel.” She sounded bewildered.
“I’ve no idea.” Unless Barnett suspected that his wife had added to Marianne’s woes – in which case, he might have pretended a heroic rescue to account for the month she’d been at Barnett Court. “Do you know where Barnett might have taken her today?”
“No, but there are only two decent roads out of this area. Someone in the village would have seen which one he followed.”
“Did he take the guards with him?”
“They returned to their posts, so his only servant is the coachman.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand this. He’s ignored her for years. The only visitor he allows is that disgusting secretary. The man watches her far too closely. There is a gleam in his eye I cannot trust.”
As he’d feared. “She told me that Barnett never writes.”
“True. Except for sending Mr. Craven, he leaves her alone.”
“Very well. I will try to find her. But Barnett is her guardian, which gives him authority over her. I have no legal standing, so the only way to rescue her will be kidnapping. I won’t be able to bring her back to Halworth until I discover Barnett’s purpose and dissuade him from trying again.”
