The Bride's Rescuer

by Charlotte Douglas

  She wouldn’t acknowledge that she’d lied. “What’s your surprise?”

  He glanced at the pistol he still held at the ready, but said nothing.

  Celia, still uncomfortably aware of her state of undress, reached for the wrapper in her closet, but Utley leveled the pistol at her and shook his head.

  “When do you expect Alexander back?” he repeated.

  “I don’t,” she replied honestly. Unless Cameron had heard her conch call for help, he could stay away for days.

  “No matter,” Utley said. “I’ve been searching for him for over six years. A few hours, or even days, more or less, won’t really matter. As long as I make my ‘delivery’—” he pointed the gun and pretended to pull the trigger “—that’s all that matters.”

  With a chilling certainty and growing fear, Celia realized that Utley had come to kill Cameron. And probably all the rest of them as well. She had to find a way to keep the man from shooting her, Mrs. Givens and Noah until Cameron could arrive and save them, or until Celia could think of a plan to overcome their visitor. An idea struck her, and she hurried to act.

  “I’ve been an inconsiderate hostess. You must be thirsty and hungry after so many hours on the water. If you’ll come down to the kitchen, I’ll fix you something to eat.” She raised the hem of the pinafore provocatively, allowing Utley a glimpse of her thigh. “After dinner,” she said with what she hoped seemed like enthusiasm, “I’ll see that your other…needs are taken care of.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Celia swept past Utley into the hall. She held her breath and waited for a bullet in the back that never came.

  He clattered down the stairs behind her, and she strode into the front room and selected the largest brandy snifter from the sideboard. After filling it almost to the brim, she handed it to Utley, who stood in the doorway, appearing slightly stunned by her behavior.

  “Would you care to relax while I prepare your dinner, or would you rather come with me?” Celia flashed what she hoped was a come-hither smile and wiggled her hips as she brushed past him in the doorway.

  Utley bolted down half the brandy and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He grabbed her wrist as she attempted to pass, digging his fingernails into her flesh. “You’re a smart one, Mrs. Alexander, and I don’t trust you.”

  For a moment she feared he would shoot her on the spot, but he glanced at his half-empty glass, retrieved the brandy decanter, and waved his pistol at her again. “To the kitchen. I’m starving.”

  She avoided looking at Mrs. Givens and Noah as she passed the open doors of the dining room. They must have thought she’d gone mad, but there was method in her madness.

  When Celia and Utley entered the kitchen, she pretended the pistol aimed at her head didn’t exist. “Please have a seat, and I’ll serve you.”

  An aromatic fish chowder Mrs. Givens had prepared for dinner bubbled on the stove, but it lacked an essential ingredient. Celia went to the shelf where Mrs. Givens stored her herbal remedies and took down the bottle that held the sleeping potion the housekeeper had once given her. After spooning up a bowl of chowder, Celia uncorked the bottle and poured a generous measure into the stew, hoping the onions and peppers would cover its bitter taste.

  “What’s that you’re adding?” Utley’s slurred words reflected both his suspicions and the progress of his drunkenness.

  Celia placed the bowl in front of him and, repressing a shudder, rubbed her breast against his sleeve. “It’s—oil of oysters, an aphrodisiac. I thought you might want such inspiration for later.”

  She batted her eyelashes at him suggestively and turned to cut bread from the loaf. She hefted the bread knife, wondering if she had the strength and the stomach to plunge it into his black heart, but he stopped her by pointing the pistol at her head again.

  Abandoning the knife, she served him bread and butter, then sat across from him, filling and refilling the snifter as he ate. He finished off the first bowl of stew and demanded another. His speech became more slurred, but he showed no signs of passing out.

  As he came closer to finishing his meal, his glances and comments became more suggestive, and Celia began to worry that she’d backed herself into a terrible trap.

  “Would you like dessert?” she asked. “Mrs. Givens has made a wonderful bread pudding with lemon sauce.”

  The man pushed himself away from the table and stood, wobbling only slightly. A repulsive leer split his face. “I want only one thing for dessert.”

  With lightning speed and dexterity for someone who was supposed to be both drugged and drunk, he whipped out a hand and grabbed her. Wrapping his fingers in her hair, he pulled her face toward his, while his other hand held the pistol pointed at her heart.

  “We’re going to have a very long and busy night, pretty lady,” he said with a hideous laugh.

  His lips closed on Celia’s. Despite her revulsion, she sensed a sudden movement on the veranda behind him. Someone jerked him away from her, and at the same instant, his pistol fired.

  A searing pain burned Celia’s chest, blackness closed around her, and she slumped to the floor.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Celia opened her eyes but couldn’t move. Footsteps approached, and Mrs. Givens’s sensible shoes appeared beside her. Either she and Noah had broken free or someone had untied them.

  “God in heaven, are they both dead?” the housekeeper cried.

  Strong arms lifted Celia to her feet. She smelled the sunshine and salt air on Cameron’s clothes and buried her face in his throat, forgetting for the moment Clarissa and Randolph and the doubts she’d had, reveling in the warmth and security of his embrace.

  Until Mrs. Givens gasped.

  When Celia saw the pinafore soaked with blood, her legs buckled, and she’d have fallen if Cameron hadn’t held her fast and eased her into a chair beside the stove. He scanned her with worried eyes while Mrs. Givens peeled back the edges of the pinafore over Celia’s heart where the bullet had ripped through the fabric.

  “Am I shot?” Celia asked, all too aware of the burning pain in her chest.

  “The bullet cut a furrow like a corn row in you,” Mrs. Givens said, “but it was only a glancing blow.”

  “I came as quickly as I could when I heard your signal,” Cameron said, “but the tide and winds were against me.”

  While Cameron clasped Celia’s hand, Mrs. Givens mopped her chest with cold water and cleansed away the blood. Then she smeared the wound with a sweet-smelling salve and bound it with clean linen.

  Celia glanced at Cameron, whose jaw was set in a hard line and whose face flushed with fury as he glared at the prostrate form of Jack Utley on the kitchen floor.

  “Is he dead?” Celia asked.

  Noah approached the intruder and felt for a pulse. “The blood must be yours, Miss Celia, cause he ain’t shot anywheres. But he’s got a powerful bruise on his cheek where Mr. Alex hit him.”

  “Tie him up, Noah,” Cameron ordered in a tone so cold that Celia shivered to hear it.

  Noah disappeared, but returned immediately with the drapery cords and bound Utley hand and foot. “He ain’t going nowheres anytime soon.”

  Mrs. Givens had also left the room and returned with Celia’s robe. She held it up like a screen while Celia removed the bloody apron, then slipped it over Celia’s arms and belted it around her. Celia slid weakly back into her chair.

  “Who is he?” Cameron demanded in the same chilly voice.

  “Jack Utley,” Celia said. “He said he’d come to make a delivery, but I think he planned to kill you.”

  The housekeeper surveyed her kitchen, strewn with dirty dishes and pots, and caught sight of the empty bottle of herbal remedy. “Did you feed him all of that?”

  Celia nodded. “I kept adding it to his food, but it seemed to have no effect.”

  “No effect?” She snorted with contempt. “You may as well bury him now, Noah. The devil will never wake up.”

  In contradiction to her words, Utley ga
ve a low groan and fluttered his eyelids.

  “You want me to hit him again?” Noah asked.

  A look of black rage suffused Cameron’s features. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Will you?” Celia asked.

  He caught the irony in her words, and his tension eased, but only slightly. “Take him to the cowshed, Noah.”

  Cameron sat on the arm of Celia’s chair and draped his arm around her. “Tell me what happened.”

  Celia related how she’d seen Utley’s boat arrive at the north point, how he’d surprised them before they could arm themselves, of his intent to harm Cameron, and finally, how she’d beguiled the intruder into eating, then laced his food with Mrs. Givens’s remedy.

  Cameron’s jaw tightened as Celia described Utley’s advances, but he made no more threats against the man.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Celia asked. “We can’t leave him tied in the cowshed forever.”

  “He’d sour the milk,” Mrs. Givens said, and Celia realized the woman wasn’t joking.

  “We can’t allow him to leave,” Cameron said. “He might sneak back in the night and murder us all. That seems to have been his intention.”

  “Then you have no choice but to kill him,” Celia taunted. She played a dangerous game with Utley’s life in her effort to prove whether Cameron was capable of murder.

  He studied her through narrowed eyes. “You may be right.”

  He stood abruptly, grabbed his rifle from where he’d propped it against the kitchen door, and headed toward the outbuildings.

  Celia watched him go with a breaking heart.

  “He can’t just shoot the man,” Mrs. Givens said. “You must stop him!”

  “Cameron must do what he has to do. I will not be his conscience.” Celia had set Cameron a test, and if he failed it, Utley would die. She wondered what kind of monster she’d become as she sat, listening for the sound of gunshots. Several minutes passed as she waited beneath Mrs. Givens’s disapproving glare, and her resolve weakened and self-disgust filled her. She couldn’t prove her husband’s guilt or innocence at the expense of another man’s life.

  She rushed from the kitchen out into the yard and ran straight into Cameron as he returned from the cowshed. “Is he—”

  “Sleeping like a baby and snoring so loudly the cow will have no rest tonight.”

  Relief flooded through her, but it didn’t wash away the guilt she felt at pushing Cameron toward murder. “What are you going to do with him?”

  “I must talk with you, Celia.” He took her hand and walked with her into the house to the front parlor. “Sit down.”

  After propping his rifle against the wall, he moved to the fireplace, reached up and removed the portrait of Clarissa and Randolph. As Celia watched, puzzled and horrified, he slipped the knife he used for gutting fish from the sheath at his belt and attacked the painting.

  “Don’t!” she cried.

  He paused, knife in midair, and she shivered at the tableau before her. Her protests proved futile, for he plunged the knife into the canvas once more and ripped it down its length. When he stopped, the painting hung in shreds with only one large chunk of it intact, the portion that held the smiling image of young Randolph.

  Cameron lit the wood lying ready in the fireplace and fed the strips of canvas into the flames, all except the part that bore his son’s picture, which he set carefully aside. He shattered the gilded frame into pieces over his knee and fed those, too, into the blazing fire.

  When the flames burned low, he sat beside her and took her hands in his. “We must put the past behind us, Celia. Can you do that?”

  She pulled her hands away. “You’re asking too much of me.”

  “Am I? Do you believe we can live the rest of our lives as we have these past weeks, avoiding each other, yearning for the love we once had, hearing each other’s movements behind the wall that separates our rooms, yet unable to breach the wall that divides our hearts?”

  His eyes shone in the firelight, and she was shocked by the gauntness of his face. Cameron had lost even more weight than she had, and the unbearable burden of their estrangement weighed heavily on them both.

  “You can try for another week,” he said, “another year, and another, but you will not solve the mystery of who killed my family. God knows, I have tried for almost eight years, and I still have no answers.”

  She buried her face in her hands to block the sight of his tortured face. “I don’t know—”

  “You must choose. Tomorrow morning, you and I and Utley will sail for Key West.”

  His announcement caught her by surprise. “You never leave Solitaire.”

  “We can’t set Utley free to threaten us again, and, in spite of what you think of me, I can’t kill him. I must take him to the authorities and let them deal with him. After all, the man attempted to kill you.”

  Celia wanted to trust Cameron, to love him as unconditionally as she had when she married him, but the strange circumstances of the deaths of Clarissa and Randolph had planted too many suspicions in her mind.

  “Why do I have to go with you?” she asked.

  His eyes burned with amber fire. “When we reach Key West, you must make your decision.”

  “About what?”

  “You have two choices. You can choose to become my legally wedded wife.”

  “And my second choice?” She returned his fiery gaze, but this time he refused to meet her eyes.

  “I will destroy the document that certifies our marriage and arrange for your transportation home. Our marriage will be null and void, as if it never happened.”

  “I don’t know if I could choose either of those now,” she admitted honestly.

  Cameron grasped her by the shoulders, and she feared for a moment that he would shake her, but his hands eased their grip and his fingers traveled upward, caressing her throat and face before he released her.

  “You have until we reach Key West to make up your mind. Whichever you choose has to be better than the hell we’ve existed in these past weeks. We’ll sail at dawn.”

  She heard him leave the room and climb the stairs, but she remained, struggling with the dilemma before her and watching the last fragments of Clarissa’s portrait disintegrate into ashes.

  MRS. GIVENS SHOOK Celia awake in the predawn darkness, and she opened her eyes reluctantly. She had lain awake for hours after going to bed, listening to Cameron tossing and turning in the next room and trying to decide what she would do once they reached Key West.

  “Mr. Alexander told me to pack all your things,” the housekeeper said with a questioning look and held up a piece of fine leather luggage. “I found this in the attic.”

  While Celia hurriedly washed and dressed, Mrs. Givens took her clothes from the dresser and armoire and placed them in the suitcase. “That’s everything. Except your seashells.”

  Celia considered the collection of shells in their basket on the table by her bed. If she decided to leave Solitaire for good, she’d at least have them to remember. “I’ll carry those myself.”

  Mrs. Givens waited for a moment, as if hoping Celia would give some explanation, but since she had no idea what her ultimate decision would be, Celia couldn’t explain what was happening. The housekeeper, recognizing that she’d get no answers about the strange events of the morning, left the room, muttering under her breath.

  Celia pulled on her sneakers and tied them tightly. Even had the bloodstains not ruined them, her wedding slippers would have been too treacherous on the deck of the sailboat.

  Mrs. Givens reappeared, bearing a tray filled with fruit, hot biscuits and a steaming cup of coffee, and set it on the table beside Celia.

  She drank the coffee gratefully, hoping it would clear the cobwebs from her mind, but the food stuck in her throat, and she could only manage a few bites.

  The housekeeper, twisting her apron in her hands, stood watching her. When Celia finished her coffee and set the cup aside, Mrs. Givens spoke. />
  “You must beg Mr. Alexander not to make this trip.” A note of hysteria tinged her voice.

  “Are you afraid of what might happen if the authorities discover who he is?” Celia asked.

  She knew that Scotland Yard had released Cameron for lack of evidence, but she also knew that he feared the police might appear at any time with additional facts or a surprise witness to incriminate him.

  “I’ve had another premonition,” Mrs. Givens said, “unlike any I’ve ever had before.” Her eyes filled with tears, and her skin appeared gray in the lamplight.

  Celia shook her head. “Neither your premonitions nor any pleas of mine will change Cameron’s mind about going to Key West.”

  “But this vision is different.” The housekeeper’s voice was almost a whisper. “I see it as clear as I see the nose on your face. I know what’s going to happen to you.”

  Celia scoffed at the woman’s eerie pronouncement. “How can you know the future, when I haven’t decided myself what I’m going to do?”

  “I only know, m’dear, that if you leave this place today, you are going somewhere far, far away, and I fear I may never see you again.” She buried her face in her apron and sobbed. “And I love you like my own daughter, I do.”

  “Please don’t cry.” Celia hugged the housekeeper and fought back her own tears. She’d come to love Mrs. Givens, and the thought of never seeing her again saddened Celia deeply.

  On impulse, Celia removed the diamond studs from her ears, the earrings she had worn since the disastrous day she’d almost married Darren, and pressed them into Mrs. Givens’s hands. “These are for you.”

  “I can’t, not your diamonds.”

  “I want you to have them, to remember me by if I don’t return, and to remember how dear you are to me, whether I come back to Solitaire or not.”

  Mrs. Givens dried her eyes. “Take care of Cameron, m’dear.”

  Celia thought her parting words strange, but Cameron was calling from the foot of the stairs, so she kissed the housekeeper’s wrinkled cheek, picked up the leather bag, and hurried down to meet him.