by Elisa Braden
He returned to the chamber to find Hannah sitting calmly upon the blanket, her pistol in her lap and the thief’s map in her hands.
Blowing out the candle, he laid his pistol on the shelf and placed the lantern near her shoulder. Then, he sat beside her. Released a breath. “I should have taken you back to Grimsgate. Locked you in our chamber with Reaver and Tannenbrook outside the door. Waited until tomorrow to come here.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Bloody stupid.”
She glanced up, blinking slowly. “Nonsense. Your thinking was sound. Near high tide, the thief would not be in the cave, yet it would still be accessible. You knew that. Had you returned me to Grimsgate, I would have followed you again. You also knew that. And I watched you survey the surrounding cliffs. No one was about when we ventured down to the beach. Even so, you exercised caution.”
Her placid recitation struck him as odd. He examined her closely. Was she paler than before? Difficult to tell in the low light. “You should be inside the castle right now, not trapped in a cave with an ill-tempered hound.” He huffed a chuckle at his own expense and rubbed his eyes. “Perhaps you should have married the boyish charmer, love. Little chance of being shot while playing garden chess.”
“I didn’t want him.”
God, he was an idiot. A jealous, mad idiot.
The way she’d spoken about Farrington that morning had lit his fuse to a bewildering degree. He’d pictured them together, laughing, charming one another, sharing witty conversation and peach tarts. Playing bloody garden chess.
His eyes found hers. “Why did you choose me?”
She looked at his chin then lowered her gaze to her lap. “Many reasons,” she murmured. “Most I cannot explain in words. We are connected. That is all I know.”
Watching her, he noted her skin appeared whiter. It might have been the light, but he didn’t think so. “Hannah.”
Her eyes fluttered closed.
“Hannah.” His voice went sharp as her arms seemed to slacken. He gathered her close, alarmed by her listless posture. “Love, what is it? What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. Blinked slowly. Her hand fluttered to his chest. Her head lolled onto his shoulder. “Nothing. A bit drowsy is all. May I rest here awhile?”
He plucked up her pistol and the map and placed them on the shelf beside the lantern. Then, he plucked up his wife to place her on his lap.
His arm came away wet.
He frowned. Had she been sitting in a puddle? Unlikely. The chamber was dry.
He glanced down at his sleeve. The liquid was warm. Dark.
Red.
Holy God. She was bleeding. His wife was bleeding.
“Hannah.” His voice cracked on her name. Panic surged. “Ah, God. Hannah. Where are you injured, love?”
She clung to his neck. Buried her face against his collar. “Right leg. I’ll be fine. Just a bit of blood.”
Frantically, he dragged her skirt up to see a red-soaked strip of muslin tied around her thigh. She’d used a piece of her petticoat to bandage the wound, but it had bled through, soaking her skirt. “God Almighty.”
“The bullet must have ricocheted,” she said, her voice soft, her hand stroking his jaw.
He untied the soaked cloth and gently angled her leg to view the long furrow in her upper thigh. “A graze,” he rasped. “But a deep one. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“All I am is a distraction. I—I thought you needed my help, but you don’t. I didn’t wish to make things worse. I am fine.”
“You are not bloody fine,” he snapped, his head spinning, his pulse racing. “I need to get you out of here. I need to—”
“Shh. Jonas.” She kissed a spot below his ear, her thumb running over and over his jaw. “Injuries are far from new to me. Remember?”
He shook his head, hating the reminder.
“This will bleed. Then it will heal.”
He held her tighter. Stroked her back. Her neck. Her shoulders and arms. He grabbed hold of the blanket. Ripped at it with his teeth and tore a long strip off one end. Swiftly, he tied the cloth around her leg, cinching it tightly to slow the bleeding.
She didn’t so much as wince.
“I know it hurts, love,” he whispered, rocking her in his arms, stroking her back. “I’m so damned sorry.”
“Pain is nothing, Jonas.” She stroked his cheek. “You mustn’t fret.”
He reached for the leather pack and retrieved the flask of whisky. “Here. Drink.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Drink,” he barked.
She took the flask. Took a swallow. Coughed.
“Another.”
She drank again.
They repeated the process until he was satisfied she’d had enough to dull the pain. Then, he took the flask from her limp fingers, drank a bit himself, and tucked the flask away. “Once the tide’s low enough, I’ll take care of the shooter. Then, I’ll come back for you and bring you to the surgeon in Alnwick.”
“Mmm.” She nuzzled her nose against his throat. “You smell lovely, Jonas. Have I ever told you?”
He rubbed his eyes. An hour. Less, perhaps. Only an hour. She would be fine. “No, love. Tell me.”
“It’s unlike anything else. I cannot explain. You smell like … pleasure.”
“You’re injured. This is no time for seduction.”
She giggled. “It is always time for seduction. I want you to want to be near me.”
Ridiculous thing to say. She was woven into his fabric. Without her, he unraveled. “Then, you have your wish.”
“Not merely for lustful reasons. We must be bound together. Attached.”
The absurd statement, combined with his body’s predictable reactions, deepened his frown. “Trust me, it’s best if I retain use of my hands.”
She sighed, her breath warm against his skin. “Lady Wallingham says you are a solitary wolf. But I wish for you to stay with me. Always.”
Her words had begun to slur at the edges. His little Snow Queen was a wee bit sotted. Despite the crushing pressure in his chest, he kept his words light. “Good thing you married me, eh?”
“Oh, yes. A very good thing. I will do whatever I must to ensure your happiness, Jonas Hawthorn. Whatever I must.”
“When your wound is healed and we’ve a proper bed, I’ll hold you to your word.”
“I want to bear your children. I want to serve your favorite dish for supper. What is your favorite?”
Puzzling at the odd question, he nevertheless answered, “Honey.”
“Honey is not a dish.”
“If I lay you down on a table, it is.”
A snort. Then, a giggle. “I meant food, silly.”
“Peaches, then.”
“I adore peaches.”
“As do I.”
A pause. “You still are not talking about food, are you?”
“No.” He shifted her in his lap. “Now you know why.”
She moaned. Kissed his neck. “You make me weak.”
“That’s the blood loss. And the whisky.”
“No. It’s you. Only you.”
They sat in silence for a while, her head lolling on this shoulder, her grasp of his neck slipping. His muscles flickered and fought against the impulse to crush her body into his. To kill the one who had hurt her. He forced them to wait. Because that was all he could do.
“Jonas?”
“Aye.”
“Why would a thief go to so much bother to steal Lady Wallingham’s slippers?”
“I don’t know, love.”
“Her slippers wouldn’t fit a gentleman.”
He chuckled. “I doubt it’s the slippers, precisely. Although some gentlemen do rather fancy them.”
“You said there were letters.” She paused. “Perhaps he sought to blackmail her. Or perhaps—”
Needing a distraction, he stretched sideways to snag the edge of the trunk, dragging it close. “Let’s have a look.” He dug past a gown and two pairs of slippers
. “Here we are.” He handed her a pile of letters that had once been folded and wrapped with twine but were now loose.
She set to reading while he continued digging through the dowager’s belongings.
“Oh, my. Jonas. These are …” She shuffled through several more pages, turning them over and covering her lips with her fingers. “They are love letters.”
“Hmm.” He tipped the trunk to see if he’d missed anything. He heard something slide and thud. “Any information worthy of blackmail?” he asked.
“Nothing obvious so far. It seems only a correspondence between her and her husband.” She raised the paper to her nose. “Sandalwood,” she murmured.
His fingers brushed something metal. He pulled out a small case, hinged on one side, oval in shape, filigreed and flat. He opened the cover.
And the itch along his nape sparked into a full-body chill.
“Is that a miniature?” Hannah tilted her head against his chest to view the likeness, painted on ivory.
“Aye,” he rasped. “Bloody, bleeding hell.”
“He looks a bit like you.” She tilted her head in a different direction. “And Lord Atherbourne.” Another direction. “But more like Lord Wallingham. The chin, I think. Is this … do you suppose this is Lord Wallingham’s father? I’ve never seen a portrait of him.”
“’Tis the thief. Or, at least, it matches the man Miss Allen described. Perhaps she viewed this portrait while trying on her ladyship’s slippers and took a fancy to him.”
“Mmm. I certainly see why she would.”
He glared down at his tipsy wife. “Do you, now?”
“He is very handsome.”
He snapped the cover closed and dropped the miniature back into the trunk.
She peered up at him, pale eyes softened by drink but nonetheless thoughtful. “Still, she would have to be either part of the conspiracy or daft beyond measure to describe the man in Lady Wallingham’s miniature as the thief. I suspect she sought to mislead you and that the man she was with in Alnwick is her true partner.”
“Perhaps.” He battled his irritation over her admiration for the man in the miniature. “Regardless, I must confront Lady Wallingham when we return to Grimsgate. She is hiding something. I showed her my sketch of the thief, and she claimed no recognition.” He waved to the trunk. “An obvious lie.”
Hannah gave him the letters to return to the trunk. “Perhaps she is not concealing the truth so much as … her grief.” Her hand came up to stroke his jaw then slid down over his heart. “These are her memories, Jonas. Her memories of him.”
He rolled his shoulders, ignoring the twisting pang her words produced. “Regardless, I cannot finish this job until I know everything.”
Hannah snuggled deeper into his arms. He kissed her head, inhaling rosewater and his sweet woman. Then, as she nodded off, he began planning his attack upon the shooter.
By the time the tide receded enough to implement his plan, he had envisioned the scenario a dozen times. He stripped down to only his breeches, wrapped Hannah in the blanket and woke her long enough to give instructions. Then, he kissed her long and deep to stop her protests and lit the candle for her before taking the lantern and making his way back to the waterline.
He set the lantern on the ground twenty yards from the cave entrance. Then, he waded in as water pushed and pulled with the receding tide. As a youth, swimming had been a near-daily ritual. The water’s chill was an old friend—rising past his hips, rolling on a wave over his shoulders as he crouched and half-waded, half-swam toward the opening. Just before he dove beneath the water, he scanned the cove for signs of the shooter. Nothing. But, then, the shooter would be complacent, for the tide was still high.
Filling his lungs, he submerged and pushed on, feeling his way past the cave’s entrance and then immediately turning right. A wave struck, driving his shoulder against rock. He ignored the bruising pain of it, the burning starting in his chest. Reaching for the gap between the boulder and the cliff face, he slipped inside as waves churned and swirled, pulling him in three directions at once.
He needed air, but he had to go farther into the cove first. Needed to emerge where the shooter would not expect to see him. Propelling himself along the rocks beneath the water, he dug and pulled himself along, fighting the battering surges, until he felt sand. Then, beside a solid wall of rock, he finally dared lift his face above the surface.
Gasping as air replaced burning deprivation, he shook seawater from his eyes and turned to where he thought the shooter must have perched. There, high on a cliff with a fair sight of the cave entrance, sat a man. Blond. Ugly. Rough. A long gun lay across his lap. He was eating something, his hand jerking as he tore off a bite. Then, he swilled from a flask. Wiped his mouth.
Oblivious. Perfect.
Jonas grinned. Planned. Then, with another deep breath, he went back beneath the water and found his way to the second cove. To the beach. Then the trail.
And, finally, to the man who had harmed the only thing on this bloody earth he loved.
He stalked him first. Snaked through high grass and found the angle he wanted. Waited for the blond head to turn.
The man tossed away whatever dried meat he’d been chewing. He uncapped his flask. And when he tipped his head back, Jonas struck.
Arm across the throat. Squeeze. Control the thrashing.
The man clawed and kicked. His rifle launched from his legs and landed in the grass.
He was strong. Thick about the shoulders. But Jonas had leverage, the element of surprise. Rage that wanted release.
He held tighter. Squeezing. Squeezing. And just at the end, a moment before the man went limp, he whispered, “Sleep now. Dream of the pain to come.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“If chins were fortunes, the Bainbridge men would be kings, my darling.”
—Dorothea Bainbridge, The Marchioness of Wallingham, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham, in a letter of amused reflections on the birth of their son.
Hannah awakened with a remembrance of warmth. The warmth of her husband’s arms. The softness of his whispers against her ear. The heat of sunlight upon her damp skirts.
He’d entered the cave like a primitive beast, naked and wet, a savage look upon his face. She’d asked what happened, noting the ruddy bruises forming on his shoulder. He hadn’t answered, merely donning his shirt, wrapping her in his coat, and carrying her out to the cove without a word. Then, he’d retrieved the trunk and, together, they’d made their way back to the horses. She’d noted he’d acquired a rifle somewhere along the way, as well as an additional load—a man, by the looks of it, either unconscious or dead. She hadn’t asked which. He’d draped the man over her saddle and covered him with the blanket that was still soaked with her blood.
He’d lifted her onto his horse, mounted behind her, and handed her the flask of whisky.
“Drink,” he’d growled.
It seemed single syllables were all he could manage.
He’d taken her to a surgeon in Alnwick, only a mile or two away. Then, he’d threatened to “carve a gash five times deeper” into the surgeon’s flesh if the man did anything to hurt her.
As the surgeon cleaned and stitched and bandaged her wound, Jonas had held her hand, his jaw flickering and his eyes burning.
She did not enjoy being touched by anyone other than him, so the process had been an ordeal. But she’d not wanted to cause her husband distress, either, so she’d closed her eyes and breathed.
Breathed.
Breathed.
That hadn’t dissolved the queasy membrane of fear. So, at last, she’d reached for Jonas. He’d stroked her hair and told her how strong she was.
She’d opened her eyes to find her husband’s gaze, silvery and strong, fierce and protective. There was no insouciant humor. No cynical grin. No ready quip.
He was as raw as she’d ever seen him.
Then, the surgeon had begun the stitchi
ng, and the pain had made her flinch. Jonas’s eyes had shifted to her wound. For a moment, she’d glimpsed anguish. Fear. The beautiful silver had turned bleak. Then cold. Then stony. Then remote.
He’d continued holding her hand, but his grip had loosened and he’d abandoned the soothing stroke of her hair.
She’d spoken his name, hoping he would look at her again. Not her wound but her. He hadn’t. Soon, whisky had clouded her head; laudanum had weighted her eyes. She’d faded into sleep still wanting him to come back to her.
Now, hours later, she awakened in their bed at Grimsgate, feeling his absence as an encompassing chill. Someone small emerged from the dressing room.
“Oh, mistress,” Claudette cried softly, rushing to her side. “Let me help.”
Without thinking, Hannah had instantly thrown aside her blankets and started to rise. Claudette held out her hands, waiting for Hannah to take them. Hannah did, but only to squeeze her maid’s fingers and give her a grateful smile. “I should be obliged for tea. Laudanum leaves me with a dreadful thirst.”
“Of course. I have a tray just there.” She nodded toward the small table near the window. “Are you in pain? Shall I fetch more laudanum?”
“No. I must speak to my husband. Help me dress?”
Claudette hesitated, a frown of concern creasing her brow. “Certainly, I will. We must take care, though. Your wound is fresh.”
“I am fine,” she assured. “First tea. Then a lovely frock. Pink, I think. Then I must find Mr. Hawthorn. It is most urgent that I speak with him.”
Nodding, Claudette smiled with warm reassurance. “Straight away, mistress.”
Hannah’s head spun as she sat up on the edge of the bed. But she must carry on. She must find Jonas. She must rise and dress and speak to her husband.
Because she’d felt him leave her. She’d watched him shut away the pain and fear inside a wall of indifference.
She knew what it looked like. She’d done it to him.
But she could not allow it. That fortress might keep out those who would harm him, but it locked in the loneliness. She’d fought for seven years to tear down her own walls, and she refused to let him build a new one in the center of their marriage.
