A nearby oak tree groaned and crackled as it wrestled with the wind. Another flurry ruffled her skirt and teased the curls around her face. She smiled and nodded. “Like a fish. Puri Daj insisted I learn after father and mother drowned.”
Vangie raised her eyes to the churning, gray sky. It had been a day much like today when a fierce summer storm orphaned her. Their carriage had been swept downriver after a bridge gave way.
A chill swept her.
She scanned the tree tops. Dark gun-metal gray clouds swirled above them. The trees swayed and dipped, their branches waving wildly. The air smelt of damp earth, pine, and lily of the valley.
She tossed another crust of bread to the birds. Apprehension squeezed her ribs, but her head didn’t ache. Not yet, anyway. The megrims started after the death of her parents. Storms, like stress, almost always brought on an episode.
Perhaps this time would be different. She bathed Ian with a loving gaze. She wasn’t lonely and afraid anymore.
“You shouldn’t be here unaccompanied.” Hands on his lean hips, surveyed the area, obviously looking for the men he’d assigned to guard her. “Where are Beau and Bryce? And your new maid? What’s her name?”
Vangie almost giggled. She wasn’t the only one who couldn’t always remember names.
“Ayva. She’s helping Mrs. Tanssen with Ailsa’s wedding preparations. They are twins after all.”
“What was the good Lord thinking, molding two of them?” He shook his head in disbelief. “What about the men?”
“Gerard sent a message. He needed them in the stables. I think they said it was to help move something.”
Throwing the last piece of bread in the water, Vangie sent Ian a sideways glance. Worry hardened his features. He had been edgy and troubled since they’d arrived home.
Well, not the first day. He’d been quite content that afternoon. She smiled at the memory.
“I’m sorry, Ian. I thought it would be all right. There’s been no sign of your stepmother since Jasper reported her disappearance.”
Vangie heartily hoped the woman was gone for good.
He smiled and the tension eased from his face. The wind whipped through his chestnut hair. She rather liked the unkempt look. She shivered, securing her shawl tighter. The weather was turning foul fast. The promised picnic would have to wait—again.
“It’s of no consequence, sweeting. I’ll speak with Gerard and remind him the two have other duties until further notice.”
Her gaze strayed to the pond. It was deserted, and the pond was now a mass of seething foam.
“Where are the birds?”
Ian wrapped his arm around her waist. “Look across the water. They’ve taken sanctuary in the marshland.”
He eyed the turbulent sky. “We’d best return to the mansion ourselves.”
Even as he spoke the heavens opened with a torrent of frigid rain. A raging gust of wind pummeled them. Vangie’s breath caught at its intensity. Icy pellets buffeted her, making it difficult to see. He gripped her hand. They turned for the manor house, then stopped short.
Sir Doyle and the Dowager Viscountess Warrick blocked the bridge. Each held a pistol.
The storm had allowed the pair to sneak up on Vangie and Ian unawares. She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you.”
Too late for remorse, her conscience chastised.
Shouldn’t Beau and Bryce have returned by now? She peered past the dowager and magistrate, then looked to the trail that ended at the stable. Something moved. Was someone in the trees?
She squinted against the driving rain. No, it was only the wind twisting the trees shadows. No doubt the staff assumed she’d returned to the manor because of this gale.
“You’ve made it so easy, out here away from the manor and your henchmen otherwise engaged.” A warped smile contorted the dowager’s mouth.
“You must be commended, Ian, on your dutiful staff. Why those two nincompoops were at the stables less than ten minutes after your wife gave them the note I sent.”
He speared a glance at Vangie, a crooked grimace twisting his mouth. “I should have known. Gerard can’t write.”
“How could I have been so gullible?” she fumed.
The dowager waved her pistol at Ian. “This storm is providential. Alas a tragic accident might occur.”
She giggled. “It’s not quite fair, I’ll agree. Only we have weapons.”
That’s what she thought. Vangie slipped her hand from Ian’s.
“Miri tshurii,” she whispered through stiff lips, sliding her hand to her thigh. Had he heard her? Did he understand?
Ian turned his sopped head, and his gaze locked with hers. “Scran pushka tshurri,” he murmured.
He understood.
Sir Doyle stepped onto the bridge. It swayed and groaned, protesting beneath his weight. “Speak English, not that filthy gypsy gibberish.”
“He was but reassuring me,” Vangie said, inching forward a smidgeon. There was a knife and gun in the picnic basket, Ian had said. She forced herself to meet the magistrate’s lecherous gaze. The basket sat between them. Rivulets of water streamed into her eyes. She wiped them away with her soggy shawl.
Ian stepped forward. “I’ve already alerted the authorities you tried to kill me, Lucinda. If anything happens to me,” his gaze swung to Vangie, “or Vangie, you’ll hang.”
Vangie spun around to face him incredulous. “She tried to kill you?”
He nodded, his gaze never leaving the dowager or the magistrate. “More than once.”
He looked pointedly at his stepmother. “You won’t get away with it.”
“Won’t I?” Her crazed laugh echoed above the howling wind.
“I already have.”
She cackled again, then licked her lips. Insanity glimmered in her wild eyes.
“Sir Doyle, why are you doing this?” Vangie gestured at the dowager. “You’ll hang right alongside her.”
He wiped his bulbous nose on his sleeve. His bulgy-eyed gaze darted to the woman beside him. Did his lips curl the merest bit? “With both of you out of the way, Charlotte inherits everything. She’s a minor. Her mother will control her estate, and I get half of everything. I’ll be a rich man.”
Vangie frowned. “But Charlotte is married.”
He chuckled unpleasantly. “Not for long. She’s about to become a widow.”
Vangie gaped at the dowager. “You’d kill your daughter’s husband?”
“I killed mine.”
Despite the storm’s furor raging about them, the air on the bridge became eerily still. Ian fisted his hands and took another step forward. The basket was almost within reach.
“What are you saying?”
“Yew berries, Ian.” The dowager waved her hand. “They’re all over this place. Your father didn’t have a heart attack. I poisoned him.”
Ian sucked in quick breath. “You heartless bitch!”
Lord no. Yew berries were deadly.
She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Geoff too. He was recovering from his wound. I couldn’t have that, now, could I? Now only you remain in the way.”
She pointed her gun at Vangie. “You and that gypsy whore. She’s stronger than she looks.”
The dowager frowned, irritation lacing her words. “Three weeks I tainted her food, and she still survived.”
Mother of God.
Vangie put her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. The odd taste. If she’d eaten more, if she hadn’t been smuggled other food, she might have died.
She reeled as another insight hit her. Yew could cause miscarriages. What if she hadn’t lost the babe from the horse fall at all? How could anyone be so evil? Surely the dowager was possessed by the devil himself.
Ian’s breath hissed from between clenched teeth. Vangie gripped his forearm, restraining him when he surged toward his stepmother. “Don’t. That’s what she wants.”
Fury ripped through Vangie. She raised her head. “You’re mad.”
“Mad? I think not. I’ve plotted this for years. Geoff’s injury was most providential. I eliminated both he and Roger and no one was the wiser.”
She sneered at Ian. “That only leaves you.”
The dowager laughed again. “Roger failed, the miserable rotter. He did his best to ensure the Hamilton line wouldn’t die out. Today it will.”
Ian stiffened and stared at the trees. Vangie followed his gaze. Another sodden figure emerged from the nearby woods.
“Ben? What are you doing here?” Sir Doyle glowered at him. “I told you to wait in the village.”
The dowager swept Ben with a contemptuous glare. “Can’t you do anything right?”
Vangie’s gaze whisked between the three of them. She cast a sidelong look at Ian. He’d crept forward a scant bit more. She slowly began gathering the fabric of her skirt in her hand.
Ian lurched for the basket.
Moving amazingly fast for such a rotund man, the magistrate kicked the basket into the frenzied pond. “No, you don’t,” he wheezed, easing his way backward to the dowager.
No, Vangie cried silently.
A lock of hair whipped across her face. Her pins had long since come out. She shoved the strands aside, then tucked her soaked hair behind her ears. She prayed someone at the mansion or stables would come in search of them. With only her dagger, she and Ian didn’t stand a chance against the other three.
Unless . . . A thought sprang to mind. Vangie eyed the guns. Were they black powder flintlocks? She swallowed a hysterical giggle. Would they fire in this rain?
Ben reached the bridge. It dipped and bucked over the churning water. A large branch broke nearby, crashing to the earth. The ground shook from the impact. There was a peculiar expression on his face. “What about me?”
The dowager sneered at him. “What about you?”
“You promised if I helped you, I’d get a share of the estate.” His gaze flicked to Sir Doyle. The magistrate averted his eyes.
“Did I?” She smiled a humorless smile. “I don’t recall making any such promise.”
Ian edged nearer to Vangie.
Ben fisted his hands. His lips quivered. “You heard her, Pap. You were there,” he whined. “She said because I was her first born, I was entitled to it.”
Ben was the dowager’s son? Stunned, Vangie threw a sideways glance at Ian. He appeared as shocked as she. She raised her skirt a few inches higher. No one noticed.
The dowager turned on Ben. “You’ll get nothing. Did you really think I’d give you a shilling? No, my darling Charlotte will have everything.”
She pointed at him and laughed. “Sniveling fool.”
Ben staggered backward as if struck, slipping on the muddy ground. “But, I’m your son, your firstborn. I’ve done everything you asked.”
He sent a perplexed glance toward Ian and Vangie.
“I put horseshoe nails under their saddles.” He gestured toward them. “I’ve worked in the stables all these months. Sneaked around, doing your bidding—”
“You’re a bastard,” his mother hissed, her face contorted with rage and hatred.
“No,” Ben screamed, charging at her.
She fired her gun. Nothing happened. She hurled it at him.
He knocked it aside and grabbed her by the throat. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you,” he sobbed. “You never loved me. Why couldn’t you love me?”
Lucinda clawed at his hands, her eyes bulging.
Sir Doyle wrapped his beefy arms around Ben, trying to pry him off the dowager. “Let go, boy. Damn you, let go.”
Waves from the pond crashed over the bridge.
Ian’s hand clamped around Vangie’s arm, and he began inching them backward. Step by torturous step they edged away from the grappling forms.
The magistrate slipped on the slick wood and lost his balance. He teetered precariously, his arms churning like a miniature windmill. He stumbled and slid about, before plowing into the dowager and Ben. They crashed into the rotten railing. It gave way with a resounding crack. The three of them toppled, shrieking, into the roiling pond.
The bridge jerked and quivered, listing further. It creaked and groaned as one by one, the posts supporting it snapped.
Ian grabbed her hand. “Run, Vangie.”
They raced the few remaining steps toward land. He snatched her into his arms and jumped the last foot just as the footbridge tore loose from its piling. The far end sank beneath the frothing water.
Vangie clutched at Ian, straining to see through the curtain of rain. “Where are they?”
She swiped at the droplets streaming down her face. They were warm. Tears.
“I don’t see them, Ian.”
He pulled her into his embrace. “They’re gone, sweeting.”
“My lord, my lady, where are you?” Jasper’s voice rang through the din.
Vangie slumped in Ian’s arms.
Eyes closed, Vangie swatted at the fly tickling her cheek. It landed on her nose. Dratted, pesky insect. She rolled onto her side, mashing her face into her pillow. Bother it all. Now it was crawling across her ear. She tugged at the bedcovers intent on burying her head beneath them. They wouldn’t budge.
A low, familiar chuckle sounded.
She opened one eye. Ian sat on the edge of the bed, a feather in his hand.
“Rotten knave.”
She grinned. Yawning and stretching, she deliberately let her nightgown slide off her arm exposing all but the tip of one breast.
His sharp intake of breath brought a satisfied smile to her lips. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to tease. The feather whisked across her breast.
She yanked the sheet up. “Unfair.”
“Tsk, tsk, sweeting. Don’t start something you don’t mean to finish.”
He bent over and kissed her, his tongue sweeping hers.
Lord, but the man knew how to kiss.
Vangie forgot everything else for several delectable moments.
He tapped her nose with the feather. “Are you going to lie abed all day, my lady?”
His weight shifted from the bed. She opened her eyes. “Why are you grinning like a buffoon?”
Ian bent over, then lifted a basket from the floor.
She raised a brow, before sliding a sidelong glance at the bedside clock. “It’s not yet eight o’clock. Isn’t it a bit early for luncheon?”
“Ah, but who says a picnic can’t be breakfast?” He wiggled his eyebrows, then peeked inside the basket. “There’s champagne and orange juice and strawberries.”
Vangie flashed him a smile and scooted into a sitting position. “Weeks ago, you promised me something, my lord.”
Ian pulled his gaze away from the basket’s contents and quirked a brow. “Indeed?”
She smoothed the bedding over her lap. “Something delicious having to do with strawberries—”
“Ah, indeed, I did.” He lifted a plump, red berry from the basket. “Shall I demonstrate now?”
“Please do, my lord.”
And he did, most satisfactorily.
If you enjoyed The Viscount’s Vow, be sure to read Highlander’s Hope, now available from Soul Mate Publishing at Amazon.com:
HIGHLANDER’S HOPE
Not a day has gone by that Ewan McTavish, the Viscount Sethwick, hasn’t dreamed of the beauty he danced with two years ago. He’s determined to win her heart and make her his own. Heiress Yvette Stapleton is certain of one thing; marriage is risky and, therefore, to be avoided. At fir
st, she doesn’t recognize the dangerously handsome man who rescues her from assailants on London’s docks, but Lord Sethwick’s passionate kisses soon have her reconsidering her cynical views on matrimony. On a mission to stop a War Office traitor, Ewan draws Yvette into deadly international intrigue. To protect her, he exploits Scottish law, declaring her his lawful wife—without benefit of a ceremony. Yvette is furious upon discovering the irregular marriage is legally binding, though she never said, “I do.” Will Ewan’s manipulation cost him her newfound love?
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The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) Page 29
