Marianne shook her head. "Pendleton now has a footman stationed there around the clock. And I am certain that whatever he had hidden in that globe is long gone. No, time is running out. I must confront him before he grows too suspicious and tosses me out."
From the cold glances he'd given her over supper last night, she was certain that if she continued to avoid him, he was not going to allow her to remain much longer. The summons to the meadow was his move. She knew she would either have to play … or go home.
Resolve bolstered her spine. Like hell she would back down. But she wasn't a fool either. Since the near disaster in the study, she'd revised her strategy. In retrospect, she'd realized that she hadn't been in her most rational mindset coming to Pendleton's—and she put the fault for that squarely on Ambrose Kent's shoulders. His betrayal had unmoored her, driven her to act recklessly. Though she could now see the danger inherent in her situation, there was no turning back.
The time for seductive wiles was over. She had to confront Pendleton and back it up with a show of force. She'd give him no choice but to admit the truth.
"You cannot meet Pendleton alone," Lugo insisted.
"I won't go unaccompanied." Going to the armoire, she removed the wooden carrying case tucked beneath her undergarments. She flipped the lid and removed the pearl-handled pistol. "I'll be bringing a companion."
Lugo shook his dark head. "And if the earl doesn't tell you what you want to know? Will you use it, then? Shoot a peer of the realm?"
"I'll do what needs to be done," she said evenly.
"Oh, my lady," Tilda said, wringing her hands, "you could hang for that!"
"I have no choice." Marianne slid the pistol into the hidden pocket of her cerise skirts. Seven years she'd spent grieving, and she couldn't stand a minute more. Her life wasn't worth ashes without Primrose …
And Ambrose.
The unbidden addition perforated her defenses, released a hot, raw feeling beneath her breastbone. Do not go there. Do. Not.
"Actually, you do, my lady. Have a choice, I mean." Shifting on his feet, Lugo coughed into his fist. "There is something I should tell you."
She had a feeling she wasn't going to like it, whatever it was. She raised a brow, waited.
The manservant blew out a breath. "You could wait for Mr. Kent. He will help you."
"We've been through this before. I cannot trust—" Something in Lugo's shifting stance cut her off. A pounding started in her ears. "What do you mean wait for Kent?"
"I sent him word," Lugo muttered.
"You did what?"
"After the incident in Pendleton's study, I saw no choice. You are not yourself—not of a clear mind." He crossed his burly arms. "You need assistance, my lady, whether you like it or not. I sent the message two days ago. Mr. Kent should be arriving at any moment."
Bloody hell. Et tu, Lugo?
"And how exactly does your disloyalty serve me?" she said with furious disbelief.
"Lugo was only trying to help—" Tilda began.
"I serve you to the best of my ability," Lugo said, his gaze narrowed, "and that is why I contacted Mr. Kent. In my eyes, the man has proved himself. Whatever your current misunderstanding, he has protected you time and again. Yet you swear him off so easily."
That stung. "He was the one who betrayed me, the one who was lying—"
"Mr. Kent does not seem to me a man to lie without reason. Why do you not stop to think why he might have done so?"
Despite the faithless flutter in her chest, she steeled herself. She had an excellent reason not to mull over Kent's myriad possible defenses: she did not trust herself. The humiliating, reprehensible truth was that her judgment concerning men had proven her downfall. She'd been lied to, betrayed by the opposite sex too many times to count, and she had no one to blame but herself. 'Twas her weakness, her Achilles' heel—the very failing that had cost her Primrose.
And it would be so easy to succumb to Kent once again. To listen to his explanations, to open her weak and traitorous heart to him ...
"There is no excuse for deception," she said, her jaw clenching.
Lugo's gaze remained steady. "Because you have been burned before, you run at any sign of smoke. Your fear threatens your judgment in this instance. You do not ask who sent you the note about Kent's connection to Bow Street, nor do you stop to wonder why. What motive—"
"Whoever sent that note did me a favor! The fact is Kent was spying on me for Bow Street. Sir Coyner confirmed it."
How could she have let herself trust again? Shame clawed at her, her head throbbing with the effort to keep her failures caged. To keep the beasts of the past at bay. Yet their talons sliced into her anyway, the truth trickling darkly through.
You stupid doxy! Her father's florid face, his heavy fist. You've made your bed, and you will damn well sleep in it … Draven's sneering features, his fingernails digging into her scalp. You're nothing but a worthless whore. Your daughter is paying for your sins. And the deal with the devil himself, Bartholomew Black: One day soon I'll come lookin' for my due … Her head whirled as Skinner's, other male faces bled into one … Stupid cunt, you'll do as I say—submit to me …
Never. Her breath serrated her lungs. Never again.
It will be my way—or no way at all.
"My lady—"
"I'm getting Rosie back, and I'm doing it now," she bit out. "Nothing is going to stop me."
She pushed blindly past Tilda and Lugo to the door. As she strode down the hallway, she knew hell was waiting. It was no more than she deserved, and this time she would confront it or perish trying.
*****
Ambrose sprinted through the woods, his alert gaze scanning the leafy trees and tall grasses for any sign of Marianne. Lugo caught up with him, panting.
"Where the devil is she?" Ambrose snarled.
The manservant shook his dark head, his expression mirroring Ambrose's anxiety.
Ambrose had arrived at Pendleton's estate less than a quarter hour ago, running into a panicked Lugo. Apparently, Ambrose had just missed Marianne's departure. She was supposed to be heading to the meadow to confront Pendleton. But there was no sign of her. His chest palpitated with panic.
She's in danger. Have to get to her.
"We split up." Ambrose could see light up ahead, the smooth sweep of the clearing that provided prime hunting ground. "I'll go west—you take the eastern edge. We have to find her, man."
Lugo jerked his chin, and they split off without another word.
Fear for Marianne pumped Ambrose's blood, fueled his pounding steps over the mossy forest floor. It was too quiet here—too secluded. The perfect setting for an attack. His instincts sharpened, his senses on high alert. Through the blur of the passing trees, he saw deer in the meadow, their ears pricking as he raced by.
Where the bloody hell are you, Marianne?
Then he saw her. Up ahead, her berry frock a bright splash against the greenery. She stood at the edge of the forest, at the perimeter between dark and light, and panic gave him another surge of power he didn't know he possessed. Sprinting toward her, he shouted her name. She turned, her eyes a vivid flash in her pale face.
"Stand down, Kent," she said.
He halted, paces away from her. His gaze fell on the pistol she aimed at his chest. Lungs working harshly, he said, "Marianne, come to me. Let me explain—"
"I said, back off. I don't want to hear any more of your lies. Now get the hell away, or so help me God I will shoot you again," she hissed.
He took a step closer. "Shoot me, then. But you have to listen, you're in danger—"
"No thanks to you." She cocked the pistol, her color high. "I know you were following me, I know everything between us was a lie!"
There was no time to argue with her. He made his move, lunging to capture her arm. He gave her wrist a quick but gentle twist—sufficient to make her drop her weapon, which thudded to the ground. She swore, struggling against his hold.
He kept his grip f
irm, growling, "'Tis Coyner who has Rosie. The bloody magistrate has your little girl, do you hear me?"
Marianne stilled, her eyes widening. "What?"
"I'll explain everything, but let us get out of here first—"
A movement flickered at the corner of his eye. His head whipped toward the meadow; his gaze honed in on a movement in the trees across the clearing. Sunlight glinted off leaves and a patch of brown hair …
"Coyner!" he roared.
A puff of smoke erupted from the trees. Ambrose shoved Marianne to the ground, sheltering her with his body as a blast tore through birdsong—
An unholy force punched into him, throwing him backward. He landed, blinking up at the perforated canopy, blinded by the dancing light. Ringing erupted in his ears, yet above it he thought he heard his name, streams of light cascading across his face. Silken sunshine, the scent of summer rain. The leaves blurred into emeralds, and he closed his eyes, smiling, before the pain swept him up in a violent rush.
THIRTY-FIVE
With Lugo's help, Marianne managed to get Ambrose back to the main house. Entering the foyer, she ignored the shocked exclamations from the guests, her heart thumping as she saw Ambrose's pallor, the blood soaking through his shirt.
"What in blazes is going on?" Pendleton came toward them, his voice imperious.
"A man has been shot," Marianne said through her cinched throat. "We need a room and a physician summoned immediately."
Pendleton flicked a glance over Ambrose, who lay slung over Lugo's shoulders. "The devil you say. Why should I concern myself with—"
"He was shot on your property. By Gerald Coyner—an acquaintance of yours, I believe?" she said in a quiet yet steely voice.
Color ebbed from the earl's face. He recovered the next instant, barking to one of his waiting footmen, "Get the man to a room. And send for the village doctor."
The physician arrived soon thereafter, and Marianne kept vigil by the bedside as the old man dug around Ambrose's wounded arm like a zealous miner searching for ore. She gripped Ambrose's good hand, feeling the silent shudders that wracked his body and wishing helplessly that she could somehow absorb his pain. After removing the shot and dousing the wound with spirits, the doctor produced a needle and thread. In the end, Ambrose lost consciousness—which, the medical man assured her, was a good thing.
Now, in the dark hours before dawn, Marianne didn't share the man's confidence. The candle's glow revealed the clammy cast of Ambrose's skin, and the moan that left his lips made her eyes well with heat. Not knowing what else to do, she whispered soothingly to him and reached to change the damp washcloth on his forehead. She bit her lip: the linen steamed, burning to the touch.
"Why isn't he getting any better?" she said, her voice cracking.
"The doctor said to expect a bit of fever," Tilda said from the other side of the bed. "God was watching over Mr. Kent, I reckon. The bullet would've done a good deal more damage if it'd hit anything other than flesh."
Guilt permeated every fiber of Marianne's being. As she reapplied a cooling compress, her fingers lingered against Ambrose's bristly cheek.
This was her fault. He lay there injured and in pain because of her. Once again, he'd protected her—oh God, he'd taken a bullet meant for her. Why hadn't she given him a chance to explain the business with Bow Street? Why had she run away rather than face the truth of her emotions? She'd feared opening her heart; now, with that organ torn wide open, she could see what lay inside. A sob hitched in her throat.
Forgive me, my love. Forgive me for being the biggest fool. You pull through this, you pull through or else—
"Why don't you take a break, my lady?" Tilda said softly. "You've been by Mr. Kent's side day and night now."
Marianne shook her head. "I'm not leaving him." Never again.
Tilda sighed. "I hope Lugo returns soon."
After seeing Ambrose settled, Lugo had departed for London. Marianne had sent him to gather reinforcements in the form of the Kents and Hartefords; she didn't trust Pendleton or that his reluctant hosting would last. Her fear for Ambrose led her to do what she'd never done before: she'd written Helena, begging for help. In her note, she'd exposed her secrets—her affair with Thomas, Rosie, everything. She prayed her friend would understand the urgency of the situation and not let her down.
Hearing Ambrose mumble, she leaned over anxiously.
"Yes, darling? I'm here," she said, squeezing his hand.
His thick lashes lifted, his gaze unfocused. "Coyner ... Coyner has Primrose ... must find him ..."
"Shh, my love, rest easy." Even in this state, Ambrose was worried for her daughter's safety. God, how could she have doubted him? Her throat thick with remorse, she said, "We'll find Coyner. The bastard won't get far." She pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "But for now, I want you to rest. You must get well, darling."
Lines bracketed his mouth in a harsh grimace. His enlarged pupils dimmed the brightness of his gaze, and she couldn't be sure that he saw her at all.
"Idiot for lying," he said in a thick, guttural voice. "Afraid you'd shut me out … wanted to protect you, find your girl …"
She'd thought she couldn't feel any more remorse than she did already. Her vision misting, she said, "Shh, love. It's alright. I understand."
"Quit … five days. After first time together." His lashes shut, a grimace passing over his face. "Lost everything. Can't take care of you, my family. Sorry—"
She pressed a finger to his lips. "You have nothing to be sorry about. I'm the one who has made a mess of things. But we'll talk later, when you're well. And you must get well. Your family isn't the only one who needs you, you know,"—her voice broke a little—"I need you too."
His head made an agitated movement against the pillow, and she knew he was lost to the effects of the laudanum and pain.
"Rest, darling," she whispered, "don't strain yourself any longer."
His lashes formed dark crescents against his pale skin. Though raspy, his breathing seemed to ease a little. Still clutching his hand, Marianne continued to watch over him. To watch and to pray.
*****
"London and make haste!" the gentleman barked as he ascended his carriage.
"Yes, Sir Coyner. Straightway." With a word to the horses, the driver cracked the whip, and the conveyance lurched forward.
Only when the vehicle cleared the vicinity of Pendleton's property did Gerald Coyner release a breath. He reached for the handkerchief in his pocket, his hand shaking. He mopped his damp face and tried to calm his disordered thoughts.
Damn Kent. He's ruined everything. But he shan't have Primrose—she's mine!
How could this have happened? He'd chosen Kent because the fellow was an order-following nobody—a man whose respect for law and authority should have been made him the perfect tool to be used. A soldier, stalwart and expendable. Instead of providing the evidence to frame that brazen Draven bitch, however, Kent had saved her time and again—and for what purpose? To lie between those well-used thighs?
Coyner shuddered with disgust. He'd make sure that the apple—the sweet, nearly ripened fruit of his eye—fell far from the tree. Primrose was the embodiment of purity, innocence. His hands grew clammier at the thought of losing her.
Not after all I've worked for, how long I've waited. Primrose is mine by right.
Rage cleared away some of the fear. He'd never give up his treasure. Did he regret that he'd now have to leave his old life behind? Perhaps. Yet he was an adaptable fellow; if he could survive Eton and his mother, he could survive this.
Thinking of the past agitated his stomach. Life was blasted unfair. Pendleton, Ashcroft, and Boyer got away with everything, whilst he had to toil and live in fear. Those three bastards had carried out heinous acts; they'd committed rape and buggery, had profited from the misery of others. Coyner's idea of altering the dates on Leach's receipts had been brilliant: let that Draven whore expose the men's sins, bring scandal down on their heads. Red herrings and justi
ce, how perfect was that?
Yet his ploy had come to naught.
Instead, he was the one being persecuted and for what? All he wanted was to care for his Primrose. Sweet flower, only you understand me. I will protect you, let nothing come between us. When the time came, Primrose would transition from being his ward to his dutiful, loving wife. He grew hard, imagining her small body next to his. Ah, he was looking forward to a new beginning. A new life where he would be ruled by no desires but his own.
To achieve that, he'd have to make his next moves with care. He figured he had a small window of time—a day, two at most—to make his escape. At present, Lady Marianne would have her hands full tending to her injured lover ... irritation nettled Coyner once more. He might have finished her and Kent off, if that giant African hadn't come running to the rescue. His stomach knotted, and he forced himself to take a breath. At the very least, mayhap he'd managed to end Kent with that bullet.
Comforted by the possibility, Coyner reviewed his plans. He'd make a quick stop in London to pick up his emergency belongings. Then he'd go pluck his pretty flower from the secret garden where he'd kept her all these years. Together, they would head to new shores and leave this cursed uncivilized place behind.
Calm settled over him as he envisioned his future with his child-bride at his side.
THIRTY-SIX
The world slowly came into focus. Groggily, Ambrose registered that he was lying in a strange bed. Posh furnishings, pale light seeping through a crack in the curtains, and dozing on the chair next to him ...
"Marianne?" His voice came out hoarse, slurred.
Her head snapped up. She blinked at him, her hair an untidy tumble over her shoulders. Her face blurred in and out of focus, and he tried to shake off the buffle-headedness. He felt a squeeze on his hand, her touch grounding him.
"How are you feeling?" she said softly.
"Like the devil." He grimaced as the words dragged against his dry throat. His head throbbed as if he'd consumed pints of ruin, and when he moved, fire lanced through his right arm. Breathing harshly, he looked down and saw the bandage wrapped around his bicep. It all came back to him.
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 25
