“He did kill my friend. And at the risk of being called mad, I shall repeat what I’ve told you from the beginning. He—”
Two fingers covered her lips, staying her speech. “Please, say it no more.”
His gentle breath waft across her cheek. He slipped his hand away, then sealed his lips to hers in the softest of kisses. When he pulled away his eyes were closed and his head dropped to the pillow beside hers. A strand of dark hair fell, tangling with the tumble of golden curls. She thought she heard him beg again for her to stop.
Rachel reached up to touch him, the rough stubble of his beard, the raw silk of hair. She wished she could please him. At this moment she wanted more than anything to be what he wanted. To never think of Lord Bingham. To care nothing that he’d killed her friend. To forget that her own existence on earth was tenuous.
She heard his breathing, felt the pain he suffered because of her, and wished it would be no more. But there was nothing she could do to change what had to be.
She was Lady Rachel Elliott. She had witnessed Lord Bingham shoot two people. And she was an angel.
Rachel wasn’t certain how long she lay there, her fingers drifting through his hair, caressing his cheek. He still sat on the chair, but his upper body leaned over the bed and his face nestled close to hers.
She must have drifted off to sleep... he certainly did. For when she woke again the palest pewter showed through the wedge between the curtains.
As carefully as she could Rachel slipped from beneath the arm draped protectively beneath her breasts and crawled off the bed. She didn’t want to leave him. Rachel stood a moment, the clothing she gathered bunched in her arms, and looked down on him. His hair was loose, strands falling across his cheek, catching on dark stubble. He appeared ruggedly male, yet vulnerable in a way that tore at Rachel’s heart.
She reached out, to touch, to feel his power, but paused, inches from contact. He would be safe here in the bosom of his family until she returned. Without another backward glance Rachel crept to the door.
It closed behind her with a soft metallic click.
~ ~ ~
Damnation! When he caught that woman he would... Logan paused in mid-thought as he spurred his mount on, following the post road north from Charles Town. What in the hell was he to do with her?
Dr. Quincy’s suggestion had merit. He spoke of the hospital in Philadelphia. Of the section devoted entirely to patients with diseased minds. Logan gripped the reins tighter.
Was that what Rachel needed? Certainly her actions last night seemed to indicate such. He had never seen such single-minded determination, such an insistence that she needed to follow the Englishmen.
Logan could close his eyes and see again the expression on her face when she declared to all and sundry that the duke killed her friend... and her.
’Twas no wonder Dr. Quincy laced the tea with laudanum. Without the drug’s calming effects, she might never have quieted. But Logan didn’t agree with the doctor’s assessment that she be sent away to an asylum... couldn’t bring himself to agree.
Rachel didn’t belong locked away in a dingy cell. He’d sooner believe she was Lady Rachel Elliott, darling of King George.
Which was exactly what James’s wife Anne believed. Caroline, too, if truth be told. Even after witnessing Rachel’s temperament of last night. After knowing she fled, alone, in pursuit of the enigmatic duke, Anne seemed convinced Rachel was exactly who she claimed to be.
“I haven’t time to listen,” Logan insisted this morning after he woke to find her gone. Acting very much a madman himself, he pounded on every door in the household, waking Anne and James, setting the young twins to crying, stirring the servants, demanding of all if they’d seen Rachel.
No one had, though James, stomping into boots, insisted upon helping Logan look. Anne was the one pleading for calm. “She can’t have gone far. And I don’t agree with you that she doesn’t know what she’s about. I think she knows exactly what she’s doing. Logan, please calm down.”
‘You don’t seem to understand—”
“I understand more than you think I do. You’re in love with her, and she with you, I wager. And you’re torn between believing what appears to be true, and what in your heart you fear might be the real truth.”
He’d pulled away from her restraining hand, insisting that he must leave, insisting that he would go alone. Trying not to think on what Anne had said.
Logan had found Rachel’s trail easy enough. She’d traded her diamond necklace for a seat on the post stage. At least she hadn’t ridden off by herself, for the land was marshy with wide rivers to cross and dangers lurking in the heavy woods.
She was safe enough till he caught up with her, he supposed. But was he? Safe from the thoughts he tried to quell.
Was Anne right? Did he love Rachel? Did he fear she told him the truth?
As he rounded a bend in the road, Logan spotted the lumbering coach ahead, and dug his heels into the stallion’s flank. There was time enough to ponder his feelings once he had her safely in his arms.
The driver, a surly fellow with a gaping hole where his front teeth should be, was reluctant to rein in the horses. But his companion seemed to think it a good chance to step to the side of the path and relieve himself.
“I need a word with one of your passengers,” Logan said as he dismounted.
“Only got one.”
“She’ll do.” Logan swung open the door, coming face-to-face with an irate Rachel.
“What are you doing here?”
“I should think that obvious.” He pushed inside, flopping down on the seat opposite her. “To me a better question would be where in the hell you think you’re going.”
The way she crossed her arms and stuck her pretty chin in the air was hellish annoying. And Logan told her.
“’Tis something I must do,” she finally said. “But you needn’t have concerned yourself.” She leveled her blue eyes on him. “I’m not deserting you. Obviously, though I have tried—and done so repeatedly—my task of saving your life is not complete. I was coming back to you.”
“That be a relief.”
She didn’t care for his sarcastic tone. “If you are so inclined to be rid of me, then why did you follow?”
“Because, I feel responsible, damnit.” Logan heard the two fellows grumbling between themselves on the road and lowered his voice. “I can’t have you running around like a... a...”
“Madwoman?” She arched a delicate brow. “’Tis what you think, I know. It’s what that silly doctor thinks, too, else why would he have drugged me?”
“He’s concerned only for your well-being.” Logan remembered the man’s insistence that Rachel be locked in an asylum, and questioned his own words.
“Logan.” She sighed and leaned forward. “I know how... how this must sound to you. But I’m not in any danger. I can’t die a—”
“I’m coming with you.”
“What?”
“You heard me. If you insist upon this trip, foolish as it is, I shall accompany you.”
“But—”
“There be nothing more to say on the matter.” With that Logan leaped from the coach and tied his horse behind. A few words and a bit of coin assured the driver’s cooperation, if not his pleasure.
After settling into his seat Logan held up his hand to stave off whatever she planned to say. “It seems that I’m tired. ’Tis perhaps caused by lack of sleep and rude awakenings.” He tucked his whiskered chin onto his chest and closed his eyes. Moments later one popped open.
“I’m assuming you are content not to run away from me?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why indeed,” was all he mumbled before drifting off to sleep.
~ ~ ~
It took them three days—three days of torrential rains—to catch up with the ducal party. And they were only able to do that because the river was so high the ferryman at Negro Head Point refused to take the coach across. So the nearby
inn was packed with travelers waiting to cross to Wilmington.
Actually, the inn would not have been crowded if not for the need to accommodate the duke with a sitting room and sleeping chamber, as well as providing rooms for his staff of servants.
As soon as the post stage pulled into the stable yard and Rachel spotted the shiny black coach with its coat of arms painted on the side, she lunged for the door. If not for Logan’s hand clamped around her arm she would have swung to the ground before the steps were lowered.
“Let me go. He’s here,” she said, twisting round to glare at him.
“And we shall see him.”
“There’s no need for you to be there. I’ve told you what Lord Bingham is capable of.”
“Which is exactly why I do need to be there.” Logan had listened patiently as she told him the story again of her friend and her lover. Of the fateful night near the lake. He’d sat, fingers steepled as her story continued. Her death. The light. The angels.
And he believed... believed that she believed every word was true.
~ ~ ~
“I don’t wish to wait till I’ve eaten.”
“Nay, I don’t imagine you do. But we shall anyway.” Logan ordered them both a stew of rice and ham, then leaned back against the smoke-darkened paneled walls of the inn.
“I wouldn’t have allowed you to accompany me, if I’d realized what a despot you were going to become.” Rachel crossed her arms with a huff, turning so he could only see her profile. Looking back quickly when she heard his laugh. “I fail to understand what you find amusing.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, though there was nothing apologetic in the amused grin he flashed her, the dimples deepening beside his mouth. “’Tis just your portrayal of me as the despot.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” Rachel’s eyes widened innocently. “Surely you don’t mean that I...?”
Rachel didn’t finish her thought for at that moment there was a flutter of activity near the stairs. Before Logan could push out from his bench against the wall, Rachel was on her feet, heading in the direction of the chaos.
“Hell and damnation.” Logan rushed after her, catching only a glimpse of her blue gown as she wriggled between two burly men.
It wasn’t difficult to pick out the duke. He stood on a step looking as arrogant and pompous as Logan imagined he would. His voice was low and raspy as he called out orders. Apparently he had it in mind to do a bit of hunting while the break in the weather held. “... to relieve the tedious boredom of this disgusting hovel,” he announced to the taproom in general. At any rate he was garbed in some richly embroidered riding coat, his powdered wig immaculate beneath a feather-trimmed hat.
And he barely lifted a brow when a feminine voice yelled, “Murderer!”
By this time Logan had managed to wrestle through the congregation of servants and guards to grab Rachel’s arm. She twisted, trying to pull away and screamed the charge again. This time the duke did take notice. He stared down his long nose, his gray eyes glacier.
“Yes, Lord Alfred Bingham, ’tis you that I charge with murder. You killed Elizabeth, your wife. And Sir Geoffrey. And though it possibly wasn’t part of your plan you also caused the death of Lady Rachel Elliott.”
“Who among this rabble speaks so to the Duke of Bingham?”
Rachel stepped forward, and, after taking a deep breath, so did Logan. “I do, Your Lordship.” Rachel lifted her chin. “Yes, take a good look and know who I am. And that I shall not allow your deed to go unpunished.”
There was but the flame from one hanging lantern to light the stairs, but Logan could swear he noticed a flicker of recognition in those hard flint eyes. But if it was there at all, within a blink it was gone, to be replaced by steely contempt.
“Be gone with you, woman, and bother your betters no more.”
“’Tis Lady Rachel Elliott to whom you speak with your knavish tongue. And ’tis the king himself who will hear my tale before all is done.” She took another step till she stood at the foot of the stairs. “You will not escape me.”
“Out of my way, wench.” The duke lifted his arm, but the force of the blow he intended for Rachel never came as Logan blocked the thrust.
After that everything seemed to happen at once.
Logan, whose only thought was to protect Rachel, suddenly found himself the target of three hefty fellows bent on making stew meat of his face. His arms were pulled roughly behind his back, keeping him from defending himself. He yelled once for Rachel to get away just before a hamlike fist flattened into the side of his jaw.
“Logan! Oh, my God, Logan!” Rachel tried to reach him but someone had grasped her around the waist and was dragging her screaming and kicking toward the door. She saw a giant of a man slam an elbow into Logan’s stomach and winced.
He was being killed!
This was it, she was certain. This was the moment she was supposed to save his life and she could do nothing. She had been wrong to come here, wrong to risk Logan’s life. With the brave determination of a mother bear protecting her cub, Rachel lashed out. She clawed. She bit. She tried everything she could think of, but her captor seemed not to notice. He simply continued backing toward the door, her in tow.
Water splashed up like the fountains at Vauxeax as she landed unceremoniously on her backside in the middle of a giant mud puddle. Her mouth opened in outrage. She, Lady Rachel Elliot, had been tossed in the mud... the mud!
But her indignation lasted a mere moment as she scurried to find footing, her sodden, mud-clogged gown seemingly sucking her down. Logan was more important than her dignity.
She’d managed to stand before the inn door opened again. This time three of the duke’s guards surged through, shoving Logan before them. Rachel reached out to him as he came toward her, the momentum of his weight sending them both sprawling in the muck.
Instinctively her arms wrapped around him as the duke and his entourage stepped from the inn. Lord Bingham kept his head high, his gaze forward as he left the courtyard. He paused briefly when she called out Elizabeth’s name.
“For God’s sake, Rachel.”
She looked down at Logan, who, despite her earlier fears, was not dead. He was however bloody... and muddy... and sporting a cut beneath his left eye. She could also see several scrapes on his chest where his linen shirt was hanging in shreds.
Her fingers reached out, gingerly touching his cheek, wincing when he did. “I’m so sorry. It was never my intention to...” She bit her bottom lip. “Does it hurt much?”
“Only when I breathe,” he answered, pushing to his feet. To his surprise his legs only wobbled a little as he reached down to help her up.
“You needn’t sound so sarcastic. It’s hardly my fault the duke is a bully... and a murderer.”
He turned, holding up a finger, his stance only slightly less intimidating for the slime dripping off of it. “That is exactly the kind of talk that landed us...” His eyes swept toward the ground. “Here,” he finally ground out.
The innkeeper rather indignantly suggested they find lodging elsewhere. But Logan refused to budge. For one thing there was no “elsewhere.” For another, he’d paid in advance. Ignoring the man’s bluster Logan tossed down a few more coins, requesting a tub and hot water be sent to their room.
“I can’t believe he denied even knowing me,” Rachel said the moment the bedroom door closed behind them.
Logan said nothing, merely leaned against the mantel, hooking the heel of one boot with the other. The boot came loose with a sucking sound.
“He is so arrogant and cruel.” Rapidly drying mud rained down as Rachel paced the length of the room, thankfully skirting the bed. “Bingham may think he has quieted me, but I assure you he has not.”
“Is your goal, Your Highness, to give him only one alternative?”
She stopped making muddy tracks. “What do you mean? And don’t call me Your Highness.” She had liked it so much better when he used her name.
The other boot flew off. “I mean, Rachel that if you continue accusing the duke of murdering his wife, he’ll only have one way of silencing you.”
“You mean killing me as he did his wife and lover?” Rachel folded her arms staring at him down her mud-streaked nose.
“You seem convinced he’s capable of such actions.” Logan flexed his shoulders. “And I can attest to the fact that he’s not against using violence.”
Rachel’s haughty expression melted as she rushed toward Logan. “How could I have forgotten how those men beat you? Are you badly hurt? Let me help you with your shirt.”
“I’m not after your sympathy.” Though he had to admit a purely erotic pleasure shot through him as she stripped off his shirt. “I only wish you would think before speaking.”
“He can’t hurt me,” she tossed over her shoulder before answering the pounding at the door.
“Rachel.” Logan leaped forward only to step back as two maids tugged a cut-off barrel into the room. Several others followed, carrying pails of steaming water.
“We requested a tub.”
One of the women, a buxom wench with a pockmarked face and sweating upper lip stared at Rachel like she’d been dragged in by the barn cat. “We ain’t got but one and his High and mighty Lordship needs that ’un.” She herded the other women from the room, mumbling something about a dunking in the river being what was needed.
Rachel took a deep breath, then looked back at the barrel with its measly supply of water. “You may go first.”
“Not fancy enough for you, Your Highness?”
“Would you stop it? My offer had nothing to do with... with...” Rachel’s bottom lip trembled. For a moment she tried to blink back the tears welling in her eyes, finally giving in and letting them plump down her cheeks, streaking the dried dirt.
Before Logan could say anything she was across the room, her arms wrapped tightly about his middle, mumbling something into the hair that arrowed down his chest.
“Your Highness?” He gently pried her loose, tipping her chin up with his thumb. “Tears?”
“Of course tears, you big dolt. I thought they were going to kill you. I thought...” Again her words were unintelligible as she pressed kisses across his flesh.
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 27
