Chapter 10
Emma made the mistake of running. After the brief respite the rain was coming down more heavily, and she’d neglected to borrow a cape from the Dower House, but she paid it no mind, racing across the fields as fast as she could until her clumsy boots caught her up, and she went sprawling in the mud.
For a moment she lay there, her eyes closed, listening to the breath rasping in her lungs, the heart pounding against her breast. She could feel the icy rain pelting her, soaking through her layers of clothing, chilling her to the bone, and she knew she had to get up, brush herself off, keep moving, but she lay face down, wondering if she were ever going to be able to cry again.
It didn’t seem likely. Her eyes were hard and dry, her jaw set, and she rolled over onto her back, letting the rain pelt down on her body, rinsing some of the dirt from her face, filling her dry eyes with the water she couldn’t produce herself. It was dark overhead, angry gray-black clouds swirling above, and there was no way the storm was going to pass anytime soon. She had no choice but to drag herself to her feet and make her way homeward.
She started slow, sitting up first, staring down at her muddy self in disgust. She’d brought two dresses, one for day, one for evening, knowing that despite all her protests Melisande would have new clothes waiting for her. It was a true luxury to have so many dresses, and she always felt guilty for accepting them, but the ability to put on fresh clothes everyday was something that was worth a little guilt. Fortunately, Melisande understood her austere tastes and the dresses were elegant, classic, and demure, devoid of ornamentation and immodest lines. Ever since Brandon had arrived she’d taken to wearing her work clothes, shapeless and drab, rather than the prettier clothes that hung in the wardrobe, but that wouldn’t be possible tonight. This dress was a disaster, and the other one had a large rip under the arm. Dresses weren’t made for ladies to move their arms, to reach for things, to exert pressure, and she was forever pulling seams. The dresses Melisande ordered for her corrected that problem, but she couldn’t bring herself to wear them in the blood and sweat and even excrement that filled her days at Temple Hospital.
She slowly got to her feet, looking around her. She’d instinctively taken the short cut, but with the heavy rains she could barely see ten feet ahead, and the path was a trail of mud, slippery and dangerous.
She should go back—she knew it—and seek shelter at the Dovecote, in the arms of Mollie Biscuits and the others. They could make her laugh when everything was grim, they could remind her how lucky she was that she’d managed to climb out of the trap the others were still struggling with.
But the Dower House was out of sight, and she had no idea whether she was closer to the main house or the Dovecote. Starlings was a massive estate, and whoever had built the Dower House had clearly needed to keep his wife and his mother far apart, since they were situated at opposite ends of the demesnes. If she went back she might still have to face the others, people who had seen too much and doubtless surmised too much. With her appalling luck Brandon might still be there, waiting for the rain to let up.
Why hadn’t he stayed away? He should have made his escape—what had brought him back? She’d been sure she could simply let go of him, now that she’d seen him. She’d known he’d gone up to Scotland after the Heavenly Host was brought down, and she’d subtly managed to ferret out the information that he was healing, both body and soul, and getting stronger every day. She would be content picturing him up there among the crags and bluffs, the crabby old Noonan watching out for him.
But he’d come back, come back to a fiancée! Why had no one told her he was engaged, why had that girl burst into tears, what in God’s name was happening? Everything seemed unreal, as if the ground had shifted beneath her, and she needed time and quiet to sort things out.
If he was to be married then that should solve any problems she might have, not that she was admitting to any, mind you. She should be grateful for the arrival of Miss Bonham, but something felt faintly off about the whole thing, or maybe that was simply wishful thinking.
She was going to have to face all this when she got back to Starlings. Whether he had a fiancée or not couldn’t be of any possible consequence to her, but it mattered, even if she wished it didn’t. She would make Melisande clarify the situation, then head back to London, never to think of him again.
The sudden crack of thunder made her jump. God was calling her a liar, was He? She was made of sterner stuff than that, she thought, and plowed onward.
She was not, however, blessed with the ability to see through heavy sheets of rain. Water was running in rivulets across the ground, and there was no way she could simply sit down and wait, and enough of her country upbringing remained that she knew she couldn’t seek shelter under a tree when there was lightning about. All she could do was slog onward and hope for the best, something she had little talent for.
With the capriciousness of English weather, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started, and she stumbled in surprise. She was by the footbridge that Rosie had mentioned, and as the heavy, roiling clouds parted, a shaft of sunlight speared down at her, turning the water drops into sparkling crystals on her clothes, on the trees, on the narrow bridge. She paused, looking up into the sky, and sure enough there was a double rainbow, the colors bright and clear. It almost looked as if it ended in the general area of the Dower House, and she felt herself begin to calm. . .
A heavy hand clamped on her shoulder, yanking her around to face him, and she felt panic sweep through her, certain that Brandon had caught up with her. The reality was marginally better.
The man was huge, heavy-set and dark—an enveloping cloak covering his massive frame, a muffler wrapped around his face under the rain-soaked hat, and all she could see were tiny, evil eyes starting her with such malevolence that she froze.
And then she looked down at his hand, not the one that was still gripping her upper arm so painfully, but the other, ham handed, brutal, holding a knife.
She didn’t hesitate a moment longer. Before he could swing that knife at her she spun again, trying to twist out of his grip, set to take off across the fields, as far and as fast as she could go.
She’d forgotten about the muddy ground. Her foot slid out from beneath her and she went down, pulling her attacker with her, so that they were sliding and rolling in the mud. She screamed, as loud as she could, not putting much hope in it, but experience had taught her to make as much noise as she could if someone was threatening her, and this man was more than a threat.
He definitely intended to kill her.
She, however, had no intention of being killed. She clawed at him, to little avail. She’d forgotten that her nails were filed down to the quick to make surgery more efficient, and she had no ability to rip flesh. She had a small knife tucked into her plain woolen petticoat—she never travelled anywhere without it—but whether she’d be able to get to it was a question. She tried to drive her knee into his bollocks. but he was too big, too heavy for her to manage. She thrashed, knowing one strike with his blade could end everything, but she refused to give up. She heard the knife clatter onto the rocks, her first piece of luck, until she felt his heavy hands planted on her throat, and death stared her in the face.
It had started to rain again. His hands tightened slowly, and she managed one more scream until he closed off all sound, his thumbs pressing against her throat.
She knew exactly how she would die. He would crush her trachea and her larynx, her voice box, so that no air could pass through, and blood would fill her throat, drowning her. She wanted to throw up, which, would, of course, only speed the process along. She struggled, knowing it was in vain but determined not to give up.
He was looming above her, and she didn’t have to see his mouth to know he was grinning, his tiny dark eyes alight with pleasure. Those eyes were oddly familiar—none that she knew well, but she’d definitely seen them before. She went limp, deliberately so, and he leaned forward to increase the press
ure, when she brought her leg up, hard, slamming into his crotch.
His scream was high pitched and comical, and he released her, unable to hold on as he rolled into the mud, giving her just enough time to scramble back, thanking God for her knowledge of anatomy. She struggled to her feet, prepared to run, when his hand clamped around her ankle, yanking her down again, and this time the fall was hard, face first in the mud. He was hauling her back to him, foul, vicious words coming from his voice, still breathless with pain, and that, too, was familiar. She tried to grab hold of something, anything that would keep her from moving, but he was inexorable. She slid through the mud, catching on to something at the last minute.
“I was going to make this quick and painless,” he grumbled, “but you had to be difficult, so now I’m going to take my time with you. And it’ll hurt. You’ll be screaming so loud and no one will hear you, you’ll be. . .”
And then he was the one who screamed, when she drove the knife she’d managed to grab up beneath his ribs, intent on skewering his liver.
It was a bad angle, and he was fast—it was far from a killing blow, and her arm went numb when he wrenched the knife away from her and slammed his heavy fist against the side of her head.
So this was it, she thought dazedly as his fists rained down on her body, feeling her legs give way. Wretched way to die, she thought dreamily, sprawling in the mud as he began to kick her. The rain was pouring down again, and she thought she heard someone call out, but she was losing consciousness, which was fine with her. If she were going to be beaten to death, she’d rather not be awake for the process, though she supposed she ought to, for the sake of science. She was no longer feeling pain, just a thumping sensation, a small comfort.
Another blow to the side of her head, and staying alert wasn’t going to be a matter of choice. The next one would be the last she remembered, and she closed her eyes, unwilling to see her murderer’s gleeful, strangely familiar eyes as she died. She should have fought harder, she should have gone for his throat, not his liver, she should have. . .
He kicked her in the side, hard enough to make her roll away from him, her skirts sodden in the mud, and he followed her. Those heavy, hob-nail boots would slam into her head, and she held her breath, ready to meet the angry God of her father.
The blow never came. She could hear it now, the pounding of hooves, feel the ground vibrate beneath her crumpled body, hear the shouting in the distance. Thoughts were drifting through her head, aimless, disconnected. So she was going to be saved after all, was she?
And she knew just who her avenging angel would be.
His mind went blank. Brandon Rohan had been in battle too many times—it fell around him like a cloak, and he was nothing but action and instinct. The miserable horse beneath him managed to fly across the water-soaked fields toward the small stone bridge, and he focused on the mismatched battle taking place, the huge brute and the much smaller woman fighting back with the fierceness of an Afghan tribesman.
But then she was down, and the man was pummeling her, kicking her. Brandon let out a roar of pure fury, digging his heels in as he drove the horse forward, one last spurt of energy from the sorry creature before he flung himself off, onto the huge, dangerous brute, knocking him away from Emma’s prone body.
The red haze in front of his eyes was familiar, direct, as he acted purely on instinct, driving the man into the ground, pummeling him with mindless rage. He might have killed him had not his stupid horse decided to intervene, looking for one of the sugar cubes Brandon had used earlier to goad him into a reasonable pace.
He fell back, unwilling to shove even the sorriest of horses, and the motionless pile on the ground suddenly came back to life, scrambling to his feet and taking off before Brandon could get to him.
He stood, panting, staring after the fleeing man for the briefest of moments, cataloguing his shape, his gait, everything he could, before turning and sinking to his knees beside Emma’s crumpled body.
There was blood everywhere, on her face, soaking into the neckline of her dress, reaching to her hands. It looked as if most of it was coming from a gash on her temple, and he knew from his military experience that head wounds bled copiously. Shoving a hand into his jacket, he pulled out a handkerchief and began dabbing at the cut on her face, trying to ascertain her injuries.
To his cautious relief her eyes blinked open, and she stared up at him without focus, clearly disoriented. And then her gaze sharpened as she recognized him, and he sensed her instinctive recoil.
He felt his instinctive surge of fury, remnants of his killing rage, and let it fade back, dissolving as civilization took hold. “Yes, it’s me,” he said, sounding more pragmatic than he felt. “I just saved your life, so you don’t need to look at me like I’m a dyspeptic python.” It was a lame attempt at a joke, but she managed the ghost of a smile, some of the hardness fading from her eyes.
“I could have stopped him.” Her voice was wispy, slightly raw, and it seemed to surprise her far more than it surprised him.
“Don’t try to talk,” he said. “Clearly you don’t have a great deal of experience fighting for your life.”
“That’s what you think,” she muttered, and a little more of his tension eased. She was still fighting back—she couldn’t be at death’s door.
“You couldn’t have taken him,” he said calmly. “He was twice your size and he was playing with you. He could have broken your neck at any moment, no matter how many blows you got in—he was simply taking his time, enjoying himself, like a cat with a juicy little mouse.”
There was no missing her nauseated expression, and that was the last thing he needed to complicate matters. He didn’t bother asking her permission, he scooped her up in his arms with as much gentleness as he could muster, and she lolled back against him, fading out again, sending a dread chill through his chest.
The damned horse was standing nearby, a disgruntled expression on its face. The grass was matted into the mud surrounding them, and if Brandon had learned one thing about the wretched nag it was that it loved to eat. He hesitated only a moment—the horse wouldn’t carry both of them, and even if he put Emma’s limp body up in the saddle he’d have to hold her in place as well as lead the damned slug.
Looking past the bridge, he could see the towers of his brother’s house. He started off at a quick pace, moving as swiftly as he could without jarring her unnecessarily. Her breathing was shallow, and he wondered whether her lungs had been punctured by a broken rib. He moved faster, the horse trailing behind them.
The rain had started again, and his efforts to shield her were wasted. It was cold and miserable, chilling him to the bone, but he was inured to it. She was a Londoner, pampered, protected from the harshness of life—this weather could mean the difference between life and death.
He was barely aware of the fact that he’d almost made it back to the house when people began crowding around him, his brothers, the guests, innumerable servants surrounding him in the rain. Hands reached out to take Emma from him, but he snarled something vicious, and most people fell back, staring at him like he was some sort of wild beast. And then Benedick was there, a strong hand on his shoulder, forcing his attention.
“Let me take her, Brandon. You need looking after as well,” he said gently.
Brandon shook his head fiercely. “I’m fine. Send for a doctor.”
“Already done. And you’re bleeding.”
The man must have nicked him—it didn’t matter. He’d gone through far worse without noticing. “Show me where to take her,” he growled.
Charles made the mistake of interfering. “Don’t be ridiculous, Brandon! Let one of the servants carry her. . . I have no doubt she’ll be perfectly fine. . .”
Brandon looked at him, and Charles stumbled, shaken. “She stays with me,” Brandon said, his voice flat and expressionless.
“Then get her the hell in out of the rain!” Melisande said, pushing ahead of Benedick. “And stop wasting time terrifyi
ng your brothers.”
His humorless laugh surprised him—his sister-in-law was making more sense. Following her into the house, he simply ignored the people that followed them out of the biting rain.
Chapter 11
Someone was trying to lead them up toward the bedrooms, but Brandon kept moving on through the ground floor of the house. Emma had begun shivering, and he needed to get her near a fire, fast. He felt her stir in his arms, and then she opened her eyes, the gray shadowed with pain and confusion.
“You’re awake,” he said. Idiot. “What hurts?”
She managed to focus on him. “Everything.”
“Good,” he replied. “If everything hurts then with luck you’ll just end up with a few bruises.”
“Heartless bastard,” she said with a soft groan.
“That’s me,” he said firmly, holding her a little closer.
She dropped her head against his shoulder, and he felt the last of his blind rage draining away. He’d known animals, babies like that, creatures who’d sink against you in absolute trust, knowing you’d take care of them. For some reason Emma Cadbury, despite her caustic tongue, trusted him.
“What in the world made you decide to go that way?” Melisande was hurrying to keep up with him, and she tried to peer at Emma. “It’s much longer, and likely to flood if this rain keeps up. If Brandon hadn’t found you, you might have been drowned.”
“Rosie,” Emma said faintly, “the maid. She said it was a short cut.”
“It isn’t. It takes your way out of your way. What’s wrong with that girl? Randolph, have someone go find her, would you?”
“And why the hell were you out on your own?” Brandon felt his temper began to rise again, an odd emotion.
“Brandon, dearest, don’t swear at the girl,” Melisande said plaintively. “Can’t you see she’s hurt?”