Chance the Winds of Fortune (46 page)

She knew a moment's panic as she rounded the hill, for his pitiful figure had dropped from sight. Then she saw him again, heading for the horses tied just beyond her carriage. Her insane rage riding high, she picked up her skirts and ran, quickly closing the distance between them.

Waltham thought at first, when he felt his skin being torn and ripped by sharp talons, that a vicious hawk had fallen from the skies onto his shoulders. But when he saw the clawlike fingers with nails filed into dangerous points, he knew only too well the name of his attacker.

He flinched when her ladyship's nails sliced into his unprotected cheek, causing blood to drip into the corner of his mouth. With a desperate effort superceding the burning pain from the wound in his shoulder, Waltham reached up and grabbed hold of Kate's arms. Then, swinging her around, he threw her from his back.

Kate rolled into an undignified position, her breath coming in short gasps as she tried to right herself. But before she could even crawl onto her knees, she felt a viselike grip on the back of her neck, which effectively held her prisoner.

“Since we are about to dissolve our uneasy partnership and go our own way, hopefully never to set eyes on one another again,” Waltham said roughly, “I think 'tis only fair that I should see the face of my mysterious benefactress. After all, it looks as if I'm goin' to be only half-paid for all of me time and effort, not to mention the danger I've put meself in time and time again.”

“No!” Kate cried out, struggling with the superhuman strength of desperation as she tried to prevent Waltham from tearing the veil from her face. But her fanatical determination to keep concealed that which lay hidden beneath was equally matched with his own determination to see those carefully protected secrets revealed.

What Waltham had been expecting to see and had speculated on for months was nothing compared to the reality. As he ripped the molded mask from Kate's face, her clawing hands were not quick enough to conceal her horribly scarred cheek from his gaze.

Waltham took an instinctive step backward, raising his hands as if to shield himself from so grotesque an image. His look of horror was almost too much for Kate to stand, but his whispered “My God” of pity just about finished her. Kate continued to crouch on her knees, her pride and soul laid bare by this fool's calloused hands. All that she had sought to hide from curious eyes was now revealed to the harsh, unkind light of day.

Waltham continued to stare in hypnotic repulsion at the scarred half of Kate's face, where the scar tissue was thick and puckered, creating a monstrous travesty of what must have been a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Whatever had gouged through the tender flesh of her cheek had left the side of her mouth pulled downward and the corner of her eye stretched wider, the effect of which was a baleful stare.

“Good God, but you are in a living hell, aren't you, m'lady?” Waltham said thickly, feeling sick as he turned away from her weeping, black-clad figure. Hurrying to the tethered horses, he mounted; then, without a backward glance, he turned his horse's head northwestward, toward Bristol, where he knew he would be able to catch a ship bound for the colonies. He had heard that Boston was a growing town, perhaps just the place for an enterprising fellow like himself. Teddie Waltham knew he had to put as many leagues as possible between himself and his soon-to-be notorious past.

* * *

And wise he was to take such quick action, for within the hour, all of Camareigh and the village of Camare had been alerted to the presence of the thwarted assassins. Soon the surrounding countryside was crowded with avenging footmen, gardeners, and grooms, not to mention every able-bodied villager who wanted to see the kidnappers of the Lady Rhea Claire brought to justice—although that might have been unlikely had any of this bloodthirsty mob gotten their hands on Teddie Waltham or his benefactress.

In the great house of Camareigh, the duke was impatiently enduring the careful ministrations of a clucking, concerned Rawley. Her capable hands had efficiently cleaned and bandaged his wound, and now she was muttering and grumbling as her patient refused to follow her sensibly prescribed orders.

“A gunshot wound is a gunshot wound, no matter how slight. Even though ye be lucky the ball didn't shatter your bone, still 'tis a deep wound and ye've lost a powerful lot of blood. Reckon we won't be needin' that old fool of a doctor in here recommending bleedin' His Grace.” Rawley snorted in derision. “Never did hold to that belief, no, sir. If it meets with your approval, Your Grace?” she added almost as an afterthought as she glanced over at the duchess, who'd remained remarkably still and silent throughout the whole ordeal of dressing His Grace's arm.

“Of course, Rawley. Quite sensible of you,” the duchess said, her voice devoid of emotion. Only the duke realized the full extent of her emotions; he knew she was white-hot with rage.

“Thank you, Rawley,” the duke said now in a tone of dismissal, which penetrated even into Rawley's thick skin. “I shall be quite all right with the duchess watching over me.”

“Hmmmm, well, s'pose so, Your Grace,” Rawley said with a sniff, not happy about placing her patient into another's hands, even if they were the duchess's.

As the door closed on Rawley's dragging steps, the duke glanced at his wife's stiff-backed figure. He did not need to guess what she was enraged about.

“Damn you, Lucien,” she said, her voice hoarse with pent-up emotion.

She had not disappointed him. Lucien knew what would follow as he watched her move closer to where he sat on the edge of the great bed.

“How dare you keep this from me. How dare you ride off to almost certain death and never say a word to me. How do you think I feel?” Her violet eyes were wet with tears. “They would have killed you, those damned cousins of yours. You would be dead right now, except for the timely intervention of your two sons, with no thanks to you. Oh, Lucien,” Sabrina whispered, “if you had left me, I do not think I could have borne it, not after losing Rhea too. How could you put me in such a position? To have to choose between the two of you, and then, perhaps, to have lost both of you. I do not know if I can ever forgive you for this, Lucien.”

The duke's lips tightened grimly as he faced her wrath born of worry and her sadness born of hopelessness. But he knew that he could not have made any other choice than the one he had. If Sabrina had known of his plans, she would have ridden beside him and wielded a sword as aggressively as her son. It was not her fight; Percy and Kate were his cousins, and he would not put Sabrina into such jeopardy.

“I had to handle it as I saw fit, Rina. I know Kate and Percy. I have dealt with them before,” he reminded her. “They are of my blood, and I have to deal with them. There is no one else to do it.”

“Rhea is my daughter. Had you forgotten that I gave birth to her? I had the right to face her kidnappers the same as you did.”

“Whether my actions were right or wrong, 'tis past now. They never had any intention of releasing Rhea for me. And if they had disclosed her fate to me, then, my dear, I fear that I would have taken that information to my grave with me. And you are right,” Lucien added, a different note entering his voice, “that if it had not been for my sons, we would not be standing here now arguing.”

Sabrina's hand caressed Lucien's cheek, lingering for an endless moment against the rough scar. “I would die a little every day, and each breath I took would be an agony if you had left me alone, Lucien. I am ashamed because it is a purely selfish wish of mine to keep you beside me. I am angry because I am so vulnerable. I would not know what to do without you, my love,” she admitted, a pathetic droop to the dark head which was usually held so proudly. “What are we going to do, Lucien? We know no more than we did before.”

The duke glanced to the tall windows overlooking the lands of Camareigh, knowing that Kate and Percy were out there somewhere, Sabrina was right—they knew little more than they had before. One thing he knew now, however, was the face of his enemy. Deep inside, he knew that Kate and Percy were responsible for Rhea's kidnapping, and although they had escaped this time, they could not stay hidden forever. And when their time ran out, he would be there waiting.

“Unfortunately, I fear that they have not finished with us just yet,” the duke commented as he pressed his lips against the duchess's forehead. She allowed herself to lean lightly against his shoulder, and he pulled her close with his uninjured arm.

Staring into the heart of the fire, the duke was speculating on the next and ultimate meeting between himself and his cousins. He also thought of what he'd heard said by one of his attackers. Had they meant that Rhea was already dead? Or that it was merely his death that would keep him from seeing his daughter alive again? Whatever it had meant, he would not trouble Sabrina with it.

“Father?” inquired a hesitant voice from the partially opened door. “I knocked, but I guess you did not hear me. W-we wanted to know how you were.” Francis ran his words together in his nervousness, for he was not certain of the reception he would receive from his father.

“Come in, Son,” the duke said, beckoning with his outstretched hand.

“Robin is here too,” Francis added.

“Both of you, come in,” the duke repeated, his hand still held out to his sons.

Robin shot past his older brother, catapulting into his mother's and father's bodies and pressing close to them.

“'Tis all right, Robin, my love,” the duchess reassured him. “Your father is proud of you. Of both of his fine sons. If it were not for you and Francis, well…” The duchess did not finish her sentence.

“You are not going to die. Promise!” Robin cried, his voice muffled against his mother's breast.

“No, I am not, thanks to you and Francis,” the duke told him, his eyes meeting his oldest son's. “Considering the circumstances, as well as my own actions, I cannot in good conscience reprimand you and Robin for going through my desk.” Then the duke added, smiling slightly as he saw that Robin was about to correct him, “Ah, I am sorry. I understand that you take full blame for the deed, and that Francis had no hand in that part of the conspiracy.”

“I do wish you had come to me, my dears,” the duchess said, her voice still bearing some of the hurt she had felt at not being informed of their activities.

“I am sorry, Mother, if we caused you any pain because of our actions. But I will not apologize for keeping you out of danger. Time was of the essence in following Father, and begging your pardon, ma'am, you would only have been in the way,” Francis said, his eyes so full of concern for her well-being that it robbed his words of any insult. However, he certainly was not prepared for her laughter, nor for his father's, whose deep laugh soon joined hers.

“They were not exactly Will and John Taylor to the rescue,” the duke said, which only he and the duchess seemed to understand, for they started to laugh all over again.

Robin raised his wet face, a puzzled expression in his eyes. But as he listened to his mother and father, a shy smile was forming on his lips. It seemed certain that his father was not going to die, for if he were, he would not be laughing.

“I was just talking with Butterick,” Francis said, “and he's reported that several grooms found the wheel tracks of a carriage around the far side of the hill. They followed the tracks back onto the road. I took the liberty, sir, of having riders sent along the roads out of the valley. Perhaps a carriage will have been sighted leaving the valley. 'Twould be a fairly uncommon sight if the horses were being whipped into their fastest gait.”

“You did well, Francis, thank you,” the duke complimented his son, but when his words of praise seemed to fall on deaf ears, he inquired curiously, “There is something else troubling you, Francis?”

Francis started to respond, then looked away in embarrassment, and the duchess would have sworn she'd caught the brightness of tears in his eyes. But when he looked back, his blue eyes not only were dry but blazing with a confused anger.

“I just do not understand how our own flesh and blood could do this to us. How could your cousins Percy and Kate actually kidnap Rhea? I cannot believe that there are people monstrous enough to do such a thing. And why are they doing this to us? What have we ever done to them? They once lived here at Camareigh with you, didn't they, Father? They are a part of the Dominick family. We all have the same forebears, and yet they are trying to destroy us. Why? And why take Rhea of all people? She is gentle and kind, and she has never hurt anyone. I swear to you, Father,” Francis said solemnly, resembling the duke more than ever, “that if they have in any way hurt Rhea, I will take pleasure in killing them both. And no one will be able to stop me,” he warned, for he had tasted blood that afternoon, and knew instinctively that he would again.

Before either of his parents could respond to his challenge, Francis Dominick turned on his heel and left the room. Robin stared in openmouthed wonder at the closed door, where a stranger, who had somehow taken his brother's place, had stood challenging them only moments before.

“Damn them!” the duchess swore softly. “They have succeeded, haven't they, and in a manner which I suspect they never even planned on. They have robbed Francis of his innocence. He has learned how to hate, Lucien, and that frightens me. For if they have managed to taint Francis with their evilness, without ever touching him, then what have they done to Rhea Claire? How have they tarnished the shining purity and beauty that is so much a part of Rhea? Oh, dear God, please forgive me,” the duchess cried, “but I almost pray that she is dead. For I would not see her suffer pain or defilement at their hands. Please, Lucien, tell me that I needn't be sinful in wishing such a thing, and that she will come back to us unharmed.”