Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (37 page)

“Angels, as ’tis seldom they appear,

So neither do they make long stay;

They do but visit and away.”

— John Norris

“To the Memory of His Niece”

Two strong fingers pressed to her lips, keeping them shut when she would have responded to what he said. The room was deep in shadows, the candle by the bedside sputtering in a pool of foul-smelling tallow, the logs nearly spent, sifting through the iron grate. Rachel studied Logan’s face, trying to make out his expression in the grainy light.

“I didn’t tell you of my love to force you to answer in kind.” One finger traced the moist seam, skimming inside her mouth. “’Tis just such a new emotion for me. Though with you I think ’twas growing from the start.”

“Yet you don’t know what to do with me.” She couldn’t help it. His thoughts were hers. She could not block them out.

He twisted, turning to face her more squarely. “I shall protect you Rachel. With my life, I shall make certain no one hurts you... ever.”

Rachel touched the discoloration under his eye. He feared her mad, and still he loved. Swore to himself that no one would ever take her away. Locking her arm round his neck, she wished it could be so. Wished she could forget her past, the life she had known. To stay with him, cocooned in his arms.

Wished it enough to promise Logan she would let him talk with Lord Bingham on the morrow. “Mayhaps we can discuss this and...”

And what? Logan didn’t know. But he was willing to try for her.

Much later Rachel crept from the bed. Logan slept, his body turned toward her, his hair, tumbling across his cheek. Unable to sleep she’d watched him for hours, till her eyes strained in the darkness. Memorizing every angle and plane of his face. Breathing in his scent. Letting her fingertips skim across his muscled shoulder.

As quietly as she could Rachel built up the fire... as he’d taught her. Then she gathered up their mud-laden clothes and dipped them in the icy water in the barrel. She swished and washed as best she could, rinsing and wringing out his shirt, draping it across the chair back. She took less time with her petticoat and gown, only bothering at all because they belonged to Caroline.

Building his fire, washing his clothes, Rachel could pretend, could almost believe things were as he wished them. That she was his woman, and he her man. That the Fates hadn’t played such a dastardly trick on them.

When everything was hung by the hearth to dry, Rachel slipped into the other shift and gown Caroline lent her, then searched through Logan’s knapsack for his knife.

The dull clank of metal sounded loud to her ears but when she cast a nervous glance over her shoulder Logan still slept. His words this night had proved one thing to her. He would do what he must to keep her safe. And in doing so would endanger himself.

She could never allow that.

And protecting Logan had little to do with concern for returning to her former life. She cared about him... deeply. As she crept along the dark hallway toward the Duke of Bingham’s rooms, she finally accepted that. Today, when she thought the guards would kill him, her own fate never entered her mind.

It was Logan she worried about.

Him she cared about.

And he was the reason she tiptoed past the guard, whose thick lips flapped open with each gurgling snore. Lord Bingham would never have stood for such sloth-like servants in England. The wretch didn’t even awake when she slipped the key from his coat pocket.

Inside, the only light came from the banked fire. But she could see enough to tell that Lord Bingham’s servants had decorated the sitting room with many of his belongings, candlesticks and tapestries, armchairs and a small writing desk. Vestiges of his wealth and position, that he carried with him.

Which would all amount to nothing soon, Rachel thought as she inched open the door to his bedroom. Bringing a taper from the other room, she lit a branch of candles on the bedside commode, then bent down toward him. He didn’t come immediately awake. Not even with the knife blade resting a heartbeat away from his neck. It took her gentle whispering of his name to bring him from sleep’s embrace.

His strangled cry was quickly quieted by the slightest pressure of her blade. She could see the whites of his eyes as he stared up at her. Could feel his panic and relished it, remembering all too well the expression on Elizabeth’s face moments before Bingham’s ball exploded through her body.

“Lady Rachel.” His voice cracked as he tried to swallow and found the honed edge of the knife.

“Ah, so you do remember me after all. Earlier I could swear you had no recall of me... or of the night you killed your wife.”

“How did you survive? I saw you fall into the lake.”

“And rushed to my rescue, too, I’ll wager.” Rachel tightened her grip on the ivory handle. She had to force herself not to slice through his neck immediately. To remember how she wished for him to squirm and beg for mercy first.

“Actually, Lord Bingham, as in the case of Elizabeth and Geoffrey, I did not escape the death you gave me.”

“But... but...”

“Yes, l know. I do seem very much alive. Assuredly I look and feel as I did before you ended my life. But it is all an illusion. You see, I am an angel.”

“Who lands in mud puddles and plays with knives?”

“I’m not playing Bingham. What I have in mind for you is no game.”

“I never meant for you to be hurt, you know. You weren’t supposed to be there. Only Liz and her damn cuckolding lover were to die. I honestly felt remorse when I saw you by the lake.”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to return the emotion.”

The knife slipped lower. “Know that this is for Liz. Because you saw fit to snuff out her life, I shall do the same to you.”

He lay there, vulnerable, his throat white and exposed. She hated him, for what he’d done to Liz and Geoffrey. For what he’d done to her. Her knuckles hurt from the death grip she held on the carved bone handle. And still she could not bring herself to thrust downward through his flesh.

Then her chance was gone.

From behind someone grabbed her arms. Rachel screamed and watched helplessly as the knife clattered to the floor. She yanked, doing her best to break free of the iron grip, but her efforts proved futile.

She was held immobile, tears of frustration swimming in her eyes as Bingham scurried to the far side of the bed.

“It took you damn long enough to come to my rescue,” he yelled, bunching up the blanket to cover the wet spot on his nightshirt. “I could have been slain by this madwoman.”

The guard mumbled something in explanation, which Rachel couldn’t understand and doubted Bingham could either. But the duke seemed more interested in hiding the fact that he’d wet himself and dismissed the hapless guard with a sweep of his hand.

“What should I do with her?”

“Kill her,” came his lordship’s exploding reply. But he must have thought better of the order, for he twisted around to impale Rachel with an icy stare. “No. I don’t think we shall. Not at this moment at least. The ferryman said the river should be down enough to cross today. Roust him. We shall take the madwoman with us.” He stepped closer and Rachel could smell the stench of urine. “Mayhaps I can think of a more fitting punishment for one so fair.”

~ ~ ~

Damp, black-trunked pines stood skeletal against the pearling sky as they left the inn. For one so vain about his appearance, it surprised Rachel how quickly the duke could manage his toilette. It seemed hardly any time after she was tied, gagged, wrapped in one of his voluminous capes, and bundled off to the coach, until he joined her.

The shades were drawn as they were ferried across toward Wilmington. Rachel could not see or be seen... except by Bingham. His cold eyes never left her face as the coach dipped and swayed with the current.

Once on dry land, he stretched across the space separating them and roughly yanked away the strip of silk covering her mouth. His fingers gentled as he brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. There was a light in his eyes that turned Rachel’s stomach. She was pleased to extinguish it.

He jerked back against the soft leather squab, wiping spittle from his face with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. His expression was a study in rage, though it didn’t take long for the cool facade to resurface. He stretched out his long legs, kicking hers aside in the process.

“Now Lady Rachel, that wasn’t very... angelic.”

“You obviously aren’t familiar with avenging angels.”

“Obviously not. However, I’d be willing to wager that you are no more saintly than I.”

“My conscience isn’t blotted by murder,” Rachel said, her chin rising.

“No?” Bingham’s fingers steepled and he smiled slightly, a gesture that made Rachel’s skin prickle. “But then you were stopped before you had the chance.” One finger strayed from formation to point her way. “It would be interesting to see if you had the nerve to actually kill someone.”

“Return my knife and I shall be glad to satisfy your curiosity.”

His chuckle was unnerving. “Ah, Rachel. My beautiful, clever Rachel. Would things have been different if I’d followed my... shall we say baser instincts and wed you instead of your cousin?”

“I would never have married you.”

“Now, now, never say never. As I recall you were tilting your skirts around Prince William. The king’s brother to be certain, but hardly more influential or wealthy than I. And certainly less able to pleasure you.

She tried to hold his gaze, but thoughts of him touching her, of doing with him what she did with Logan, made her physically ill. But he wouldn’t allow her even the smallest courtesy of looking away. His fingers clamped over her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You’re under my power now Rachel.”

“I’ll never be under your power.”

He sat back, his narrow face pensive. “We shall see. We shall see.”

As they rode on in silence Rachel tried to formulate some plan. Her hands were still tied, and though she tried her best to wriggle them free, she couldn’t. At least not without drawing attention to herself. There was nothing she could do until her hands were free, and even then... The only thing she was thankful for was that Logan was not here.

“I am puzzled.”

Rachel was thinking of Logan, lost in memories of the previous night when Bingham spoke again.

“How
did
you manage to escape those waters? I’m quite certain I saw you go under.”

“I found the same escape you shall.”

His smile deepened. “Ah Rachel, we would have made a good pair. ’Tis a pity I chose Elizabeth and her fortune. And her cuckolding ways.”

“I daresay most anyone would be tempted to forget their vows of fidelity married to you.”

“Then they would suffer the same consequences as Elizabeth and her lover.” His expression hardened. “Though next time I would not allow a chit of a girl to muddy my punishment. You caused me quite a bit of unpleasantness, Rachel.”

“Oh?” Her brows lifted.

“Yes, it appears before you ran off to warn Elizabeth of my anger, you mentioned it to Lady Sophia who in turn caught the ear of our charming German pig of a queen. When you turned up missing along with my dear wife and her lover, no amount of public grieving on my part could allay the king’s suspicion of me.”

“’Tis a pity he didn’t hang you.”

“I’m certain that’s what he wished. But remember, I am a man not without influential friends, and a considerable amount of power myself.” Bingham leaned back studying her beneath lowered lids. “No matter how often Charlotte prattled in his ear, George had no proof.”

His mouth thinned. “But he exacted his punishment all the same by sending me on this ridiculous journey through the backwoods of hell.”

“You aren’t enamored of the New World?”

“I prefer the old, thank you. Which is where I shall head as soon as we reach Philadelphia.”

“Is that where we’re going?”

“Well, I am. You, my dear Rachel, shall have a much shorter trip.” He reached across, draping his finger down across her breast. “’Tis such a shame too. I would love to have shown you some of the pastimes that Elizabeth found so entertaining.”

“Take your hands off me.” Rachel tried to squirm as far into the corner as she could, but she couldn’t escape his punishing grip. Tears of pain blurred her vision though she tried to blink them away. “I shall see that you burn in hell for what you’ve done.”

“Lofty words for one forced to roam around the countryside garbed in the clothing of servants.” With one final pinch he shoved back onto his own seat. “I think I shall have to fancy even you up a bit before you’ll inspire my lust.”

They rode on for hours. Rachel could see none of the countryside, could barely tell that it was day. Bingham sat across from her, his glacier eyes fixed on her, his expression stony. And she tried her best to disappear into the leather cushions.

When the coach finally rumbled to a stop, a footman opened the door and Rachel caught a glimpse of a large pink brick house before Bingham climbed down the lowered steps. “Take care of her,” he ordered the man in bright red livery before moving out of her view.

The door was slammed shut and after a moment the carriage started again. Within minutes they stopped, the door flew open, and another burly man pushed inside. Ignoring her struggles he wrapped a gag around her mouth, then bundled her out. Covered from head to toe with the cloak she could do nothing when he tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

Dizzying visions swirled about—a stone drive, polished steps, an Aubusson rug—before she was deposited back on her feet. Before she could move he left, locking the door behind him.

Rachel glanced around at the richly appointed room, trying to think of something to do. Her hands were tied, her mouth gagged, and there seemed to be nothing to use to change it.

Then the door opened and the guard appeared again, this time leading two servant girls who carried frilly, ruffled petticoats and gowns.

The man relocked the door, then drew his pistol from a leather belt. Pointing it toward Rachel he nodded toward the older woman who’d deposited the clothing on the bed.