For Your Arms Only (27 page)

“She was lurking by the road,” the servant said. He had one arm around Cressida’s chest, his hand wrapped around her throat, but his other hand held Alec’s attention. The man had a pistol pressed to her side. “One of them Turners.”

L
acey’s incredulity turned to disgust as he turned on Alec. “And what do you mean by bringing her here?”

“I didn’t.” Alec kept his voice low and even, his eyes never leaving Cressida. She had agreed to stay behind. He couldn’t believe she would follow him, yet here she was, apparently unarmed and alone. Bloody hell.

“I don’t approve of shooting women, Morris,” Lacey snapped. “Not even that one.” The sight of Cressida—a Turner—had revived the old man’s bilious spirit.

“Let her go,” said Alec softly. “She had no part in any of this, and knew nothing of it.” Cressida was watching him with wide, frightened eyes, but no panic. He felt an absurd spark of admiration, that she could be dragged about by her neck with a gun to her ribs, and yet not dissolve into panic. Of course, it would have been even better had she kept her promise and stayed safely at Penford. Bloody,
bloody
hell.

“It appears she’s a lying, sneaking thief like her father,” snapped Lacey.

“Let her go,” Alec repeated, ignoring Lacey. “For your own sake, Morris.”

Morris grunted. He shifted Cressida’s weight more to the side, as if tucking her under his arm. Her feet swung helplessly, like a doll’s, as she struggled. Morris moved the pistol muzzle to her back, right at the curve of her spine. A shot there would leave her paralyzed if it didn’t kill her instantly. “You want to take her place?”

“Lacey,” said Alec in warning.

The old man glowered. “Get her out of here, Morris. I never want to see another Turner on my property.”

The servant grinned. “I’ll put her with the other one.”

“Where is that?” Cressida squeaked. She had begun struggling again at Lacey’s words, twisting against Morris’s thick arm.

Morris’s grin grew wider. “Buried behind the privy, miss, right where he belonged.” He jerked his chin at Alec. “You come along, too. It’s not nice to call on a man and make threats.”

“Lacey,” said Alec again, more loudly. A faint buzzing filled his ears. Not even in the heat of battle had he ever been more focused on killing another person.

“Morris!”

“It’s my duty to Master William, sir,” replied his servant, ducking his head. “I owes him this, too. Never you mind, sir.”

“Let her go, and I’ll come with you instead,” Alec said. Morris was a thug, big and brutal, but Alec had learned more than a few tricks as a spy. The first lesson was to abandon honor at the door, and never mind a fair fight. Morris’s pistol was a single shot. All Alec had to do was make sure that shot didn’t go into Cressida or himself.

Morris laughed. “Eh, no. Got you both, don’t we? Led the young master into trouble for many years, you did; got him killed, too, most like. No friends of the family here tonight.”

“She had nothing to do with Will,” Alec said again. He was slowly moving to the side, to where he could see Cressida’s face. Two spots of red burned in her cheeks, and her eyes were glittering. She was furious, he realized, so furious she wasn’t even frightened anymore. “She never met him or heard of him.”

“But she lived well off his death, and that’s enough.” Morris gave her another shake. “Let’s go, miss. Time to join your papa.”

With a strangled shriek, Cressida threw her head back, cracking into Morris’s chin. She kicked at his knees and scratched at his restraining arm. He cursed, turning his head away from her as she twisted, and almost dropped the pistol. Alec lunged forward to grab it, but Morris, still cursing, raised the gun and tried to aim at him. Alec dodged to the side to avoid presenting a good target, reaching for Cressida at the same moment. But suddenly she crashed to the floor along with the pistol; Morris had released both to grab the rope that had appeared around his throat.

It was the moment of hesitation Alec needed. With one flick of his wrist, he pulled the stiletto from his sleeve and flung it. Morris jerked upright, his face going slack with surprise. With an awful, reedy gasp he choked and coughed, and blood spurted from the mortal wound.

Alec had thrown the knife hard and true. The weighted hilt quivered right below Morris’s meaty chin, the blade piercing his throat. Morris’s eyes glazed over and went blank. Angelique, clinging to his back, gave a sharp tug on her garrote, and his head went up without resistance.

“Angelique,” he said. “You can let him go.”

Morris thudded heavily to his knees as she relaxed her grip. She peered over his shoulder, not appearing very surprised by the knife hilt sticking out of his throat. “I was not in need of help.” She whisked the black rope from around his neck and gave Morris a small push. Freed of support, his body slowly toppled to the floor. The blood gushed forth as he collapsed, staining the carpet dark red in a wide arc around him. Angelique stepped away, wrinkling her nose. “Such a mess the knife makes,” she said on a sigh.

Alec turned to Cressida, who had scrambled away from Morris and now sat braced on her arms, skirts twisted around her legs, breathing hard and staring at the dead man. “Are you hurt?”

She raised dazed eyes to him. Mutely she shook her head. Alec exhaled, his hands starting to shake from the delayed fear and fury at the sight of her caught in Morris’s grasp. He simply nodded, unable to speak.

“My God,” cried Lacey in shock. “You’ve killed my man!”

Alec gave him a black look as he bent to retrieve his knife. He cleaned the blade with a sharp swipe across Morris’s sleeve.

Angelique raised her eyebrows at Lacey as she coiled her deadly garrote around her hand. “Perhaps you are next.”

The old man jerked, staring at her as if she had sprouted another head. In her dark clothing, with all her hair pulled back and making no attempt to gentle her expression, Angelique might have been the angel of death, coldly merciless. When Ian appeared in the doorway behind her, looking for all the world like his fierce Highland forebears must have looked to the invading English, Lacey gave an audible whimper.

“Get him out of the way,” Alec muttered to Ian. The big Scot glanced at Angelique and nodded. He shoved his pistol into his pocket and bent to heave Morris’s bulk over one shoulder. Angelique stepped out of his way as he carried the dead man to the sofa. Lacey watched in horrified silence, cowering in the corner.

Alec put out his hand and pulled Cressida to her feet. She came into his arms and held him as if she would never let go. He pressed his lips to her hair. She was shaking, and he held her even tighter, to keep her still, to comfort her, to reassure himself that she was whole and well. He hadn’t planned to kill Morris, but the sight of him strangling Cressida had fueled a black rage that overrode every instinct except the fierce drive to protect what was vital to him. The knife had left his hand before he’d even thought of drawing it.

“Why did you not wait in the carriage?” Angelique asked gently, touching Cressida’s arm. “I did not wish you to be involved.”

“I did wait with the carriage.” Cressida’s voice was muffled against Alec’s chest. “He found me and dragged me to the house.”

Alec glared at Angelique. She pursed her lips. “I am sorry, Alec.”

“It doesn’t matter.” It did matter. Angelique should have known better than to bring her anywhere near The Grange. Based on the way she was dressed and armed, Angelique had known exactly what she was walking into, and there was no excuse for bringing an innocent, untrained woman with her. In other situations Alec would have argued the point, but this time it didn’t matter. Perhaps that, more than anything, drove home to him how final his choice was. He couldn’t go back to being a spy—not because he had found the proof of innocence he sought, not because he had returned home and taken up his real name and position, but because of Cressida. If something had happened to her, there would have been little at Penford to keep him from the nomadic, lonely existence of Stafford’s agents. But with her…With her he saw not the salvation of his reputation, but the salvation of his heart and soul. With her in his arms, nothing else mattered.

“You’ll take care of this?” he asked Angelique.

She nodded. “Ian will go to Stafford tonight. He will want to know.”

At the moment Alec didn’t give a bloody damn what Stafford wanted. He nodded once and walked out of the room, leaving it all behind—Lacey’s concealment of the truth, Morris’s murderous loyalty, George Turner’s venal sins, and most of all Will’s fatal, tragic flaw. He had Cressida in his arms, and that was all he cared about.

T
hey rode home slowly, she before him on the horse. For the first time in five years, Alec realized he was free. The weight of his suspected treason that had borne down on him for so long was gone. The thirst of vengeance that had driven him was no more, washed away by the sorrow of his friend’s tragic secret. The prickly solitude that had been his life for five years was over, stripped from him by the woman in his arms. He was free, to live and to love. He tilted his face up to the sky and breathed deeply.

Neither spoke during the ride. A few fat drops of rain spattered against them, but the storm was still holding off. At the Penford stables Alec dismounted and handed the reins to the stable boy. He held out his arms to Cressida, wanting nothing more than to hide away from the world with her.

She let him help her down. Through the long ride home, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about one fact: her father had directly caused Alec’s disgrace and estrangement. He hadn’t hesitated to destroy an innocent man’s name, all in the interest of blackmailing the family of the man he helped ruin. As she huddled in Alec’s arms, her life with Papa had played across her memory’s eye, his cheery winks and booming laughter, his quick temper and generous nature. The time he had brought home a baby bunny for her and Callie to see. The way his face would darken when she argued with him, and the cold way he had maneuvered Callie into marriage with Mr. Phillips. She thought of him making sport of Tom, and of how he carried her grandmother tenderly up the stairs when Granny had broken her ankle. It was a bittersweet jumble of happiness and horror, that he could support them with money gained so shamefully. And now Papa was lying in the ground behind Mr. Lacey’s privy, if Morris could be believed, and she was sad and angry and relieved all at once.

She looked up into Alec’s face. He had borne the disgrace, sacrificing five years—and almost his very life—trying to disprove what Papa had so carelessly cast on him. It was a cruel irony that he had been sent to find Papa when all along Papa had been the one responsible for Alec’s condemnation. Cressida couldn’t help thinking that her father had brought his fate upon himself; he had played with fire and it had consumed him in the end. And not only had it cost her her father and her affection for him, it might cost her a lifetime of happiness with the man she loved.

“What you must think of me,” she began brokenly. “Of him, and everyone connected with him.”

Alec’s jaw tightened, then eased. “I am sorry you were there. Angelique should never have brought you with her.”

“Oh!” She waved one hand impatiently. “At least now I know the truth, not some fairy tale of ‘expectations’ and other rubbish Papa used to tell us. He was a liar and a thief who lived on other people’s sins.”

“He was your father.”

“And I loved him!” she said hysterically. “I did, and he was so—so—so
unworthy
.”

“I loved Will,” he reminded her. “He was my brother in spirit, closer than Frederick.”

“I know. And Papa ruined his life, too,” she said sadly.

He shook his head. “Will was not weak-willed. What he did was unpardonable, and I don’t for one moment hold your father blameless. But Will could have refused. I don’t know why he didn’t, but he was not likely to be swayed by a lowly sergeant to do something so heinous if his inclination had been fixed against it. French gold, I expect, won him over more than anything else.

“What your father did to me…” He paused. A gentle rain had begun, wetting the shoulders of his coat. “It was the coward’s way,” he said quietly. “Did he know me and despise me for some reason, or was I just a conveniently dead officer? He might not have even known whose belongings he hid those letters in, and it was mischance he found a man not truly dead.”

“But Mr. Lacey—”

“I doubt he had any thought of Mr. Lacey when he undertook the plan, except perhaps contempt. If he’d had any respect at all for Mr. Lacey, he never would have tried to extort money from him.”

Yes, she could believe that. But what contempt must
Alec
have, then, for her father—or for her?

“You told me once you cared only for the truth,” she said. Rain ran down her cheeks and dripped from her nose.

“The truth,” Alec repeated. “Yes. I do.” Cressida wrapped her arms around herself, bracing for the coming blow. Her heart would never recover from this one. “The truth is that I love you. The truth is that nothing your father did, or said, or thought or felt or wrote, could change that.”

“The truth is my father cast blame for another man’s crime on you!”

“He did.”

She laughed a little wildly in despair. “How horrified you must have been when you realized the man you had been sent to help was the very man who betrayed you.”

“It was odd,” he agreed.

“And—”

“And the truth is that my own actions contributed to my situation,” he said over her protest. “I was rash and quick-tempered. I was well-known in the army for being as bold as brass and daring to a fault. Had I been more restrained, people might not have believed the charges so quickly. Had I been more logical and dispassionate, I might have chosen a different course of action. Disappearing for five years doesn’t have the same effect as standing up and shouting my innocence for all to hear, even if in a criminal dock.”

“You should not have needed to!” she cried. “Papa—”

He put his fingertip on her lips. “It is not the adversity you suffer, it is how you react to it that determines one’s worth. What your father did does not reflect on you any more than Will’s actions reflect on me. And in the end, it does not change where we have ended up.”

The rain pattered harder around them, refreshingly cool after the suffocating heat. He touched her cheek, and she leaned into it. “How can you bear to look at me,” she whispered, “and not think of him? Of all he cost you?”

“When I look at you,” he murmured against her temple, “it’s not your father I think of.”

“I am so sorry,” she said, her voice cracking.

He rested his forehead against hers. “I’m not.”

Cressida pulled back to look at him in astonishment. He was dripping wet, as was she, but he was grinning at her with that endearing dimple just visible in his cheek. “If you wish to make reparation, though,” he added, “I could be persuaded to accept.”

Her mouth fell open. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. A brilliant bolt of lightning lit the sky for a moment, with thunder like a cannon shot. They really ought to go inside. “Why are you not sorry?”

“I had time to think while I rode to The Grange. I read Will’s letter; I knew what it said, and I was fairly certain what it meant for my circumstances.” He had to raise his voice as the rain increased, drumming loudly on the stable roof and the paving stones beneath their feet. “I had time to consider if I would rather have never been accused of treason, and come home to go on my way without ever crossing your path, or if this were the happier ending for me. And I knew I would rather have you, whatever else life might bring.”

She blinked, and sniffled. Raindrops clung to her eyelashes. “You’re mad.”

He grinned. “Barking, howling mad,” he said. “For you.”

“Even though—?”

“Even though.” He kissed her until she forgot her question, then tipped back his head and squinted into the downpour. “I don’t think we shall have a walk today after all.”

She smiled through her tears. “Not without getting very wet.”

Alec laughed. “It feels rather good, to tell the truth. But perhaps it’s holding you that feels good, and not even the rain could quench my delight.” He cupped her cheek and made her look up at him. “You said something earlier, about loving me.” Cressida froze, her eyes wide with apprehension. “I was wondering…or really, hoping,” he went on, “that you might love me as much as I love you. Or at least enough to marry me, because I really don’t think I can ever let you go.”

For a moment she was too stunned to reply. Then wordlessly, she began nodding, and didn’t stop even when he held her close and swung her off her feet.