Forbidden Angel (18 page)

Adrian pivoted in a slow circle, taking in the cultivated parkland surrounding the Hall for as far as the eye could see. He clasped Jeffrey’s shoulder. “You have done an excellent job in my absence, Uncle. It is just as I remember it.”

The graceful lines of Windsford Hall filled him with a sense of pride and reverence. The stone fountain in the middle of the cobbled terrace might be without water, just as the large, stone urns were without flowers, but it was home.

A young man hurried from the stables to hold the horses. “I beg pardon, my lord, but the family is not at home.” He looked questioningly at Adrian and waited.

“He is now.” Jeffrey pointed to Adrian. “This is Adrian Spencer, the Earl of Windsford.”

Adrian studied the young man. “What is your name?”

“I’m called Randy. Randolph, your Lordship, and a great day it is to have you here. My pa has told me many stories, and . . .” Catching himself, he straightened. “I must beg pardon again, my lord.”

Adrian bit back a smile. “Who might your father be?”

“Jeremy Simmons, my lord.” Randy doffed his hat.

“Simmons? I’m happy to know he’s still here. You were probably not much more than a mere lad at the time I left.”

“No, sir.”

The front door opened to reveal a neatly groomed elderly gentleman. He squinted as if trying to determine who might have accompanied Lord Jeffrey.

Adrian walked slowly up the front steps toward the aged butler. As he neared, the expression on the old servant’s face changed. With a smile, he came forward to greet Adrian.

“Why, it’s young Master Adrian. Just look at you.” The butler’s eyes filled slightly as Adrian placed both hands on the aging shoulders.

“I’m so glad to see you, Mr. Brimfield. I’ve thought often of you throughout these years.” Adrian returned to the others, who waited patiently.

“Come, everyone, and let me introduce you.” Adrian claimed Angeline’s hand and signaled for the others to follow. As they hurried through the front door, snow began to fall.

Adrian brought Angeline forward. “Brimfield, I would like to present my countess, Lady Windsford.”

“It is indeed a great pleasure.” Brimfield bowed respectfully. If he was surprised, it didn’t show.

Adrian introduced the others as they moved through the front hall.

“And a good day to you, Lord Jeffrey.”

“And to you, Mr. Brimfield,” Jeffrey replied. “How are things?”

“Quite well, my lord, quite well.” Brimfield acceded to Adrian. “If you would like to follow me to the small drawing room, I’ll have refreshments brought in. We have closed most of the Hall for the winter, but the main floor remains open and the fireplaces are kept going.”

The
small
drawing room was large by anyone’s standards and filled with exquisite Chippendale furniture.

Angeline’s gaze traveled from the parquet floors to the furniture, all glistening from years of care and waxing, to the large fireplace glowing with inlaid tiles cut to form an intricate pattern of cherubs and flutes.

Two large sofas, covered in deep-green damask, held place of prominence near the hearth. Other groupings of chairs were artfully spaced around the room to allow for conversation.

A piano sat in the corner near the window, sheets of music still in the tray. Persian carpets in shades of gold, green, and rose graced the wooden floors. They were similar, she noted, to the one in the large foyer where a grand rosewood table sat, its silver tray empty of all correspondence.

A feeling of sadness enveloped her. This should be a home full of laughter and gaiety—and children.

Shaking off the melancholy, she looked in appreciation at walls covered in gold striped paper. Exquisite paintings hung in prominent positions around the room.

One painting in particular caught Angeline’s attention. A delicate blond woman with deep blue eyes sat in a straight-backed chair. Two petite blond girls lounged at her feet. A young boy, his blond hair slightly darker, stood at her side. Angeline knew without being told the boy was Adrian and the girls Virginia and Elizabeth. His mother had been a stunningly beautiful woman. It was easy to see where he and his sisters had acquired their coloring.

She glanced at Adrian and noticed his regard. “Your mother was lovely, and I would know you anywhere.”

Angeline ambled further down the wall to a portrait of a man wearing the uniform of Her Majesty’s guard. Tall, slender, and handsome, it was his eyes she noticed most. They were the same dark blue of Adrian’s.

“You resemble your father greatly.”

As she slipped her arm through his, he automatically laid his hand on top of hers.

After viewing some of the other portraits, they joined the others who were having tea. The heat from the massive fireplace made the room warm and comfortable and Angeline relaxed and sipped her tea. When she curved her palm over her belly, she glanced up to catch the smoldering look in Adrian’s eyes.

“How big is this house?” Frank still gazed around in wonder.

Brimfield stepped forward. “Windsford Hall has two kitchens, sir, although one is a summer kitchen. There are thirty bedrooms in all, twenty of them for guests. There is one large and one small drawing room, a library, which is also a study, a billiards room, one formal dining room and an informal one for minor gatherings of up to fifteen, a ballroom, and an orangery.”

He paused to take a breath. “There is a summer tea room that overlooks the lake and back gardens and a sitting room for the ladies. The servants’ quarters are on the ground floor at the back of the house, as are the kitchens. The nursery, a large playroom, and two bedrooms for the children’s nurses are on the third floor, and the fourth floor is the attic, which is used for storage.”

Frank’s expression reflected his amazement. “It’s a grand house, Boss, but for my likin’ I’ll take the ranch. No offense meant.”

“None taken, Frank,” Adrian assured him. When his parents and sisters had been there with all of their friends, the Hall had been full of laughter. After his mother died, there were fewer and fewer visitors. His father closed the ballroom and the orangery and had seemed less inclined to celebrate any holiday.

He shook off the memories, and instead, addressed the devoted butler. “Mr. Brimfield, we must leave shortly but I promise to return soon. Windsford Hall is well maintained and I must congratulate you for your care.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Brimfield bowed.

Stepping through the door, they were met with a blast of frigid air and falling snow.

“I believe the weather is worsening, Adrian. Perhaps we should consider returning to town.” Jeffrey lifted his collar against the cold.

“Angeline and I will go on to Ashley Manor, but the rest of you should return to Mayfair. We will do what we need and return as quickly as possible. We can use a conveyance from here.”

“My lord, may I accompany you?” Shirley asked hopefully. “I’d love to see it again.”

“Of course, Shirley.” Adrian drew Angeline closer to his side when he noticed her shiver.

Although Frank and Michael made clear their obvious displeasure with them going on alone, Adrian assured their return before dark. He’d noticed the disappointment on Angeline’s face and this was something he could give her.

Since they would travel in a closed carriage bearing the Windsford crest, and because there had been no sign of anyone following them, Adrian felt confident that all would go accordingly and without mishap.

Heated bricks were placed in both carriages to help warm their feet and ward off the cold. It was Randy who climbed atop and took up the reins. With a crack of the whip, the heavy coach moved forward.

With most of the staff in London, the manor house appeared deserted. The home she had loved all her life sat quietly in the winter snow, a gray brick structure looming three stories high. Tall chimneys from the many fireplaces, now bereft of smoke, stood shadowed against the darkening sky. Rose bushes, pruned for the winter, were half buried in the falling snow.

Angeline drew in a deep breath and climbed the steps to the large front door. It stayed closed, as there was no one there to greet them. She sensed Adrian walking quietly by her side and slipped her arm through his.

As soon as they crossed the threshold into the front hall, Shirley hurried upstairs to see her old room, obviously feeling a sense of nostalgia as well.

“Shouldn’t there still be a footman?” Angeline wondered, gazing around.

Adrian frowned. “There was no sign of a groom, either.”

“Perhaps they’re on holiday with all the others in London,” she suggested. “The family cemetery is in the back. Come, I’ll show you where Elizabeth is buried.”

Angeline led the way through a wrought-iron gate to a large tree at the side of the graveyard and observed the two newest graves, and the grave of her mother.

Adrian said nothing for a long while, looking down at the headstone marking his sister’s final resting place. He stooped and brushed the snow from the stone. “She was always reckless and headstrong, but never insensitive or mean. Yet what she did to you was despicable.” He came to his feet, and placed his arm around Angeline, drawing her tightly to his side.

“Although I’m angry, I don’t blame her entirely, Adrian. I believe Malcolm knew what he was doing and used her to get what he wanted.”

Adrian dusted the snow from the shoulders of her cape. “We should get you out of this weather.”

As he angled her toward the house, a figure stepped from behind a large tree. Adrian instantly recognized the man from Henry Garfield’s description.

Tall and dark, with a flat-crowned hat partially hiding his face, he wore a heavy cape over his shoulders. Adrian pushed Angeline behind him.

Without preamble, the Spaniard stated, “You asked to speak to me?”

“What do you want with us?” Adrian growled.

“I believe you already know.”

El
Cazador tensed when he noticed the calculating gleam in Windsford’s eye. The man would fight him.

“I won’t let you take her. You will have to kill me first.”

“If I must.” Without hesitation, he pulled a pistol from under his cape and fired.

At the same moment, the woman shoved Windsford sideways, trying to step in front of him. Adjusting his aim, Cazador fired again. A red stain spread slowly across the front of Windsford’s coat before his knees buckled and he pitched forward, hitting the snow-covered ground with a muffled thud.

The woman screamed and dropped to her knees beside her felled lover. She carefully turned him over. Within moments, blood covered her hands. She made a mewling sound similar to that of a wounded animal and rocked back on her knees before covering him with her body. Tenderly, she brushed the hair back from his forehead and kissed his face.

“No, no, no. Please, God, no,” she cried.

He moved forward, taking a position beside her. “We must leave now. Please move aside.”

She raised her head, a glazed look riding in her eyes, and slowly, with both hands, lifted a pistol she had obviously taken from her lover’s coat. She shoved the barrel end against her chest.

“If you do anything else to him, I will take away that which you, and that devil you work for, have tried so hard to get. Do you understand me?”

He knew she would do it. This was merely a job and he would be paid only when he delivered this woman. Alive. “As you wish. Now please rise.”

He had to admire her courage. Even disheveled and covered in blood, she was a magnificent woman. A memory, one sent to the far recesses of his mind, surfaced. He sternly pushed it back.

He pulled her to her feet, led her to the waiting horse, and, in one fluid movement, lifted her onto the saddle and mounted behind her. When he reached for the pistol, she cocked the hammer and pressed the gun more tightly to her chest. She was a brave one to still fight him. Slowly, he moved his hand away.

“We are leaving. Just be careful with that.” He wrapped one arm around her and held the reins in the other hand. The woman glanced back to the man whose blood ran red against the white snow and sobbed, her body shaking uncontrollably.

As Randy started to unhook the team, he heard what sounded like gunshots. Dropping the reins, he ran toward the back of the house. When he rounded the corner, he scanned the gardens looking for anything amiss. Everything seemed as it should.

He moved closer to the wrought-iron fence surrounding the old cemetery. At the back of the graveyard, a stranger in a black cape rode off into the woods. Randy broke into a run. As he neared the gate, he saw the figure of a man sprawled on the ground, the snow around him red with blood.

Randy dropped to his knees beside the quiet figure. “Oh, my lord, what’s happened?”

Shirley followed through the gate on his heels and went to her knees beside him. Adrian didn’t move, but Randy had been around hunters most of his life and knew what to look for. He placed his ear near Adrian’s mouth and listened for signs of breathing, then laid his fingers against the side of Adrian’s throat and felt for a pulse. It was there. Faint, but there.

Shirley stared at Adrian’s blood-smeared chest. “Is he dead?”

Randy didn’t glance up, but continued to check his fallen master. “He lives.”

He had to get help, but he couldn’t leave Lord Adrian lying in the snow to freeze to death. “Watch him while I find something to move him with.”

Shirley glanced around. Her voice rose in panic. “Where is Lady Windsford?” she screamed.

“The man what done this has her. He rode off as I came up,” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran for the house.

Randy gathered armloads of blankets and pillows and grabbed bandages and ointments from the pantry. He didn’t know what most of them were, but surely something would work.

He dumped the pile he’d collected inside the coach. Thankful he’d not completely unhitched the team, it was only a matter of minutes when he drove around behind the house and maneuvered the coach as close as he could to Adrian.

Climbing down, he grabbed one of the blankets, spreading it out alongside Adrian. As carefully as possible, they rolled him on to it.

Randy caught Shirley’s gaze. “We can’t carry him, but we might be able to pull him.” They each grabbed a corner and began to pull the makeshift sled, talking to Adrian all the while. Randy didn’t know if Lord Windsford could hear him or not, but it might bring some comfort if he knew they were with him.

Once alongside the carriage, Randy patted Adrian’s cheeks. “My lord, please. I can’t lift you so you must try and help.”

Adrian stirred. “Angeline?”

“She’s not here, my lord. We must get help for you first.” Randy slipped his arms under Adrian’s. “Now, when I lift, try and get to your feet.”

Randy gave a huge tug. Adrian attempted, and failed, to gain his feet. “Let’s try again. One, two, and three . . .” He lifted again. This time Adrian managed to get one leg under him. One more try, and he was in the carriage. Shirley climbed in beside him, covering him with blankets in an effort to warm him.

She inspected a large bruise forming on the side of Adrian’s head. “Look at this.” Wiping away the blood and dirt, she studied the mark. “He’s taken a right smart knock on the head, most likely when he fell.”

The news only added to Randy’s distress. “Where should we go?”

Before Shirley could respond, the answer came from Adrian. “Windsford, to your father,” he whispered weakly.

Randy climbed into the driver’s seat and, taking up the reins, headed the team in the direction of the road. Once there, he cracked the whip and they barreled toward Windsford Hall.

“Lord help us,” he prayed, as the horses settled into the harness and picked up speed.

When they neared the long drive at Windsford Hall, Randy slowed the horses to make the turn, then picked up speed again.

At the sound of racing horses, Jeremy Simmons rushed around to the front of the house, catching the lead horse’s reins as they slowed. Jeremy sent his son a ferocious glare. “You’d better have a good reason for this.”

“I do, Pa. It’s Lord Windsford. He’s bad hurt.” Randy jumped down and ran toward the carriage door, jerking it open.

Cazador had ridden for some time, and for most of the journey, the woman had been unconscious. There was no reason for it that he could see. When her head tipped forward, he tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her back against him.

El
Cazador’s services were highly sought after and he was paid handsomely for what he did. This was an alluring woman, the most captivating he’d seen in a very long time. But Malcolm’s obsession with her went beyond that. It was none of his business, however, and once he delivered her, his job was done.

Although he never did more than he was hired to do, he’d made an exception where Henry Garfield was concerned. The fool had seen his face and tried to blackmail him in exchange for his silence. That might not have been Henry’s first mistake, but it was his last.

The few people Cazador had found working at the Manor were tied and gagged in the barn. He did not kill for killing’s’ sake.

He slowed his horse and rearranged Angeline in his arms to better see her face. Her skin was very pale and her lips were turning blue. He ran his fingers over her cheeks and across her eyelids. She was cold, the kind that came from within.

He considered the blood-soaked gown and frowned. There was too much blood to be only Windsford’s. He slid his hand inside her cloak and felt with his fingers, withdrawing them to stare at the crimson stain.

He’d fired twice, hoping to end it quickly. He didn’t relish making any man suffer. In shoving Windsford out of the way, she had taken a bullet herself.

“You little fool. Why did you not tell me?” He remembered the look on her face and in her eyes. He had attributed both to the shock of seeing Windsford shot. If the bullet was still there, and he guessed it was, it needed to come out soon, or she might very well die.

Cazador marveled again at her strength, for even after she’d been shot, she had faced him and fought for her lover.

Her cloak was wet with her blood. Discarding the garment, he wrapped her in his and spurred the horse on. She needed a doctor quickly, and they still had miles to go.

When they finally reached the clearing he’d been searching for, he drew his horse to a stop. Ahead lay an old country estate, the windows covered with dirt and grime until it was impossible to see inside. Sitting in the midst of a neglected and overgrown lawn, at first glance, the house appeared deserted.

Cazador dismounted and lifted Angeline from the horse’s back, carrying her toward the front door. A maid stood in the open doorway. Pushing past the young woman, he ordered, “Show me to the nearest bedchamber and send a groom to care for my horse.”

The maid, not much more than a child, started slowly up the stairs carrying a lantern.

“I will run over you if you do not hurry,” he shouted angrily.

Her eyes widened with fright. “Right here, sir. Bring her in here.”

Cazador pushed by the maid and laid the woman on the bed. “I will need more light, hot water, clean white cloth and alcohol, any kind that is available. Get a doctor as well. Now move!” he bellowed.

Within minutes there were lanterns spaced around the room. Shortly afterward, the hot water and white cloth appeared, along with a bottle of brandy.

“What happened, Cazador?” Malcolm leaned against the doorjamb. His girth had increased, and his face and neck appeared bloated.

Cazador frowned in disgust. “
Dios
, you will kill yourself if you do not change your ways.”

“I’m not paying for your advice. What happened here?”

“A bullet struck her. She needs a doctor.”

Malcolm stepped closer to the bed and observed the woman. “There’ll be no doctor. He’d run back and tell everyone she’s here. I’ll find a midwife to help, but you’d better patch her up. Everything will be ruined if she dies.”

He spun on his heel and exited the room, leaving Cazador speechless with rage.

The woman moaned and started thrashing. Picking up a towel, Cazador dipped the cloth in cool water and wiped her forehead and lips. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Listen to me,
niña
. You are a strong woman and you must fight to live.”

She shook her head. “No reason.”

“There is always a reason.” Cazador continued to wipe her face and lips while he waited for the promised midwife.

After what seemed an eternity, a woman of indeterminable age shoved her way past the maid and into the room. Dirty, she fairly reeked. The black satchel she carried was also covered in grime. Cazador flinched when the old crone dropped the bag on the floor by the bed. His temper rose when he noticed the condition of her filthy hands and nails.

Reaching into the bag, she withdrew metal forceps. Even from where he stood, Cazador could see dried blood staining the instrument.

“Out o’ my way. I don’t wanna spend all day here. I got other things ta do.”

Cazador’s forehead furrowed. “Are you not going to at least wash your hands and that instrument?”

“Why should I? She don’t look like she’s gonna make it ter mornin’ anyways.” The hag leaned over the woman.

Cazador’s patience frayed. He grabbed the midwife by the arm and shoved her toward the door. “Get away from her, you filthy witch.”

“I don’t have ta take that from ta likes o’ you,” she hissed through tight lips. “Don’t blame me if she dies.”

When she grabbed for the black bag, Cazador stopped her with a curt, “Leave it.”

“Those are my instruments and I needs ‘em.”

“So you may kill someone else?” He took a menacing step toward her. Screeching, the frightened hag spun and ran from the room.

Cazador slammed the door and picked up the satchel. Shedding his coat, he rolled up his sleeves and searched through the contents of the bag until he found what he needed. Placing them in a bowl, he scrubbed the instruments. After emptying the dirty water, he scrubbed them again, rinsing with the boiled water.

He needed to determine the direction of the bullet. Tearing her gown down the middle, he removed it and her petticoat. Her shift appeared to be stuck to the wound. Cupping his hands in the cooled, clean water, he poured the liquid over the wound and soaked the garment until he could loosen it, then he rent the shift down the side.

After checking the entry wound, he picked up the cleaned forceps and carefully guided them into the lesion. Moving slowly, he felt the forceps nudge the bullet.

Thankfully, she’d drifted into unconsciousness again. Cazador clamped the forceps onto the bullet and slowly withdrew it. He tossed the slug into the washbasin, then pressed pads of bandages against the wound to stop the flow of blood.

When the bleeding slowed, he poured brandy on a piece of cloth and cleaned the wound again, searching for any shred of clothing that may have entered with the bullet. Confident there was none, he applied more clean pads and wrapped strips of the same material to hold the packing in place. Satisfied he’d done what he could for the moment, he covered her with a blanket.

He slipped his arm beneath her neck and held a cup of water to her lips, pouring a tiny amount into her mouth. She choked, but swallowed.

“A little more now,” he coaxed.

At a light tap on the door, the maid scurried in. She was a comely girl, or would have been but for the swelling around one eye and a cut on her lip.