Heather Graham (21 page)

“I hate you!” she whispered, trying so very hard to fight the tears. Everything had been so beautiful. Now everything was lost.

He bowed low before her, mockingly low. “So you have said before.” But then he paused. He pulled her into his arms. Found her lips. Kissed her deeply and hard. And surely tasted the salt of those tears she strained so furiously to hide.

“I owe her, Rose! It’s a matter of honor!” he whispered.

“No!” she breathed. But it didn’t matter. He had pushed away from her.

He placed his hat atop his head. His eyes met hers. He gritted his teeth in pain but turned quickly again without touching her, leaving the room and hurrying down the staircase, calling orders to Garth.

Rose hurried into the anteroom of their private chambers. She closed her eyes, sinking down to one of the daybeds.

Most assuredly, Jamison and Jerome deserved whatever Pierce chose to do to them.

But Rose still couldn’t let him die, brought down by some other treachery of Jamison’s or Jerome’s.

Or hanged by law for murder.

She leapt up, suddenly equally determined herself.

She was going to Dover, too.

Anne paused as she started down the few steps from the stairway to the great hall at Huntington Manor. She tried not to wince, but she did so, lowering her head.

Jamison was already there.

She had tried. Once she had discovered herself duped and wed, she had quickly determined that she was going to accept her marriage. If she didn’t, she knew someone would die. If Pierce suspected that she suffered in any way, he would have come for her.

He was married now. To Rose Woodbine. And certainly, even if he was still determined to find Anne as his honor must dictate, he must have reconciled himself to his own marriage. Rose was beautiful. Wild. And Anne had seen the sparks of passion flying between the two when they had not realized it themselves.

Aye, Pierce was wed! But Jamison still walked in fear of him, and Anne was well aware of it. He wanted to return to London, but he dared not do so. And as much as he adored her, Anne thought dryly, he also seemed to miss his paramour. He had once let slip the name Beth, and so Anne was certain that he did have a mistress—and that the woman had assisted them in their treachery.

Once Jamison had wed her, he’d been near frantic to leave London, and had called in some favors owed his father. They had been offered this place that so pleased Jamison, for it was nearly a fortress. She was aware that her husband had hired at least a dozen guards just to watch the place, and that he had alerted his own men at home that they were to keep their eyes upon every movement made by Pierce DeForte.

Jamison was in their host’s great parlor, looking out the windows toward the direction of the sea. A coldness stole over Anne. He was a handsome man. Tall, blond, with fine aristocratic features. She should have felt something for him! Some form of pity. She was trying. Truly she was.

He heard her, and swung around to watch her come. It was just morning; he was in one of their host’s fine dressing gowns. He already had a cup of whiskey in his hands. He lifted it to her.

“Ah, here she comes! My sainted wife!”

She walked on into the room, ignoring him. There was a carafe of water on a large oak breaker. She poured herself a mug of it and turned back to him. “You say that you love me,” she said softly. “If you do, you must stop trying to mock me at every turn. And you can’t be afraid.”

“Afraid? Of you?” he inquired haughtily.

“All right then. You’re afraid of Pierce. Horribly afraid.”

Jamison shook his head. “Pierce is going to die.”

Cold fear washed over her. “You’ll never kill him.”

“He’ll be ambushed, milady. As soon as he comes here, determined to kill me, he’ll be ambushed. It will all be so very—regretful. But everyone knows how viciously he has spoken threats against me!”

Her fingers were shaking. She clenched the breaker before her. “You are a fool. Truly you are a fool.”

“I’ll get him out of my life!” Jamison cried.

She shook her head. “Jamison, he’ll come here eventually. Don’t you see? You’ve got to let me see him, talk to him. Damn you, Jamison, do you know why I married you?”

“Because you were drugged,” he said dully.

“Because I didn’t want anyone to die!” she insisted. She felt pity for him. And something almost like affection. He had tried. He had tried very hard. She took the whiskey from his hands and set it down. “It’s too early to drink. Now, listen to me. I am going to send a message to Pierce and Rose. I’m going to see them alone.”

“And …?” he asked, clutching her hand.

“I’m going to convince them that we’re doing very well, that we intend to be happy, and wish them well, too. That way, perhaps we can all appear at court again.”

“Is that so important to you?” he asked her.

Anne hesitated. It was. Her position was important, as was her way of life.

And she was determined that she could make life work.

“Yes,” she said flatly. She smiled. As long as Jerome stayed out of their lives, they could do well enough. “Order us some breakfast,” she said. “I’m going to write a note.”

Jamison was staring into the fire when he heard her cry out. The sound paralyzed him with fear. He ran out to the staircase to see Anne’s body tumble down the long flight of steps like a broken doll.

“Anne!” he screamed. Her head hit the final step and she lay still.

Jamison ran to her and fell to his knees. He swept her into his arms in terror.

She was so very still.

“Anne!” he cried desperately. Her head was rolling peculiarly. He shifted her onto his shoulder.

Then he saw the blood. It ran in a stream all along the bottom step. It was still running silently and crimson from the gash against her forehead.

“Anne!” He screamed her name that time. He shook her. He laid his head against her breast. He laid her down. He touched her cheeks frantically. He tried to kiss her mouth, find life. Blood greeted his lips.

Then the truth came to him. He couldn’t claim her, couldn’t love her, couldn’t hurt her. Neither could Pierce DeForte take her from him.

Because she was dead.

Crying out, he laid her down. The blood was still threading through the angelic gold strands of her hair. Her face was so beautifully still, so peaceful.

“Oh, God!” he cried, shivering.

Now what would happen when Pierce found him? He would never believe that it had been an accident. Nor would anyone else.

He could hang!

But Pierce wouldn’t let that happen. When he discovered what had happened to Anne, he wouldn’t give a damn about the law. He would find Jamison and take him apart, limb by limb. Hanging would be a mercy!

“Oh, Anne, Anne! Look what we’ve come to! I loved you, my God, I loved you, I swear that I loved you!”

Grief tore through him.

And then terror again.

DeForte had loved her, too. DeForte had already killed men, endless men, fighting against the Roundheads in the bloody civil war. He wasn’t afraid of anything.

I am protected! I’ve hired guards, I’ve swordsmen, mercenaries, he reminded himself.

It didn’t help. He knew DeForte.

He sat back on his haunches, rocking with fear.

Then he froze, going very, very still.

He could hear footsteps. His guards had failed him! Someone was coming. Hurrying over the stone of the entry.

Coming to the parlor.

To him …

To Anne!

JAMISON BRYANT LOOKED UP
with terror in his heart.

He stared blankly at the pale man who had been his friend and accomplice in all that happened—until now. The woman in his arms was Jerome’s half-sister.

Jerome had been incredibly anxious to take her away from Pierce DeForte, to see her wed to Jamison. He had been interested in the portion of Anne’s estate that would come his way. But now …

Jerome strode through the entryway, coming to the marble at the foot of the grand stairway, staring from Anne’s bloodstained blond head to Jamison where he knelt on the floor with her in his arms. “Holy Mother!” he exclaimed, stopping dead in his stride. His eyes narrowed on Jamison. “What happened?”

“She fell,” he said softly. “Before God, she fell. I’d have never hurt her. I loved her.”

Jerome stared from Anne to Jamison, still incredulous. His sister was indeed dead. Beautiful, peaceful in death. She had been so very lovely.

He should have felt something. They had never planned on doing away with Anne …

But she was dead. And he had just heard that Pierce DeForte had left his estate and was riding hard for the coast. Jerome was certain Pierce didn’t, as yet, know where they were staying. The house belonged to an old nobleman who had been very good friends with the elder Lord Bryant, now deceased. The owner of the place was taking some spring waters up by the Scottish border in an attempt to do something about his gout. They had asked for hospitality in deep secret, warning the old man that Lord Bryant’s bride had once had a half-mad fiancé who might come after them.

They should be safe for a while. Pierce would find them, of course—they’d hired five burly French assassins with just that knowledge in mind.

But he couldn’t let Pierce DeForte find them too quickly.

Jamison was rocking now, holding Anne as if he’d lost his senses.

“I never meant this,” Jamison said. “I loved her. I loved her so much.”

Oh, God! Jerome thought. Jamison Bryant was cradling his dead wife as if she still breathed. He was losing control.

Jerome grit his teeth. He couldn’t let that happen.

He stepped back, still viewing the situation, his mind working quickly. Anne was dead. Regrettable, true. Or maybe not so regrettable.

If Anne hadn’t married, all of her estates would have come to Jerome. Now, of course, half of her father’s property would fall to the fool losing his mind before him.

Quite unfair.

Jamison was covered in her blood …

Could Jamison be convicted of—murder?

Hmm. Perhaps the estates would be confiscated from Jamison if he were convicted of having killed Anne. In a jealous fit, perhaps. Everyone knew about her affair with Pierce DeForte.

But then again, perhaps he would not be convicted of murder. Jamison was sitting on the floor practically blubbering at the moment. If there was ever a trial, it would be Jerome’s word against Jamison’s. And, of course, Jamison would surely tell the world that the entire plot to kidnap Anne from DeForte and see that Rose Woodbine was left compromised had been hatched by Jerome.

And then there was the matter of Pierce DeForte. The man already wanted to kill them both.

A coldness stole its way over Jerome.

The solution to all of his difficulties lay before him. A very simple solution. One that would solve everything. All the property would become his.

And he would no longer have to worry about DeForte because …

DeForte would be hanged.

Jerome wore a sharp hunting knife strapped to his ankle. The blade was always honed. He moved in a shadowy world of cutthroats and whores at times, and it was best to be prepared.

He walked over to Jamison, knelt down besides him. “It’s going to be all right,” he told him. “Set my sister down.”

“He’ll rip me to shreds,” Jamison murmured. “If DeForte gets near me now, he’ll rip me to shreds.”

“DeForte will never get near you,” Jerome promised. “Never. Set her down.”

Jamison leaned over with Anne, setting her gently upon the marble floor.

And while his back was bowed over her, Jerome seized his opportunity. He slipped the hunting knife swiftly from his ankle and plunged it into Jamison’s back.

Jamison never made a sound.

He fell, dead and bloodied, over Anne.

Jerome rose, wiping the blood from his blade on Anne’s skirt. “United in truth at last, my dears!” Jerome said quietly. He waited for a feeling of remorse to seep over him. It didn’t. This was really too perfect. He’d be a rich man, sharing with no one. And he wouldn’t even have to be afraid to live and enjoy his new affluence. All he had to do was see to it that Pierce DeForte stumbled upon them before anyone else could do so. All of England knew that DeForte had sworn to kill Jamison Bryant.

There had to be a way to get DeForte here. That should be easy enough. Then, Jerome decided, he’d alert the constable so that Pierce would be found surrounded by the evidence of his guilt. Found and taken.

Now, as to getting DeForte here …

Ah, there was the girl! The beautiful little flower who had played so sweetly into their plans before. The girl had defended Anne fiercely once before. Surely she would do so once again.

Ah, yes. This was going to be perfect. Absolutely perfect. All of them out of his life …

Leaving his sister and Jamison locked in their last embrace, he strode quickly from the room.

Once she had determined that she was going to follow Pierce, Rose wasted no time in doing so.

From one of her trunks in the bedroom she dug out a few piece of gold jewelry since she had remained bereft of coins. She dressed in a simple cotton gown, finding an encompassing dark green cape of her husband’s in his wardrobe. Thus prepared, she raced down the stairs, nearly crashing into Garth.

“Milady! Where are you going?”

“To Dover, or thereabouts, I believe,” she told him. “Garth, you must let me pass! I have to follow him.” Garth watched her stubbornly without moving. “Garth, I want to keep him from getting killed—or from doing something that will send him to Newgate.” He didn’t move. “Or to the hangman’s noose or the headman’s block!”

Garth stared at her a moment longer, then sighed, shaking his old head. “And if anything happens to you, milady, I shall be out in the streets! And at my age!”

She smiled, feeling almost dizzy, then rushed by him.

Garth watched her go, then sighed again, calling to Sally, who ran the kitchen. “Come here, my good woman. The house will be in your care. Seems the mistress has followed the master, and I’m quite afraid that I must follow them both.”

Pierce reached Dover by nightfall, but down by the docks, the fishermen and many of the sea salts were still about. Old songs, sung by fellows already deep in their grog, filled the air in a drunken cacophony. Harlots were plying their trade with the sailors coming off the ships. The alehouses were alive with music, laughter, screams and shouts.