Heather Graham (23 page)

“You have to find Pierce,” Jerome told her. “You have to find him, and tell him to go to her.”

“How?”

“Ah!” Jerome said. “Dear Lord, how could I have forgotten such an important piece of information? I know where they are. Exactly.”

His eyes were still glazed with tears. Maybe there was a redeeming feature to the man. He loved his sister.

She swallowed hard. She couldn’t bear this. Pierce could be risking his own life. He could be lost to her …

“Tell me where they are!” she murmured.

And Jerome smiled, fervently kissing her hand. “Thank you, Rose! Thank you, oh, thank you! Bless you.”

She pulled her hand back. “Don’t! I will tell him for Anne’s sake. But I will never forgive you. Never. For as long as I live.”

He nodded, lowering his head.

And she didn’t see the smile that tugged at his lips.

Pierce sat in the hazy tavern, listening to the man who had come to give them information. “One of the girls who has gone for the night was telling me about a fellow paid her richly just a few nights back. Said he was gloating all evening, saying that he had finally found his fortune. She tried to get him to sleep the night with her, but he said there was a very fine manor nearby where he’d be going, just on the outskirts of the city. The owner is off, and the place has been taken by friends, a young lord and his lady.”

“What manor?” Pierce demanded.

“I do not know the name. But ’tis not far, I am certain.”

The man was still talking, but Pierce’s attention had been caught elsewhere.

There was another new arrival to the tavern. Someone who had come in an encompassing cape with a low cowl.

His cape. His cowl. A curious dark green, one that he would recognize anywhere.

“Who in God’s name …?” he began.

And then he knew. Rose. She had followed him here. Incredulous, he started to rise, then swiftly sat back down. He hadn’t been in the least worried about the place’s seedy clientele until this moment. If some of these fellows got a good look at Rose …

He was going to thrash her! he decided. Dear God, the fool girl, what did she think that she was doing? Why in hell had she followed him?

He gazed at Geoffrey, who as yet was unaware of the danger. “Give this fellow his coin,” he told Geoffrey. “I think I’ve seen another bearer of information.” He stood, circling around the crowd.

Rose, in her voluminous cloak, had come to a stop, staring at the singer who was now busy crooning about men’s “members.”

He came up behind her, his arm encircling her. She started to scream, but he whispered quickly in her ear. “Not a sound, milady! What would you have, a riot in this place? Me attempting to slay a dozen men for your honor?”

She swirled around, facing his fury. “I’ve got to speak with you!” she assured him.

He gazed down at her. The cape and cowl did little to hide her exquisite beauty. There was going to be trouble if she was seen.

“No, milady, you’ll not speak to me now.”

“It’s about Anne!” she insisted.

“Rose, I’ve got to get you out of here!”

A drunk stumbled into them. Rose’s hood fell back. Her hair was displayed in all its fiery splendor, her face with its perfect features and alabaster skin.

“Who’s the new ’hor?” someone cried out.

“Jesu and damnation!” Pierce swore, sweeping her swiftly behind him. “Geoffrey!” he called out. His friend was already up, and heading his way. Pierce drew his sword, a warning to those who were closing in around him.

“The hell with the gold pieces!” someone cried out. “The girl is worth a treasure!”

A broken-toothed sailor surged forward, brandishing a sword, murder in his eyes. Pierce was compelled to cut him down. The others backed off for a moment; behind him, Rose cried out, stifling the sound with the back of her hand. Served her right! Pierce thought angrily. She had caused this mess by being where she should never have been.

“Let us pass out of here!” he cried in a ringing voice. “There’ll be more dead men on the floor, I assure you, if you don’t!”

“He can’t fight us all!” A gray-haired, broken-toothed wretch called. “Charge him, fellows, charge him one and all!”

But fortunately for Pierce, those fellows the man commanded were not of a mind to listen. Some surged forward, and some did not. Geoffrey was at his side, Rose behind him. He and Geoffrey began to parry the thrusts that came their way, backing toward the door with each new onslaught.

From the corner of his eye, he noted a fellow coming fast behind him. He braced for the attack.

But no attack came. Rose had plucked a chair from the floor and crashed it over the fellow’s head.

This was no delicate flower, his wife, he determined. She was a rose indeed—with prickly thorns!

A breath of fresh air touched his neck. They had reached the door. He thrust Rose strongly outside, then slammed the door behind them. He threw her up atop Beowulf, mounting behind her. Then he spurred his horse, and they raced through the streets, Geoffrey coming behind him.

He didn’t rein in until they were far from the tavern on a quiet street close to the more respectable inn tavern where Rose had taken her room.

Then, when he did, he leapt down from Beowulf, dragging her with him.

“What in the hell did you think you were doing?” he demanded, shaking her furiously.

She stared at him in return, teeth gritted hard. “I had to find you!”

“To stop me! Well, you can’t stop me! And you nearly got yourself raped!”

She paled at that, but her chin lifted. “I haven’t come to stop you!” she cried out. “I came to tell you that I know where Anne is—and that you must find her and get her away from Jamison just as quickly as you can.”

Pierce froze. “How do you know where she is?”

“Jerome found me. He was in a horrible state, stricken by what he has done!”

“Why?”

She hesitated, searching out his eyes.

“Why, Rose?” he roared.

“Because Jerome is afraid that he will really hurt her. Because …”

His fingers tightened around her shoulders. “Why?”

“She has made comparisons between the two of you, it seems. And Jerome is really afraid for her life. He thinks that Jamison might be furious enough and jealous enough to—kill her.”

“Oh, God!” he breathed.

“You have to be careful!” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. “Very careful!”

“Where is she?”

“Huntington Manor. It is just—”

“I know where it is,” he said wearily. “The king found refuge there once. Come. I’ll want you safe, and I feel that I must hurry.”

“I’ve a room at the inn. Garth is with me.”

Garth would be, Pierce thought. He was served by good and loyal men.

“Come.”

He set her upon Beowulf, feeling all her softness, inhaling her sweet scent. He mounted behind her, his arms around her.

He rode back to the inn, and dismounted with her. Geoffrey remained with the horses while he swept Rose up, and walked her into the inn, and up to the bedroom.

Despite his need for haste, he laid her down tenderly upon the bed. Her eyes searched his out with a liquid, emerald fire. Enchantment.

No, no enchantment. He had come to love her. He had taken her innocence, he had forced it. And she had taken something from him in return. He had fallen prey to the beautiful copper skeins of her hair; he was forever entangled within them. The sight of her, the scent of her, would be with him always.

“I have to go,” he said.

She nodded. She reached out her arms to him. He kissed her lips tenderly.

“Pierce!” she cried softly.

“Aye, Rose?”

“Come back to me. Please, please, come back to me!”

WITH GEOFFREY HARD ON
his heels, Pierce rode for Huntington Manor. It was a solid hour’s ride, but for once in his life, he gave Beowulf no thought, nearly riding the fine stallion into the ground.

When they reached the outer walls of the manor, there was no one about. Pierce could see a light in the gatehouse, but no one answered his call when he beat against the gate. He looked at Geoffrey worriedly, realizing that a growing sense of disaster had followed him all the way here. He surveyed the walls of the estate. They were brick, but ancient, and there were handholds he could use to scale over the top.

Letting Geoffrey hold the horses, he did so, nearly slipping once, gritting his teeth to find a hold on a chipped brick. By the time he reached the top, his fingers were torn and bleeding. He ignored them.

When he jumped to the ground below the wall, he saw that the manor house was strangely quiet. He unbolted the gate, pushing it open for Geoffrey to ride through. “The house!” he told Geoffrey anxiously. He turned and started to walk toward the door. Then he walked faster, a great unease stealing over his heart.

He started to run.

He came to great, heavy oak doors and lifted a hand to pound upon them. He didn’t need to do so. The doors swung open the moment that he touched them. He entered into a silent foyer, then saw the marble entry with the grand stairway far at its rear.

He had been in such a hurry. Now he didn’t want to go any further. There was no one within the house, it seemed. No one came to challenge them. There was nothing but silence.

He drew his sword, and carefully started down the entry, motioning to Geoffrey to wait. Slowly, with near silent treads, he made toward the stairway.

There, his sword fell heavily to his side as all strength deserted his arm, his body, his soul. His breath caught in horror, and he stared unmoving at the couple entwined on the floor.

No! The word was silent, but it screamed and screeched in his heart and mind. No … this could not be.

“Sweet Jesus!” he cried out then, finding motion at last. He sheathed his sword and nearly flew the few steps to Jamison and Anne where they lay on the marble. Frantically he pulled Jamison’s body off Anne’s, half expecting the man with the bloodied back to come to life, again.

But Jamison fell to the floor, his pale, sightless eyes staring to the ceiling. There was no doubt here, no trickery. Jamison Bryant was dead.

As was Anne.

Beautiful Anne, sweet Anne, gentle Anne. He took her into his arms, mindless that her dried blood stained his cloak. He smoothed back her golden hair, touched her lifeless cheeks. Then a rage filled his heart and he held her close, encompassing her against him. “My God, my God!” he whispered to her. “What have they done, Anne? What have they done?”

Vaguely he was aware of hurried footsteps coming toward him. He couldn’t really hear, couldn’t reason. He held Anne. Death had taken her, in all her youth and beauty. He should have come sooner. He shouldn’t have slept nights.

Oddly, her delicate features were touched with an expression of perfect peace. No one could hurt her now, no one could touch her.

“Milord!” It was Geoffrey, speaking to him anxiously. “Riders have come through the gates. I cannot see the pennants in the darkness, but I think it is the lord constable with an arrest party. Milord DeForte! We must leave.”

“I cannot leave her!” Pierce stated.

Geoffrey came to his knees beside him. “She is dead, milord. She rests with the Father, and there is nothing you nor any man can do for her now! Milord, you must come away with me.” He sighed, for Pierce didn’t move. “Milord! They will think that you slew them! You made so many threats against Jamison Bryant! Someone has summoned the lord constable! Jesu, listen to me! We must ride away from here. You will be taken by the law. The king himself will not be able to save you. Milord, we must be away from here!” He paused for a moment, seeking the right words. “Milord, how will you avenge her cruel death if you hang from a gibbet yourself? How will you ever find the true murderer, how will you bring the truth of it to the light?”

That moved him at last. Pierce began to rise slowly, laying Anne down with all the tenderness and anguish in his heart. No, he couldn’t do anything for her.

Not anymore. He should have defied God and the king to come for her before! He should have slain any man in his way, he should have risked hanging, burning, the very fires of hell! He should never, never have let this happen, fallen for this treachery. But then, there had been Rose …

Agony ripped through him. Rose, who had sent him here tonight. Rose, who had defied him. Rose, who had slowly slipped her way into his life, into his heart. You will pay, she had warned him. You will pay.

She had sent him here tonight. She had met with Jerome, and she had sent him here. But so cleverly.
Don’t go! Don’t go!
she’d said.

Then she had told him exactly where he had to be!

Rose! Ah, yes! Just when he had believed in her innocence, in the wild emerald beauty of her eyes. Just when he had begun to admit to himself that the enchantment had gone deeper than a searing desire. Just when he had begun to realize that he wanted and needed and …

Loved her.

Ah, God. She had sent him here. To find Anne. And now the lord constable was coming.

“Milord!” Geoffrey cried again.

Pierce tightened his shoulders. Anne’s soft hair fell over his fingers. He clenched his eyes tightly. He had to go, had to run. But this was wrong. Riding away from her. He hadn’t killed her. He hadn’t even killed the fool Jamison!

“Please, please, come away!” Geoffrey urged him.

Pierce nodded, but he moved slowly, like a man in a daze. Geoffrey caught hold of his arm, trying to make him move faster.

“Come, milord, come!”

But they had scarce left the house behind when they were accosted by the riders who had come through the gate. There were six of them, including a man Pierce knew well, Thayer Harrison, the lord constable, a man who had served both Charles I and Charles II, a man Pierce counted as a good one. He was old and gnarled, a dignified soldier with straight carriage and very gray whiskers.

But Geoffrey was right. He could not let himself be taken. Any man in the country would be convinced that he was the one guilty of the horrible murders.

Two men were already off their horses, racing into the house. Pierce backed away carefully, his sword drawn.