Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (43 page)

Best grunted. The last person he would ask for help, he
thought, was
a man who looked fair wrung out.' But he said nothing, and went
clumping off to the stables.

Left alone, Strand gave himself a mental shake. All this
brooding
was achieving nothing. To have left the scene of the duel without first
determining the condition of his victim had been reprehensible. But
very likely Bolster was not dead at all and would make a full recovery.
The thing to do now was to come to some decision regarding his
marriage. It was very obvious that Lisette did not want— His gaze
having returned to the rain-streaked window, he was much shocked to see
the
Silvering Sails
drifting erratically, secured
by only the
bow line. If she once got into the mainstream of the littered river,
she'd have little chance, and Norman would be heartbroken was she sunk!
He sprang up hurriedly, only to reel to the wall and lean there,
fighting a sick dizziness. The apprehension seized him that this was
not a cold that plagued him, but a recurrence of that abominable fever.
He rejected the notion at once. It could not be! Not this soon! He'd
had little sleep last night and that, coupled with the chill he'd taken
on the boat, had not helped matters. His head soon cleared, and he went
over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of cognac. The potent
liquor burned through him, and be began to feel more the thing. Lord,
he thought, as he hastened upstairs to get his greatcoat, how Green
would rail at him if he should fall ill! He'd never hear the end of it!

The door to his bedchamber was slightly open. Brutus was
comfortably
disposed in the armchair and his master's new four-caped coat had been
fashioned into a burial ground from beneath which peeped the remains of
a bone. Exasperated, Strand retrieved his coat while advising the
animal in pithy terms of his probable ancestry. Brutus was sufficiently
interested as to yawn, raise his head and watch the proceedings.
Deciding a walk was in the offing, he sprang down and collected his
property before accompanying Strand to the stairs with much
enthusiastic, if muffled, yelping.

Outside, the wind was approaching gale proportions. Strand
full
expected his canine companion to bolt back into the house when he saw
the trees whipping about. Apparently, there was not an aspen in sight,
however, and neither the sight of drifts being blown across the lawns
nor the trees bending before the gale caused the animal to become
alarmed.

"I collect," remarked Strand cynically, "that you are very
discriminating as to what may cause your intellect—what there is of
it—to become disordered! Come along, then. But be warned that I've no
least intention of jumping in after you, should you fall in!"

Undaunted, Brutus trundled ahead, tracking down and attending
to
several enticing distractions along their route until, a likely
depository for the bone presenting itself, he proceeded to excavate the
middle of a flower bed.

Lost in thought and unaware of these depredations, Strand made
his rapid way to the dock. The
Silvering Sails
rocked and pitched at the end of her solitary rope, masts swaying and
boards creaking. The aft mooring rope trailed over the side, and must
be secured if she was to have any chance of riding out the storm.
Strand waited his chance, then sprang nimbly aboard. The erratic motion
of the vessel slowed him, but clinging to the rail he staggered aft and
began to haul in the rope. The rain was a steady, soaking drizzle, and
the wind so strong that at times it buffeted his breath away. It was
not an icy wind, but his teeth began to chatter, and the headache which
had plagued him for the past two days was becoming more intense. The
boat pitched violently, and unable to hold his balance, he swayed to
his knees, swearing lustily.

Only the fall saved him. A boathook whizzed past, missing his
head
so narrowly that it ruffled his hair before it smashed against the
rail. Beyond it, James Garvey's face loomed, contorted and dark with
hatred. With a bound, Strand regained his feet, barely avoiding a
second fierce lunge of the boathook. That Garvey meant murder was very
apparent. A pistol would have been swifter and surer, but also, he
realized, would both attract attention and rule out the possibility of
accidental death.

"Maniac!" he shouted, edging back and from the corner of his
eye
searching for something to use as a weapon. "Do you want to hang?''

"I want you dead! I want your wife, to whom you have no right!
Never
fear—I'll not hang!" And on the last word, Garvey sprang forward, the
boathook flailing in a mighty sweep. Strand had to leap for his life.
He eluded that murderous attack, but landed on a coiled length of rope,
and fell heavily. With a triumphant shout, Garvey drove the boathook
downward. Strand rolled desperately, and the iron hook ripped through
the back of his jacket and slammed into the deck. Snatching up the
rope, Strand flung it at Garvey's face. Garvey jerked back, slipped on
the wet deck, and staggered, fighting to retain his balance as the boat
yawed drunkenly. He recovered almost immediately, but

Strand had seized the opportunity to jump up and grab a
belaying
pin. It was only half the length of the boathook, but he swung around,
gripping it in both hands, just in time to block the shattering blow
Garvey had launched at him.

Again and again, driven by hatred and avarice, Garvey
attacked.
Again and again, Strand deflected his blows, but he also battled fever
and the disadvantage of an inferior weapon, and he was driven back
relentlessly until he was at the stern. The roar of the river filled
his ears, and as the
Silvering Sails
swung
straight out from
the dock, the littered swell of the mainstream was terrifyingly close.
If he fell there could be no survival; the strongest swimmer could not
prevail against that furious boil of mud and debris. His arms were
aching from the shocks of Garvey's maddened onslaught, and his vision
began to blur. As he blocked another attack, Garvey's form drifted in
twain. Two murderous assailants faced him; two boathooks hurtled at his
head. Dazed and uncertain, he peered through a thickening mist from
which a harsh laugh sounded triumphantly. The splintered boathook
flashed down and Strand was able to deflect it only partially. He felt
a mighty shock, a blinding wave of pain, and the deck flew up to meet
him.

Vaguely, he knew that he was lying prone, his cheek against
the
blessed coolness of wet boards. Crimson stained those boards. He
blinked at it and was shocked by the knowledge that it was his own
blood. His head pained so savagely that he felt sick but, stronger than
pain, the instinct for survival demanded that he get up, for to lie
here was death. He strove feebly to lift himself, but his head whirled
and his bones were sand, and he could only get an elbow under him.
Gleaming, tasseled Hessians were very near, and yet not advancing.
Puzzled, Strand heard a strange new sound.

"Nice doggie…" said Mr. Garvey, placatingly.

Blinking, Strand perceived Brutus a few paces distant. A
transformed
Brutus, who was the very epitome of canine savagery. Below his
upcurling lip protruded long, gleaming fangs; the hair across his broad
shoulders stood straight on end, and from deep within that powerful
chest rose a rumbling growl calculated to give pause to any man.

His boathook at the ready, Garvey coaxed, "Here, boy…" He held
out
one hand, tightening his grip on the boathook with the other, but when
Brutus's jaws snapped only inches from his fingertips, Mr. Garvey
forgot the boathook and jumped backwards.

The wind flung his coat wide, and the ends fluttered. Brutus
quailed, howled, raced for the fallen coils of rope, dug his head under
them, and crouched, shivering.

Garvey gave a shout of laughter. "A fine champion, Strand!" he
gloated, and with both hands, swung the boathook high.

Brutus might not have earned the right to be dubbed "a fine
champion," but his intervention had given Strand the chance to catch
his breath. Mustering all his wiry strength, he leapt to his feet. The
belaying pin was within easy reach, but he disdained it; only his bare
fists would do for this task. He was very fast; his right rammed in
hard under Garvey's ribs. The boathook fell from suddenly nerveless
hands. Garvey's face purpled as he doubled up. Strand straightened him
out with a left uppercut that lifted Mr. James Garvey to the toes of
his fine Hessians, and caused him to sink downward with all the grace
of a sack of potatoes.

Swaying drunkenly, looking down at his vanquished foe, Strand
heard
a shout. His head weighed a ton, but he raised it slowly. Best and
Oliver Green were panning along the deck towards him.

"Take this… carrion," he said faintly, "and—lock it up. Tried
to… to…" And sighing, he crumpled to the deck.

Despite
the fact that they had left
Croydon at first light
that morning, the condition of the roads was such that is was late
afternoon before Lisette's carriage approached Silverings, and her
coachman advised the groom that not only was it a miracle they had
arrived, but they would be marooned here, that was certain, for there
wasn't no way to go back up them roads till the water drained away.
Silverings' ruins looked forlorn and sad under the lowering skies, but
from the mullioned windows of the old house came the warm glow of
candlelight. The Dutch door swung open, and Oliver Green came out and
started towards them. Lisette drew a deep breath of relief and, beside
her, Norman shouted, "Hurrah! You guessed rightly, Lisette! Strand
is
here!"

Their joy, however, was short-lived. Running to meet the
carriage,
heedless of the rain, the valet had no welcoming smile, his broad
features instead reflecting a deep anxiety.

Norman had the door open and the steps let down almost before
the
carriage stopped and, springing out, reached up to hand down Lisette.

"Thank God you've come, ma'am!" said Green. "We've had trouble
here."

A hand of ice clutched Lisette's heart. She faltered, "My
husband?''

"I'm afraid the master is—is very bad, ma'am."

She whitened and began to run to the house, the man keeping
pace
with her and Norman demanding with a rather surprising air of authority
to know if James Garvey had been at Silverings.

"He has, sir," said Green, swinging the door wider for Lisette
to pass. "And tried to kill Mr. Strand."

Lisette put back her hood. "I heard Dr. Bellows has returned
from Wales. Has someone gone to fetch him?"

"Best will bring the midwife from the village, can he get
through.
He would have no chance of reaching Dr. Bellows, not in this storm."

"The devil!" Norman exploded, helping Lisette take off her
cloak.
"Where is the beastly rogue? Did he get away? We came hoping to warn my
brother—is he shot?"

"The master was struck on the head. He managed to overpower
Mr.
Garvey, Lord knows how! Best has taken Mr. Garvey to the village
constable."

Lisette was already running upstairs. The door to the front
bedroom
was partially open, and she could hear someone talking inside. She
pushed the door wider and went in, then stopped, her heart twisting.
Strand lay in the big bed. A bandage was taped to his forehead, and he
was muttering to himself. He was very pale, but his eyes were open, and
she felt an almost overpowering surge of relief to find him conscious.
Approaching the bed, she said softly, "Justin?"

He turned to look up at her, his eyes unnaturally bright. "You
know
I did not mean to kill you!" he muttered fretfully. "Didn't mean it,
Jerry…" And in a sudden burst of rage, "Traitor! Filthy damned traitor!"

With a gasp of fright, Lisette drew back. Behind her, Green
said
gently, "Perhaps you should wait downstairs, ma'am. Mr Justin doesn't
know what he's saying. When he is like this—" He shrugged helplessly.

For answer, she began to strip off her gloves, but made no
move to
leave. Strand's ravings had faded to that unintelligible mumbling. He
looked so ill; so terribly ill. The fear in her heart deepened. She
handed the valet her gloves and asked, "Green, what did Mr. Garvey hit
him with?"

"I could not say, ma'am. But I rather doubt it is the head
wound we
have to fear, for that does not look to be more than a bump and a nasty
cut."

Norman, who had halted just inside the door, now came up to
the bed,
saying in a low voice, "My grandmama told me Strand contracted some
kind of fever whilst he was in India. Is that the trouble?"

Lisette threw her brother a shocked look. The valet nodded
and, speaking softly also, answered, "It is called malaria, sir."

For a moment, Lisette could not breathe. The room seemed to
close in
upon her, and she reached out gropingly. At once, Norman's arm was
around her. "No vapours from you, m'dear, surely?" he asked, and as her
terrified eyes lifted to meet his, he added with a lightness he was far
from feeling, "Strand's all steel—do you not know that yet?" He glanced
to the valet. "How frequent are the attacks?"

"Not so frequent since we come home, sir. I'd hoped we might
have
seen the last of it, but—" He broke off, biting his lip, then blurted
out, "Well, he pushes himself so. He should never have worked on the
boat in the rain the other day. And then—to drive all the way to
Berkshire, and
knowing
he was feeling unwell—but
there was no stopping him!"

Lisette turned her face against her brother's shoulder, and
Green went on hurriedly, "You know something of the malady, sir?"

"We'd a cousin who contracted malaria in South America, but—"
Norman
closed his lips over the rest of that sentence. A faint whimper
emanated from Lisette, and the valet looked aghast.

The sick man moaned and began to toss restlessly. Recovering
her
wits, Lisette moved to rest one cool hand on his brow. Dismayed, she
looked up at Green, who stood watching, her cloak and gloves clutched
to his bosom. "He is on fire!" she whispered. "Is this an unusually bad
attack?"