Secrets of Midnight (24 page)

Thank God. Thank God.

She was cloaked and heading to the door in the next
moment, her every thought concentrated upon getting to the stable as quickly as
possible.

The men who had signaled her wouldn't be waiting for
her, but on their way already to crisscross the parish and alert the others
that the
Fair Betty
was anchored near
to shore and waiting to be unloaded. Trusted tinners, farmers, fishermen in
Porthleven, and even a few gentry would be converging at the prearranged cove
by midnight with scores of hardy ponies, small boats, and willing hands ready
to assist in an endeavor that had lined some pockets with coin, true, but
brought hope to many lives too.

And thank God Ellen Biddle and she had gone exploring
about the house, Corisande thought as she moved stealthily into the hall and
closed the door silently behind her. She had only to creep a few feet to find
the panel on the opposite wall that wasn't solid at all but a concealed doorway
opening into a servants' staircase that led to the basement.

With a low exhalation of relief she hurried down the
narrow wooden steps, hoping, though, that she wouldn't run into anyone. The
huge spotless kitchen was silent and empty, Grace Twickenham having retired to
her room.

Cautiously Corisande stepped past the cook's door,
light streaming beneath it, only to freeze against the wall when Grace called
out, "Is that you out there, Ogden? Well, if you're planning to make
yourself some tea, I'll not have you leaving a mess. Mind now, I worked my
knuckles raw to polish that kitchen. I want it to stay that way!"

Corisande didn't wait to see if the woman popped her
head out the door, but fled to the servants' exit leading out the back of the
house. With a prayer of thanks she plunged outside into the balmy night air,
smiling to herself, too, at the thought of somber-faced Ogden being ruled by a
houseful of women servants. Well, there were the two young footmen who'd joined
the household last week, the main reason why Corisande had opted not to use the
front door.

She couldn't relax, either, for there was still the
obstacle of the stable. But fortunately Will Brighton, the stocky, amiable
coachman, was nowhere in sight, making it easy for her to saddle the big brown
gelding whose name she'd learned from Henry Gilbert was Pete. A plain,
unassuming name for a wonderful animal, but she'd scarcely had much chance to
ride him, having deferred to Donovan's request that she take the carriage.

But that had been not so much to oblige him as that she
was still puzzled by what had happened last week; she had no idea who could
have raced across the heath like a swooping bat to catch her.

She shivered at the unsettling memory; well, she might
have an idea, but that made her shiver too. She didn't want to think about it
and right now she didn't have the time. No, not even to wonder why Donovan,
oddly enough, had wanted to talk to her after a week of brooding silence.
Quickly she led Pete from the stable and mounted.

"Shh now, Pete, not a sound." Corisande drew
up the reins and squeezed her knees together to get the gelding moving, but
only at a walk at first. "Easy now, until we're far enough away from the
house . . ."

The horse tossed his head and chewed at the bit,
clearly eager to stretch his legs, and made Corisande wince when he gave a
full-throated whinny just before they cut through the tall copse of elms lining
the drive. But there was no help for it, and she urged the animal into a
gallop, hoping that no one would think anything was amiss.

At least they wouldn't be seen, the night so
pitch-black that if she hadn't known the rough surrounding countryside since
childhood, she might have been reluctant to venture forth. She veered the
gelding to the southwest and rode hard, astonished to see the familiar lantern
light some way off in the distance.

Had the men decided to wait for her after all? They
weren't standing where they'd been before but were heading toward the coast,
which made sense. She cut to the left a little and rode straight for the light,
Pete's hooves thundering so hard that she didn't hear her name being roared
from the house.

Chapter 21

"Corie!"

Good God, it was useless! Cursing to himself, Donovan
ran for the stable, his lungs already afire from sprinting so hard to get
outside.

Hell and damnation, where was she going? He'd just
stepped out onto the balcony when that whinny had cut through the night, and he'd
watched in disbelief as a cloaked rider was swallowed up by the dark. He hadn't
needed to check Corisande's room to know it was her—the wily chit! She must
have been fully clothed under those covers, pleading a headache and then meekly
as a dove asking him to douse the lamps, when all the while she'd simply been
waiting for him to leave so she could . . .

"Go where?" Donovan growled under his breath
as he dashed inside the stable and made for Samson's stall, his horse throwing
back his head and snorting a greeting.

The last time Corisande had ridden anywhere by herself
had been a full week ago; Donovan had never before seen her so flushed and
exhilarated as when she'd galloped in from the dark. She'd glanced behind her
as if looking for someone—bloody hell, he hadn't really considered it before
now. Might she have gone to meet a lov
—

Donovan didn't finish the thought, telling himself
fiercely as he saddled Samson and vaulted onto the animal's back that it
mattered nothing to him where she was going, just that she had ridden out
alone.

He hadn't been concerned as long as she seemed willing
to use the carriage, but now—dammit, he didn't trust Jack Pascoe to stay away
from Corisande no matter the dire threats he'd made the man. He hadn't wanted
to alarm her but he could see now that he should have given her some warning
about the potential danger. He should have known she'd eventually do something
like this.

"My—my lord? Is there some trouble?"

"Out of my way, man!"

A sleepy-eyed Will Brighton nearly toppled backward in
his long white sleeping gown in his haste to stand clear of the stable doors as
Donovan rode past him out into the night. But he had barely left the lights of
the house behind him when he heard a high-pitched whinny from somewhere out on
the heath that froze his blood.

A terrified horse. How many times had he heard that
sound on the battlefield? Heard it from
his own
mounts
as musket and cannon fire hit and thundered all around him, some of the poor
animals even cut down beneath him?

Oh, God. Corisande.

***

"No, no, leave him alone! Who are you? Who are
you?"

Corisande's piercing shrieks rent the air as her hooded
attacker swung the lantern a second time at her horse's head, the stricken
animal rearing out of the way and pawing the air in fright. She clutched at the
reins, fighting for control, but when the lantern made a third blinding arc, the
gelding reared so high that Corisande went tumbling from his back and hit the
ground with a painful thud, knocking the breath from her body.

She was so stunned that she could only lie there on her
stomach, the taste of dirt in her mouth, while poor Pete, whinnying shrilly,
galloped away. The world around her had suddenly been plunged into darkness.

Dear God, what was happening? She'd ridden toward the
light, catching up with the solitary man swinging the lantern, only to have him
turn upon her, and then . . . and then—

Corisande screamed as she was suddenly hauled to her
feet by someone with such immense physical strength that she felt nearly
weightless. She began to fight, flailing her limbs, but she might have been a
child's doll for how easily her attacker spun her around. The next thing she
knew, an arm went round her neck to half strangle her while a harsh voice
whispered in her ear, "You will hear me, woman. You will hear me . . ."

Corisande scarcely could hear, the sharp ringing had
grown
so
deafening in her ears as she fought to
breathe, the man's arm pressing like a cruel vise against her throat. She began
to claw at him, wildly, desperately, when suddenly she was shoved to the
ground, and receding footfalls plunged through the thick gorse as hooves came
thundering toward her.

Dragging in huge gulps of air that stung her lungs, an
instant later she felt someone drop to his knees beside her, turn her over
gently, and lift her into a pair of strong arms.

"Corie . . . dear God, woman, are you all right? I
saw a man running away, but he disappeared into the dark. Did you see his face?
Did you recognize him?"

She flickered open her eyes, astonished as much to find
Donovan holding her close as that she could see him, the lantern uprighted and
spilling light upon them from only a few feet away. So it hadn't gone out. Her
attacker must have dropped the lantern in the grass just before he dragged her
to her feet. Her attacker . . .

"You! You arranged this, didn't you?"
Corisande croaked, irrational fury filling her as she tried to twist free of
Donovan's arms. "You've hired someone to frighten me . . . to kill me!"

Donovan could only stare, wondering incredulously as
she squirmed and wriggled if she might have hit her head again for the utter
nonsense she'd just spewed.

"So you don't deny it! You think it's going to be
too much trouble to annul me so you're going to see me done away with instead!
Let me go! Get away from—"

"Of course I didn't hire someone— Good God, woman,
will you never cease to think the worst of me?"

That seemed to quiet her, but she was still looking at
him with such mistrust that Donovan sighed heavily and released her. Corisande
scrambled to her feet and spun to face him.

"Those barrels," she accused, swiping hair
out of her eyes. "I—I never thought of it until now, but you had someone
push them over so they might hit me, didn't you? On our wedding day!"

Deeply stung that she was persisting in her
preposterous tirade, Donovan rose to stand in front of her. "Do you truly
think me so diabolical, Corie? I had nothing to do with those bloody barrels,
but I suspected that Jack Pascoe might so I went to see him last week. He
denied any involvement, but I'm certain, especially now, that it was no
accident."

She didn't say anything for a moment, her dark eyes
having grown wide as saucers. It was very clear she'd been frightened terribly
by the attack; he almost couldn't blame her for lashing out at him. But it
still hurt . . .

"You saw Jack Pascoe?"

He nodded, and Corisande looked at him uncertainly now.
"Saw him, threatened him,
told
him to stay damned
well away from you and your family. But it looks as if he's due another
visit—the bastard. I'm going to break—"

"It wasn't Jack."

"Who? The man tonight?"

Corisande bobbed her head, trembling so visibly that
Donovan was tempted to pull her into his arms. But he held his ground; she was
talking to him now at least, more
rationally
, as
calmly as could be expected. He didn't want to upset her again so he prodded
gently. "Who was it, then, Corie? Did you see his face?"

"No, no, he wore a hood. But he was much bigger
than Jack, taller. Then the lantern fell, and I couldn't see anything when he
grabbed me around the neck—"

"He grabbed you around the neck?"

"Y-yes, and tried to choke me. He was strong, so
strong."

When she winced, her hand moving to her throat, Donovan
felt such rage that he could have killed at the moment, if he'd only found the
man. He looked around them but he knew he'd never find the culprit in this inky
blackness. Yet if he did . . .

"I—I was followed too. Last week when I rode home
through the storm—"

"You were followed?" Donovan shouted, and
Corisande took a nervous step backward. He couldn't believe she hadn't said
anything to him until now. "Good God, Corie, why didn't you tell me?"

"Y-you looked so angry with me—for taking the
horse, being late for supper, being your wife, I don't know! I didn't think you'd
want to hear . . ."

Donovan cursed to himself as Corisande lapsed into
indignant silence, knowing he shouldn't be surprised she hadn't confided in
him. It was bloody true. He'd hardly made things easy for her this past week,
which was why he had finally abandoned his resolve to have little to do with
her and gone to her room, his infernal attraction for the woman be damned!

He'd wanted to apologize for his surly behavior, for
trying to kiss her and upsetting her—hell, not that he'd meant to upset her.
But now that she'd tricked him, he didn't exactly feel like apologizing
although he was glad, he couldn't deny it, that that night she hadn't been
looking behind her for a lover. Yet where then, tonight . . . ?

Later, man, later, Donovan told himself as Corisande
sighed brokenly, rubbing her temples. Again resisting the overwhelming urge to
take her in his arms, he asked quietly, "Do you feel well enough to ride?
If you'd like, we can walk a short way first—"

"No, no, I'm fine." Actually Corisande felt
as if she were coming out of some overwrought haze.

Oh, Lord, had she really accused Donovan of hiring
someone to kill her? She felt chagrined suddenly, but tried to justify herself
too. He'd been so hostile since the wedding, and then there was that night with
the knife when he'd said something about murdering her, which had probably
given her the idea in the first place. How was she to know? Someone who'd
clearly meant her harm had been swinging that lantern, luring her like a ship
onto the rocks when she had thought it was Oliver's signal—oh, God. Oliver.