Susan Johnson (55 page)

He waited, unflinching, for Godfrey’s lunge, knowing the closer he let the rapier point come to his body, the stronger his parry would be and the less would be the distance his own point would have to travel.

Confidence and steadiness were required. He couldn’t shrink or draw back even a little, and there was a perilous time limit to his riposte. It was a question of timing, speed, and absolutely no hesitation.

“You’re … dead … Ravensby,” Godfrey puffed, his eyes glittering as he took a moment to savor his victory, to gather his breath.

And then he lunged.

Johnnie’s rapier whipped up to parry as Godfrey’s forward momentum drove his sword directly at Johnnie’s heart. In a single flashing movement Johnnie’s blade ran along Godfrey’s right up to the point, and as it parted from it, he swung his blade up and over, turned his wrist, extended his arm, and drove his point toward Godfrey’s chest.

A brilliant stroke only sparingly used.

It required steel nerve, incredible speed, and a steady hand.

Holding her breath, Elizabeth squeezed the trigger.

Redmond’s arm swept forward over his head, and the stiletto blade sliced through the air.

Harold Godfrey died when the knife blade entered his right eye and brain, although the musket ball that tore away the top of his skull would have killed him, too … or the sword blade through his heart. He fell in eerie slow motion, the point of his rapier blade caught in the carpet, balancing his weight for a moment before his fingers lost their grip on the hilt and he tumbled over at Johnnie’s feet.

Johnnie stood with his arms hanging loose at his sides, his chest heaving, gazing at the body lying inches from the toes of his polished boots. “Compliments of … my father,” he panted. Then his long, slender fingers released their hold on the silver-wire-wrapped handle, and his bloody weapon fell to the carpet with a soft thud.

A wound in his left shoulder bled as well as one on his right forearm, the crimson stains creeping down his shirtfront, drops of blood falling from the lace on his cuff. Johnnie raised his head and turned, his blue eyes searching for Elizabeth, and, finding her, he smiled. Almost faint from the strain, his lungs deprived of air, he steadied himself for a moment before stepping over the body. Then, carefully placing one foot before the other—not sure his body was going to respond to his mind’s commands—he moved across the floor … a trail of blood evidence of his passage.

Standing motionless, Elizabeth still held the pistol in her hand. When he reached her, he lifted it from her grasp and handed it to Redmond.

“You both … saved my life.” He was breathing quickly.

“Helped,” Redmond laconically replied, glancing at the dead man on the floor, recognizing the impressive talent required to execute the fatal thrust. “I’ll see that he’s not found anywhere near the Countess’s house.”

The two men’s eyes met over Elizabeth’s head. Both were familiar with the sight of death, and an understanding passed between them. “Would you go to Roxane?” Johnnie murmured, and at Redmond’s nod, he took Elizabeth’s arm to lead her from the room.

“You’re bleeding,” Elizabeth softly cried, as if returning from some distant world.

“Dagger cuts,” Johnnie acknowledged. “They’re not deep. Let’s go upstairs.” She was beginning to shake.

He carried her up the three flights, finding the strength because she needed him, because the awful reality of the bloody scene had overcome her, and she was shuddering in his arms.

He sat with her in their bedchamber, holding her on his lap, his arms around her, letting her cry, wishing to comfort her but bereft of consoling words. Harold Godfrey had in all probability murdered Johnnie’s father and now had nearly killed him as well. He felt only satisfaction at his death.

“I’m not crying for him,” Elizabeth whispered after a time, reaching up to touch the small gold earring in Johnnie’s ear, sliding the pad of her finger over the velvety softness of his earlobe, substantiating his closeness. “He deserves to die. I kept thinking he could have killed you.”

“I wasn’t going to let him.” And in that answer was the same decisive courage that had brought him victory at seventeen in his first match with Harold Godfrey.

“I want to leave—right now,” she said, urgency in her voice. “I want to be safe with you in Holland. I don’t care about your estates or titles. I just want to be as far
away as possible from all the treachery. And I don’t care if we ever come back.”

“We’ll leave just as soon as Robbie returns,” Johnnie soothed, gently stroking her shoulder. “He should be back shortly from escorting the doctor and midwife to the docks.” Johnnie didn’t comment on their return to Scotland or the future of his estates. But he didn’t intend Queensberry to long enjoy the properties that had been the heritage of his family since ancient times.

“How many days before we actually see Holland and set foot ashore?” A high-mettled disquietude animated her words.

“Two with good winds.” He brushed the wetness from her cheeks and smiled at her. “We’re almost there.”

When Robbie arrived back at the house, they took their farewell. Johnnie’s new wounds had been dressed, a familiar process now. After arranging the disposal of the bloody carpet, Roxane had seen that the drawing room was set back to rights in the event of an investigation. Redmond had returned from his mission. Godfrey’s driver had been sent away ostensibly to wait for his master at Queensberry’s, where his body now lay—thanks to Redmond’s stealthy dispatch—in the garden behind the Duke’s house.

The good-byes took place in Roxane’s sitting room, away from the disturbing scene of violence. And beneath the gravity of the leave-taking was a consoling optimism, for soon the Carres would be safely away.

“I expect you’ll be back by fall,” Roxane said, kissing Elizabeth and Johnnie.

“Perhaps,” Johnnie replied, cautiously aware of Elizabeth’s disquiet. “We may stay in the Netherlands.”

“Coutts anticipates late fall,” Robbie interjected, wondering briefly at his brother’s curious answer.

“Our heartfelt thanks, Roxane,” Johnnie interposed, not wishing to debate an uncomfortable subject. “And give the children a hug from us.”

“You must send me word of
your
child immediately it’s born.”

“Captain Irvine will bring you the news posthaste.”

“And if you’ll send word to Three Kings,” Elizabeth said to Roxane, “I’d be obliged. Redmond has promised me progress reports on the building in return. And perhaps of his marriage?” she added with a sidelong glance at her bodyguard.

“We’ll wait until you come back,” Redmond said, a faint pinking of his cheeks visible beneath his tan. ‘I’ll have enough to do keeping Lord Ayton from taking over the construction site.”

The clock chimed then to remind them of the hour, and after another round of hugs, Johnnie and Elizabeth exited the Countess’s house by the kitchen door and entered a closed carriage waiting for them in the small courtyard.

Robbie lingered after everyone left, saying his own reluctant good-byes.

Holding Roxane in his arms, he stood at the door to her sitting room, unwilling to end their embrace. “Maybe I should stay,” Robbie murmured, the scent of the sea still lingering in his hair and clothes.

“No! It’s too dangerous!” Roxane’s face lifted to his, her eyes wide with fear. “Especially now, with Godfrey dead. Queensberry will call in every spy he has, wondering if he’s going to be next. If you don’t go, they’d find you and kill you!” A note of hysteria trembled in her voice. “Do you think I want to lose you?” she whispered.

“I can’t wait till summer to see you,” he bluntly said.

“Robbie, listen to me. You have to wait until
fall
. Coutts said October or November.”

“I’ll be back next month.” His voice was terse, low-pitched.

“You can’t!”

He stifled her cry with a wild, violent kiss, frustrated desire at rebellious odds with the unnatural prohibition.
Crushing her body into his, he savaged her mouth as if he could possess her through brute force. And when he relinquished her bruised mouth at last, he said very, very softly, “I’ll be
back
next month.…”

Breathless, she yielded to his impetuous passion, understanding she could no more curb him than she could hold back the passage of the sun. “Send me word through Coutts,” she said, “and I’ll meet you in the country, away from Queensberry’s spies.”

“God … I’ll go insane before a month.” His whisper touched her cheek and drifted up her temple; his arms slid down her spine. “You can’t look at another man. Promise me.” He held her away suddenly so his dark eyes stabbed into hers. “Promise,” he gruffly repeated.

“Yes, yes, I won’t.”

His sudden smile seemed incongruously divorced from the flinty intensity of a moment before. “I adore you.…” he breathed. “Kiss me quickly now, for everyone waits.”

Their kiss was lush and sweet that time, without the previous ravishment and outrage—dulcet like springtime, heated.…

And he left her trembling with need.

Immediately Robbie climbed aboard the
Trondheim
, the anchor was raised, the frigate’s sails billowed out, filled with wind, and short minutes later the vessel made for the open sea.

“Are you sad to be leaving?” Elizabeth asked sometime later, standing at the stern in the curve of Johnnie’s arms, her back against his chest, both of them watching the lights of Leith grow smaller in the distance.

“No. I want you and our child safe. I’m content to be leaving.”

“I hear a certain restraint.”

He shook his head and pulled her closer, his body warm against hers. “You heard wrong. We’ll stay in Holland as long as you want.”

“What if I say forever?”

“That’s fine.” He loved her; he meant it. Robbie could manage the estates as well as he.

“You’re too good to me.” And she wondered for a moment at her selfishness for demanding so much.

He turned her around then so he could see her face in the moonlight. “It’s you who’ve been good to me,” he gently said. “You’ve given me a love I never would have known. And soon a child … and infinite happiness.” He smiled slowly as the tenor of his mood shifted to his more familiar playfulness. “And enormous pleasure, I might add …”

“I
am
pretty wonderful,” Elizabeth replied with a lighthearted grin, understanding how rare solemnity was to Johnnie.

He laughed. “The best
I’ve
ever known.”

“Does that imply you’ve known a great many?” A small heat vibrated in her voice.

“Not at all,” he quickly responded. “I lived the life of a virtual hermit before you.”

“You’re very suave, Ravensby.”

“Accommodating as well, my Lady,” he said in a deep, lush murmur, “if you recall.”

She smiled. “I recall exactly. And we should have considerable leisure in Holland to make use of your obliging talents.”

“All the time in the world …” he murmured, his blue eyes enlivened with roguish amusement. “I’ll show you how the Dutch indulge their sense of pleasure.”

“Is it different?”

“You’ll find out, Bitsy,” he murmured, brushing her lips with his, “in due time.…”

Their son was born at The Hague ten days after their arrival in Holland, conveniently waiting until they’d settled into the pale yellow manor house set in the midst of acres of tulips before entering the world.

They named him Thomas Alexander in honor of his paternal grandfather, and as Johnnie had promised that cold winter night at Letholm, they took pleasure in the lush, tulip-filled gardens of Gradenhuis. Tommy became the center of their lives, this plump, dark-haired baby who’d inherited his father’s smile and was learning to use it with the same dazzling effect.

He was smiling already with great charm when Robbie set sail for Scotland the following month. The Privy Council had already begun to question the reasonableness of its verdict in outlawing the Earl of Graden, for its members were all facing financial ruin, their bills of exchange impossible to recover from their accounts held by Ravensby’s bank in Rotterdam. And with the collapse of the Bank of Scotland in December, many of them were in dire straits. The merchants of the royal
burghs had added their petitions testifying to the Earl of Graden’s honesty, loyalty, and aversion to any rebellious and treasonous principles. Rumor had it the verdict might be reversed as early as August.

“Are you happy?” Elizabeth said one summer day as their small family basked in the sun under the infinite azure sky.

“Desperately,” Johnnie said, leaning over to kiss her as they lounged on the grass.

The remains of their luncheon were scattered over a white linen cloth spread on the ground. Tommy was sleeping in his basket under the dappled shade of a plum tree.

“Do you realize under ordinary circumstances we might never have met?”

“I would have found you some other way.” He said it with the same unequivocal authority that tempered his life.

“Or perhaps I would have found you.”

Johnnie paused for a moment to consider the potent spirit behind his wife’s words and diplomatically said, “Yes, or that.”