Taken by Storm (32 page)

“What in God’s name are you saying, man?” Colin demanded.

“That you are no longer welcome at Maxwell Hall. Good day, sir.”

And then the big door was shut in his face, and Colin was left alone on the darkened steps.

# # #

Ariadne stood in the library, the fire at her back and the darkness pushing against the tall, elegantly draped windows. She stared incredulously at Maxwell, her face white with shock while his last words echoed through her stunned brain.

It seems, my lady, that he has taken the money and run . . . and run . . . and run. . . .

“He wouldn’t!” she cried, stalking to the heavy, olive-green drapes and yanking them aside. But there was nothing to see out there in the night, and letting the fabric fall back in place, she strode to the door, determined to find and confront Colin for herself.

A hand fell upon her shoulder, the fingers digging into her bones and halting her progress. She spun angrily around and found herself face-to-face with Maxwell.

“Unhand me!”

“Ariadne.” The single word was spoken with a quiet, almost sinister finality, and the hand on her shoulder never wavered. She tried to wiggle free of it, but the fingers only sank further into her flesh, trapping her. “Can you not face the truth? Your veterinarian has more need of fifteen thousand pounds than he does a wife. Do not make a fool of yourself by running after him.” The hand strayed, gently grazing the side of her neck, her cheek.

Ariadne stood frozen. She stared up at the earl’s face, feeling horror, then hysteria rising up in her throat until she couldn’t breathe and her world began to go dark. This was her past repeating itself all over again, her worst nightmare coming true. No. Colin wouldn’t do this to her! He was not like her father, for whom money and horses and his own pursuits meant more than his only daughter! He was not like that, oh, dear God, he was not!

“But . . . we love each other!”

The dark gaze grew warm, penetrating . . . almost frightening, making her feel like a moth being drawn toward a hot fire out of which there was no escape. “And you are Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn—far too good for a disgraced
hero
the likes of Captain Colin Lord.”

Captain
. That was the second time she’d heard that word tonight..

“Disgraced hero? Captain? What are you talking about?”

One black brow rose. “You mean you don’t
know
?”

“Know what?”

A slow, chilling smile lifted the earl’s mouth, and he put an arm around her back. “Why, my dear, it is no wonder he didn’t tell you, such a shameful scandal it all was . . . You see, your veterinarian was formerly a naval officer who was court-martialed out of the Navy. Five years ago it, was, if I remember correctly. ‘Colin Lord.’ Ah, I knew that name sounded familiar—”

She stared at him, unable to speak.

“Don’t look so shocked, my dear. The whole of England heard about it, it was in all the newspapers. But then, you were too young then to take notice, were you not?”

Ariadne found her voice. “A
captain
? Court-martialed out of the Navy? For what?”

Again, that dark, satisfied smile. “A storm, it was. Against orders, your dear lover made a foolishly heroic attempt to save his admiral’s foundering ship—and failed.”

And failed.

So this was Colin’s big secret, the thing that haunted him, the terrible disgrace that he had hinted at but had been unable to bring himself to relate. Relief and incredulity made her legs weak. She put a hand on the back of a stuffed chair to steady herself, while the world reeled around her.

“The Navy does not like to lose its ships, you know,” Maxwell said, smiling. “Damned expensive things to replace.”

Ariadne pushed her fingers against her brow. It was all clear to her, now. The sea chest. The strange little mannerisms, the nautical references, even the name of his dog. At last, she knew the reasons for the militaristic bearing, the air of authority, the visible pain she’d seen on his face when they’d heard that fiddler in the tavern, when they’d come into Burnham and the scent of the sea had lain so heavily in the night air.

Oh, Colin. . . .

No wonder he hadn’t asked her to marry him. He was too ashamed of his past to think that she’d ever want him. Anger swept through her, and a desperate urge to go running after him. If he had left her, it had nothing to do with money, but with his own pride! And to think he’d been disgraced for trying to save his admiral?

“I’m going after him,” she announced, and turning her back on Maxwell, strode, then ran, toward the door.

And found it locked.

# # #

Colin might have been off the sea for five years, but his mariner’s instincts—and skills—were still intact.

It didn’t take him long to find a good, stout length of rope in the stable. An hour later, he was standing in the darkness outside the manor house, the rope in one hand, Thunder waiting patiently beside him, and the two windows that proclaimed the wakefulness of its occupant glowing golden between the drapes, two stories above his head.

He had no doubt that that occupant was Ariadne, and didn’t believe for a moment that she had changed her mind about him. There was too much tension in the air, too much suspicious behavior on the part of the earl’s servants, and his every instinct warned him that Ariadne was in grave danger.

Well, if they wouldn’t let him into the house, then he’d just have to enter by his own means.

He gazed up at the imposing wall of ivy-choked stone that towered above his head. The breeze, ripe with the promise of rain, tickled the leaves of several nearby oak trees, making them shake ominously in the darkness. Bow whined softly and pressed against his ankle. He reached down to reassure her, gave Marc, who was also nearby, a scratch behind the ears, then looked up once again. The nearest handhold was a good ten feet up.

Too far to reach.

He gauged his task silently for a moment, then brought the gelding up close to the side of the house. As though he knew what was needed of him, Thunder braced himself as Colin kicked off his boots and pulled himself up onto the horse’s back. His balance precarious, he crouched, then stood up, one foot on the gelding’s withers to try to make his weight more bearable for the old horse, the other resting just in front of the animal’s kidneys. Thunder groaned beneath his weight, but remained faithfully still.

“Good boy,” Colin murmured, already feeling his bad leg beginning to protest, and without being told, the gelding took a step closer to the house. The movement was enough to upset Colin’s already shaky balance, and wildly, he managed to grab the stony ledge of the windowsill, there to swing desperately by his fingertips while his feet dangled into space.

He cursed and gritted his teeth. Then, with all his strength, he pulled himself up onto the ledge, tossed the rope over a grinning gargoyle just above his head, and began to climb . . . .

Never seeing Maxwell’s servant watching him, nor the shadow he made as he darted from the beneath those trees and ran for the house.

Tristan had just worked up the courage to knock on Maxwell’s door, a half-baked plan in his mind to rescue Ariadne, when he heard Shareb-er-rehh’s high, piercing whinny coming from the stable.

Ari
was
here, then.
Oh, God. . . .

Leading his mare, he crept around the back of the building and slipped inside. Horses moved in the darkness. He smelled their warm hides, and heard his own nervous breathing shattering the still quiet.

There, in a roomy box at the end, was the stallion.

He glanced apprehensively behind him, but his entry had gone unnoticed. By the meager starlight beaming down through the window, he could just see Shareb-er-rehh’s proud, beautifully chiseled head, his small, pricked ears, the arched crest of his long neck. The stallion was staring fixedly out the window, the moonlight gleaming in his dark eye; then he turned his head and saw Tristan.

Both man and beast froze.

Shareb’s huge, shell-shaped nostrils quivered, taking the air. Tristan saw and recognized the horse’s distinctive white blaze. The two stared at each other, neither one moving—and then the stallion’s low, welcoming whinny came softly through the darkness.

Tristan had never heard a sweeter, more comforting sound in his life. He ran forward and put his arms around the horse’s neck, his eyes stinging with emotion as he laid his cheek against the sparse black mane and hugged the horse nearly hard enough to strangle him. Relief and courage coursed through him. Shareb was just a horse, but he had been his father’s horse, and there in the darkness, the young Lord Weybourne felt his father’s presence and knew it was time to confront the devil.

For he hadn’t posted the rewards, worried himself sick, and chased Ariadne all the way to Norfolk to lay claim on a horse that was already his.

He’d chased her to stop her before she could marry that fiend that Father had unwittingly pledged her to.

A fiend who belonged in the very pit of Hell itself.

Steeling himself, Tristan turned and made his way toward the big manor house.

# # #

Ariadne, wearing a green gown trimmed in peach and ivory that had been hastily procured from the nearby Weybourne estate, paced the confines of the bedchamber to which she’d been brought.

Fresh from a bath and a maid’s attention, her coppery locks entwined with artfully arranged strands of pearl and her hands wrapped in butter-soft gloves, she was once again the Lady Ariadne who had both captivated and scandalized London society. But the bath had failed to leave her feeling clean, the gown (even though it had come directly from her own armoire) was restrictive and uncomfortable after the clothing she’d spent the last week in, and this room that Maxwell had provided for her—
until you can safely return to your family’s home, my dear
—seemed more like a prison than a haven.

Especially after she had tried the door and found it locked.

The discovery enraged her. Did Maxwell think her an impulsive child who didn’t know her own mind? No doubt he knew she’d go racing off after Colin, and thought a few hours of confinement would restore her to sanity—and, a wish to rethink her decision and honor her betrothal. Well, she objected to such high-handed treatment, knew her own mind very well, thank you, and had no intention of marrying Maxwell, not today, not tomorrow, not
ever
.

And Colin—she clenched her fists in rising anger, the gloves stretching tightly across her knuckles. She had a word or two to say to him, as well! Oh, she didn’t believe for one minute that he’d been bought off by Maxwell’s fifteen-thousand-pound cheque, especially after he’d ripped up the first one with such contempt. She remembered how he’d refused to speak about his past, how he was so ashamed to tell her about his deep, dark, secret. Maxwell was lying. Colin had not deserted her because of a large sum of money, he’d left because of his shame about the court-martial.

Oh, when she caught up to him—

There was a noise outside. Something moving against the side of the house. The sill. Her window. Frowning, she tiptoed to the drapes, drew them aside—and nearly screamed.

There, his face reflecting the glow of candlelight behind her, was Colin, crouched precariously on the ledge and motioning desperately for her to open the window.

With a little cry, she threw it open.

“Colin!”

It took him but a second to haul himself over the sill and into her arms. She sobbed with relief as he crushed her to his chest and held her fiercely, protectively, against his body. Never had she been so glad to see anyone in her life.

“Oh, Colin, I thought you’d run off and left me here—”

“Shh, Ariadne,” he whispered, against her hair. “We don’t have much time. I want you to put your arms around my neck and hold on tight. We’re going back down—then, we’ll have to seize the horses and make a run for it.”

She felt movement, and pulling back, Ariadne saw that his bad leg was visibly shaking with the effort of having made what had to have been a difficult and excruciatingly painful climb up the side of the house. But he had done it—and he had done it for her.

“Come, Ariadne, we must leave, now!”

“But your leg—”

She never finished. The door crashed open and a horde of men, pistols in hand, charged inside. Ariadne had no time to even utter a scream before Colin thrust her aside and out of the way. She stumbled and grabbed the edge of a chair, hearing the sickening thuds of fists against flesh. Shouts and curses echoed in her ears; a gun went off, someone screamed, and she gained her feet only to see Colin slam his fist into the jaw of a big, powerful brute with greasy black hair and a mouthful of broken teeth.

“Run, Ariadne! For God’s sake, get out of here!”

He whirled, ducked a chair that came swinging around at his head, and managed to dispatch the assailant with a strong uppercut to the chin. The man went down, and Colin whirled to meet another attack—but his leg, shaking with fatigue, gave out from under him and he fell heavily to the floor. He rolled aside, but it was too late; hands hauled him roughly to his feet, someone landed a hard blow to his belly, and as he doubled over in agony, one of the attackers brought the butt end of his pistol cracking down hard against the back of his skull.

With a groan, he collapsed and fell sprawling to the floor. One finger twitched, and then he lay still.

For a horrified moment, Ariadne could not move. Then, with a cry of anguish, she fell to her knees on the rug beside him, her arms going protectively around him and pulling him up against her even as the door opened and Maxwell himself stepped inside.

Instantly, everyone fell silent.

Brows raised, the earl surveyed the room with a cool, appraising eye. Outside, a dog —
Bow
, Ariadne thought dazedly—was barking frantically. Maxwell jerked his chin, and one of his minions ran to the window and slammed it shut.

Then he turned and regarded his men, Ariadne, and, with a smile of contempt, the man who lay unconscious in her arms.

She pulled him protectively close.