Realm 03 - A Touch of Cashemere (36 page)

Cashé had watched each step Yardley made as he guardedly approached the back of the cottage. She admired the lightness of his step while ogling the very masculine line of his hips and shoulders. Before she had met His Lordship, she had never much thought about a man’s body; but last evening she had slept in Wellston’s arms. He had worn only his breeches, and while he had slept, she had surreptitiously examined his body–every pore, every freckle, every hair–totally entranced by the sight of his chest and his flat stomach.

When he reached the cottage’s back corner, Cashé’s mind returned to the danger in which he had placed himself for her. As he had edged around the building’s edge, Cashé moved also, literally crawling along the ground to reach a place where she might still see him. However, when he reached the window, everything changed. Wellston’s body stiffened before he was on the run toward the front of the house. Unable to wait, Cashé scrambled to her feet and shimmied between the branches of the bushes, and then she too was running toward whatever awaited them.

Marcus did not even attempt the front door; instead, he kicked it open before taking three strides, hitting the interior door with a mighty kick. The doorframe snapped, but it did not give completely. As he hit it a second time, he heard Cashé’s approach. The door ripped from its hinges, and Marcus laid his shoulder to it to open it further. Cashé was beside him now, adding her efforts to make the door give way.

When it did, Marcus stumbled into the room, but not before Charters could climb from the bed and right his clothing. Marcus launched himself at the man, taking Charters to the floor with him. They were a mix of arms and legs. Punches. Groans. Kicks. He and Charters wrestled, rolling dangerously across the floor. Marcus lost his gun in the melee, but he fought on. The man’s actions towards Satiné Aldridge, a woman Marcus had once considered for himself, incensed him, and the thought that the woman on the bed could have been Cashé made him crazy for revenge.

Although Charters outweighed his attacker by some two stones, the Scot did not have the man’s training or his impetus. He had known his actions were reprehensible even as he had prepared to take the girl without her consent. He had never hurt a person who did not deserve it, and so he had accepted his assailant’s continued pounding. As the man straddled him, Charters instinctively, brought his arms up to protect his face, but he no longer fought the man who would come to the girl’s rescue.

Cashé had followed Marcus through the door with no idea of what she might find on the other side. The sight of her lovely sister lying partially unclothed on the bed brought Cashé up short, and then she was on the mattress, draping herself over Satiné to hide her twin from the eyes of others. She was aware of the struggle going on not ten feet away, but all of Cashé’s energies went into protecting her sister. “Satiné,” she rasped as she pulled at her sister’s gown, trying to cover Satiné’s exposed breasts and legs. “Oh, Satiné, I am so sorry,” she wailed.

The injustice took hold of Cashé’s heart. Her head snapped around to where Marcus pounded Charters’ head into the wooden floor. “Get off him,” she yelled as she slid from the bed and made her way to the tussling men. “Get off him, Marcus,” she urged as she pulled at Yardley’s arms. “I want to kill him myself.”

Realizing belatedly that she was there, Marcus sent Cashé tumbling backwards to her rear, but she came storming back. “Let me kill him,” she begged as she crawled on all fours to where Marcus held Charters in place.

Marcus said nothing as Cashé fisted her hands and began to pound Charters’ chest and face. “You, Bastard,” she hissed as she burst into tears and took her frustrations out on the man. “Give me the gun, Marcus,” she demanded. “I wish to shoot his sorry, arse.”

Surprisingly, Charters accepted her anger, refusing to move as Cashé punched and slapped at him–simply staring upward at the ceiling. When her anger subsided, Marcus caught Cashé’s hands in mid strike and pulled her toward him. Taking her tear-stained countenance in his hands, he waited until Cashé’s eyes met his. “Go assist with Satiné,” he whispered hoarsely. “I will handle Charters.”

A sob of realization caught in her chest, but Cashé gave him a slight nod and then staggered toward the bed.

Meanwhile, Marcus rose to his feet and toed Charters with his boot in the man’s side. “Get up,” Marcus ordered solemnly. “You have an engagement with a British court.”

Cashé’s nervous fingers retied Satiné’s chemise and worked the buttons of her sister’s bodice into place. Throughout, she whispered apologies to the unconscious Satiné, taking water and washing the powder residue from her twin’s mouth and nose, and then Charters’ semen from Satiné’s inside thigh. “Come on, Satiné,” she begged as she struggled to pull her twin to a seated position.

“Leave her,” Marcus said softly from behind her. “You take the gun and hold it on Charters. I will carry Miss Satiné.”

Cashé looked uncomprehendingly at Marcus, but she did what he said. Gritting her teeth, she aimed the gun at the man to whom her uncle had promised her. “Please give me a reason to pull this trigger,” she said coldly.

“I never meant to hurt her,” Charters spoke softly, “but Lord Averette said it would be the only way that Lord Worthing would not prosecute me.”

Cashé reacted immediately. “Uncle Samuel did what?”

Marcus released his hold on Satiné’s limp body. “Worthing called on the viscount?” He realized Worthing must be close because of Hill’s appearance in Charters’ doorway, but he had not thought that Worthing would call on Averette.

“Averette came to me home earlier today,” Charters now confessed freely. “He said that Worthing knew I took Cashémere.”

“I am Cashémere,” Cashé interrupted.

Charters dropped his eyes. “I knows that now, but not until today. I swear it. I found the gel in the English viscount’s arms.”

Marcus confronted Charters. “Worthing knew that you had taken Miss Satiné, which means that Averette had to know that you did not hold Miss Aldridge as your prisoner. Are you telling us that Averette never told you otherwise?”

“I swear that it be so.” Charters still refused to look at either of them. “The gel attempted to explain who she is, but I refused the truth. She was with the English viscount, and Averette never said anything about her not being me Cashémere. But when I sees no birthmark on the gel’s neck, I knew I had been duped.”

Cashé’s quiet voice told it all. “Uncle Samuel wanted revenge on the baron. What better way than permitting Charters to ruin Satiné?” The realization shook her. “He killed our parents, and now he has destroyed my sister’s reputation.”

Marcus caught her hand. “Let us see your sister to safety, and then we can deal with your uncles.” Cashé nodded her head in agreement, but Marcus knew that she would not readily let her anger subside. She would brood over how she could not control all that had happened.

*

Eleanor had no idea how her brother had known that she had needed him, but when he rode into the circle at Chesterfield Manor, she was out the door and in his arms as soon as he had dismounted. “I cannot believe that you are here,” she sobbed. “I only sent word yesterday that I required your assistance.”

Bran looked closely at her countenance. “You are exhausted. Why has Kerrington not ordered you to bed?” he said.

“My husband chases Satiné’s kidnapper,” she confided.

Bran exclaimed, “Satiné’s what?”

Eleanor caught his arm. “Let us go inside. Obviously, you have no idea what has happened.”

“Shepherd sent word that he had questioned Ashton extensively, but he was unable to break His Lordship’s resolve. He asked that Worthing and I seek the truth. Because of our family connections to the baron, Shepherd thought that Ashton might confide in us. When I arrived at Linton Park, the countess informed me that both you and Kerrington were here.”

“Then you are in for a surprise,” Eleanor said. “The world as we have known it has turned itself upside down.”

It had taken Eleanor more than an hour to bring him up to snuff with all the changes occurring in the last week. Then he did what her husband could not. Bran had ordered her to bed before he took her place in Lexford’s room. The viscount had awakened with the changing of his compress, and Bran prepared to meet his long-time friend’s confusion.

“Fowler.” Lexford recognized him immediately. “When did you arrive?”

“A couple hours ago. I came looking for my sister. If I had realized your state, I would have come sooner.”

“Although I did not see it at first, your sister appears the perfect match for Kerrington.”

It bothered Bran to hear the viscount speak with no knowledge of recent occurrences. “Eleanor tells me that you wish to converse on events of which she possessed no knowledge. Are there questions you would like for me to address?”

Lexford closed his eyes, and Bran waited for his friend to compose his thoughts. “Would you tell me about Susan?” Lexford opened his eyes slowly. “I think I know, but I need for someone to confirm my suspicions. Did I cause Susan’s death?”

Fowler schooled his expression. He knew how Lexford had suffered when he could not save his young wife. The duke did not want his friend to revisit the pain. “Not directly.”

*

Marcus carried Satiné’s limp body as they exited the cottage. Charters had come next, followed by Cashé, who still carried the gun firmly in her grip. They started toward the main house, but they had taken no more than a dozen steps when Jamot stepped from the cottage’s right side and pointed a gun at Cashé’s head, effectively bringing their little “party” into the jaws of danger. Marcus silently cursed himself for allowing them to fall into the Baloch’s hands.

“I will take the gun, pretty one.” As Marcus watched, Jamot sardonically took pleasure in his success. He reached around Cashé’s shoulder and removed the gun, placing it in his waistband. “Well, Lord Yardley,” the Baloch taunted, “which one is yours? The one in your arms? Or the one who dresses as a man? I suppose that is one way to tell them apart.”

Marcus’s wrathful focus rested purely on the Realm’s enemy. “Let the ladies go, Jamot, and I will freely go with you. You want the emerald. I will take you to it, but only if you leave the women alone.”

“No!” Cashé reacted to his offer.

Jamot nudged her temple with the gun. “Ah, but you have no idea of the emerald. I know because you are not the type of man to betray your friends, but you are the type to give up your own life for someone you love.”

“Unlike you,” Marcus accused. “You left Ashmita to suffer.”

Jamot’s gaze lowered. “It is not so easy to be a hero when one follows a man like Mir.”

“You give yourself forgiveness, Jamot; yet, you will find the world less willing to do so. How could a man call himself a man if allows the woman he loves to be used repeatedly.”

Jamot cocked the trigger. “Will you think yourself a hero if I kill this one before your eyes, my Lord?”

Marcus watched Cashé’s eyes grow in size, but she did not move. Finally, Marcus said softly, “You hold the upper hand, Jamot. How will this one play out?”

Jamot’s mouth curled in a satisfying sneer. “Put the lady down, Yardley.” Marcus gently laid Satiné Aldridge in a grassy patch and then stood waiting the Baloch’s next order. Jamot tossed a rope to a docile Charters. “Tie His Lordship to that tree.”

Charters looked anxiously at the earl. “Just do as he asks,” Marcus warned and then placed himself before a nearly bare hawthorn tree. Charters obediently laced the rope around and around the tree, lashing Marcus to the trunk.

“Be sure it is tight,” Jamot instructed.

Charters pulled on the lines to demonstrate that he did not risk Jamot’s anger by leaving the binding loose enough for Wellston to escape.

Content, Jamot caught Cashé by the arm, keeping the gun pressed tightly to her head and her body before his. “You may leave,” Jamot told Charters.

“What?” The man looked confused.

Jamot countenanced an intimidating glare. “From what I observed, Yardley and his pretty accomplice had taken you their prisoner. I am releasing you. Leave and do not look back.”

Charters stared at Jamot for a long moment. “I kin’t allow ye to hurt the lasses,” he declared. “I have done enough harm.”

Jamot barked out a short, bitter laugh. “You wish me to shoot you in cold blood?”

“I dinnae want to die, but I will not desert the lasses,” Charters hoarsely confirmed.

“Then bring the other one,” Jamot said tersely before shoving Cashé forward.

Charters bent and picked up Satiné’s body and fell into step before the gunman. Jamot turned them toward the rocky shore; yet, before they were out of sight, Cashé defiantly called out, “I love you, Marcus Wellston!”

Marcus struggled against the ropes as Charters picked up Satiné and walked away. He noted how Cashé had set her shoulders–as if she were a royal princess. She would make him a wonderful countess. Northumberland was a rough land, and it took a special type of person to survive there. Cashé Aldridge would not only survive; she would thrive.

“I love you, Marcus Wellston!” she had suddenly yelled in defiance.

“Do what you must to stay alive,” he called to her retreating form. “I will come for you, Cashémere.”

Cashé was no more out of sight before Marcus began to maneuver his way from his bindings. Charters had wrapped the rope across Marcus’s chest several times, but Marcus had learned a lesson from the woman he loved. When Cashé related her escape from the two drunken youths, he had marveled at her ingenuity and forethought. Even in a crisis, she had the good sense to find a way out of her dilemma. Cashé had told him of swallowing a deep breath to force the man’s hold on her. Marcus had done the same with Charters’ attempts to secure him to the tree.

When Charters bound him, Marcus had purposely expanded his chest and leaned forward at a slight angle to make his bindings appear tight. Now, with no one around, he faced a slackened rope. Maybe an inch–but it would be his liberation. Marcus began to work the layers down the tree and his body, gathering them at his waistline. He twisted and scooted up and down the tree trunk, and, the hold gave way little by little. When the lowest strap reached his hand, Marcus laced his wrist through the binding and freed it. Then bending at the knees, he slid down far enough for his fingers to touch the top of his boot, where he kept a small knife hidden in a special pocket.