Eve Silver (32 page)

Delia became pregnant, not by Anthony, but by some other man. The breath left Emma in a rush and she wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to hold in the wild emotions that tore through her. Did Anthony know?

Yes. Oh God, yes. He knew, and that had been the cause of love turned to hate, the reason that he had been so bitterly angry with Delia. And still, he loved Nicky as his own. Loved him with all his heart. A father’s love, granted freely and unconditionally.

“Oh, Anthony,” she whispered.

Cookie snapped the reins, driving the horses back to their earlier frenzied pace, and then surpassing it until Emma thought the carriage must surely overturn.

She pressed back against the seat, her throat closing. She thought she could hear Nicky sobbing inside the coach, the sound harsh and wretched to her ears.

“We could be killed. You and I, and the child as well. ‘Tis not safe here. Please, Cookie, please, let us return to Manorbrier.” She raised her voice to be heard as they rushed on, striving to keep the panic from her tone, though it welled inside her, dark and sticky like the sucking mud of a bog, threatening to draw her in and suffocate her.

The carriage rocked and swayed, but the mad pace did not slow.

“And if we are killed, then he will suffer all the more as he stares at the boy's broken body.” Cookie's words resounded with a maniacal glee, and spittle sprayed from her mouth. “He kept me from my son. Bound my bloody wrists and kept me from my son. All this time, I thought Nicky his, but he lied…oh, he lied…”

Mad. Truly mad. All the times Emma had thought Manorbrier a nest of Bedlamites, she had never truly thought to face such as this. Poor, poor Cookie, unhinged by the death of her son, pushed beyond reason now by…by what?

“Well, I’ll fix it. Make it right.” Cookie’s laughter swelled, a wild, crazed noise that rose and spread until it was nearly tangible, wrapping around Emma as she shrank away. She gasped, smelling lemons and turpentine.

As Emma shrank away, Cookie’s hand shot out and tangled in a fistful of Emma’s skirt. With unexpected strength she yanked Emma closer, barely guiding the horses with one hand while she held fast to the cloth with the other. Suddenly, she sawed on the reins, drawing the lathered beasts to a halt. The carriage rocked precariously, and Emma clutched at the seat, nearly sliding off the side.

Cookie turned to face her, and in her eyes Emma saw no reason, no soul, only cold, bitter hatred and terrifying madness.

“What do you think happened to Delia?” Cookie leaned close, her face a pale mask. Emma could feel her hot breath on her cheek as she spoke, smell the odor that rose from her. Rank sweat and lemon.

Emma pulled away, saying nothing, her eyes flicking back and forth between the other woman’s twisted expression and the dark landscape as she tried to formulate some plan of escape. The sound of her own panicked breaths filled her ears.

Cookie snickered, her eyes rolling this way and that. She yanked Emma closer still.

“What happened to Delia?” she asked again, her voice high and shrill.

“I do not know.”

“Don't you, lovey? Don't you?”

 “Oh, please! Nicky! I must get to Nicky. I beg you, let me go to him.”

Cookie laughed, the sound harsh, reminiscent of the protest of rusted hinges on an old gate.

“Delia. She told me what she’d done. Didn’t want to spoil her pretty figure and so she ended her pregnancy—”

“What?” Emma cried.

“Not her second one. Her first. She got pregnant on her wedding night and she didn’t want it. So she killed it. And I killed her. Pushed her to the bottom of a great long staircase. It was the only way. But she took a long time to die, a very long time, her belly writhing as she struggled to push forth the babe. One born living, the other dead.” Cookie’s tone rose and fell with an eerie singsong cadence, then she slanted Emma a frighteningly cold glance. “Perfect justice. One babe to stay with the father, the other gone into death with the mother. A child must stay with its parent, don’t you see?”

Oh, dear sweet God. No. This was too terrible to believe. Oh, Anthony, Anthony. Emma swallowed the bitter terror that rose inside her, rearing its ugly head, threatening to destroy her composure.

She raised her head, glanced about, wondering if help would come. No. No one knew they were gone. She would have to rely on her own ingenuity to save herself and Nicky both.

The thought was cold comfort.

Cookie's hand was still wound in the material of Emma's skirt. She tugged on it, as though sensing that Emma was contemplating clambering over the edge of the seat to get to Nicky.

“Please,” Emma whispered, struggling to pull free. Nicky’s piteous cries, growing weaker now, ate at her heart.

“Don’t be afraid,” Cookie crooned. “I won’t make it hurt.” She stroked one hand along Emma’s cheek. Emma flinched, then curled her hands into fists and struck out, landing a blow to the other woman’s cheek and another to her shoulder. Free. She had torn free!

With a cry, she made to leap from the seat, but Cookie caught her hair and yanked her back, then lashed the horses to resume their course. Again she whipped them, and again, until their speed surpassed all caution, all reason.

I won’t make it hurt
. Her attention divided between the danger of the runaway coach and her fear for Nicky, Emma barely registered the cook’s meaning. She knew only that the other woman was mad as a hatter, dangerously so, and that she blamed Anthony for all the sorrows of her loss because he had saved her life, thereby separating her from her dead son. The carriage tilted precariously and Emma heard a sickening thud as the wheels on her right left the ground, then crashed back to the hard-packed road.

She could hear Nicky pounding on the carriage door and crying her name. His loud sobs crescendoed, tearing at Emma's heart like knife-edged talons. She dragged in a breath, wondering why she smelled smoke.

She glanced at Cookie, and with a renewed burst of strength, she dove at her, grabbing for the leads.

“Nicky!” Emma yelled, forcing the air from her lungs, through her larynx, desperate to project enough volume that the child would hear her. “Unlatch the door! Push up with all your might. Then jump! Jump when the coach slows! Jump, Nicky! Jump and run! Run away, Nicky! Run!”

With all her might Emma pulled up, trying to stop the horses' mad dash. She felt the coach slow.

“Now!” From the corner of her eye she thought she saw a small form hurtle out into the dark night.

Then Cookie was upon her, the back of her hand catching Emma across her cheek. Falling back, Emma strove to turn and search the ground, to see if Nicky had escaped. The carriage door was open, the jolting ride sending it crashing against the side, banging it back and forth.

“Run, Nicky!” she screamed, sobbing now. “Run!”

Emma struggled as Cookie snatched the reins from her hands. The carriage tilted crazily to one side and she slid, her head slamming hard against the edge of the seat. Pain lanced through her. The coach listed even further and Emma scrambled to right herself.
Too late
, she thought, as the world pitched and rolled, the smell of smoke stronger now, burning her nostrils.

She was flying, hurtling through the darkness. A great crashing sound rent the air, and an endless scream pierced the night. The ground rose up to meet her and she felt a sharp pain before the blackness closed in.

o0o

The light hurt her eyes. Emma opened her lids, and then snapped them shut against the pain. Cautiously, she eased them open once more, frowning. It was night. Biting back a moan, she turned her head. Odd. It was night and the light was so brilliant.

“Nicky,” she said softly, a whisper, a prayer.

“Miss Emma.”

She felt his soft hand touch her brow and tears pooled in her eyes.

“Oh! Thank God!” She pushed herself to a sitting position, ignoring the terrible agony that streaked through her head and the vile nausea caused by her movement. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled Nicky into her lap. She buried her face in his soft hair, inhaling the scent of him.

“Are you hurt?” she asked in a strangled voice.

Nicky shifted in her arms, angling his leg so she could see the tear in his brown velvet breeches.

“I have a scrape.” He sounded so forlorn.

Nearly sobbing with relief, Emma tightened her embrace. “Oh, what a brave boy you are.”

Suddenly, the enormity of their situation hit her. A finely honed shaft of terror shot through her and Emma raised her eyes and scanned the vicinity, searching for Cookie. A short distance away were the remains of the coach, flames licking at its sides, but of the cook there was no sign.

Oh
, she thought, blinking at the growing blaze,
so that was the source of the light
. Then she frowned, unable to force her sluggish mind to comprehend where the flame had originated. She recalled no lantern, no candle. Nicky made a small sound of protest as she hugged him tightly.

“Miss Emma,” he began tentatively. “I think I made that fire.”

“You did?” she asked, angling her head to look into his face.

“Theodore, my soldier.” He held up one hand and showed her the tin toy. “He didn't like the dark.” He paused for a moment, and then went on in a rush. “Papa doesn’t like me to play with his Lucifer matches. He caught me once and was very angry. But I had a tin in the pocket of my coat. It’s an old coat. Cookie put it on me to keep me warm. I forgot the tin was there, only when I put my hand in, I found it. Theodore was so afraid. I thought if I lit the match it would be light, it would help. But I dropped the first one, and the seat started to burn with a cheery flame, and I lit a second one and tossed it at the first, and when you yelled for me to jump—” Nicky began to sob in earnest. “I didn't mean to!”

Emma tightened her arms around him, even as she glanced about, searching for some sign of Cookie. She did not trust that they were safe here.

“Oh, Nicky. None of this is your fault. None of it. Of course you were afraid—”

“Not me. Theodore,” he interjected.

“Yes, of course. Theodore.” She kissed the top of his head. “But you, Nocholas, are a brave boy indeed. You saved yourself, and you helped to save me.”

 He looked at her, his eyes wide. “Truly?” he whispered.

“Truly. But now we must be away from here. We must find our way home.”

“But what of Cookie?” he asked.

Yes. What of Cookie?

Emma set the child on his feet and struggled to rise, pressing her hands against the rough ground. They must be away. They were not safe here.

She jerked as a terrible pounding slammed through her head, and the earth seemed to shake with its force. She knelt in the dirt and reached for Nicky’s hand, the two of them adrift in a sea of noise. Nicky's head snapped up and he went still, like a small animal scenting the air. Then his face lit with a smile and he bounded away.

“Papa!” Leaving Emma on the ground, he ran toward the source of the sound.

Again, she made to rise, to follow him, but the world swam dizzily before her eyes. Pressing her fingers against her forehead, Emma felt a sticky wetness.
Blood
, she thought.

 And then she saw a carriage and Anthony leaped down from the seat to catch his son against his chest. Her vision went hazy. She blinked and he was before her, Anthony, the bonfire illuminating the night, casting flickering shadows across the chiseled angles of his face.

His beautiful, beloved face.

With Nicky squirming in his arms, he squatted at Emma's side, cradling his son.

“Anthony.”

His name was a sigh on her lips.

He took her chin between thumb and forefinger, turning her head firmly toward him. His touch was warm and solid, and in his eyes she saw a blaze of emotion so deep, so stark it stole her breath. Tears of relief clogged her throat, and she could not force words past the blockage. They were not yet safe, she reminded herself. There was still the specter of Cookie, her madness, her bilious irrational hatred.

“You are bleeding. Here, press this against the gash.” Anthony’s voice, so calm, so cool washed over her, and her gaze snapped to his. His walls were firmly back in place. He pressed a folded square of cloth against her temple, then lifted her hand and guided it to the spot. “Press.”

She wanted to grab his hand, to press her lips to the knuckles, to babble her relief in a shining torrent of words. Taking over the chore of pressing on the cloth, she managed to croak only a single word. “Cookie.”

Anthony rose, scanning the vicinity. The wind caught his coat, billowing the tail like great black wings.

“Where?”

A shrill scream pierced the night.

At the sound, Anthony's head jerked up and he stared at the flaming wreckage. Then he sprinted toward the source of the cry, his greatcoat fanning out behind him.

Emma struggled to her feet. The world tilted precariously. Holding both arms out from her sides she fought for balance, then stumbled after Anthony. She reached him as he pulled his coat from his shoulders and tossed it to the ground.

A second scream echoed from the growing flames, more shrill, more frantic than the last.

“I'm trapped! Oh, God! My foot!” Cookie's voice, laced with terror.

Anthony did not hesitate. Emma watched, her heart in her throat, as he strode toward the conflagration that threatened to destroy all it touched.

Cookie lay on the ground with a huge section of the carriage collapsed upon her, pinning her beneath its weight. The edges of her jagged prison were aflame, and she struggled to free herself, her eyes rolling back in her head as panic overwhelmed her.

A small hand clasped her own, and she looked down to see Nicky at her side.

“Will Papa save her?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Why should he? Cookie had murdered Anthony's wife and daughter, stolen Nicky away in the dark of night. She pulled Nicky against her, turning the child into her skirt, hoping to spare him the worst of what would follow. And when she spoke, she knew without a hint of doubt that her words were true. “Yes. He will try and save her.”