Kathryn Smith (10 page)

“But, Rachel”—he chuckled—“I already have stopped you.”

That unease curdled into full-fledged dread. Raising the poker, Rachel assumed a more defensive stance, hoping he couldn’t see the length of iron quiver in her grasp. “What do you mean?”

“You have no inheritance.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. “Well you did, but it’s long gone now.”

Rachel’s muscles began to shake. “Gone?”

Grinning, Sir Henry nodded. “I made sure I had my hands on that shortly after I married your mother. Wasn’t difficult either since I’d been declared your guardian until you reached your majority.”

She had to grab the mantel with one hand to keep from falling down. The poker drooped in the other. “You’re lying,” she rasped, but one look at the triumphant expression on his face told her the just as ugly and twisted truth. He had robbed her of her future, her independence.

Her one chance to save her mother.

He laughed again as her desolation brought her literally to her knees. Gone. It was gone, and with it all her hopes.

“So, it seems, my dear, that I’ve won after all.” Rachel didn’t even look up as his voice drifted toward the door. “You’ll marry Charlton in one month. I’m so going to enjoy giving you away—especially to a man with Charlton’s…tastes.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving nothing but the crackle of the fire and Sir Henry’s mocking laughter ringing in her ears.

Rachel stared blindly at the drops of blood splattering onto her skirts. What was she going to do? Neither she nor her mother was safe from Sir Henry now. Whatever power she had held had disappeared the moment he realized he’d foiled her plan. If she wanted to keep her mother—and herself—alive, she’d have to think of another way. How were they ever to be free of him?

She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know if there was any way she and her mother could lawfully escape Sir Henry, but she did know that this situation had spiraled out of her control. Short of murder, she was powerless to stop Sir Henry on her own.

But she knew someone who might be able to.

Hauling herself up on trembling legs, Rachel retrieved her shawl and tossed it over the chair before carefully picking her way across the carpet to the door. The hall outside was quiet as she crept toward the stairs. She hurried toward the ground floor, peering as far ahead of her as she could to make certain Sir Henry didn’t catch her.

Potts was in the foyer when she staggered into it. “Miss Rachel!” he cried, his eyes round and his cheeks as pale as his hair. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Potts,” Rachel assured him, “I’m fine. Has Sir Henry left the house?”

The aging butler nodded. “Yes, Miss. He rode out just a moment ago.”

“Good.” Ignoring the pain in her face and back, Rachel instructed Potts to fetch her cloak and gloves. Slipping into her cloak was pure agony, but she managed to do it with the butler’s help. A sheen of perspiration dotted her brow as she pulled on her gloves.

“When my stepfather returns, Potts, I want you to have at least one bottle of brandy waiting for him in his study.”

If the request surprised Potts, he didn’t show it. “Of course, Miss. Might I inquire as to where you’re going?”

“No, Potts. It’s perhaps best that you don’t.” Wrenching open the door, Rachel stepped out into the chilly, damp night air and hurried toward Sir Henry’s precious stables.

Moments later, clenching her teeth against the bone-jarring agony of every stride, she galloped down the lane on a quicksilver-fast gelding bound for Wyck’s End.

And Brave.

Brave returned from a late-afternoon ride feeling better than he had in months. It had been so long since he had allowed himself the pleasure of permitting his mount to run at full speed. He’d forgotten how it felt to have the wind sting his face as a horse with legs like lightning carried him across ground that was nothing more than a blur. He’d forgotten just what freedom truly was.

Oh, it would take more than a ride across the moors to wipe his soul clean of its burden. The weight of Miranda’s death and the effects of the self-destruction that followed could not be lifted so easily, but instead of turning in circles, a path was beginning to emerge before him—a path that could lead him to redemption.

That path started with Rachel Ashton.

Not that helping her could change what happened with Miranda. He knew that, but he hoped that helping Rachel
might somehow allow him to atone for his sins by evening the balance, allowing him to make a difference in one life even though he hadn’t been able to in another. It might not work, but he owed it to himself to try. And regardless of how it might benefit him, he couldn’t knowingly watch as Rachel was sold to a man like Charlton.

It was this vow that gave him a purpose. It might not sound like much to some—then again others might find it a tad melodramatic—but if the end result kept Rachel out of Charlton’s hands, if it could show just how sorry he was for Miranda’s death, he didn’t care what anyone else thought. Pulling Rachel from the river wasn’t good enough.

Gabriel and Julian joined him later for dinner. It was nice to sit at that huge table and see other faces.

“When do you leave for Heatherington Park?” Brave asked.

“Tomorrow,” Julian replied, slicing into a piece of roast beef in wine broth. “We’ll be there for a few weeks before returning here and then back to London. Letitia has a birthday coming up, and she is quite insistent that I be there for it.” He lifted his fork to his mouth and closed his eyes in pleasure. “Exquisite. Your chef is divine.”

“He’s French,” Gabriel remarked with a glint in his eye. “All things French are divine.”

“Would that statement have been influenced by the fact that your mistress is French?” Julian asked, taking a sip of wine.

Gabriel grinned.

It was odd to hear Nanette referred to as Gabriel’s mistress. The two of them had been together for several years. Brave was surprised the relationship had lasted as long as it had. Nanette was a lovely woman, but she was too docile, too quiet for a man like Gabe.

Gabriel needed someone vivacious and strong-willed—like Lilith. Perhaps that was why he avoided women of that temperament now.

Brave could relate. Since Miranda he’d avoided women like the plague. Even if his heart were capable of feeling those gentler feelings again, he was not in any hurry to offer it up. He never wanted to be in the position to be hurt—or to hurt another ever again.

As with most things these days, his mind turned to Rachel Ashton. He wondered what she would think of him if she knew the truth about him. Would she question his mental state? Or would she try to be understanding and sympathetic? Perhaps she’d be disappointed. He seemed to have a habit of disappointing people.

He didn’t know which would be worse. One thing he did know, however, was that even if Rachel was only half as drawn to him as he was to her, there could be no denying that kiss. Oh, he could avoid discussing it, but he could never pretend it hadn’t happened. Not when it had shaken him right to the very center of his being.

His gaze fell on Gabriel and Julian. The cynic and the romantic. Gabriel had chosen Nanette because of her beauty, her innocence, and their common interests. Julian’s current amour was an older widow who appreciated poetry and art. Feelings weren’t a consideration. They certainly cared about one another, but had either of his friends ever been tempted to throw all caution to the wind for the sake of one kiss?

Gabriel had. That Brave knew, but it hadn’t been Nanette’s kiss that inspired him.

The touch of Rachel’s lips had been so inspirational it had almost been a religious experience. Brave chuckled. Perhaps he’d found his salvation.

“What’s so amusing?” Julian asked, a curious smile curving his lips.

Brave shook his head. “Nothing. I was just thinking about religion.”

Julian arched a brow. “Nothing like thoughts of judgment and all that to put a smile on your face, eh?”

His smile fading, Brave nodded. “Something like that.” Would Rachel judge him? For some reason, the idea of disappointing her filled him with a deeper anxiety than even Miranda’s death could inspire. Perhaps because he was putting so much hope into saving her—and in return hoping she would save him.

After dinner they retired to the billiards room for brandy and some good-natured competition. They were laughing at one of Julian’s stories—and Gabriel’s losing streak—when Reynolds knocked on the door.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Braven, but there is a young lady here to see you.”

Brave frowned, not only at the butler’s words, but at the discomfited expression on his narrow face.

“A young lady,” Gabriel echoed in a singsong voice. “Were you expecting company, Brave?”

Shaking his head, Brave started to walk toward the door. “I was not. Where is she, Reynolds?”

“I put her in the green drawing room, my lord.”

Brave paused long enough to turn to his friends. “I won’t be long.”

“Take your time” Julian replied, lifting his glass. “We’ll continue to enjoy your excellent brandy.”

Brave had no doubt his friends would do just that. No doubt they’d both be half-drunk and laughing at their loss of coordination when he returned.

A fresh fire burned in the grate, and Reynolds had lit almost every candle in the room. He doubted his mysterious lady caller had anything illicit on her mind with the room lit up like a ballroom. So if his visitor wasn’t looking to seduce the “hermit earl,” why was she there?

She sat near the fire, with her back to him. One look at the
bright blond hair gleaming in the firelight and Brave knew instantly who she was.

“Rachel,” he said, stepping into the room. “What are you doing here?”

She rose to her feet like someone in great pain, and when she turned to face him, Brave knew why.

Her hair was a mess, several strands having slipped from their pins. Her eyes were wide and dark in a snow-white face. Blood had dried in a thin trail from her mouth to her chin, and the right side of her face was swollen and red.

“My God,” he whispered, crossing the carpet to stand directly in front of her. “What happened?” His first—and most horrifying—thought was that Charlton had forced himself upon her, violated her in order to force her to marry him. If that were the case, then Charlton would be dead by morning.

“He hit me,” came the hoarse reply. “It’s all gone, and he hit me.”

Sharp relief flooded Brave’s veins, but he forced it aside. Her distant expression told him something awful had happened, and just because she hadn’t mentioned a more intimate assault, it didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

He led her to the sofa and made her sit. She winced. “What is it? Where do you hurt?” he demanded.

“My back,” her voice was still so matter-of-fact. “He threw me against the mantel.”

Visibly trembling with rage, Brave went to the small cabinet in the corner and poured her a glass of sherry—the strongest spirit his mother kept in this room, which was primarily meant for ladies.

He gave Rachel the sherry and seated himself on the sofa beside her. He waited until she took a drink to speak. “Start at the beginning and tell me what happened.” It was hard to sound calm and detached when what he truly wanted was to strangle whoever had hurt her.

Rachel didn’t look at him. She stared at the little crystal
glass in her hands, twirling it so it glimmered and glowed in the firelight.

“Charlton came to see me this afternoon—”

Charlton. He knew it! His fingers tightened into fists.

“He told me that he and Sir Henry had arranged for me to marry him. I refused. He wouldn’t hear it, so I lied to him to make him not want to marry me.” She gazed up at him, a faint smile curving the side of her mouth that wasn’t swollen. “I told him I had the pox.”

Brave was stunned by her nerve. He could kiss her for being so inventive—or strangle her for taking such a chance with a man of Charlton’s temperament. “And he believed you?”

She nodded, looking away again. “He did—until Sir Henry told him the truth.”

Brave listened in stunned silence as she told him about Sir Henry’s violence toward her mother, how he had struck her when she refused to marry Charlton, his robbing her of her inheritance, and his final threat that he would see her married regardless of her wishes.

He had known the baronet to be a low kind of man, but he never would have guessed he was so utterly despicable. His blood boiled with the knowledge of what Sir Henry had put Rachel and her mother through.

He was going to have a little talk with Sir Henry Westhaver.

“Rachel, you must leave his house.”

She shook her head. “I cannot leave my mother.”

“But Rachel, if you continue to fight him…” He didn’t even want to think of what Sir Henry might do to her if she remained under his roof. Brave would not stand for it.

“No!” Rachel cried, leaping to her feet and gasping in pain as she did. “I
will
fight him. I will not let him beat me into submission as he has my mother, and I
will
get her out of his house!” She whirled to face him, wincing as she did so. “Surely there is
something
we can do, some way to stop him.”

We?
Did she mean herself and her mother, or did she in
clude him in her equation? Did it matter? He’d already decided to do whatever he could to help her.

Brave wasn’t as familiar with British law as he would like to be, but he knew that it was more in Sir Henry’s favor than Rachel’s or her mother’s. Somewhere along the way, some barbarian had decided that a man’s wife was his property and therefore his to do with as he wanted, and that included violence. Supposedly, a man wasn’t allowed to beat his wife with a stick bigger around than his thumb, and abject cruelty was considered the basis for a divorce, but it was terribly hard to prove, and since divorce was considered so horribly scandalous, most women opted to endure the abuse.

However, Brave himself was now a witness to the kind of brutality Westhaver was capable of. He had also witnessed the baronet’s adultery at Charlton’s party the night before.