He had
to admire her; for a woman who had just been shot at, Abbey was behaving
remarkably well. He would have expected her to fall into a fit of hysteria.
He
glanced up at the sky. The storm was moving in quickly; the temperature had
dropped dramatically since the shot was fired.
“Please hurry. The storm is almost upon us,” Abbey said, having reached the same
conclusion, and held out her hand to him. With chagrin, Michael realized he was
light-headed. He glanced down at the small, turquoise jacket she had stuffed
into his waistcoat and swallowed. It was soaked in blood.
“Give me your leg,” he said to Abbey, and pushed her up onto Samson’s back. With
what strength he had left, he clumsily scrambled up behind her, and sent Samson
galloping toward Blessing Park.
In blinding sheets of rain, Samson made his way home without help from either
rider. Abbey gripped the saddle horn as Michael’s weight sagged against her.
Half afraid he was dead, she was too frightened to look at him and kept her eyes
glued to the path in front of them. When at last the horse entered the long, circular drive, Abbey shouted to a groom coming from the stable.
“He’s been seriously hurt!” She shrieked as she slid awkwardly from Samson. The
groom caught Michael and helped him to the ground. Abbey gasped with fear when
she saw him; his dark curls were plastered to his ashen face. He attempted a
weak smile for her benefit, but she whirled toward the house and ran, screaming
for Sebastian as she crashed through the front door. Sebastian, and Sam, who had
stayed on after Routier and Southerland departed, heard her screams and bolted
from the front drawing room, meeting her halfway down the corridor.
“It’s Michael!” she cried. “He’s been hurt! Someone shot at us, and he fell…”
Sam was already striding swiftly down the corridor, ordering Sebastian to send
for a physician right away. Sebastian dragged a dazed Abbey into the drawing
room, where he yanked frantically on the bell cord several times. Jones appeared
almost instantaneously, and with one look at Abbey, soaked to the bone and a
look of horror on her face, he barked at a footman to fetch Sarah. Abbey pushed
past the stalwart butler and ran to the foyer in time to see Sam dragging Michael through the door and Sebastian rushing to help them up the stairs.
Shocked, Abbey watched them struggle up the marble stairs with Michael hanging
limply between them. It was not until Sarah firmly grabbed her elbow that Abbey
allowed herself to be led to her chamber.
Sam had assured her Michael was in no danger of dying. Sarah had persuaded her
to bathe and change, and except for that one diversion, she had paced her sitting room, where Sam had banished her while the physician attended to Michael’s wound. When she heard a door close down the hall, she rushed into the
corridor and accosted the physician as he made his way to the stairs.
“How is he? Is he all right?” she asked desperately.
The elderly doctor peered at Abbey over his round spectacles. “Allow me to
present the Marchioness of Darfield, Dr. Stephens,” Sam mumbled.
“When did Darfield take a wife?” he demanded.
“A few weeks ago,” Sam muttered uncomfortably.
The physician frowned as he perused Abbey from the crown of her hair to the hem
of her skirt, then glanced disdainfully at her wringing hands. “Stop your pouting, young lady—I’ve sewn him up and he shall be good as new on the morrow,”
he commanded gruffly.
“You’re quite sure?”
“Certainly I am!” he barked.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Abbey sighed, relief evident on her face, and disappeared
into her sitting room.
“What the hell is Darfield doing with a wife?” Dr. Stephens demanded again of
Sam. “I’ve not heard a word of it.”
“It’s rather a long story, Doctor. I will save it for Lord Darfield to tell you,” Sam said as he showed the doctor out.
Sam immediately returned to the master chamber and strolled in, ignoring Michael’s annoyed glare from his bed, where he lay propped against a mountain of
pillows.
“I was not jesting, Sam. I am not going to lie here like some infirm old man,”
he barked.
Sam settled into an armchair of soft suede and stretched his legs onto the matching ottoman, crossing them at the ankles. “You lost a good amount of blood.
The least you can do is lie there until the morning and replenish the black stuff that runs in your veins. If you don’t, you’ll scare the staff half to death. Some of them already believe you are not quite human.”
Michael grumbled irritably.
“Now that we are alone, what the hell happened?” Sam asked.
Michael exhaled loudly and shook his head. “I don’t know, other than someone
fired at us. She was standing in the open, in the meadow, and I was near a lone
oak. We were in the bloody open, and I knocked her to the ground. Must have
sliced my chest on a rock.”
“Do you think it was poachers?”
Michael quickly shook his head. “No. We were in a meadow—not any large game
there. It may have been a trespasser, but I think not. We were too deep within
the estate.”
Sam was clearly startled. “But who in the devil would want to harm you?”
“I don’t know if the shot was fired at me or her. I am sure Carrington made some
enemies along the way, but I can’t think of what anyone would hope to gain from
her death.”
“He probably added some strange codicil to that blasted will of his,” Sam muttered angrily.
“He may have, but that doesn’t make any sense now that she’s married.
Her
fortune belongs to me; in fact, I have put it in trust.”
“But it cannot be widely known she is married, or that she is here,” Sam
speculated. “If someone were after her money and thought she was the orphaned
daughter and sole survivor to the Carrington fortune, that might explain an attempt on her life. If money is owed and stipulated in the will, I suppose one
would have an easier time collecting through the courts if there were no survivors.”
Michael moved his arm and grimaced at the pain. “If that is true, then I should
let it be known widely that I have married her. Can you get a notice to the Times?”
“Of course, but still, it makes no sense. Who besides your staff would have
known you were riding today? It’s not likely someone could stake out the whole
of Blessing Park and happen to have been there this afternoon. Whoever it was
had to know where you were going.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed as he considered Sam’s remark. “Abbey doesn’t know how
to ride. I had her on that damned nag Desdemona. If someone had been following
her, they could have easily skirted around and waited ahead—it took us more than
an hour to go a distance of only a few miles. However, I can’t believe it was
anyone in my employ—they all adore her.”
“Then who?” Sam asked, bewildered.
“In addition to the locals, my solicitors, you, and Southerland, there is only
one other who knows she is here…”
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he nodded. “Routier. I was rather surprised to see him
with Southerland in Pemberheath.”
“Quite by accident, Alex assured me. Routier was on his way here to collect on
the settlement of Carrington’s estate.”
“Indeed?” Sam frowned and pressed his fingertips together. Malcolm Routier was a
ruthless rake and unsavory businessman. Long ago he and Michael had usurped
Routier’s supposed trade routes. It had been too easy. Routier had not really
fought it, which led them to suspect Routier made his money from pirating, and
not the legitimate trade he would have everyone believe. When Michael had
threatened to expose his scheme, Routier had done his best to shame Michael by
spreading vile rumors about the Devil of Darfield. And then, purely by chance,
Routier had had the singular misfortune of falling in love with Michael’s sister, Mariah. Michael had, of course, refused his offer. Humiliated, Routier
had vowed in private circles to see Michael brought down, a threat at which
Michael had laughed openly.
“What are you thinking?” Michael asked.
Sam reluctantly continued. “Could she be lying? I mean, is there not a possibility she could be mixed up in something? After all, you don’t know her,
not really.”
Michael’s chest tightened at the suggestion. “No! Absolutely not. In the first
place, I have had her thoroughly investigated. In the second place, I would know
if she had lied.”
Sam looked doubtful.
“Sam, that woman can’t hide a thing. Every emotion she ever has is as clear as a
picture if you only look in her eyes,” he insisted. “She could not hide an illicit arrangement with Routier. I will send a note to my solicitor in the morning and have him get Bow Street on it,” he said, settling gingerly against
the pillows, grimacing with pain. “In the meantime, I do not want her out of my
sight,” he added with a yawn.
Sam grinned.
“What’s so damned funny?” Michael snarled, his ill humor worsening by the minute
as the light dose of laudanum Stephens had given him clouded his mind.
“It wasn’t so very long ago that you never wanted to see her again. Now you do
not want her out of your sight,” Sam observed happily.
Michael glowered at him. “Thank you for that astute observation, Hunt. I have an
obligation to protect her, or have you forgotten she now carries the Ingram name?”
“How could I possibly forget that monumental fact?‘’ Sam laughed.
“I should hope you are quite finished amusing yourself.”
“All right, all right!” Sam laughed. “I’ll leave you be.” He left, chuckling as he walked out of the room. Michael frowned deeply. He did not like that Sam
could see right through him, not one bit.
He was awakened from a peaceful sleep a short time later by the creaking of the
door being opened slowly. He jerked upright and gasped at the stab of pain. The
glow of a candelabra filtered silently into his room, and he relaxed, assuming
it was Jones or his valet, Damon.
But to his surprise, it was Abbey who slipped through the door behind the light.
With a candelabra in one hand and a violin and bow in the other, she took several steps into the room and peered toward the bed.
“Are you awake?” she whispered cheerfully when she realized he was watching her.
“I am now,” he said dryly.
She pushed the door shut with her foot and crossed the room until she was
standing next to him, holding the candle high. She leaned over and inspected his
face.
“Sam said you were not shot after all, that it was only ‘a deep gash.’ I was fairly convinced it was a bullet. Those hunters must not have seen you behind
the tree,” she said.
Michael did not say anything to that; a dim shadow of doubt scudded through his
mind. You don’t know her, not really, Sam’s voice echoed.
“The doctor said you will be fine, perhaps a bit sore,” she announced.
Michael smiled lazily. “Have you come to nurse me back to health, then?”
Her laugh was melodic. “You would not want me nursing you. I can birth a calf,
but when it comes to humans, I am quite hopeless. Ask Withers,” she said, then
flashed a cheerful smile.
Michael warmed at the sight of it; he was already feeling better. If she would
just sit on the edge of the bed…
She moved away from the bed.
“I don’t believe knowledge of a cow’s anatomy will help me. Perhaps you would
play for me instead?‘’ he asked as he struggled to stack some pillows behind his
back.
“What?” she asked, then glanced at the violin in her hand. “Oh! I was playing
for Sarah and Cook—well, really, I was learning to play from them. They are
teaching me a Scottish dance to play at the wedding of Sarah’s brother.
He’s a
groom in your stable, you know.” Of course Michael knew that, but said nothing,
admiring her as she wandered about his room and examined his belongings. “It’s
next month. They are having the wedding here, did you know? Withers said next
month should be exceptionally fine for a garden wedding. It took me two full
days to convince him that we could rope off the roses just so, and no one would
touch them. That man lives in constant fear of someone touching his roses!
Doesn’t it seem lovely? A garden wedding?” She sighed wistfully as she leaned
over a dresser to inspect a small portrait of his sister.
“I was on my way to bed,” she continued, seemingly unaware that he was not
participating in the conversation, “and although Jones said you were not to be
disturbed, I thought a look wouldn’t be so very harmful. I thought I would see
for myself that you are quite all right. That shot came terribly close to you, I
think.” She stopped her perusal of items on his vanity and glanced at him from
the corner of her eye. “I am sorry if I woke you,” she added softly.
“I’m not.”
She smiled happily. “Well. Jones was rather emphatic when he said you needed
your rest. Quite emphatic, really, so I suppose I should go,” she said as
she
started toward the door, pausing to inspect some of his things on the hearth
mantel.
“Won’t you play for me?” he asked.
Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. “Surely you don’t want to hear music
now.” She laughed.
“On the contrary, I would very much like it,” he insisted.
“Jones said—”
“The devil take Jones.”
Delighted, Abbey smiled. “All right,” she said, placing the candelabra on a writing table, “but you must promise to bear Jones’s wrath when he learns of