A Most Unusual Match (19 page)

“E
xcuse me,” Edgar explained urgently to the mystified Randolphs as Theodora whisked out of sight. “I must speak to Mr. Grob. I'm afraid I caught that cleaning woman trying to steal several personal articles from my room. She must be apprehended immediately, before she can hide what she stole.”

He dashed down the stairs; fury and triumph throbbed to the beat of his racing footsteps. Based upon Theodora's expression of guilt and horror, Langston had double-crossed him. Likely his irritant of a daughter had stolen some of the bills, but her pathetic plan to outwit him was doomed to failure. Some of his work was probably at the bottom of that bucket. Some, but possibly not all. The wench had fled onto the piazza, and was scurrying down the path that led to the servant quarters.

She couldn't run far enough or fast enough to escape her inevitable fate, but blast it all, she'd just forced him to drastically hasten his plans.

Edgar found Simpson and Langston in the card room, talking in a corner while a threesome dealt cards at one of the tables on the other side of the room. “Simpson, one of the wagons from the hunting expedition was still under
the porte cochere a moment ago. Go out there at once. Don't let the driver leave for the stable. I need that buggy,
now.
”

He turned to Langston. “Wipe the smugness off your face. You gave her the keys, of course.”

The older man stroked his sideburn for a second, then shrugged.

Only the presence of witnesses compelled Edgar to rein in his temper. “Deal yourself aces and eights, Langston, because you're a dead man.”

“Everyone dies, Mr. Fane. Even you.”

Edgar stepped close, keeping his back to the three card players. “I have men waiting on my yacht, with orders. It will be a pleasure having them carried out.”

Langston's only reaction was a raised eyebrow. “You might be richer than Croesus, Fane. Like I said, every man has a day of reckoning. Perhaps mine's today. But yours, my friend, is just around the corner.”

Edgar mouthed a vicious curse, swiveled on his boot and stormed out of the clubhouse. As soon as he caught Theodora and had her stashed safely aboard his yacht, everything else would fall back into place. He was prepared. He'd been prepared for her inevitable arrival, just as he'd been prepared for Richard Langston's belated streak of paternal instinct.

He had not expected Thea to sneak across to the island in the guise of the maid, however. Resourceful, he'd grant her that.

But like Cynthia, she'd made a big mistake, the last one of
her
life.

Outside, Simpson was arguing with the driver, who insisted the horses were too tired for another outing. In the distance, Edgar could just make out Theodora's dark skirted figure with the white splash of her shirtwaist,
fleeing not in the direction of the servants' quarters but toward one of the roads that led into thick woodland. He had to capture her before she found a hiding place.

“I'm taking this vehicle.” Unceremoniously he shoved the liveried driver aside. “Simpson,” he bit out to the slack-jawed assistant, “see to that painting, and have Langston escorted to the yacht. He is not to be left unattended, do you hear?”

After grabbing the reins, he snatched the whip out of the holder and applied it to the two horses with the unleashed violence he longed to perpetrate against Richard Langston and his daughter. Half rearing in surprise, the animals leaped into motion and almost jerked Edgar over the dashboard. Cursing, he shook the reins, and finally the horses lumbered into a canter, careening headlong down the path where Theodora fled, the proverbial rabbit fleeing the hounds.

 

Dusk had fallen, the vivid colors of sunset a fading memory on the western horizon. Heedless of the crunching sound of the oyster shells, Devlin ran toward the clubhouse. At the bend in the road, just past the old duBignon house, a flash of movement distracted him. It was a person, a woman, running toward one of the roads that led into the island's interior—not a destination one would choose with night fast approaching. Denial and ice-edged terror streaked through Devlin, because he knew in his gut the woman was Thea. Knew she was that cleaning woman and Fane—

Panicked hooves thudded hard on the road behind him, coming from the direction of the clubhouse. Dev dropped to a crouch behind a shrub and watched while scarcely a dozen paces away, Edgar Fane drove past in an open buckboard carriage. White-eyed, their flanks wet with
terror, the two horses who had been out on the hunting excursion all day had been pushed into a full gallop by Edgar's maniacal recklessness. His lips were stretched in a rictus of fury, and as he flew by Dev glimpsed murder blazing from his eyes.

Devlin would never reach Thea in time.
Dear God in heaven.
“Thea!” He roared her name as he sprinted after the buggy, an agonized cry of impotence swallowed up in trees that loomed like vultures over the road. “Thea, I'm coming! Watch out!
Thea…
”

A hundred yards down the road he watched her falter, glance over her shoulder, watched her throw herself to the side to avoid being trampled. Watched Edgar bring the horses to a snorting halt…watched him leap from the buckboard and manhandle Thea, kicking and punching, back up onto the seat beside him.

Sand and dirt and crushed shell from the churning wheels flew up close enough to spit in Devlin's face as the horses sped away beneath moss-draped live oaks and palmettos. The buggy disappeared from sight less than five seconds after Devlin arrived at the spot Thea had fallen. A deadly calmness settled over him. Calmness, clarity and determination. Running like a stag, he raced back to the stables in a diagonal dash through the undergrowth, burst into the courtyard and down the aisle to the stall where Lancer, a former Thoroughbred racehorse, was idly munching hay. “I need you, fella.” His movements calm but swift, Devlin led the horse back down the aisle, stopping only long enough to grab a bridle. Then he mounted Lancer bareback and, once they left stable, kneed him into a canter.

Less than two minutes had elapsed since Edgar abducted Thea.

The horse's big muscled body surged into an effortless
gallop at Dev's soft command. Balanced like a centaur, he funneled thirty years of rapport with equines into the task of winning the most important race of this horse's life—and prayed God would protect Theodora, for just a few more moments.

T
hea battered Edgar with fists and elbows, squirming every way she could to break either the iron bar of his arm around her shoulders, or the hand holding the reins, shouting at him all the while in a vain attempt to rattle his composure. The carriage swayed wildly, knocking both of them about on the seat, and at one point they swung almost completely off the path, the side wheels bouncing into a rut that rattled Thea's teeth. She didn't care, didn't cease yelling and struggling despite the certain knowledge that she was about to die.

She fought because she had heard Devlin, calling her name.
I love you,
she told him silently. She wanted to yell the words out, to answer the faint voice she'd heard just before Edgar tried to run her down.
I love you with all my heart. God? Please let him know I'm sorry…
She managed to wrest an arm free, and landed a solid punch to Edgar's jaw.

He mouthed a foul curse. The arm crushing her against his side shifted, squeezing her rib cage until she was light-headed from lack of oxygen and the dreadful certainty her ribs were about to crack and puncture a lung. Her efforts to escape grew wilder but lost force; abruptly the buckboard
slewed to a halt. Edgar's hand closed around her throat and his face in the powder-gray gloaming loomed over her, an evil bird of prey poised for the kill.

“This ought to make you more manageable.” She sensed movement, then something shiny appeared in her whirling vision. “Do you see this? Do you?” He spat the words and Thea managed a jerky nod. “A hunting knife is a useful thing, I'm told,” he said. “This one fits in a man's pocket. It was a gift—from Cynthia. I've always appreciated irony. Let me think…where's the best place to—
be still!
” The command rasped out viciously. “Shut up and don't move another inch, or I promise I'll feed you to the alligators a piece at the time.”

Amazing what passed through one's mind at the point of death. Thea stared up into the glittering dark eyes and silently thanked God that she could at least face them without the vertigo. That she felt no fear, only a ripping grief for Devlin, and a gritty determination to spit in Edgar Fane's eye.

“Devlin will hunt you down,” she choked out, gasping when his fingers cruelly bore down against her windpipe. “He'll…find the evidence. Hotel Hustler…”

Pain suddenly exploded in her side, a spear of white-hot fire that stole the last of her breath.

“That ought to do it,” Fane said, thrusting her away. “As for your pathetic Mr. Stone, he'll never find you. He's nothing but a gullible Southern gentleman who still believes in chivalry. When he learns the woman he rescued from jail is the daughter of a bawdy house singer and a gambler, he'll consider himself fortunate to be rid of you.”

“The Secret Service…” The shock of pain had weakened her. She slumped, managed one last challenge. “They'll find you.”

“Bah. Fools, the lot of them. They can't find their way
across a street. Neither the Secret Service nor any other authority will be able to prove a thing. They never have. They never will. I'm Edgar Fane. It's quite delicious, you know, having all the power and wealth one desires.”

Thea collapsed like a rag doll against the seat, her hands instinctively fluttering to the source of the pain in her left side. The white cotton shirtwaist blouse was wet, sticky with what dawned upon her in shock was blood. “You…stabbed me.”

“You shouldn't have hit me. Here.” He tugged out his handkerchief, pressed it with ungentle force against her side. “If you apply sufficient pressure, you should survive long enough to make it to my yacht.” The carriage lurched back into motion. “If it's any consolation, after you and your father are disposed of, I've decided cold-blooded murder's not really my style. Frankly, I don't care much for blood, so if you don't mind, try not to bleed all over the buggy. As for the Hotel Hustler, I'd already decided it's time for him to retire, sail to the Fiji Islands. I plan to paint satisfying but mediocre art. The thrill's been gone for a long time. Tell me, did you hide some of my best work anywhere else other than the bucket? Perhaps somewhere upon your lovely person? Well, not so lovely now. But you were, Theodora. You were.”

Pain and shock had weakened her resistance, but Thea smashed the heels of both hands over the handkerchief and pressed while she gritted her teeth, forcing her sluggish brain to ignore the dusting of regret in his voice and
think.
“Too many people know, this time. You're…no longer impervious.”

“Remains to be seen, doesn't it? You'll never know, having tragically fallen overboard once we set out to sea.” Suddenly his head lifted. Twisting, he looked behind them, then muttered a curse. Lifting the buggy whip, he slashed
the horses' hides until their light canter erupted back into a frenzied gallop.

The buggy rocketed down the road. Winding curves with gigantic trees close enough for the Spanish moss to brush their heads flew by in a blur as twilight deepened toward night. Dizzy, depleted, Thea clamped her elbow against her side and wondered if the next bounce would propel her over the armrest. Then she heard it—a voice, calling out in the tropical wilderness of Jekyll Island. Devlin's voice.

Somehow Thea managed to turn, though an agony of pain sliced through her side. Her heart gave a leap of gladness. “Devlin.” She tried to shout the name, but the word dribbled out in more of a whimper. Fane flicked her a single savage glance bristling with challenge. A taunting smile twisted his lips before he leaned forward to focus all his attention on the horses flying at the edge of control.

The sound of thundering hooves crescendoed off to her right, until the rolling rhythm filled her ears. Hope blossomed inside Thea's laboring heart and she managed to turn her head toward the sound. A horse's head appeared, mane flying, ears pricked forward, bright dark eyes focused on the two harnessed animals racing a few strides ahead. Then Devlin came into view, riding bareback, one long arm stretched out toward Thea. Across the low armrest of the buckboard their gazes met.

“Take my hand, love,” Devlin told her in a calm, commanding voice.

“Not a chance!” Fane shouted, and abruptly the buckboard swerved away, almost crashing into the underbrush before settling back into a shuddering path along the center of the road. “Catch me if you think you can!” he yelled over his shoulder.

Less than a hundred yards ahead, the road curved sharply to the left.

Thea stiffened her spine, never taking her gaze from the magnificent sight of Devlin riding a beautiful chestnut Thoroughbred as though he were part of the horse. Love and determination and—peace—washed over her.
I can do all things through Christ…soar on wings of eagles…walk on the heights with hind's feet…
Time stretched into a bright supple ribbon, wrapping Thea in an unearthly blend of strength and weightlessness. Grasping the wire arm rail, she pulled herself forward in the seat, watching the horse lengthen his stride until he and Devlin galloped less than a yard away alongside the carriage. Devlin had tied the reins together over the horse's neck and he was leaning, both arms now stretched toward her. Thea sucked in a deep breath, lifted her arms toward his, and as the ricocheting buckboard tossed her off balance and she toppled forward, Devlin's hands closed around her waist and lifted her out of the buckboard.