A Risk Worth Taking (2 page)

Cold fingers of fear clenched his heart. “Dear God! No!”

“Griff,” Freddie whispered.

“You’re going to be all right, Freddie. Just lie still.”

Griff was frantic. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not to Freddie.

“Griff?” he whispered again, his voice weaker.

“Shh, Freddie. Don’t try to talk. I’ve got to get you inside. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

“No, Griff. It’s too…late.”

“No! You’re going to be fine. I’m not going to let you die. Not you, too.” He turned and yelled to the growing crowd gathering around them. “Someone! Get a blanket and help me carry him inside.”

Griff stared into Freddie’s eyes and saw the same look he’d seen a hundred times during the war. The look of death. “Don’t talk, Freddie. Save your strength.”

“Take care of…Annie. Promise me.”

“Damn you, Freddie. Don’t you dare die. Don’t you dare!”

Griff’s mind reeled in alarm. His heart thundered in his chest. His head wanted to explode from the terror that raged through his body. He knew what was happening, yet his mind refused to believe it.

“You’re going to be fine. Just hang on.” Griff reached for the blanket someone handed him and threw it over Freddie.

Freddie lifted his arm and clutched Griff’s shirt. “Annie. Promise me you’ll…take care of…Annie.”

He whispered his final words, then went limp in Griff’s arms.

“No! Dear God, no!”

Griff stared at Freddie in numb disbelief. He was dead.

There was nothing left to do but hold his friend’s lifeless body in his arms as he gently rocked him back and forth. With eyes shut tight, Griff lifted his face toward heaven and let a river of hot, wet tears stream down his cheeks. Tears that burned a hole deep into his heart.

A heart he’d thought was incapable of feeling more pain.

Griff pulled on the reins and stopped his horse at the entrance to the drive of the late Marquess of Brentwood’s country estate. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to go the rest of the distance. He wasn’t sure he could stand at Freddie’s graveside and watch while they lowered his friend’s body into the ground and covered his coffin with shovel after shovel of cold, black dirt. He wasn’t sure he was strong enough to face Freddie’s family, knowing that Freddie was dead and he was not.

He reached for the flask inside his topcoat pocket and took another long swallow. Liquor afforded him a level of comfort he desperately needed. It was the panacea to dull the pain and ease the guilt that consumed him, that threatened to tear his heart from deep inside his chest.
He took one more swallow, knowing he’d need it to make it through this day.

Griff nudged his horse with his heels and let the animal make his way up the long lane to Freddie’s home.

A groom rushed to take his horse when he dismounted. Griff hesitated until the ground felt solid beneath him, then forced himself to take the first step toward the door, then a second. Before he lifted the muffled knocker, a tall, somber-looking butler opened the door. The man gave Griff a respectful nod, then stepped aside to let him enter.

“I’ve come for the marquess’s funeral,” Griff said, praying he hadn’t slurred his words.

The butler took his hat and coat. “I’m afraid the services are over, sir. But the guests are gathered in the morning room with Lady Anne and Lady Rebecca. If you’ll follow me.”

The butler turned to lead the way to the morning room. Out of habit, Griff reached for the flask in his pocket. He stopped himself, a small voice warning him he’d had enough—for at least an hour or two.

With slow, hesitant steps, the butler led Griff down a narrow hallway, stopping just outside an open doorway. Inside, he heard the low, murmuring sounds of muffled voices. Griff took a step toward the doorway and stopped. Dear God, he couldn’t do this. Yet what choice did he have?

With a heavy sigh, he sucked in a painful breath and walked through the portal.

The room was crowded. Each guest was dressed in a more depressing shade of black than the last. Droll bits of their whispered conversations blanketed the room in suffocating closeness.

Griff fought the urge to flee. He fought the greater urge to reach for the flask in his jacket pocket and drain it. Instead, he stepped forward and let his gaze move around the room. He focused on the first familiar face he recognized—the last face he wanted to see today of all days. His brother Adam, Earl of Covington.

He watched the frown on Adam’s face darken, the concern that etched his features. It was an expression Griff knew only too well. He stepped closer and braced himself for the confrontation he knew would come.

“Hello, Adam. What a surprise.”

“It shouldn’t be, Griff. Brentwood was, after all, a peer as well as a neighbor and friend.”

Adam leveled Griff a discerning gaze, his serious expression every inch the earl. Adam clasped his hands behind his back, the tense pull of his expensively tailored jacket an indication of the fragile rein on his emotions. His every movement was an unmistakable example of propriety.

“I’ve tried to find you for the last three days, Griff. Where have you been?”

Griff remained focused on a black-clad footman carrying a tray of sandwiches he offered to the guests. He could hardly tell Adam where he’d spent his time over the last few days when he had no idea himself.

“Damnation, Griff,” Adam said, his harsh whisper pulling Griff’s attention back to the scowl on his brother’s face. “Don’t you know how worried I’ve been?”

Griff tried to smile. “There’s no need, Adam. I’m perfectly fine.”

“No, you’re not. Anyone can see by looking at you that Freddie’s death has taken a toll on you.”

“Of course it has taken a toll. Freddie was my friend. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Griff tried to escape his brother’s scrutiny but staggered when he took his first step. Adam’s fingers clasped around his arm.

“Have you been drinking, Griff?”

“Not nearly enough to matter.” Griff ignored Adam’s shocked expression and looked away.

“I want you to come with me to London, Griff,” Adam said before Griff could turn away. “You need to be with family.”

Griff smiled as he fingered the flask in his pocket. Family was the last thing he needed right now. Being the cause of one more person’s death would be the final blow that would drive him over the edge. He was suddenly very anxious to make his escape. “I need to pay my respects to Freddie’s sisters. Which ones are they?”

“Perhaps it would be best if you talked to them later. When you haven’t been drinking.”

Griff shrugged out of Adam’s grasp. “Never mind, Adam. I’ll find them myself.”

He had only taken one step forward before Adam stepped in front of him.

Griff glared at his brother with every bit of his anger. “I wouldn’t if I were you, Adam. Not unless you want to cause a scene that will have the whole of London talking for weeks.”

“All right,” Adam said through clenched teeth. “But take care. They are both terribly upset. Brentwood’s death was a horrible shock.”

Griff wanted to laugh. He knew better than anyone the horrible shock of Freddie’s death. Freddie had died in his
arms. Freddie had died in his place. All because he hadn’t made sure the last sniper couldn’t harm anyone else. He sucked in a shuddering breath, anxious to pay his respects and get out of here. “Where are they?”

Adam hesitated a second more, then breathed a sigh of resignation. “The younger sister, Lady Rebecca, is sitting on the sofa.” He nodded toward the other side of the room. “Please leave her be. She’s barely fifteen.”

Griff ignored Adam’s warning and focused his gaze on Freddie’s youngest sister.

She wasn’t alone. Several guests were gathered around her to comfort her. A plump lady held her hand. Another older woman sat at her other side, and a kindly looking gentleman, perhaps one of the women’s husbands, stood to the side, resting his hand on the back of the sofa.

The minute Griff saw her he knew he couldn’t face her. He swiped his hand across his damp face. “Where’s the oldest?”

“Don’t cause a scene, Griff. She’s been through quite enough—”

Griff ignored the sharp tone of Adam’s voice and looked around the room. “Which one is she?”

With a second harsh look of warning, Adam turned his gaze to the far corner of the room, to a spot where the light from the windows and from the glowing candles placed throughout the room did not seem to reach—a place of isolation no one in the vast crowd seemed able to breach.

She stood alone with her back to him, with her deep mahogany hair pulled back in a loose chignon, her narrow
shoulders braced in stoic bravery. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her.

Take care of Annie. Promise me you’ll take care of Annie.

Griff ordered his feet to move. Ordered his body to go to where she stood and tell her how sorry he was that Freddie was dead. But his feet seemed rooted to the floor. He couldn’t face her. Not when she’d look at him, a stranger she hadn’t seen since she was a young girl, and wonder why he’d allowed Freddie to die.

He tried to step forward again but failed. Guilt ate away at him until he found it hard to breathe. He shouldn’t have come.

He shouldn’t even be alive. Freddie should be the one visiting Griff’s family, sharing in their grief. Griff should be the one buried in the ground.

He kept his gaze focused on the slight figure standing in the shadows and knew his paltry words of regret were inadequate.

He had to leave. Leave before she turned around and saw him. Leave before she looked into his eyes and saw the guilt.

As if she realized he was there, her hands dropped to her sides and she slowly turned.

Her eyes were as black as midnight—big, beautiful, sad. Her gaze went directly to him, focusing on him. A jolt belted him in the gut with the force of a heavy fist.

She knew.

She knew the bullet that had killed Freddie had been intended for him. She knew Freddie had given his life to save him.

She knew he wasn’t worth the sacrifice.

Griff felt sick. His stomach churned; his shallow breaths came in harsh, ragged gasps. He needed to leave. He needed a drink. He needed to forget.

Take care of Annie, Griff.

He couldn’t. He wanted to scream that no one was safe unless they stayed far, far away from him.

He held her burning gaze as long as he could, then spun on his heels and stormed from the room.

By the time he reached the nearest inn, he was desperate for a drink. Then another. And another. As many as it took until he could forget. Forget the lives he’d destroyed.

There’d been so many.

How the hell did Freddie think he could take care of his sister? Why the bloody hell had he asked? Griff could no more protect her than he’d protected his wife, or his son, or Gerald Fespoint, or Freddie himself.

A painful stabbing carved a ridge deep in his chest. He would drink until he succeeded in drowning the painful memories he couldn’t live with.

Just like he’d succeeded in drowning his family.

W
hat is going to happen to us?” Becca asked. Worry clouded her pretty features.

Anne Carmichael dropped her gaze back to the papers in front of her, trying desperately to appear calm. How could Freddie have left them in such a precarious position? “I’m not sure, Becca, but we’ll know soon enough.”

“Reverend Talbert said we would have to—”

“Don’t worry,” Anne interrupted, looking up from the papers she’d been studying. “We’ll be all right.”

Anne rubbed a hand over her eyes and noticed the confused expression on Becca’s cherub face. Thank heaven she was too young to completely understand their dire straits.

Anne gave her younger sister a pensive smile. In looks, Rebecca was much like their mother, with her honey-blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, and face of an angel. At fifteen, she already had a hint of beauty that promised to make her one of the most sought after debutantes when she had her coming out. She was not like Anne, who was dark like her father and like Freddie had been.

Although Anne was not plain, she did have a serious countenance many found unapproachable. It was an attribute for which she was very thankful.