Cloaked in Danger (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

“She’s in here.”

The voice came from a watery distance, barely discernible in Aria’s muddled head. She struggled to pull up from the mist, open eyelids that contained rocks inside them. To lift limbs that would not obey her commands.

What had happened?

“We gave her laudanum to numb the pain, poor dear,” the voice continued. “It was such a nasty fall.”

Something over her fluttered. Blankets? Then a warm hand pressed against her ankle. At the sharp hammers of pain up her leg, she shot upright with a scream, eyes wide open.

“Aria, do be still. This is Dr. St Clair. He has come to examine you, my dear.”

She turned her head. Patrick.

A sick clarity bulged in her throat. It all rushed back. His attack. Her provocation. Her jump.

Waiting. Knowing he was close.

She didn’t remember him finding her, so she must have succumbed to the pain before it happened. She looked around the prison he’d so carefully created for her. The room she’d once loved. With someone now stationed at the window, as well.

“Mrs. Wade, I will be as gentle as I possibly can,” the doctor was saying.

Mrs.
Wade?
She shook her head. “I’m not—”

“Dear, let the man do his job,” Patrick interrupted. “Please forgive her. She quite loses all faculties when on the drops, you do understand.”

“Of course,” Dr. St. Clair murmured.

Why hadn’t he killed her? Aria sunk back down to the pillows. Why had he brought her back? It didn’t make any sense. He should have killed her.

The seconds of energy she’d exerted exhausted her and she dropped her head back to the pillow. She felt her leg being lifted. “Ah!” she cried as agony pierced through her.

“I shall take my leave,” Patrick said. “You can finish the other portion of her exam in private.”

Other portion? What did that mean?

Patrick’s satisfied expression reminded her of a cat with a belly full of milk and scraps from the table.

Patrick wasn’t exuding anger. Any. He was joyous in a cold way. Her fear became palpable.

“What have you done?” she asked.

A slow smile spread across his face. Once upon a time, she’d thought it charming the way a single dimple dented his left cheek.

“It is turning out to be a fine day, that is all,” he said, as if none of the ugliness had happened. “If the examination proves your innocence, then my plans are well underway with no further impediments.”

“What does that mean?”

“My dear, we mustn’t keep the doctor waiting,” he replied with a tsking sound before turning to the door. The click of the lock had the doctor momentarily looking up and then bending to his task quietly.

“I’ll have to bandage your leg,” he said after a moment.

“I am not his wife,” she told him. “I am Ariadne Whitney, the daughter of Gideon Whitney and I am being kept here against my will.” She pressed a hand against his arm. “Please, you must help me.”

“Please do not involve me.” Dr. St. Claire’s gaze flitted back to the door, as if believing Patrick stood on the other side, listening.

Not a stupid thought by any means.

“I will call you whatever you wish, but I must examine you posthaste,” the doctor said with urgent quietness. “I cannot involve myself in this.”

“Whatever he told you was a lie. I am not married to him, and he has no right to keep me here.”

“If I don’t do exactly as I was paid to do and nothing more, my family will suffer the consequences.” He set his black bag on a table and snapped it open.

“What if I offered money for you and your family? If you help free me, I could provide you with a very large reward.”

He stilled, hands in the bag. Aria pressed on. “You could take your family far from here, where you would be safe, away from Mr.Wade.”

Slowly his gaze slid toward her. “You couldn’t have that kind of money.”

“My father does. He has contacts all over the world. We can help you start a new life anywhere you wish. You could be free from this. Please, Dr. St Clair, I’m begging for your help.”

Silence met her reply. The longer it lasted, the more her heart plummeted.

“I don’t even know how I could help.”

Hope burst inside her. “You can tell my betrothed where I am. Take a note to him.” At the doctor’s wary look, she shook her head. “I am
not
married to Patrick. I am betrothed to the Earl of Merewood.”

Horror creased his brow inward. “An earl?” He began to shake his head. His hands trembled as he pulled an instrument out of his bag. “And what if he should believe me a part of this? What might he do? Or what if Mr. Wade has me followed?”

“Adam will see that you and your family are immediately safe,” she assured him. “He is a good man. You can trust him.”

Dr. St. Clair stilled, his hand frozen in midair. He stared at the floor, as though he could gauge the hopeful possibility of freedom from the pattern in the carpet.

“I will deliver your message,” he whispered. “But first, we must follow through on the exam. I know it will be awkward, but I assure you I am a professional and—”

“Awkward?” she questioned. “It’s my leg.”

He pulled a long steel instrument from his bag. “The other exam. Your husband—Mr. Wade asked me to check on the possibility of pregnancy.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “I am not pregnant.”

“Nonetheless, I must finish the exam.”

The idea of someone else with their hands in places they shouldn’t be made her recoil. “I am a virgin. Pregnancy is not even possible.”

He paused, staring down at his hands. They still shook, and Aria realized he was as scared as she was. “Please,” she implored. “I am telling the truth. You will not be lying to tell him there is no pregnancy.”

He remained silent, but unmoving. She recognized the battle within him.

“Give me paper. I will write a note, you may deliver it, and by the hour’s end, you’ll be free of all of this.”

He lifted his head slowly, and uncertain acceptance shone from his eyes. “I cannot return. He will kill me. My family.”

“Lord Merewood will protect you.” Aria believed that; Adam was a good man.

Then again, she hadn’t been able to see the evil inside Patrick.

Dr. St. Clair placed the instrument back in the bag, pulled out paper and pencil.

Relief brought tears to her eyes. Thank heaven.

She wrote a quick note to Adam, handed both note and pencil back to the doctor, who tucked it into his black bag. He finished wrapping her leg quickly and then snapped his case closed. “I will inform Mr. Wade that you need plenty of rest and that you remain untouched.”

She reached out and grasped his hands. “You’ll find the earl’s residence at this address. In Mayfair. The butler’s name is Higgins. Tell him you are there at the urgent request of Miss Whitney.”

“How will he know to trust me?”

“Tell Lord Merewood when he and I met, I asked if his name was George.” A slight smile dawned at the memory. “That will assure him your message is from me.”

He nodded. Fear emanated from the bunched hold of his shoulders, the pinched lines around his mouth.

“You truly believe that Patrick would...harm them?” She had to ask.

“Yes.”

“Then you have my thanks for helping me.” The small words couldn’t contain her gratitude, but it was all she could offer.

“If I can take my family to safety... It is a risk I must take.”

The doctor left, and Aria curled onto her side.

Every part of her ached. She’d noticed flashes of surprise in Dr. St. Claire’s face when he’d treated the bite marks in her skin. Or the bruises in the shapes of fingers. They weren’t from a fall.

Obvious signs of abuse that had maybe convinced Dr. St. Clair to be her savior.

And now, all she could do was wait. And pray.

Please
,
God.
Let the doctor find his way.

She looked about the room. The once soothing, tranquil décor sucked the air out of the room and threatened to suffocate her.

In the span of hours, Patrick had taken her freedoms away from her. The urgency that had raced through her moments ago settled down to wait, leaving only emptiness.

How would she ever sleep in her room again, seeing the same walls? How could she ever feel normal again?

“No!”

The word was a roar, filled with terror and it jolted Aria up. Sounds that were almost inhuman followed, cries of distress and...

Oh,
no
. Her heart contracted with an iron grip.
The doctor.

She flipped the covers off, lifted her legs, almost screamed with the pain and forced herself to move anyway. She half hopped, half crawled to the door, wincing with every jarring move. She grasped the door handle, pulled on it.

Locked.

Anger swelled. She slammed fists against the door.

“What is going on?” she yelled. “Answer me! Patrick, what have you done?”

The screams faded, and she beat the door until her fists felt as bruised as the rest of her. “Patrick! Open this door damn it! You open this now!”

The silence echoed and she slid down to the floor. Seconds later, the door flung open and a man was dropped in front of her.

The air in the room evaporated and blotchy white spots filled her vision. She struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Dr. St. Clair!” She reached for him. She crawled to his side, placed her hands on either side of his head. “Doctor!”

His eyes were thin slits as they slowly lifted to meet hers. “My...fam...” The words were barely a whisper, and as the horror of what she’d done bulged in her throat, she leaned down close to his face.

“I am so sorry,” she managed. “They will be safe, I will find a way.”

A piece of paper fluttered to land on his chest.

Her note.

As she watched, it began to crimp and crumble under the wet seeping of blood.

The open eyes of the doctor, the stillness of his chest condemned her.

He was dead.

Boots came into her view. Patrick’s boots. She looked up, forced herself to focus through a haze of blind terror. “What have you done?”

“You did this.” Patrick bent down, balanced on bended legs, and took a casual look at the doctor. “With your deceitful, selfish attempts at escape. A pity, too. He was a good employee.”

“You are a monster.”

“Do not attempt to turn anyone else against me again. The next time, I won’t be so lenient.”

“Lenient?” She choked on the word. “He is dead.”

Patrick stood and shrugged. “But I shall leave his family alone.” He brushed his hands together as if removing small traces of dust. “Your death toll is rising. Dr. St. Clair. Merewood. Two deaths on your head in one day.”

The edges of her world faded, swirled as the ground tilted sideways. “Adam is not dead.”

“He took my bait, went to the docks. The men I sent—all five of them—to take care of him will be certain not to leave traces of the body.”

“No.” Horror filled her as she imagined him at the docks, facing the men sent to kill him. Adam couldn’t be dead.

“He will disappear, as your father did.”

“My father.”

“Dumped in the Indian Sea, actually. I made sure of that myself.” He spoke the words as if rattling off what he’d had for breakfast that morning.

“You are lying.” Parts of her inside began to break apart, ripping until nothing remained but bloody mush, chipping away the edges of her sanity. Everything that made her human had been slashed away, leaving behind a growing, consuming need to destroy. To tear him apart.

Still, her head shook, side to side, refusing to accept that the two men she loved were gone. No. No. No.

Patrick turned to one of his men. “Bring me the necklace.”

“It’s a lie.” Another rip of pain slashed through her stomach. She held a hand to her middle, expecting to feel the hot stickiness of blood. Her consciousness faded, and a chill invaded, icing her legs, her arms.

The man returned quickly, a folded-up cloth in his hands.

“No!” She smashed palms to the ground, forced her muscles to obey even as they atrophied. She yanked herself to standing, balanced precariously on one foot.

Patrick thrust a hand out to his man. “Give it to me.”

He took the cloth, then grabbed her by the arm. Aria struggled, but the more she moved, the tighter his grip became and the more spots danced in front of her eyes. Her eyes focused the moment Patrick opened the cloth to reveal a mass of shimmers, hammered gold and gemstones captured by the light.

She barely noticed when Patrick let go and the thug behind her took hold. Patrick grabbed the necklace and unlatched it, moved toward her.

His intent was clear. “Get that away from me. Take it away!”

Her feeble attempts at fighting did nothing, and Patrick placed the collar necklace around her neck. The mountain hefted her in his arms and dragged her to the mirror in her room. His paw clamped on her chin, forced her to look. She refused, closed her eyes only to feel the sting of a slap against her face.

Luminescent pearls and rectangles of lapis embraced in intertwining patterns, surrounded by hammered gold that shot off bursts of light as the necklace moved and twisted. She couldn’t pull her gaze from it, as much as the reality horrified her.

For all its fire, the heavy necklace was surprisingly cool against her skin. It glinted and flickered with a glow not even the jewels could account for. And it encircled her neck with the weighted threat of iron shackles. More beautiful perhaps, but it still made her a prisoner.

This is what her father had hunted. Had discovered.

Had died for.

Her stomach rolled, until the bitter taste of bile filled her mouth. “You are sick. You killed my father for a necklace.”

“No,” Patrick replied as he caressed the edges of the necklace. “I killed him for you.”

“What?”

“I could have gotten the treasures without killing him, Aria. His men were drunk, and Gideon was quite unconscious by the time I arrived on the scene.” He handed the velvet wrap to one of his men, who turned to leave. “But he refused your hand in marriage.” He lifted a hand, ran a finger down her cheek. “I couldn’t allow that.”