Dark Surrender (39 page)

“As I will never, ever forgive myself for driving away the two people I hold most dear. If I had not done so, none of us would be in this position today.”

She smiled sadly. “I fault you for lying, but I do not blame you for Lily’s burns. It is not your fault.”

He took her hands once more. “In that case, I fault you for leaving me—for leaving both of us—but I cannot blame you for not knowing which lies were based on truth, or for rightfully worrying about your own neck.”

“Where does that leave us?” She held tight to his hands. “Two faulty people, wallowing in guilt?”

“Count again. We’re three faulty people, wallowing in guilt. Three makes a family.” He hoped. He pulled her close. “I’m sorry, love.”

She gazed up at him. “Me, too.”

He tilted his mouth toward hers. “I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.”

“Deal,” Lillian shouted from behind her tester.

Alistair jumped. He counted his daughter in all his plans, but had forgotten she was right there, listening. And likely watching.

“He wasn’t talking to you, imp!” Violet called back. Her eyes had regained some of their sparkle.

He held her closer. She would not sparkle if she did not feel something for him, too. This was his chance.

His words hesitant, but his heart buoyant, Alistair allowed himself to hope. “Violet Whitechapel—”

“Smythe!” Lillian yelled indignantly.

“Actually, it’s Whitechapel,” Violet corrected with a trembling half-smile. “Sort of. Do you think you could pipe down for a moment or two over there?”

“Sorry!”

“Violet Whitechapel-Smythe,” Alistair began again, unable to hide his smile. A sudden rumble interrupted. He frowned. They both turned their heads to the sound. A rabble of muffled voices could be heard on the other side of the sanctuary walls.

He frowned. His servants never gathered around Lillian’s domain. Not to mention the fact that they were undoubtedly hard at work washing linens or fetching cold water.

Something heavy thudded hard against the exterior of the sanctuary.
Thunk . . . Thunk . . . Thunk.
The noise grew louder. And faster.

Alistair dropped Violet’s hands in alarm. “They’re throwing bricks.”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “What? Who?”

“Villagers.” His hands clenched into fists. “Led by that nescient smithy.”

“Why?” She glanced over her shoulder, alarmed.

He sent his gaze skyward to beg his heavenly Father for deliverance. “They think Lillian is a vampire, or at least a creature from hell.”

She flinched as another brick hit the wall above her head. “I thought you changed their mind. Don’t the adults at least know vampires aren’t real?”

“They did,” he said quietly, as another brick rattled the covered windows. “Until this morning.”

Her face blanched the moment she put it together. “What are we going to do?”

He thought it over. “Nothing. They will run out of bricks before they damage the sanctuary. It’s withstood centuries of English history, so it can certainly withstand an afternoon of village idiots. Besides, there’s so many layers of board between us and them, a battering ram couldn’t break through.”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, her expression doubtful. “I have a lot of faith in the ingenuity of evil men.”

Their fingers entwined. They stood together in the dark, side by side, ears cocked for danger. The voices grew louder, stronger. Indistinct conversation was punctuated by the occasional “Stake the demon!” or “Burn in hell!” Perhaps Violet was right. This might not be over quickly. The mob showed no signs of waning.

“Papa?” came Lillian’s shaky voice from the other side of her bed curtain.

“Yes, sweetling?”

“I smell smoke. Is something on fire?”

His heart stopped as the acrid scent began to sear his nostrils.

Violet gripped his fingers almost hard enough to snap bone. She jabbed the index finger of her free hand across the room at the boarded-over window.

Tendrils of smoke curled in from fine cracks between the boards. Bits of glass cracked and shattered. The edges of the mural closest to the source began to blacken from the heat and flame.

“Papa!”
Lillian’s voice took on an edge of panic.

He tugged Violet forward. “Gather all the remaining liniments and tie them together.”

Nodding, she ripped a strip of linen to bind one of the folded sheets and did as he asked.

As quickly as he could, he applied a thick layer of fresh ointment over his daughter’s burns before carefully wrapping her in one of the ice-cold linens and lifting her into his arms.

“Violet, can you tie the liniments to my waist?” he asked.

“No . . . too unpredictable.” She fashioned a small loop with another strip of linen, double-knotted it to the first, and slipped the bundle over his wrist. “There. Now it won’t fall off. What else can I do?”

“It’s too dangerous to stay here . . . ” He glanced at the billowing smoke and tried to come up with a plan. “I’ll take Lily out through the library. You head to the main wing and find Roper. Have him meet us out back with the carriage.”

“Done.” She raced unlock the door.

Before crossing the threshold, he leaned forward for one last kiss goodbye. Whatever happened, he did not want to die with another missed opportunity on his conscience.

“I saw that,” Lillian whispered up at him once they reached the catacombs.

“Good,” he said, grinning down at her. “I hope you see it a lot more.”

They were almost to the library when Violet came racing after them, her lungs heaving.

“Can’t,” she coughed, thumping at her chest. “Fire. Smoke.”

Fear slithered down his back. He pushed it away, at least for now. Roper was resourceful, he reminded himself. Everyone on his staff was resourceful. They were fine. Everyone was going to be fine.

Violet held open the library door then hurried past him to unlock the secret exit. She eased the door open the tiniest crack and peered outside before nodding and motioning him and Lillian through.

“They must all be over by the sanctuary,” she whispered, as if the frenzied mob might somehow overhear their voices and come running with their pitchforks and torches. “It’s clear.
Hurry
.”

He tugged the linens up over his daughter’s face and stepped through the door. By the sudden tensing in Lillian’s limbs, the multiple layers of wet cloth were still not one hundred percent capable of shielding her from the slowly setting sun. In another hour, perhaps, the world would be bathed in darkness. But for now, they needed shelter.

“Let’s go.” Hunching over to give Lillian as much protection as possible, he pushed toward his rose garden. “Out past the back lawn.”

Violet hurried ahead and glanced over her shoulder with a frown. “I don’t see anything except the woods!”

“Exactly.” He kept moving forward. “The trees will provide shelter. If we’re lucky, we may even stumble across one of my overfed horses.”

Actually, he heard horse hooves right now. He paused, spine bent over his daughter, and strained to listen. None of the villagers would’ve arrived on horseback, which meant one of his worthless beasts was finally coming to him, instead of the other way around. Smiling, he lifted his head to call out to Violet when the horse burst around the corner.

Not his stallion.

The horseman dug in his heels and sped straight toward Violet. The rider’s blinding white cravat fluttered in the wind, clashing incongruously with the black slash of his eye patch.

“Violet!” Alistair screamed, but the wind whipped his words over the trees.

The rider yanked Violet up by her hair and the back of her gown. He swung her up across his legs and yanked her upright into his lap.

Alistair hobbled forward, unable to move any faster with his injured daughter in his arms but equally unable to countenance the horrific abduction taking place before his very eyes.

With a self-congratulatory smile, the one-eyed knave tipped his hat and rode off with the woman Alistair loved.

#

Scalp stinging from her hair being half-ripped from her head, Violet flailed at her captor. Mr. Percy Livingstone had found her at last. There had been no chance of avoiding capture. And now that he had her, he planned to kill her. If she let him. She struggled to break free.

He trapped her arms to her chest and chuckled in her ear. “It won’t be as easy as all that, Miss Whitechapel. I may only be able to enjoy watching with one eye, but I’ve finally got you where I want you.”

Violet slammed the back of her head against his chin. “On a horse?”

“On my lap.” He jerked her to one side, ripping a hole in her gown. “You interrupted my fun with your little student. I intend to finish what I started with you instead.”

Furious, she tried to slam an elbow into his groin. “Good luck. You’ve got to get down sometime, and when you do I’ll gouge your other eye out.”

He tsked. “Why so unfriendly? Surely you’re not saving yourself for your reclusive benefactor.” He laughed. “If so, don’t bother. I whipped those simpletons into such a frenzy that not even a cinder of that abbey will remain.”

Violet choked. “You—”

“Turnabout is fair play, is it not?” Percy Livingstone’s chilling tone set gooseflesh down her back. “Surely you cannot fault me for seeking vengeance. A fire seemed terribly apt.”

She jerked away from him. “The people in that abbey are innocent!”

“Not my problem. Besides, the smithy and his boys are only after the little vampire girl and her father. The rest are just icing on the cake. Aren’t backwater superstitions a delight?”

She struggled against his tight grip. “Why are you doing this?”

“I believe my countenance speaks for itself. An eye for an eye, as they say. And I could hardly forgo a tête à tête once your lover ruined my good name in the courtroom.”

She stilled. “What?”

“Didn’t he tell you? I was informed only yesterday, myself. All accusations ruled invalid. Imagine,
me
having to apologize to
you
for vilification of character! And
monetary recompense
. The very idea. I decided to pay you what you deserved face to face.” He pinched her cheek roughly. “A hundred pounds loosens many tongues. Imagine my further delight to discover the townsfolk more than willing to fight my battles for me. And all I had to do was sit back, light my pipe, and wait for the cockroaches to scuttle free.”

Violet’s mind raced as his meaning sank in.
Invalid accusations
. Alistair hadn’t told her yet, because Alistair hadn’t known. They hadn’t stepped foot outside the sanctuary since the previous morning, much less inquired after correspondence. His solicitor had won. She was free!

Or would be, if she weren’t trapped atop a horse with a madman.

She had to think. She had no pistol. She had no knife. She had no weapon of any kind except the substance between her ears, and if she couldn’t come up with something brilliant soon, she would be halfway to Lancashire before sunrise.

The horse. The horse was the answer! Rather than try to slip free, what she ought to do was knock
him
loose. But how, when he held the ribbons and she bounced upon his lap?

Slowly, she eased upright. He shot her a suspicious glance, but when she made no sudden move, he returned his attention to the uneven road. She would only have one chance. She would have to do it now, and do it fast.

Violet shot one hand forward to snatch up the reins. She jerked the ribbons from his startled grasp at the same time she pistoned backward with her other arm. Her elbow caught him square in the neck, snapping his chin upward and his head back.

His torso careening off-balance, he windmilled wildly to regain his equilibrium. Before he could do so, Violet swung her shoulder hard into his ribs and her elbow into his groin.

With a tiny “Oof!” he fell sideways off the horse, landing hard on the dirt and gravel.

Concentrating all her efforts on not tumbling off the horse herself, Violet hiked up her skirts and maneuvered her legs until she sat astride. She wasn’t used to riding this way, but as this horse had not come equipped for feminine modesty, allowances had to be made.

As soon as she was able, she turned the horse back toward home. Percy Livingstone lay on the rocky path, holding his groin with one hand and a seeping head wound with the other.

Her words came out strong and deadly. “Consider this moment your formal apology. If you come after me or my loved ones again, I will kill you.”

Before he could respond, she took off at a gallop for the abbey. By the time she arrived, the main structure and outbuildings still stood, but the sanctuary was nothing more than a heap of stone and char. Alistair and Lily were nowhere in sight.

Fortunately, Percy Livingstone had been right about the smithy’s focus—the servants were untouched by fire, but lined the walk with identical expressions of horror.

Violet slowed to a stop next to Mrs. Tumsen and Mr. Roper. “What’s happening? Where are Alistair and Lily?”

Mrs. Tumsen shook her head. “The madmen fled the premises as soon as the sanctuary was as good as gone. Haven’t seen that dear child or her father anywhere. I fear the worst.”

Violet’s anxiety lifted. If they hadn’t been spotted, that meant Alistair had reached the safety of the forest and saved Lily’s life.

Mr. Roper held out a hand to help Violet down. “How did you escape? And where did you get a horse?”

She shook her head. “No time for that. Can you bring a carriage to the woods behind the back lawn? Alistair and Lily are there waiting.”

Mr. Roper sagged in relief. “I am at your command.”

Violet turned the horse toward the rear of the abbey and raced to where she’d last seen Alistair and Lily.

“Alistair!” she shouted into the darkness of the woods as she traversed the boundary where the lawn met the forest. “Alistair! Lily!”

“Here!” came a hoarse reply, at last.

Mr. Roper appeared behind her with the carriage just as Violet spotted the bottom of Alistair’s boots among the brush.