I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs) (31 page)

He had her in the woods. She was as good as dead.

* * *

Brook headed toward the well, wishing for more light so he might track her footprints. He could see the evidence of tracks back and forth, but they’d both been over that way many times the last few days, and he wasn’t certain which were hers and which were fresh. He was almost to the well when he spotted the indistinct shape on the ground. As he neared it, he made it out to be the bucket.

Brook’s throat closed, his lungs constricting painfully. He bent and righted the bucket, his fingers brushing the pool of water near the overturned opening.

Pieces clicked into place like the parts of an unfinished portrait. Investigations were always thus for him. He would see part of a nose or a mouth and when he had the whole image, that was when he knew what had happened or who was to blame.

The overturned bucket was one piece. She’d made it to the well. She’d filled the bucket. She’d been on her way back.

Why had she dropped the bucket? Where was she now?

The portrait might have lacked detail, but he could make out the face well enough.

Somehow Beezle had found them, and now he had Lila.

He thought he heard something—a voice—over the wind and rain, but when he stood and cocked his head, he couldn’t make out anything but the crack of lightning and the whistle of wind through the tree branches. Brook stood, hands on hips, and stared at the yard. Beezle couldn’t have gone far. Where would he have taken her?

The woods or the road. One would provide more cover; the other would provide a quick escape. They were in opposite directions, so Brook knew he had to choose well and choose quickly.

Beezle would want the woods if he intended to hide or if he intended to kill her. The fear punched him in the gut at the thought of Lila lying dead among the wet leaves and low-hanging branches. He pushed the fear back, unwilling to acknowledge it. Fear clouded his senses, and he needed all his wits about him.

He looked toward the road. Beezle hadn’t walked from London. He had a horse or cart waiting for him somewhere, most likely somewhere off the road that ran in front of the cottage. He’d take her toward the road if he wanted to bring her back to London.

The road was three-quarters of a mile in front of the cottage, and the woods ran several miles behind it. If he made the wrong choice, it would cost him his life.

No—it would cost Lila her life. But with a dawning horror, he realized losing her would mean the end of his life too.

Brook stood in the cold rain and turned toward the road. Then with a roar of frustration, he headed toward the woods.

He found the trail immediately. If it was Beezle, he’d been alone. She’d fought him. He could see Beezle had struggled to drag her away. The tracks hadn’t been filled with water yet, so the trail was still relatively new. He was right behind them.

And then reached the spot where the hard impressions of her smaller boots faded. For whatever reason, she’d stopped fighting, and Beezle had pulled her into the woods with much less effort. In the darkness, Brook had to stop and examine the ground, the rain washing away the trail in places and clouding his vision. He might have been close behind, but Beezle had been wise to take her at night and during a storm. Brook could find anyone and anything in the labyrinth of Seven Dials or Spitalfields, but in the open country, he was not quite as skilled. He’d never felt the lack of his experience so keenly as when he reached the edge of the forest and the first covering of leaves.

Brook swore under his breath. Now the trail was even harder to make out. He’d start down one way, realize he must have missed a sign, and have to double back again. The only thing that kept him going was sheer determination and the fact that he hadn’t found her body yet.

Finding her dead seemed all but inevitable at this point. The search was taking him too long. Beezle had had more than enough opportunity. Brook regretted not donning a shirt. He was stiff and cold, his clothing soaked through to the skin. The discomfort was nothing. Brook wouldn’t give up until he had her in his arms again. A couple hours ago, she’d been warm and alive, curled beside him, safe. In a moment, his world had spun around, and everything he’d cared about, held on to—his pride, the past, her spoiled behavior—no longer mattered.

He just wanted her safe. Alive. Back in his arms.

Realizing he’d lost the trail again, he backtracked, forcing himself to concentrate. He couldn’t think of her dead. Couldn’t allow himself to imagine the bleakness of his life without her.

He let the numbness seep into his bones, his mind, his heart. With renewed purpose, he once again picked up the trail.

* * *

“He’s like a buff in search of a bone.” Beezle swore. For the first time since he’d dragged her into the woods, Lila felt a sense of hope. Brook was following them. Brook would find her. Save her.

Beezle had dragged her for miles, through the pouring rain, across freezing creeks, over fallen logs. When she’d fallen, he’d kicked her until she rose again. When she asked a question, he cuffed her. Her breath came in short gasps, puffing into the cold, gray dawn like smoke. He hadn’t killed her yet. She still had a chance to get away.

Beezle dragged her along behind him, his hand clamped around her upper arm. He’d quickly learned pressure on her injured wrist incited her to obey. If she slowed, he jerked her arm, and she’d cry out and try to increase her stride.

He’d pushed her behind a fallen log and knelt there with her, peering over the edge. Was Brook on the other side? She might have called out, but the rain poured so hard and so loudly on the fallen leaves that Brook would not have been able to hear her. Beezle, on the other hand, would punish her severely.

She might not have another opportunity to cry out once Beezle was through with her.

A moment later, Beezle yanked her up and pushed her forward again. She tried to slow his pace, dragging her heels, looking for any sign Brook was nearby. Beezle must have seen or heard him. Brook must have been close. Beezle yanked her arm, but when she didn’t increase her pace, he twisted it. The sharp stab of pain made her gasp and double over.

“Get up or you’ll think that twist o’ yer wrist was a night at the theater.”

Lila pushed forward, struggling to keep up with Beezle across the soggy ground and with her skirts weighed down by water and mud. For a time, she forgot all about escape. Beezle’s pace was unrelenting. It seemed he yanked her along for miles and hours. Indeed, dawn had broken, though the storm meant the sky was still cloudy and dark. Finally, the trees thinned and Lila realized they were leaving the wooded area.

She whipped her head around, looking for a landmark, a tree, anything in her surroundings she might recognize. Had they traveled all the way back to the cottage? Perhaps they’d made it to the Longmires’ property or the Spencer farm. But nothing looked familiar. No buildings stood in the clearing, no signs of life, only dead grass and a barren field. Beezle pulled her across it, Lila peering back at the woods, hoping Brook had followed them. He’d see them easily in this landscape. There was nowhere to hide. Gradually, she realized a road lay in the distance, and Beezle was headed straight for it. Lila’s heart jumped with hope. Perhaps someone would come by and she would be saved.

She looked hopefully up and down the road, but it was deserted. Curse this storm! No one would risk the bad weather to venture out.

Lila narrowed her eyes at a dark shape about a quarter mile away. The road was not deserted after all. A carriage sat in a tree-shrouded nook. The horses had been unharnessed and stood under a scrubby tree. A man stood with them.

She was saved!

“Help!” she cried out. “Help me!”

Beezle gave her arm a brutal twist. “Shut yer potato hole, or I’ll shut it fer you.”

Lila obliged. He was leading her toward the carriage at any rate. If he wanted to take her there, the man with the horses was probably in league with Beezle. She couldn’t allow Beezle to put her in that carriage. Once inside, he could take her anywhere. Brook would never find her. He had no horse and couldn’t follow. This was it. She had to escape now.

Lila took a deep breath and waited for her chance. Beezle pulled her closer and closer to the carriage. It was rather a fine carriage to be out in the middle of the countryside. It couldn’t have been Beezle’s, and she did not want to know to whom it belonged.

As they neared, the coachman turned to look at them, and Lila stumbled. Something about him looked familiar. The horses too looked familiar. She stared at the trio, unable to place them in the gloomy light.

In the distance, lightning lit up the sky, and one of the horses reared up with fear. The coachman turned to calm the animal. At the same time, Beezle jumped with fright at the hack’s sudden movement. Lila took the opening.

She tore her arm from Beezle’s grasp and turned on her heel, running as fast as she could back toward the woods. The cover of trees was her only hope of escape. She could find somewhere to hide until Brook found her.

She heard cursing behind her, but she didn’t stop running. Her lungs burned and the rain pelted her face, but she knew she could make it. She could hear the thump of his footsteps behind her. He was close, but she had the lead. She could make it to the woods. She could beat him.

Lila saw the rock jutting out of the ground cover too late. She swerved to avoid it, but it caught the edge of her boot. She lost her balance, stumbled, tripped over her skirts, and fell to her knees. Pain lanced up her legs where her knees hit the ground, the delicate skin gouged by the rocks and twigs. She tried to rise, but she knew it was too late.

Beezle grabbed her by the hair and closed his hand on her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She struggled, but his grip tightened. Blackness hovered at the edge of her vision. Her lungs burned. Beezle’s hands were like iron clamps, digging into the tender flesh of her neck. The world seemed to go dark then come back into focus again.

“I will enjoy killing you.” Beezle’s voice seemed to come from far away as the darkness closed in.

* * *

He’d lost them. At one point, Brook had known he was close. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as they often did when he had sighted his quarry and went in for the kill. He’d almost been able to feel Lila’s presence, catch the scent of her perfume.

And then she was gone.

He’d backtracked. He’d retraced his steps. He’d started out in a dozen different directions, but he’d lost her. He’d gone over the same patch of ground twenty times or more, found the spot where she and Beezle had crouched behind a log. He saw the indent her shoe had made, and the impression of Beezle’s bony legs. He followed the footprints to where they ended. A large tree limb had fallen, and it obscured the trail. Brook went around it, but he couldn’t find it again. He set out from the tree limb in every direction, searching for some small clue—a broken twig, a bent leaf, a soft mark in the ground.

Nothing.

Brook stood in the center of the woods, the rain pouring down on him, and wanted to shout. This couldn’t be the end. This couldn’t be how he lost her. He needed to kiss her one last time. He needed to tell her he forgave her for the stupid way she’d behaved when they’d been little more than children. He needed to ask her forgiveness for the pettiness of holding it against her all these years.

He needed to tell her he loved her.

Brook was the hero, not Beezle. Beezle wasn’t supposed to win.

Only, this story hadn’t been written by the London scandal rags. This story didn’t have a happy ending. She was gone, and Brook knew he’d never find her in time to save her.

* * *

She came to in darkness, the rain pattering on the roof outside.

Outside?

She lay on her face, the hard floor beneath her cheek. Lila sat quickly, regretting the action immediately. Sharp pain cut through her temple. Her throat was swollen, her neck sore.

“Good, you are awake.”

Lila opened her eyes and turned in the direction of the voice. A female voice.

The curtains had been closed and the carriage lamps extinguished, but she knew that voice. She knew the form seated on the squabs beside her.

“Valencia?” she croaked, unwilling to believe what her eyes told her. And yet it made sense. She’d known the coachman—a second coachman—and the horses. They were her father’s coachman and horses.

“Where is my father?” she asked. Lila’s voice was stronger now, but she had to strain to force it past the swelling in her neck.

“London.” Her stepmother’s mouth turned upward into something resembling a smile. “His Grace will not be joining us.”

“I don’t understand.”

Valencia shouldn’t be here. Had Beezle been taking her to her stepmother all along? Why, when he wanted to kill her? Why had he saved her?

Had
he saved her?

Lila was aware of the sounds surrounding her now. The clink of metal and the stamp of hooves. Outside, John Coachman harnessed the horses.

“No, I’m sure you don’t understand. You do not need to understand. All you need know is that your father will not be joining us. I’ve planned a short journey, just the two of us.”

“Sir Brook is looking for me. I have to find him. Take me back to the cottage.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Lillian-Anne. I didn’t come all this way to have my plans thwarted by Sir Brook. He’s already caused me enough problems.”

Lila pushed up and onto the squabs across from Valencia. Before she could sit, her stepmother swung her umbrella, the ebony handle cracking hard across Lila’s knee. Lila screamed at the insult to her already-injured knees and buckled.

“Don’t you dare soil my velvet with your dirt and muck,” she hissed. “Sit on the floor like the rubbish you are.”

Lila stared at her. She’d always known Valencia didn’t like her, but the woman had never dared speak to her this way. “I want my father,” Lila said. “If you won’t take me to Sir Brook, then I demand to be taken to Lennox House.”

Valencia shook her head her vivid blue eyes glittering in the darkness and her blond hair shining like starlight. “You still do not understand, do you, simpleton? Allow me to make it perfectly clear. I am here to see you killed. That idiot loggerhead I hired couldn’t accomplish the job on his own, so I have come this time to make certain he does it right. You, dear daughter, will never see your father or your husband again.”