Joan Wolf (15 page)

"I can't tell you, Uncle Edward,” she replied, but for the first time there was a tremor in her voice. He moved across to where she stood and put a comforting arm around her. “You can tell me, brat, you know that,” he said, and his voice now was gentle. But the slender body within his arm was rigid, refusing to yield to gentleness as well as to threats.

As Lord Rayleigh did not, in fact, have the nerve to lock her in her room, her surveillance of David continued. The Marquis was only thankful that Mr. Wrexham, who had certainly noticed the drastic change in Jane's behavior, never mentioned it. On the contrary, to the great relief of the Marquis and Anne, he had the tact to announce that he was going on a few days’ visit to a friend of his who lived in the neighboring county of Cambridgeshire. When he left the following afternoon after lunch, Lord and Lady Rayleigh breathed a collective sigh of relief. Now at least they would be able to deal with Jane without the disturbing presence of her would-be fiancé in the house.

David left the stable later than usual that evening. The sky had been overcast all day and the smell of rain was in the air. Jane had been prevailed on to leave him at four o'clock that afternoon. She was exhausted and David had promised not to leave the company of one of the grooms until it was time for him to go home.

He had been returning to the cottage by different routes each day and today took him back through the woods for the first time since the shooting incident. He approached the cottage from the side and entered by a window rather than the front door. The room was empty. David checked the two bedrooms before he came back to the oven where a pot was simmering. For the first time he noticed a paper on the table. He picked it up and read with astonishment: “David. I know who it is. Meet me on top of Marren Hill immediately, Jane."

Deep surprise ran through David. He took the note closer to the fire and read it again. It was Jane's handwriting, all right, somewhat scrawled as if she had been in a hurry. “I know who it is.” That could mean only one thing. David moved swiftly to the door. He would have to cut back to the stables to get a horse.

By the time he reached Marren Hill the gray clouds had turned to black. There was no sign of Jane's mare tied anywhere at the foot of the hill, and for the first time David felt an apprehension of danger. But the handwriting was hers. With a fear that turned his mouth dry, he wondered if Jane herself was in peril.

There was only one way to find out. Swiftly, David began to climb the hill.

When he was a little way from the top, he halted. He could see nothing in the increasing darkness. Carefully he pushed on, until he was standing on the flat crest of the hill, sheltered from the gusting wind by the beech trees that grew along its rim. There was no one there. He called, “Jane!” He turned to look out across the heath, straining to see her figure somewhere.

"She isn't coming,” said the mellow, pleasant voice of Julian Wrexham. David whirled around and found himself staring into the barrel of a very competent-looking pistol. He raised his head slowly and met the gray eyes of Julian Wrexham. His own eyes widened. He looked from Wrexham to the thicket where he had evidently been hidden, then back to Wrexham again.

"You are surprised to see me?” Wrexham asked scornfully. “I was afraid you had realized I must be the one behind all your recent ‘accidents.’ After all, they started only after I arrived at Heathfield."

David's eyes were gold in the wary stillness of his face. “I had thought of that,” he said evenly, “but I could not imagine what your motive might be."

Wrexham's thin nostrils flared slightly. “I could not allow you to take what was mine."

Sudden comprehension flickered in David's eyes. “Jane,” he said slowly.

Wrexham looked surprised, then a malicious smile crossed his face. “Jane, of course,” he agreed smoothly. He raised the pistol slightly. “It is most unfortunate that I must put a period to this discussion—uh, Chance. You will be found in the quarry—quite dead, I am afraid. Everyone will think you were robbed and killed. I, of course, am visiting my dear friend in Cambridgeshire. I will be so sorry to hear of your demise when I return."

David was frowning, his mind seemingly elsewhere. “The note,” he said abruptly. “That was Jane's handwriting."

"Ah, the note.” Wrexham looked amused. “Really, it seems I could earn my living as a master forger, should that unlikely need ever arise."

"You
wrote it?"

"I had a sample of Lady Jane's writing to go by. It is, as you well know, very distinctive. It was not hard to copy."

"She will never marry you, Wrexham.” David's voice was surprisingly steady.

"That is a chance I will just have to take,” Wrexham replied, a strange glint in his eyes.

David had been staring at Wrexham with unwavering attention; now his eyes suddenly swung beyond the other man's shoulder and widened with surprised recognition. For a fraction of a minute Wrexham's head turned and in that space of time David dove at him.

The gun went off, but David had thrown him off balance and the shot went wide. In a minute the two men were locked in a deadly struggle.

Julian Wrexham prided himself on his excellent physique, which he kept by regular exercise. One of his recreations was to work out at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon whenever he was in London. He was very good.

David had learned to fight in the stables of Newmarket, where there were no rules but winning. His body had been hardened and strengthened by years of hard work. They were very much of a height, and very evenly matched.

For what seemed like forever they grappled together, then Wrexham, using a movement he had learned from Jackson himself, bent sharply and somersaulted David to the ground. David did not try to rise, and as Wrexham came at him he used the side of his hand, hard as cast iron, to chop at the other man's exposed throat. Wrexham staggered back, gagging, and David surged to his feet like a cat and flung himself at his attacker.

Wrexham saw him coming and backed away from him, his hands still at his injured throat. “Wrexham!” David called suddenly as he saw the danger the other man did not. Their struggle had taken them very close to the edge of the quarry. David stopped his own headlong rush as he saw where it was leading him, but Julian Wrexham was backing up. He never knew he was close to the edge of the quarry until he stepped over it. Then he screamed.

Breathing hard, with white face and dilated eyes, David looked down the sheer rock face of the cliff. There was an outcrop of rock three quarters of the way down. The breath shuddered in David's throat as he saw that Wrexham was lying there. He was not moving.

The evening was cool, but there was sweat on David's forehead. He sat down suddenly and dropped his head between his hands. When the attack of nausea was over, he rose and began to descend the hill. He would have to go home for a rope. Whatever Wrexham had tried to do, he couldn't leave a hurt man lying alone like that all night. If he wasn't dead now, he would be by morning.

It was raining by the time David got back to the cottage. He fetched a rope from the shed and a lantern as well. Night was coming fast and with the rain there would be no moon.

The rain was falling steadily when he returned to Marren Hill. Looping the rope over his shoulder, David took the lantern and started to climb. When he reached the top he held the lantern over the quarry; dimly he could make out the shadow of the outcrop. He sat down to knot footholds at intervals in the length of rope. Then he tied it around the trunk of one of the beeches and dropped it over the side of the quarry. He set the lantern down and slid over the edge and into the darkness of the quarry.

He reached the rock outcrop without difficulty and, with eyes now accustomed to the darkness, bent to look at Julian Wrexham. He was lying at a peculiar angle; it did not take David long to realize that his neck had been broken.

David pulled himself back up the rope, much faster than he would have if he had had a body to carry. For the second time that night he climbed down Marren Hill, returning this time to the Heathfield stables where he unsaddled and stabled his horse. Mercifully, he saw no one. Then, his face bleak and hard, he set off toward home.

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But passion lends them power, time means....

—William Shakespeare

Jane had been exhausted all day. The strain and tension she had been under since David was shot at in the woods finally caught up with her. After dinner she pleaded a headache and went to bed. Miss Kilkelly was waiting for her, and Jane allowed her old nurse to undress her and tuck her into bed. But after Miss Kilkelly had left, Jane found she could not sleep. Some kind of alarm within her was sounding, telling her that all was not well with David. After a few minutes she got up, took off the nightgown she had just donned, and pulled an old dress, left from her pre-London wardrobe, over her head. She threw a cloak around her head and shoulders and stealthily left her room, closing the door quietly behind her.

She slipped down the back stairs and saw one of the footman in the hall. “John,” she whispered urgently.

He started when he saw her, but came quickly to her side. “Yes, Lady Jane?"

"I have to go out,” she said softly. “Secretly. Will you leave the side door open tonight so I can get back in?"

The footman, a middle-aged man who had known Jane since she was six, never hesitated. “Of course, Lady Jane. But will you be all right?"

She smiled reassuringly. “I'll be fine. Don't worry, and don't tell anyone I've gone.” She walked to the side door and exited into the rain without a backward glance.

Twenty minutes later she was at the cottage. The front door was locked, so she entered through the same window as David had. The room was empty and his dinner, untouched, lay congealing on the stove.

Her face like stone, Jane set about feeding the fire in the main room and building one in David's bedroom. She had known something was wrong. She would wait one hour, and if David had still not returned she would tell her uncle and start a search.

It was twenty minutes before she heard his steps at the front door. The key turned in the lock and he came in, blinking in the sudden light of the room. “Jane!” His voice sounded strange—harsh and strained. He was soaking wet.

"What happened?” she asked, her own voice far from normal.

"I had an encounter with my saboteur,” he spoke with difficulty. “It was Wrexham.” Then, controlling visibly all his sense of horror, “He is dead. I killed him."

Jane seemed not to notice what he was saying. “You're freezing.” She pulled a chair up before the fire. “Come and sit down here.” He came across the room slowly, like a man in a daze. Obediently he sat in the chair she had set for him. She stood before him. “Wrexham,” she said on a long note of surprise. “And he is dead?"

He looked up at her, seeing her clearly for the first time since he had come in. Her unbound hair hung heavy and straight almost to her waist. She glowed in the firelight, black and ivory, warm and living. He had been so close to the edge of death; he had almost lost her forever.

Jane returned his look and for a minute they were suspended in time as the seconds ticked by unregarded. Then David reached for her and she felt his arms go about her in a desperate grip. She pressed her cheek against his rain-dark head, her own arms straining him against her. David's mouth was buried in the softness of her throat; she could feel fire coursing through her from his wild kisses. Then his grip on her shifted and he was on his feet, swinging her up into his arms.

He carried her into his own bedroom and laid her down on the old-fashioned bed. His breathing was hurried, his eyes narrow, pure gold and filled with desire. Jane looked up at him and slowly began to unbutton her dress. In her haste she had not put on anything under it.

The sight of her white beauty, gleaming in the soft firelight, broke David's last restraint. His hands went to his belt.

There was no love in David's face nor in the mouth, hard and hungry, that came down on hers. The pent-up passion of months had been released by the violence of the night; in David's mouth and hands there was only the urgency of a terrible need.

Jane understood. His hunger did not frighten her. This was David, and whatever he wanted of her she was prepared to give. She made no sound and the slender body he was handling so roughly did not flinch, even when he hurt her. When he finally lay still, his head on her breast, she murmured softly, “Go to sleep, David. Go to sleep, my love. Everything is all right now."

Her hand lightly stroked his still-damp hair. But long after he had fallen into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion, Jane lay awake revolving in her mind what David had told her of Julian Wrexham.

When David awoke the rain had passed and moonlight was shining in the window of his bedroom. He lay still for a minute, bewildered, then memory returned. Cautiously he raised himself and looked at Jane. She was sleeping peacefully, all silver and shadow in the moonlight. As he watched her, David's mouth was severe with pain. The memory of his frantic possession of her pierced his mind and caused him to shut his eyes. He shook his head as if in denial. No. It could never have happened.

When he opened his eyes again, Jane was stirring, as if disturbed by his distress. He watched her, his heart hammering. If she should turn from him in revulsion....

Her eyes opened and she looked at him. There was surprise, then, as her own memory came back, her face altered. She looked wary and slightly guilty, like a small girl caught out in mischief who is afraid of being punished. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, lying still against the pillow.

He stared at her in utter stupefaction. When he could speak, he said in a low, difficult voice, “It is I who should be asking you that question."

The moonlight kindled a blue-green spark within her great light eyes. “I won't be angry with you if you won't be angry with me,” she offered.

"I hurt you.” His voice was curiously rough, as if he were trying to control some powerful emotion. There was a white line around his mouth.