Mary Jo Putney (32 page)

Then he stepped back to evaluate the wall, shoving at several of the irregular stone blocks. “This wall is on the verge of collapsing as other walls have in the past. If we push on the right side, which seems less stable, we might be able to create a little avalanche to give Georgiana and company something else to think about. Shall we try?”

Sarah smiled crookedly. “Show me where to push. But don’t expect much.”

“Every bit will help.” He swept the remaining powder and shot back into her reticule and set it on the ground. Then he lifted the wooden bench and pressed it horizontally along the wall about four feet above the ground to broaden the area affected. “Push at the left end and we’ll see what happens. Ready? One, two,
three
!”

They shoved together hard. She could feel the focused power in him as he dug his heels into the turf and pushed. She did the same, and felt some movement in the wall. They pushed again, and yes, the wall was wobbly. A third time.

With the fourth shove, the right half of the wall gave way abruptly and stones began to tumble down the steep slope. Rob yanked Sarah back to safety so she didn’t follow them down the hill, keeping low in case anyone seized the opportunity to shoot.

Wanting to see what happened, Sarah looked warily out the other window, which remained in a much diminished section of wall. “Good heavens!”

Rob joined her and together they watched the stones they’d knocked over smash into other walls below, freeing still more stones to create a crushing avalanche. Sarah hadn’t realized just how steep the slope was, or how much speed falling stones could acquire going down it.

Panicked shouts rose from the Free Eire rebels as they saw the avalanche of stone hurtling down at them. A man stood only to be knocked over by rolling rocks that pounded into the low walls that no longer offered the rebels protection.

The earth itself shook. Then, with a sound like rolling thunder, the headland crumbled, sending ruined buildings and murderers plunging into the sea.

R
ob wrapped one arm around Sarah as they stared down at the boiling sea. A tower of water blasted into the air, followed by foam and massive waves as the heaving sea swallowed a vast chunk of earth, the remnants of castle outbuildings, and the monsters who’d come to slaughter his family and friends.

Sarah asked in a choked voice, “Do you think anyone survived?”

He gazed into the chaos of water and stone. “No.”

He’d known the headland was undercut from years of waves and weather, but he hadn’t expected to trigger its complete collapse. Shoving the wall over had been merely an attempt to complicate the situation. He’d never imagined . . . this.

But he wasn’t sorry.

Sarah pointed. “See the yawl that brought them? I think it’s the one they used to take me to Ireland. They’re raising their sails to leave.”

The yawl was pitching in the waves created by the fallen cliff. “Wise of them. With their leaders dead, retreat is the only sane thing to do. My guess is that the remains of Free Eire will disband and members will join other groups that don’t have a personal vendetta against Ashton or us.” He studied Sarah’s pale face. “If you want to have strong hysterics, feel free. You’ve earned the right.”

“I’m all right now that you’re here, but oh, lord, Rob! I don’t ever want to have another adventure as long as I live!” Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, Sarah folded jerkily onto the grass. Her pretty pale summer gown was stained with grass and dirt and her hair had fallen loose. She looked like a tomboy who’d been playing with her cousins and fallen out of a tree rather than a woman who had single-handedly held off a gang of murderers.

His indomitable golden chick. He felt unbearable tenderness along with other emotions he couldn’t name. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and protect her from the world. He wanted to lie down and make mad, passionate love to her. He wanted . . .

He locked down his churning emotions and settled on the turf beside her, drawing her under his arm. “I am reminded that princesses are descended from warrior kings and can become warrior princesses. How did you acquire the rifle and ammunition?”

“I stole it from where it was stored in the back room of the old barn.” She gestured toward the ruined village. “I was about to leave when . . .”

She swallowed hard, barely able to speak. “O’Dwyer, the vilest of the kidnappers, came in. He planned to rape me, then hand me over to the other men to do the same. When he grabbed for the rifle, which wasn’t loaded, I let him have it while I reached for the rusty tools in the corner.”

“You knocked him out with a spade?” Rob suggested when her voice failed.

Her muscles tensed. “The tool I grabbed was a pitchfork. When I struck him with it, he . . . he died.”

“Oh, Sarah!” He turned to embrace her completely. She burrowed into his shoulder, sobs shaking her small frame.

“That’s not all,” she said as she struggled for composure. “I also shot the man who wanted to slit the throats of all the children and the other women. I—I’ve killed two men today.”

He swore under his breath. “I should have been here! You shouldn’t have had to face a gang of murderers alone.” He hugged her hard. “Though you did an amazingly good job of dealing with them.”

She looked up and gave him a twisted smile. “Women are good at doing what needs to be done.”

“True. But few are called on to defend their people against such violence. Fewer still could have done it as effectively as you.” He realized that he was shaking inside. The idea of losing her was so horrendous that he could barely wrap his mind around it.

Sarah was . . . everything. She inspired the kind of intoxicating passion he’d found with Bryony when passion was a miraculous new discovery. She had the wit and companionability of Cassie, and the tough mindedness as well. All wrapped in that ineffable, heart-shattering Sarah-ness.

Fumbling for words, he said, “When my former companion left me, she said that we were both too self-sufficient, too incapable of needing anyone or anything, to ever fall in love. She was right then.”

He skimmed his fingertips down the side of Sarah’s face. “I was so used to living that way that I didn’t even recognize how I came to need you more powerfully than the air in my lungs. I need your laughter and your kindness and your competence. I need to be with you or the world is only half alive. I love you, Sarah. Now and forever, amen.”

He raised her hand and kissed it. “You don’t have to say anything in return. Just . . . stay with me and be my wife for always.”

Sarah bit her lip and tears started in her eyes. “I didn’t realize the power of marriage, Robin. I didn’t know the bonds created by the physical intimacy, and even the simple fact of sharing a bed. Nor did I realize how day by day, building a life together turns two people from ‘you and me’ to ‘us’ as we face the world as one.”

She lifted his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “True love is placing one’s soul in another’s keeping. You have my soul, Rob. I love you, always and forever.”

She raised her face and he kissed her, awed by her honesty and sweetness. She was his beloved, his mate, his friend, his life.

His
wife
.

 

A
s Sarah entered Rob’s dressing room, she said, “Are you ready for the dowager’s ‘my grandson the new earl is nowhere as dreadful as the family claimed’ ball?”

He laughed as he studied himself in the long mirror, making a minute adjustment to his cuffs. “For the sake of her own pride, she has to show very public support for me. She can’t admit that the new earl is a disgrace to the family name.”

“True, but she’s also getting rather fond of you.” Sarah chuckled. “I’ve counted at least half a dozen times when she has mentioned your resemblance to your grandfather, which is a major sign of approval.”

“Having seen portraits of him, I must assume the resemblance is more mental than physical. But it’s good that the Carmichaels are presenting a united front to society.” Satisfied with his appearance, he turned from the mirror.

Sarah’s eyes widened as she got a clear view of her husband in his perfectly tailored evening clothes. The dark blue coat showed his broad shoulders to maximum advantage while bringing out the blue in his eyes, and the breeches accented his powerful thighs. He looked like a lord. A man of authority and consequence who was handsome and exactly fashionable enough without being too fashionable. “Dear heavens, is this the disreputable rogue who carried me across half of Ireland?”

His eyes glinted with amusement. “You see before you the results of letting Ashton march me off to his own tailor.”

“Since Adam is universally acknowledged to be one of the best-dressed gentlemen in London, one can’t fault the results.” Sarah circled her husband admiringly. “Your felonious new valet seems to be working out well. You look splendid and he hasn’t yet stolen the Carmichael silver.”

“When Smythe came for the interview and recognized me, he almost bolted, but he was the best-dressed thief I ever caught and he’s acquired legitimate valet experience since then,” Rob remarked. “Since he swears he’s now on the side of the angels, I thought he’d make a good valet and he’d understand me better than most.”

“There is a certain logic to a reformed thief serving a retired Runner,” Sarah agreed. “And if he strays, you’ll personally hunt him down?”

“Exactly.” Rob caught her hand to stop her circling. “You haven’t given me a chance to say how amazingly beautiful you look.”

“You saw this gown when we married,” she pointed out as she dropped an elegant curtsy with a swish of her ivory and gold silk skirts.

“Yes, but then you looked ready to flee the church. Since you decided to stay, you look more beautiful every day.” Rob leaned forward for a careful kiss that wouldn’t wrinkle Sarah’s dress.

“Flattery will get you just about anything.” She leaned into his kiss. “Mmm . . . Can we skip the ball and lock ourselves in the bedroom?”

“Not tonight, princess,” he said as his clock struck the hour. “Time to collect Bree and make our grand entrance.”

Ordinarily a girl as young as Bree wouldn’t attend a ball, but Rob had been adamant that she be presented to society with the new earl and countess to prove that she was a beloved daughter of the house. The dowager had made only token protests about the impropriety of it; she was in a fair way to doting on her great-granddaughter.

When Rob opened the door to the corridor, sounds of music and talk and laughter drifted up from the ground floor. Bree joined them, her face blazing with excitement. Sarah would swear the girl had grown an inch and added years of maturity since her birthday. She was well on her way to being a diamond of the first water. “You look lovely, Bree! But please don’t grow up too fast.”

Rob nodded agreement. “I’m already thinking how much I’ll hate it when suitors start begging for your hand. I won’t want to let you go.”

Bree giggled, looking twelve again. “I won’t marry until I’m very old. At least twenty-five.”

“I shall hold you to that.” He held out his right arm. “Lady Kellington?” After Sarah took it, he offered his left arm to his daughter. “Miss Carmichael?” Bree took his arm proudly. “Then come, my ladies! We shall face London society together.”

They moved to the head of the sweeping staircase, which was wide enough for all three of them. At the foot of the stairs stood the dowager, her face lighting up as she saw her family. She glittered with diamonds, looking every inch the society grande dame.

The dowager had orchestrated their entrance well. As Sarah descended on Rob’s arm, she saw friends smiling up from the crowd of upturned faces. Mariah and Lady Kiri, and yes, there was Lady Agnes Westerfield, Rob’s cherished headmistress.

Sarah was struck by two insights. Tonight, finally and fully, Rob had accepted his role as the Earl of Kellington, head of his family and influential man of affairs. Being Rob, he’d never waver from doing his duty.

As for herself, she realized how for many years she’d drifted, adapting comfortably rather than striving for the dreams she’d thought she’d never achieve: a happy home, a loving husband, and God willing, children.

She glanced at Rob’s strong, calm profile. Catching her glance, he smiled back with deep intimacy.

Her return smile was radiant. No wonder she had spent so many years without finding a man she wanted to marry.

She’d been waiting for the perfect rogue.

Don’t miss the next title in
Mary Jo Putney’s Lost Lords series,
Not Quite a Wife
,
coming next September.

 

Read on for a sneak preview.

J
ames, Lord Kirkland, owned a shipping fleet, half a fashionable London gaming house, and was a darkly effective spymaster in the shadow war between Britain and Napoleon’s France. He was very seldom self-indulgent.

Except when his business took him to the port city of Bristol, as it had done today. He met with the captain of his ship, deciphered the letter the captain had brought, and gave it to a courier to carry back to London with all due haste. Then he dismissed his secretary, saying that he preferred to walk back to the inn where they were staying.

The spring day was sunny and pleasantly warm, so it was a plausible excuse. Not that rain, ice, or snow would have stopped him. For these brief minutes, he wouldn’t think about his business, or his covert work, or all the possible undesirable outcomes to his various plans and the potentially lethal threats to his agents. Instead, he’d remember, and grieve for what he’d lost.

The day had warmed up considerably while he was on the ship. If he was in private, he’d strip off his coat and hat and work in his shirtsleeves. Ah, well, he’d be back at the inn soon enough.

Now he wanted to savor the knowledge that she was only a few streets away. He indulged in the sweet, tormented knowledge that in a matter of minutes he could knock on her door. She might open it herself—she was never one for ceremony—and they’d be face to face again. Would her glossy ash blond hair have darkened? Would her changeable eyes be blue or gray?

Gray for anger and disappointment, without a doubt. Which was why he wouldn’t turn down the street that led to her home. She’d said she never wanted to see him again, and he’d sworn that she wouldn’t.

Sometimes his sophist’s mind played with that. He’d promised she wouldn’t see him, but did that mean that he could look at her if he remained unseen? But looking would never be enough....

He cut off his line of thought, for that way madness lay.

Damn,
but it was hot today! He wrenched at his neck cloth, feeling suffocated. Only then, as he stumbled into the wall of the building beside him, did he realize what was happening. A malaria attack. He seldom had them these days, but sometimes, usually at the most inconvenient possible moment, the fever would flare up again.

He must return to his inn. He always carried a supply of Jesuit bark to tame the fever. The inn couldn’t be more than ten minutes’ walk away. Head spinning, he turned down an alley that would take him in that direction.

Halfway down he stopped, not recognizing the buildings at the other end. This wasn’t right, he must have walked farther than he realized. He turned uncertainly and started to retrace his steps.

Dizzy, he halted to lean on the wall, grateful for the cool brick against his sweating forehead. The inn. The
inn!
What was the name? The
Ship?
The
Ostrich?
Dammit,
what was the name?
He’d stayed there many times before.

He started again toward the alley entrance, one hand skimming the wall for balance, but after a dozen steps he folded to his knees, gasping for breath. He needed to get to a safe place. The inn, or back to his ship, which wouldn’t sail until tomorrow.

The light darkened and he saw that two men were approaching along the alley. “Please,” he managed. “I need help. . . .”

“Well, lookee here,” a crude West Country voice said. “A pigeon for the plucking. I wager he has a heavy purse. Those clothes’ll be worth a pretty penny, too.”

A rough hand grabbed Kirkland’s arm. Even when he was half out of his head, his trained reflexes kicked in. He broke the man’s hold and managed to stagger to his feet and kick the fellow’s knee, sending his assailant staggering.

They both came at him with filthy oaths. Kirkland landed a few blows before he was beaten to the ground. A boot slammed into his skull, and merciful darkness descended.

 

 

Infirmary hours were over for the day, and Laurel Herbert luxuriated in the quiet. Not too many people had come seeking aid that afternoon. That was fortunate since Daniel was away and Laurel was no physician, though she’d learned a great deal through working in the infirmary for years.

The servants and assistants had left for the day, so she had the house to herself for the night. She made tea and carried the gently fragrant cup upstairs to the music room, where her piano, a magnificent Broadwood, awaited.

Laurel settled on the bench and put the tea aside to cool. What to play? She was learning a new Mozart piece, but since she was tired, her fingers drifted into her favorite Beethoven sonata. Music was food for the soul, and she loved the rich sweetness of the sonata even though it carried too many memories.

She had just finished the
adagio
movement when someone began hammering the knocker on the infirmary door. She smiled ruefully and took a large swallow of tea before heading downstairs. She should have known that peace and quiet were not guaranteed. The Herbert Infirmary never refused anyone, and since she lived upstairs and was the only one here this evening, the duty was hers.

She opened the door to see two stevedores from the port who attended services at her brother’s chapel. Between them they carried an unconscious man wearing only drawers and a torn, bloody shirt, his limp arms slung over their shoulders.

“Sorry, Miss Herbert,” the taller man, Potter, said. “We found this fellow beaten bad in an alley and figgered you’d see to him.”

“And so I will. You were right to bring him here.” Laurel stepped back so they could move past her. The victim’s head was hanging and dark hair obscured his face, but he looked young and fit, which always helped in recovery.

As they carried the man to the nearest examination room, Larkin said worriedly, “He’s got a fever, poor sod. Not the pox, is it?”

“I see no signs of smallpox,” Laurel replied. “Fevers have many causes.”

The examination room had good natural light and a wide, padded table standing in the middle. Built in cabinets held instruments, bandages, linens, and the like.

The stevedores laid the man down with surprising gentleness and rolled him onto his back. Laurel frowned as she scanned the damage. Bruises and lacerations aplenty, but no massive bleeding, no obviously broken bones, and his breathing was good.

If there wasn’t a serious head injury . . . her gaze moved to his face. Strong, even features, high cheekbones.... She gasped, icy weakness washing through her.

“You know him, miss?” Potter asked.

She struggled for control, and was surprised how calm her voice sounded. “He’s . . . Lord Kirkland. A friend of the family. He and my brother were schoolmates.”

Larkin scratched his head. “If he be a lord, someun’ will be looking for him. Was he comin’ to visit you?”

“Likely he’s in Bristol on business,” she said, still unnaturally calm. “You needn’t worry about catching his illness. He had swamp fever as a boy and sometimes it flares up again. If that’s what this is, there’s no risk to you for your good deed.”

Potter asked, “Do you need help with the fellow, Miss Herbert?”

Guessing that they both wanted to get home for their supper, she shook her head. “No, I’ll examine Lord Kirkland to see how serious his injuries are. If he needs a surgeon, I’ll send for one.” She managed a smile. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Larkin—you’ve been true good Samaritans today.”

Pleased by her praise, they ducked their heads bashfully and left. Laurel latched the door behind them, then leaned back against it, shaking. Could she have been wrong in her identification? She’d been seeing echoes of James Kirkland in other men for years.

No, she would recognize him at midnight in a coal mine. Steeling herself, she returned to the examination room to tend his injuries. He looked oddly vulnerable lying there. Young. Not as enigmatic and formidable as he loomed in her memory.

James, Lord Kirkland. Rich beyond imagining, one time friend to her brother, the most dangerous man she’d ever met.

James, the husband she’d left ten long years ago.