Rebecca (39 page)

Rebecca spoke for the first time. She stood and took Eliza's hand. “I do not want your apology, Clarisse. I do not want anything from you. You are my neighbor, and that is something I must learn to endure.” She turned to Eliza. “I wish you had told me why you wanted me to come with you. Don't worry about the tales that Clarisse is spreading out of jealousy. What she does not seem to realize is that it was Nicholas who fell in love with me first, not the other way around.” She said, coolly, “Thank you for your hospitality, Clarisse.”

When Rebecca left the room, Eliza paused in the doorway. “You are a hateful person, Clarisse Beckwith. I hated you when you tried to capture my brother in your web of deceit. I hate you still.”

Clarisse smiled coolly. “If you want a word of advice from a wiser woman than you, keep your eye on your fiance. Don't be blind to his expression when he looks at Rebecca. I haven't been.”

“You are lying!”

“Am I? Watch him for yourself.” She patted her perfect curls back into place. “Watch him as he regards your sister-in-law, then ask yourself if he has ever looked at you like that. She entrapped your brother into marrying her. Now watch she does not steal your lover as well.”

Whirling, the young woman ran from the room. She grasped her cape and raced out the door without tying it around her. Eliza did not want to believe the poisonous words Clarisse had spoken, but a bit of doubt had been planted in her mind. She could hardly believe it was true, for Curtis had stated before he left for London last week that he felt he and Rebecca were still strangers. He had suggested they plan more activities with the four of them together. That did not sound like a man who lusted after his fiancee's brother's wife.

She sighed.

Rebecca took her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Eliza, for what you tried to do, but with that woman, common decency is useless. She twists everything so much that her lies seem almost like truth.” With a laugh, she said, “Our best hope is that she will find some poor victim to marry and move to his estate far from here.”

The younger woman's face lightened. “Perhaps you are right. It just made me so angry to hear her say those things.”

“I have heard her say them, too, but I know they aren't true. Nicholas knows they aren't true, so it does not matter what she says. Let's talk of something else, all right?”

Eliza soon was giggling as Rebecca told her the story of how her whole home town in Connecticut had been spooked during the war by a farmer driving his pigs through the underbrush. Everyone had evacuated their homes and spent the night in the woods as they waited for the attack that never came. For Eliza, the war had been an inconceivable distance away and beyond her imagination. As used as she was to being waited upon and having fine clothes to wear, Rebecca wondered if her young sister-in-law had any idea of the realities of life on a war-torn frontier. Like Nicholas, she did not try to wrench away the young woman's illusions. Instead, she told her stories that entertained her and brought the two of them closer together.

“Oh, Rebecca, you have the most amusing tales! I can't wait for the ball. You will be the center of attention.”

“Me?” She smiled. “It's your party, Eliza.”

“But many of those coming have never met a real Yankee.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Are we that different? I mean, I haven't grown a second head, have I?”

“No, no, but there is an example. You are always so forthright. I do not know if I would want to be around people who always are so honest as you are, Rebecca. I enjoy the subtleties of proper conversation, which I know bores you.” She smiled and took the other's hand. “I am glad you married Nicholas. At first I thought he had made a frightful mistake bringing you here from America, but now that I know you, I like you very much and I am happy you are my sister-in-law and my friend.”

“Eliza, I—” She paused as the carriage rocked to a sudden stop. Eliza, who was riding facing forward, nearly slipped into Rebecca's lap. As she righted herself, Rebecca asked, “What's going on?”

“Maybe a horse went lame, or there is an accident in the road.” She started to look out the window, but Rebecca halted her. Something told her that whatever awaited them on the road was not friendly. A wave of fear washed over her.

“Stay back from the windows.” Her voice was a whisper.

“Why?”

“Please, Eliza,” she said in a quiet desperation. “Just stay back.”

From outside the carriage, they could hear loud male voices demanding something from their driver. Before they could do anything beyond look at each other's pale face, the door swung open. “Good afternoon, ladies. If you would be so kind as to get out voluntarily, it will save us a great deal of trouble.”

Rebecca gazed down into the sparkling brown eyes which were the only thing visible behind the domino covering the man's face. A hat drawn down low over his forehead hid his hair. His coarse shirt was dusty from his ride along the country road. She noticed that later. What caught her attention first was the gun in his hand. It pointed unerringly at her midsection.

Taking Eliza's hand, Rebecca rose to obey. She gasped as the man put his hands on her waist and lifted her to the ground. He held her arm as he turned back to the other passenger. “No need for you to get out, Miss Wythe.” He motioned with his gun for her to resume her seat.

Stubbornly, Eliza demanded, “Let Rebecca go, you fiend!”

The man's voice, which had been pleasant, grew as dark as the mask he wore. Slowly he raised his pistol to press into Rebecca's temple. “Cooperate, Miss Wythe, if you do not want to see Lady Foxbridge murdered before your eyes.”

Eliza sat on the very edge of the seat. When he closed the door of the coach, she moved so she could see out the window. She wondered why this highwayman had stopped their carriage. He seemed to have no interest in the jewels they wore. It was clear that he had in his hands the one thing he wanted: Rebecca Wythe.

“Miss Wythe,” the masked man said calmly, “tell Lord Foxbridge not to come looking for his lady. If he gets too close, it could make my men very jumpy, and this poor lady could be hurt very badly. We will be in contact with him at the masquerade ball Saturday night. You can assure him that Lady Foxbridge will be taken care of well until then. Make sure he understands he is to do nothing.”

Rebecca stared up at the disguised face of her captor. When he shoved her roughly toward his horse, she turned to try to run. In one long stride, he recaptured her. Twisting her in his arms, he struck her with the flat of his gloved hand. At her muted cry of pain, she heard the click of a trigger.

When the gun fired, it brought back the terror of the duel. Her memories supplied the sounds which always signaled death. She cringed and put her hands over her ears. Before her eyes, she saw the coachman fall back against the top of the carriage. Blood covered the front of his pale green livery. She screamed, “Sims! Sims!” He was too still. She tried to break away from her captor to see if Sims continued to breathe.

“Shut up!” growled the man who held her. “Shut up, Lady Foxbridge, or the next target will be Miss Wythe.”

Instantly her cries ceased, although tears fell along her cheeks. Sims had been her dear friend. There was no doubt that these men did not care what they did in order to gain their ends. Even murder was acceptable.

What would they do to her?

The man swore under his breath as he stared at the dead man. Picking Rebecca up, he placed her on his horse. Mounting behind her, he turned the horse's head and gave the command to leave.

She heard Eliza call her name in desperation, but did not reply. With the man's arm so tight around her, she could not turn to look back to where the coach was motionless in the middle of the road. In silence, they rode a short distance along the lane, then pulled off into the trees which bordered both sides of the road. They stopped, and Rebecca was lowered to the ground where another masked man held her until the leader had dismounted.

Fearfully she regarded her abductors. When she tried to pull away, a pistol was pressed against her skull. Tears of pain dribbled from her eyes, but she remained quiet. The unspoken warning was clear. If she betrayed them, she would die before her rescuer could arrive.

She watched from the corner of her blurred eyes as the leader walked around her. She was not sure what he had planned. When a blindfold was secured over her eyes, she gasped in astonishment. Before she could protest further, she was gagged as well.

When she felt hands untying her cloak, she tried to scream, but the sound was lost behind the gag. Hands on her shoulders slid down her arms to force them behind her back. Her gloves were ripped from her fingers as her wrists were pressed together. Easily, they were bound with a piece of scratchy twine. She was lifted into someone's arms while her ankles were as callously lashed together.

Around her, she could hear the men laughing as they enjoyed her distress. Although they talked among themselves, they carefully did not say anything to give away their identities. Realizing that, Rebecca grew more terrified. These men were professionals who knew exactly what they were doing. What she could not understand was why they had abducted her.

She was handed up to a mounted man. When he spoke, she knew it was the leader. He was dismissing his men and telling them when they should meet again. The tightening of his arm around her waist was the only warning Rebecca received before he started the horse on its way.

Desperately, she tried to determine where they were going, although they had blocked most of her senses. The breeze was cold in her face, but she could not remember which way it had been blowing when they left Beckwith Grange. Without her cloak, she was cold in her short-sleeved silk gown. Most of her chill came from inside her. Her remaining senses could not tell her in which direction they rode, so she would have no idea how to escape from where she would be imprisoned.

It was only Thursday, she realized with a shiver that had nothing to do with the weather. Nicholas would not even be contacted for two days. For two days, she would be in the control of this man who led a band of murderers and kidnappers. She did not dare to think of what other crimes they might commit since they had been bold enough to stop her carriage and drag her from it.

A victorious laugh sounded near her ear. “Don't worry, Lady Foxbridge. You will be unbound when we get to our destination. Cooperate like Miss Wythe, and you might live to see Lord Foxbridge again. Don't think that you may ask too many questions, for we want you to be a quiet little lady and do as you are told.” He laughed again.

They rode on in silence. Rebecca discerned two clues to tell her where they were going. One was the pungent smell of the salty air. The other was the steady rhythm of the waves crashing themselves to death upon the cliffs. Their path paralleled the narrow beach.

Once again, his arm constricted around her waist just before the horse headed down one of the few paths to the sand below the ledges. Like all the ways, it was steep. If her hands had been free, she would have clung to her captor. All she could do was lean back against his solid strength. When she felt the horse's hoofs slide, she screamed, but little sound emerged from behind the soaked material in her mouth.

“Don't worry, Lady Foxbridge,” came the amused voice in her ear. “He is a sure-footed steed. I don't plan on you dying so easily.”

A sharp sliver of fear sliced through her. As she should have known from the beginning, this man did not intend to honor any deal he made with Nicholas. Once he had what he wanted, he would kill her. She would have to become as desperate in her attempts to escape as he was in his plans to put an end to her life.

When they stopped on the level strand, the man gathered her in his arms and slid from the side of the horse. He carried her a short distance, then put her on the wet ground. Swiftly, he untied her and removed the cloths around her head.

Rebecca looked around her. It was dusky, but she could see water glistening off the walls of what appeared to be a cave. Beneath her the sand was compacted with water. It smelled of brine and long-dead aquatic life. A rough jerk brought her to her feet. Her eyes rose to meet her captor's. He still wore his mask. With a snarl, she reached up to grasp it and pull it away to reveal his identity. Her abused muscles failed her, and he caught her hand before she could touch the material covering his face.

He laughed cruelly as his fingers bit deep into the sensitive bones and muscles of her wrist. His eyes remained riveted on her face, which reflected her pain as he tormented her. Bending her arm, he forced her to her knees.

She fought back the tears of agony. She would not let this animal force her to grovel. Blackness filled her mind as the pain pushed her past her limits of enduring what he was doing to her. When he released her, she sagged to the wet sand. She cradled her aching wrist in her other hand. Immediately, she was grasped and pulled to her feet. The epithet she threw in his face was most undignified for Lady Foxbridge to use, but she smiled as she said it.

He chortled before he said, “Don't be foolish, my lady. While I remain anonymous, your chances of survival are much higher than if you learn to recognize my face. Don't compel me to kill you, sweet lady. It would be such a waste to have to sever your pretty head from your shoulders. Think of Lord Foxbridge's reaction if he was to receive such as a gift.”

Her face paled. “You wouldn't do such a thing! That's barbaric!”

“Don't be so sure. I would hate to do that to you, I must admit.” He drew his finger across the center of her throat. “It isn't an easy way to die. I would guess it would be most painful as the knife slits into your soft skin on the first pass. How long it takes for you to die would depend on how fast you drown in your own blood as you gasp for the air which will never reach your lungs.” Again, he slid his finger along her throat.