Samantha James (25 page)

He released her. “Normally I dislike traveling at night. But under the circumstances, I’ll take no chances that Elliot might see you leaving here. The carriage will leave shortly before midnight.”

The evening meal was strained and silent. Heather excused herself, then retired to her room to prepare for the trip. She had no means to fight the debilitating sense of loss that slipped over her, like a shroud of blackest night. Damien
had given her so much, she realized helplessly. He had done what no other had done; he’d made her feel cherished and desired and beautiful.

And now she must leave him. She must leave him alone to face the unknown.

Alone to face her father.

Alone to face a murderer.

An ominous foreboding crept over her. She shivered, unable to shake it.

Damien was waiting in the entrance hall when she descended the stairs. She bowed her head low and evaded his gaze, and it took him but one look to discover why. Her cheeks were pale and streaked with tears.

He gave a muffled exclamation. “Heather! Heather, please do not do this!” With a groan he dragged her into his arms.

She clung to him shamelessly. “Don’t make me go,” she choked out. “Please do not make me!”

“Heather!” He stroked the shining cap of her hair, his hand not entirely steady. “Oh, love, don’t you see, if anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself. This will all be over soon. Please don’t be afraid. You’ll be all right, I promise.”

She gave a dry, jagged sob. “It’s not me I’m worried about. He killed your brother, Damien. What if he tries to kill you, too? I—I’m so afraid for you.” She buried her face against his throat. “I—I love you,” she cried. “Damien, I—I love you.”

Damien went utterly still. His fingers caught at her chin. He raised her face to his, staring down
into misty depths of violet. Heather didn’t flinch from the intense probe of his eyes, and in that mind-splitting instant, she bared her very soul to him.

He whispered her name, a ragged sound, as if he were in agony, and then he crushed her against him. The emotion that rushed through him almost brought him to his knees.
And I love you
. The words burned on his tongue. In his heart. But he was afraid that if he said the words aloud, she wouldn’t leave. And she was far too precious for him to risk losing her. And so he kissed her again and again, with fierce and shattering desperation, pouring into the fusion of their mouths all he held deep in his heart.

They were both trembling when at last he released her. Taking her hand, he led her outside, where the coach waited. There he cradled her face between his palms. He kissed her tenderly one last time, then raised his head.

“I’ll come for you.” His whisper was low and fervent. “Will you wait for me?”

She nodded, unable to speak for the tightness in her throat. Somehow she managed a tremulous smile. He lifted her into the coach, then closed the door.

The coach lurched forward. Heather leaned back against the cushions, the hurt in her chest almost unbearable.

He hadn’t said he loved her. But there had been something…was it enough? It had to be. It had to be. Her hand came to rest on her belly. She wanted their child to have both mother
and
father. She must trust in him—trust that he was right, that this would soon be over.

Despite the frail tendril of hope that curled deep in her heart, scalding tears slipped down her cheeks. She dropped her forehead against the velvet-draped wall, feeling utterly drained.

But they hadn’t gone far when the carriage swerved abruptly, then jolted to a halt. Heather heard shouts and then a thud. Panic leaped in her breast, bringing her to the edge of her seat.

The door snapped open. She glimpsed the dull glint of a pistol, and then claw-like fingers dug painfully into her arm, yanking her from her berth in the coach and whirling her around.

A shabbily dressed man confronted her, a man with hair as black as the night and eyes that gleamed like the very pits of hell. His grin was twisted and leering.

Her garbled scream died in her throat. Horror stripped her mind of all thought. She knew that face—knew it well indeed…

It was the man from her dream.

Heather’s throat was frozen. She made no outcry, but she went cold to the tips of her fingers.

A beefy hand shot out. Heather braced herself for a blow but held her ground. The blow never came. Instead, he gave a guttural laugh, for he’d seen her flinch. A grimy fingertip swiped at the dampness on her cheek.

He sneered. “You haven’t changed a bit, have ye, missy? Still a sniveling little brat.”

So this was her father. This was James Elliot.

He was as evil as she remembered.

Her heart skipped a beat. It resumed with thick, uneven strokes. Inside she was terrified, but she was determined not to show it.

Bravely she raised her chin. “What do you want with me?”

Those black eyes rounded. “Such cultured speech! Think ye’re better ’n me, eh, girl? Well, not for long.” He dragged her toward a horse hobbled just behind him. It was then that Heath
er spied the driver. He lay sprawled facedown in the road. Heather gave a sharp cry and would have gone to him, but Elliot wrenched her back.

“He’s not dead, missy, though when ’e wakes up, ’e’ll probably wish ’e was.” He cackled. “Better to worry ’bout yerself, lass.”

Heather matched his bold stare. “It was you who tried to shoot me yesterday, wasn’t it? Why? Why would you try to kill your own daughter?”

“Ye’re worth more to me dead than alive, girlie. Ye see, I still ’ave some friends. And with the right piece in the right pocket, I found out me little girl has amassed quite a fortune.” Black eyes gleamed. “I understand it’s quite an estate ye have in Lancashire.”

So Damien had been right. “And you thought it would be yours if I were dead?”

He smiled his assent. “And who else would it go to? I may not know as much as you, girlie, but I’m not a dimwit, either. I’m yer only blood relative.”

Heather’s lips tightened. “And who would believe you?” she scoffed. “Who would believe you were really my father after all these years?”

“’Twouldn’t be hard to lay my hands on yer birth record, missy, or that of my marriage to yer mother. Nor would it be hard to prove ye’re the little cripple who was with ’er when she died, now would it?” He grinned his satisfaction.

Heather found herself seized by a reckless anger. “If you intend to kill me, just—just do it and be done with the deed!”

His eyes glinted. “You’ve your mother’s feisty
spirit, don’t ye, girl? But I’ve decided to be generous and let ye live a while longer,” he drawled. “It occurred to me p’rhaps I was a bit hasty when I tried to snuff ye, girl. I always thought you were a useless little brat. But it appears I was wrong.”

With that cryptic statement, he heaved her onto the back of the horse, then climbed on behind her. A cold knot of dread lay heavy in the pit of her belly. What did he mean? What did he want of her? With his arm anchored around her waist in a bone-crushing grip, she saw no chance for escape. When he turned the animal and headed back toward London, she was stunned. It wasn’t long before he reined to a halt—in front of Damien’s mansion.

She knew then…knew he was after Damien. Despair seized her like a clamp. “No,” she cried. “No!”

“Yes, missy, yes!” His breath, fetid and hot, nearly made her gag. He wrested her from the horse’s back and dragged her up the stairs. Bold as you please, he pounded on the brass knocker.

But it wasn’t William who opened the door. It was Damien. At his side he held a pistol. His eyes ran over the tall, black-haired stranger on the doorstep.

“James Elliot, I presume?”

“At your service, sir.” With a gusty laugh, Elliot jerked Heather out from behind him. He held her before him like a shield. His lips flattened in something that bore little resemblance to a smile. He nodded at Damien’s pistol. “I’ll
just take that if ye don’t mind, laddie. And then let’s just take this cozy little reunion inside.”

Damien’s face was grim. He handed the pistol to Elliot, who shoved it in his breeches, then nudged Heather before him as Damien stepped aside.

The sound of the door closing was a hollow, empty sound. Once they were inside the entrance hall, Damien looked at Heather. “Are you all right, love?”

Heather’s eyes clung to his. His expression was grim—so very grim. She started to speak, to assure him that she was fine, but Elliot twisted her arm behind her back so cruelly she gasped. Then he flung her to the floor.

When Damien would have gone to her, Elliot swung the pistol up level with his chest. “Stay where you are, laddie!” He leered at Heather as she pushed herself awkwardly to her feet.

“What’s wrong, lame little cripple? But I suppose I should have a look at ye, proper-like.” He walked round her, then stopped. With the barrel of the pistol, he prodded her right leg through her skirts.

Damien clenched his fists. “You did that to her, didn’t you?”

“That I did. Took a poker and smashed her kneecap.” Elliot seemed almost proud. “Always cryin’, she was. Always stickin’ her nose in where she didn’t belong.” His smile was nasty. “Pity it never healed right, ain’t it? But it kept ye from pokin’ round where ye shouldn’t, at least for a time.”

Rage seared Damien’s veins. To think that a man could be so cruel to his own daughter…

He clenched his fists. “It’s me you want,” he said to Elliot. “Let her go.”

“What! Already? Oh, I think not, laddie. I think not.” His laugh was malicious. “Ye know, ye weren’t so smart as ye thought, boy. I knew ye’d taken a fancy to my girl, here, and I thought ye might send ’er on ’er way. All I had to do was watch…. But I suspect ye’ll see things my way as long as she’s ’ere. Besides, all these years I thought she died along with ’er mother. Seems only right we should ’ave some time together, eh?”

Heather wet her lips. “Why did she leave you?” she asked. “Why did my mother leave you? And who was the man with her?”

Elliot’s grin vanished. “How the blazes should I know? Most likely ’e was ’er latest lover. I knew she was spreadin’ her thighs fer somebody.” He scowled. “She’s lucky she died in that accident, ’cause if she hadn’t I swear I’d ’ave killed her with my bare hands for daring to steal from me, ’er own husband!” A brooding darkness slipped over his features for an instant. Then he transferred his gaze to Damien. “And that’s why I’m ’ere, laddie. To retrieve what’s mine.”

“I have nothing of yours.”

“Oh, now that’s where ye’re wrong. I know ye have it. Yer brother didn’t, so ye’re the one who must.”

Damien’s entire body had gone tense. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he stated flatly. “I’ve no idea what you
want
from me.”

Elliot erupted into laughter. “Why, what else? The jewel case!”

Stunned, Damien managed to hide his dismay. Heather’s eyes were huge. Elliot’s laugh sent a prickle of warning across his skin. When Elliot tossed his head back, Damien gave a tiny shake of his head, signaling Heather to keep silent.

He felt his way carefully. “So it’s my mother’s jewel case you’re after.”

“Aye, laddie.” Elliot jeered. “Ye didn’t know I was at yer father’s bedside when ’e died, did ye?”

“No.” Damien’s voice was taut.

Elliot shot him a black look. “Oh, I didn’t kill ’em, if that’s what yer thinkin’.” His lip curled. “I worked at the inn where ’e stayed in London. I fed ’im when ’e was too blasted weak to hold a spoon! I cleaned his slop and changed his pissy sheets, and what thanks did I get for it?” He shook with rage.

“My father had the jewel case in London to have it repaired. Is that when you saw it?” Damien held his breath and waited.

Elliot nodded. “It was just before ’e breathed his last that ’e told me of the jewel case. It was hidden in a cloth sack in the corner. Why, all that time and I never knew it was there. But ’e wanted his wife to ’ave it, ’e said. ’E asked me to take it to ’er when ’e was gone.” Elliot’s eyes gleamed. “’Ere’s what ’e said. ‘’Idden within the case is my legacy to my wife, a treasure beyond price,’” he quoted.

Treasure? Damien reeled. What on earth had his father been referring to? Was it simply the rambling of a sick man? But he dared not specu
late aloud, for Elliot’s temper was too volatile, too unpredictable.

“So my father died. And you took the jewel case.”

“Aye. I took it ’ome with me, intending to search for the treasure later. But fool that I was, I told Justine.” His face contorted. “When I woke up the next morn, she was gone—the brat and the jewel case along with ’er! Stole it, she did, the bitch! I found out she’d ’ired a coach, and I followed ’er to Lancashire, but she was already dead when I got there.”

Damien’s mind was racing. “Only the jewel case wasn’t with her.”

“No.” Elliot’s response was sullen, but then he smiled. “’Course I knew yer family must have managed to get it back some’ow. The jailer at Newgate said I was mad,” he boasted, “but I knew I was right. I knew your family must ’ave discovered I’d stolen it. But I knew I’d find it someday.”

“So when you were released, you sought out Giles.”

“Aye,” he said sullenly. “But the bastard swore he knew nothing of it! And it was nowhere to be found…” He smirked. “Then suddenly you showed up in London. ’Course I knew then it must be you that ’ad it.”

The jailer in Newgate was right, Damien thought vaguely. Elliot
was
mad. The jewel case could have been anywhere—with anyone—and the fool had pursued it with a singlemindedness that had cost Giles his life….

Damien felt sick inside. There was a part of
him that longed to lash out—to flaunt the fact that the jewel case had been with his own daughter all these years…only the bastard had never bothered to find out if his own child had lived or died….

He didn’t dare disclose this. Not yet…

“So now you’ve finally come for it.”

“Aye.” Elliot gloated. “I’ll ’ave the treasure in the jewel case…and my poor daughter’s fortune when she meets with an accident—just like ’er poor mother!” His laughter was chilling.

All at once he stopped, with a suddenness that was eerie. The pistol veered sharply to Damien’s chest again. “Where is it?” he demanded.

Damien’s mind worked frantically. Time. He need time. Time to somehow gain the upper hand…

His eyes collided with Heather’s. Her face was pasty white. There was something pleading in those deep violet depths, yet it was not a plea for help…no, it was more as if she sought to tell him something….

“I won’t ask again,” Elliot barked. “Where is it?”

Damien nodded toward the staircase. “It’s in my bedchamber.”

Elliot grabbed Heather’s arm and jerked her before him. He thrust the pistol against her cheek. “Lead the way. But no tricks, laddie,” he warned. “Else we both know what lies in store for our little ’eather.”

Damien moved slowly up the stairs. If he could just get to his room, there was another pistol hidden in a drawer…. Behind him he
heard Heather stumble. His heart stopped. He glanced over his shoulder just as Elliot wrenched her arm behind her back. She let loose a sharp cry of pain. Damien seethed, wanting nothing more than to leap for Elliot’s throat. But the time was not yet right.

He advanced farther up the steps. Behind him he could hear Heather’s sobbing breaths. Just as the pair reached the landing where the staircase divided, Heather cried out sharply, “Wait!”

Damien half turned. From the corner of his eye he saw her lunge down, as if to grasp for her injured knee. Then all at once that same arm came up and back in a wide arc. Caught off guard, Elliot wasn’t expecting the blow to his forearm—it knocked the pistol from his grasp. It went skidding across the marble floor.

Damien dove for it. He snatched it up and whirled.

Heather’s blow had toppled Elliot’s balance—the heel of one foot was hanging off the top step. His arms flailed wildly. His lips drew back across his teeth. “Bitch!” he cursed, even as he teetered, slanting backward. Damien saw that Elliot was aware he was going to fall…

But it seemed he’d decided he wasn’t going alone.

Something burst in Damien’s brain as the events played out before him. It all happened in a split second. Even as Damien lunged into motion, driven by raw fury, Elliot’s hand shot out. He grabbed a fistful of Heather’s skirts. With a strangled cry, she pitched violently to the side,
dragged by the force of Elliot’s downward motion.

Together they tumbled wildly down the stairs.

Elliot landed first. He lay sprawled on his back. Heather lay facedown atop his body.

Neither moved nor made a sound.

Fear wrapped a stranglehold around Damien’s chest. “Jesus,” he breathed, plunging down the stairs.

He gave but a cursory glance toward Elliot. His head was bent at an odd angle; his neck, broken. His hand was still clamped onto her skirts.

Damien fell to his knees beside her. He thrust Elliot’s lifeless hand aside. Carefully he turned her over. Her head lolled back on his arm. What he saw sent sheer terror arrowing into his chest.

“Heather,” he cried hoarsely. “Heather!”

Her skin was bled of all color. A massive, ugly bruise had already begun to swell on her temple. She was limp in his arms, like a puppet whose strings had been severed. His heart pumping in fear, he bent and pressed his ear to her lips.

She was breathing, but just barely.