Sattler, Veronica (46 page)

As
Brett rode toward the Hall, his thoughts were grim. What was he to do with this
discovery, now that fact had replaced mere suspicion? He knew most men would
immediately call the constable, but for him, it wasn't so simple. Most men
weren't involved in clandestine government service. He'd suffered attacks on
his life before, the most recent being the one in which Patrick had saved his
life. But all those had occurred while there'd been a war raging, and now
England was at peace—except for a little matter of her former colonies in
America, he corrected, but that had never been in his sphere of operation.

And
what if the foul play had been aimed at Ashleigh? It had been generally known
that it was she who'd be spending most of the time here once the cottage was
restored.

Still,
he couldn't think why anyone would wish her dead. Or could he? Briefly his
thoughts focused on an image of Elizabeth Hastings's furious face when she'd
learned of his new betrothal, but he dismissed it as quickly as it came.
Elizabeth might be a shrew, but he hardly thought her capable of murder. No,
Elizabeth was a female more likely to use words to inflict harm.

As
the thought came to him, he realized he'd better warn Ashleigh to be prepared
for that, if nothing else. After all, Elizabeth lived close by, and it was
hardly likely that his marriage would keep her from continuing to visit the
Hall and her beloved godmother.

Well,
all the more reason to take Ashleigh away for a while. The summons to London
couldn't have come at a more opportune time. And, among other things, the time
away would afford him a chance to mull things over... to think what to do to
ensure there would be no more accidents.

His
thoughts shifted to his bride, bringing a soft smile to his lips. He was going
to enjoy showing her around London. She was such a wide-eyed innocent, so
ingenuously appreciative of all she saw in this new life-style that was such a
contrast to her years of ignominious drudgery in that brothel!

And
he could hardly wait to see her face when he presented her with his wedding
gift this evening. His smile broadened as he patted the papers he carried in
his waistcoat pocket while reining Raven in, for they were approaching the
entrance to the stable block. The papers were a transfer of ownership of one
black filly named Irish Night to Her Grace, the duchess of Ravensford,
otherwise known as Ashleigh Sinclair Westmont.
He couldn't wait!

* * * * *

A
half-dozen anxious faces met their duke's heated gaze as he stood before
them in the entrance hall.

"Do
you expect me to believe that none of you saw them leave,
in broad
daylight?"
Brett thundered.

Chauncey
Jameson exchanged a worried glance with Hettie Busby, then exerted all his
powers of self-control to avoid reaching for a handkerchief to wipe his
perspiring brow before his duke, and replied, "Her Grace never returned to
the Hall from the dowager's cottage, Your Grace, and as for Sir Patrick and
Miss O'Brien, we thought they were taking Her Grace's mount to her when they
left, and that was late morning."

"Aye,
Yer Grace," added Old Henry. "I 'anded Sir Patrick Irish Night's
tether meself, I did."

Brett
was frantic with worry. It was now early evening, and they'd searched the house
and grounds for hours after the three of them had failed to return for
luncheon, as scheduled. Where could she be? How could all three of them have
disappeared as they had? As he thought, a cold chill of apprehension seized
him. Was this the ultimate foul play, a final piece of dirty work to correct
the failure of last night's accident? And if so, there had to be someone with
might, as well as cunning, involved, for Patrick was powerfully built and a
mean fighter, especially when defense was concerned.

Suddenly,
as he stood there wondering what to do, he heard footsteps running up the drive,
then a furious knocking at the door.

Jameson
went to the door, opening it to reveal the anxious faces of Jonathan Busby and
the young footman named Robert.

"B-beggin'
yer pardon, Mr. Jameson, sir, but w-we wish t' see 'Is Grace, if ye
please," stammered Jonathan.

"Aye,
sir, ye see, we've found somethin'," Robert added. "Send them
in," Brett called out.

The
two young men approached, Jonathan with a quick glance at his parents, Robert
with his eyes on the floor.

When
they stood side by side in front of the duke, Jonathan gave Robert an elbow in
the ribs. "Show 'im," he muttered.

Darting
a glance at his duke's stern visage, Robert withdrew a sheet of parchment from
his sleeve and handed it forward while Jonathan proceeded to explain.

"Ye
said t' keep searchin', Yer Grace, so Robby 'n me, we decided t' give th'
cottage a good goin' over, onct we was done wi' th' garden." He looked
slightly apologetic. "Th' door was open after ye left, ye see."

"An'
we found that paper under a table in th' upstairs drawin' room, near th'
window. Th' wind must hae blown it t' th' floor, ye see, an' so everyone missed
it earlier."

"I
see," said Brett, quickly unfolding the parchment. "Good work,
lads."

Beaming,
both footmen retired beside Hettie and Old Henry while Brett scanned the
letter.

Dear
Brett,

I
don't know how to say this, except to tell you I am leaving. I know now our
wedding was a mistake, and I am correcting it the only way I know how. I would
like to explain further, but my feelings are too raw right now, and I find I
lack the words.

Please
do not try to find me. I convinced Megan and Patrick to accompany me, so I
shall be safe enough.

Finally,
suffice it to say that I hope you are able to obtain a quick annulment or
divorce and marry Elizabeth Hastings as you had planned. She will be infinitely
more suitable, I am sure.

Ashleigh

Brett's
face was as expressionless as stone as he finished reading the letter, but the
turquoise eyes glittered dangerously as he raised them to Henry Busby.
"Have Raven saddled at once," he bit out.

Recognizing
the chilling look in those eyes, Henry knew not to question the command and
moved instantly for the door with an "Aye, Yer Grace."

"Higgins,"
came the order to Brett's valet, "finish packing and go on ahead to London
when you're ready. I leave now!"

And
with a quick stride, he was out the door after Henry.

As
he strode toward the stables, Brett's mind was a seething sea of fury. So she'd
proved true to form, after all. Like all womankind, she was as false as a lie.
Well, more the fool he, for not anticipating it coming this quickly! Leave him
on the day after their wedding, would she? Well, he'd see about that! He'd find
her, and when he did, she'd regret the moment she ever laid eyes on him. No
woman was ever again going to play him false and get away with it—
no woman!

With
a grim set to his chin, Brett quickened his pace to the stables.

* * * * *

Ashleigh
stood uncertainly beside Irish Night's stall in the stable of the White Horse
Inn just outside of London where they'd taken lodgings for the night. In her
hand she still held the note the innkeeper's wife had delivered to her chamber
as she was preparing to undress for bed. "Ashleigh," it read, in the
crude block letters her friend still labored to produce, "Patrick's gone
to fech sum linamint fer his stalyonz leg, but I need yer help. Meet me in the
stabel. —Megan."

They
had made this unplanned stop on their way to another inn near the docks in
London where Patrick knew he'd find the first mate of his sloop, the
Ashleigh
Anne.
The sloop was their ultimate destination, but, inasmuch as she
carried an American flag, he'd had to hide her in one of the many secret coves
along the Devon coast that he'd known from his free-trading years, and because
his trusted first mate stayed in London during their layover, Patrick had taken
them on this roundabout route before he planned to sail them all to his home in
America—for good. But then, shortly after dark, Saint, Patrick's beloved
chestnut stallion, had gone lame from a particularly rough spot in the unpaved
road they'd been traveling—for Patrick had kept them to back roads and away
from main highways in an effort to avoid being seen in their flight—and they'd
had to stop here for the night.

After
a supper in the inn's common room, Ashleigh had left Megan and Patrick to
retire early. It had been a long, exhausting day for her, both physically and
emotionally, and she was bone weary. But then she'd received Megan's note, and
now, here she stood in the stable, and there was no sign of Megan or Patrick,
or anyone else for that matter.

Thinking
it odd that not even the old stable man was about—the one she'd spoken to
earlier with special instructions for rubbing Irish Night down—she walked the
few steps to the next stall, expecting to see poor Saint, but when she got
there, Saint was gone!

At
the same instant, she heard a rustling behind her, and as she turned to see
what it was, a pair of strong hands grabbed her from behind, one quickly
clamping across her mouth as she opened it to scream, the other pulling her
roughly against a large male frame. She felt herself yanked upward, her feet
dangling in the air as an arm clasped her in an iron band of muscle that held
her immobile against her captor's chest.

Frantically,
Ashleigh sought to loose herself, twisting her head from left to right to free
her mouth and kicking backward with her legs, for her arms were held firmly
against her sides, but it was no use. Although it was dark in the stable, she
had no need of light to know the man was almost twice her size and many times
stronger. A growing terror seized her as she realized she was entirely at his
mercy.

Then
a familiar scent met her half-covered nostrils over the equine smells of the
stable, and a roughly whispered voice she recognized cut the air.

"I'm
going to release your mouth as soon as you nod your head to indicate you won't
scream, but I promise you—one sound, and I'll knock you unconscious, so help
me, I will!"

Brett's
voice!
And
she'd recognized the male scent of his, too, with its combination of sandalwood
soap, tobacco and leather meeting her nose. Terror giving way to dread, she
nodded.

He
removed his hands and set her down on the hay-strewn floor, then grabbed her
none too gently by the shoulders and spun her about to face him. She raised her
eyes to meet his in the dim light given off by a single lantern at the end of
the row of stalls, and what she saw then caused a cold lump of fear to settle
in her midsection.

Eyes
that had been chilling often enough in the past, now bored into hers with an
icy regard that made all previous looks seem like nothing by comparison. Even
in the near dark, their turquoise shards telegraphed an anger so monumental,
she drew in her breath with an audible gasp.

"Get
your tack and saddle the filly," he ground out at her from between
clenched teeth, "and,
dear wife,
make not one errant move, for it
would still be very easy for me to render you unconscious."

When
Irish Night was saddled and bridled, he forced her to mount, then took a length
of rope and bound her wrists together before handing her the reins. Her eyes
widened as she saw him lead Raven forth from a stall farther down the row and
take, from where it was draped over his saddle, a long cloak she'd kept at the
stables at Ravensford Hall to use on chilly mornings when she'd worked with the
filly. This he promptly threw over her shoulders, fastening and draping it so
that it concealed her bound wrists. Then he extracted an old silk scarf she'd
also kept in the stables to tie back her hair on occasion, when it got in the
way of her work. She watched in silence while he mounted Raven, moved the
stallion alongside the filly and reached out with the scarf in such a way as to
indicate he would gag her.

"Oh,
Brett, no!" she cried out softly. "Please don't—"

"One
more word, and you'll find yourself bound hand
and foot,
as well as
gagged, and slung over your saddle like a sack of meal!" he bit out with
fury, and proceeded to tie the gag in place.

They
rode for what seemed like hours, though in her weariness, Ashleigh couldn't
tell for sure. The only words Brett imparted came at the beginning of the
journey when, as he saw her casting about the inn yard, he told her not to
bother looking for help. He'd sent the stable man out to exercise Saint's stiff
leg after the liniment had been applied. As for Megan and her brother, he said,
they were soundly tucked away in their beds at the inn. The note she'd received
had been forged—by him. Did she realize, he mockingly inquired, that some of
his wartime government service had involved learning to pen forgeries? Megan's
simple letters had been child's play for him!

Sometime
well after midnight, judging by how high the moon rode in the sky, Ashleigh saw
the cobbled streets and narrow buildings they'd been passing give way to the
familiar breadth of St. James's, and then King Street, and she knew he was
taking her to his London residence.