To Marry a Marquess (21 page)

"My dear girl, if you believe that now is the time to have a care to your sensibilities, you are sorely mistaken. Confound it! I will not take my eyes off you. They have been on you every minute anyway!"

Victoria realized that arguing with the man was useless.

As she made her descent, a giant gust of wind whipped through the branches, throwing up her skirts. She tightened her hold on the tree and heard a loud crack. She dropped her gaze in horror.

Drake's face drained of all color, then he set his jaw.

She gasped, realizing he intended to climb the tree after her.

He threw his jacket on the ground. "Don't move, sweetheart! Please, for once in your life, listen to me and do not move one blasted inch!"

Victoria knew if Drake came any nearer, he would fall into the deadly waters with her. She looked out into the rushing stream. The angry flow could wash away an army if they dared to cross it.

Her heart pounded wildly as she tried to find her voice. "Stay back, Drake! Stay back!"

He took hold of the trunk and pierced her with a commanding gaze. "Victoria, for the love of—"

But the branch snapped in two before he could finish.

Her scream fell into the wind as she plummeted into the swollen stream below. Cold water blasted her body and sucked her under. Within seconds, a swirling darkness began to overtake her. Crushing her. Stealing her strength. She felt her hands and feet disappearing into the flowing stream of death. And then suddenly, a black rage pulled her deeper and deeper into a numbing abyss until she felt nothing at all.

Fear gripped Drake as he watched slim white hands disappear beneath the stream. Instantly, he kicked off his boots and launched himself into the churning waters.

"Victoria!" His voice was a muffled cry above the roar of violent current. He dove beneath the battering stream, his lungs ready to burst. He came up for breath, his heart constricting with dread. Water bit angrily against his face. Sharp pieces of debris slammed against his body.
Dear God, please let me find her.

Hope stirred within him when he caught sight of a bit of blue floating above the surface.

He swam forward, reached out, and skin met skin. Victoria’s face bobbed in the water. He circled his arm around her waist and tugged, cupping her chin, trying to keep her mouth and nose above water. Terror seized him when he saw the blue tint of her lips.

"Hold on, sweetheart. You are not going to die on me. Do you hear me, woman? I will not allow it!"

Two flat blue eyes flickered open for a second or two, then closed. Drake's grip on her tightened. But her skirt was snagged on a wedged log. Water filled his mouth as he jerked his head to the side, trying to breathe. He was not going to let her go!

"Open your eyes! Try, Victoria! Come on, sweetheart!" Her lids fluttered open again. "Good girl!"

Pale blue eyes stared into nothingness, then rolled back into her head. Drake's heart shattered. He would not lose her! He would not!

Panic wracked his brain. There was no more time. He said a quick prayer, let her go, and dove below the surface. Feeling for her skirt, he freed the material from the log and hung on for dear life as they were thrust into an endless sea of terror.

His clasp on her was strong while water wrapped around them like a hangman's noose as he struggled for shore. Then, as if in answer to his prayers, a familiar voice shouted above the raging stream.

"Grab hold of the rope, my lord! Grab on!"

Drake glanced toward shore. His trusty butler stood there, aided by a line of footmen who held on to a rope that had been thrown into the stream. In no time, Drake and Victoria were pulled to safety.

Drake staggered and spit up water as he placed Victoria's limp body gently on the ground. He was barely able to catch his breath as he fell forward, his hands resting on his knees.

"Stanby, where the devil did you come from?"

"My lord." The butler smiled uneasily. "Her Grace sent word to me yesterday. Thought I could be of some assistance to you. Evidently"—a serious crease formed above Stanby's eyes as he glanced toward Victoria's still form,— "your grandmother was correct. She is not breathing, my lord."

Chest heaving, Drake glanced down at Victoria and frowned. "Nooooo," he shouted in grief, gripping her wet body to his chest.

Stanby gently disengaged Victoria's body from his master. "My lord, let me take her." The butler laid her on the ground, turning her onto her stomach. "She may live if we push on her back. The water needs to come out."

But Drake could only stare in horror. Her lips were blue, her body unmoving. He pressed his hand against her cheek. She was as cold as ice.

Then Stanby did the unspeakable. He cuffed his employer on the shoulder. "Get hold of yourself, man! We can still save her!"

Understanding finally dawned on Drake. He knelt over Victoria's lifeless form and raised her arms above her head as Stanby suggested. The large servant then moved her jaw to the side while Drake pushed vigorously on her back.

"Blast it, Stanby. She's not moving!"

"Keep pushing, my lord. I have seen this worked on many sailors that would have been near drowning."

Drake's hands pressed firmly in a rhythmic motion on her back, his heart twisting in agony with every thump applied to her precious body. "Breathe. Confound it, Victoria. Breathe."

"My lord! The water's coming out."

Drake kept pushing as the liquid came up, spewing past her blue lips.

Stanby frowned. "You will have to blow your breath into her mouth. Now. Pinch her nose, so the air does not go out when you blow."

Drake looked up, horrified. "What?"

"Trust me, my lord." Stanby's voice was firm.

Drake glanced back at Victoria.

"My lord! It cannot wait!" Stanby bent down to take Victoria's mouth in his.

Drake pushed him aside. "Move aside!"

Drake pressed his mouth to Victoria's lips as he blew his breath into her, and prayed Stanby knew what he was about.

"The lady is breathing, my lord!"

Victoria groaned and opened her eyes. Tears dammed in Drake's eyes as he pulled her head close to his chest. "You little fool. I almost lost you."

Her eyes closed again and Drake held her tight. A lonely tear fell from his face and dropped to her cheek. "You sweet, little, adorable fool."

"Drake, my boy, take this. It will help settle your nerves." The duke pushed a glass of claret under Drake's nose.

Drake shook his head. It had been only two hours since the dreaded incident. He sank into the sofa in his grandmother's drawing room. "It should have been me up there. Not her."

Phoebe put a hand on his shoulder. "I cannot think of anybody who has ever talked my Victoria out of what she wanted to do. And from what I hear, you would have been too heavy to brace your weight upon the branch, my dear."

Drake brushed a hand through his hair that still glistened from his quick bath. He had never felt so helpless in all his life. "It appears her weight was not appropriate either."

He rose from his seat and strode toward the hearth.

"Please, my lord, take this." Sarah's voice whispered behind him as she handed him the drink the duke had offered only seconds before. "Victoria would not want you to take the blame. You did the best you could, and now we all have to help her through this."

Drake took the drink and tipped it in one long swallow.

The dowager duchess sat in a corner wing chair, dabbing her eyes. Fox, James, and his younger brother Anthony were whispering in another comer. But Drake's eyes locked on the very tall, familiar figure of the Earl of Wendover seated next to the duke.

When Drake caught sight of the man's long, powerful hands twirling a glass of brandy, something snapped inside him. The marks on Victoria's neck suddenly materialized before him. Could this man have had something to do with it?

Drake slammed his glass onto the mantel. He had no proof, but there was something about the man that he had never liked. Clenching his jaw, Drake stalked across the room.

"Wendover, it seems to me—"

"Oh, doctor!" Lady Phoebe's shout turned everyone's attention toward the open doors where the doctor had entered.

The older man glanced about the room. "I gave her some laudanum, but her lungs still have a bit of fluid in them."

"Will she take the fever?" Phoebe asked in fear.

The doctor took his cloak from the butler. "A fever is the least of our worries. I believe her lungs are what we have to fear. Never a good sign when one stops breathing. I'm sorry to leave you so soon, but I have another call to make in the village."

He glanced at Drake. "You did the best you could, my lord. She would not be alive if you had not acted so swiftly. I doubt those marks on her neck will last more than a few days."

Drake grimaced. Marks on her neck! His gaze shifted to Wendover who seemed to be leaving along with the doctor.

"What should we do?" Phoebe asked.

"When she wakes, you must walk her about the room."

Drake moved toward the door, barely hearing what the doctor was saying because when he brushed against Wendover's cloak, the memory of another black cloak suddenly flashed in his mind. The inn? Nightham? Victoria? His mind whirled with unanswered questions. Had the man been at the inn the same time Victoria had been there? Had Wendover been involved in the murder? Or had Nightham plotted with this man? Had Wendover been blackmailing Victoria?

Drake's eyes narrowed. Or was he just going soft in the brain, trying to blame someone else for his foolishness in letting Victoria climb the tree?

"The fluid must not be allowed to build up," the doctor continued as he walked down the hall.

"Can I see her?" Drake finally asked, trying to control his overwhelming urge to flatten Wendover against the wall. Even if the man was innocent, there was still something about him ...

The doctor shook his head. "She needs her sleep. But when she wakes, keep her drinking hot liquids. Soup or broth is fine. Remember, not too much excitement."

"She will be fine, will she not, Doctor?" Wendover's words floated past Drake's ears as the two men finally took their leave.

Drake glared at the black cloak, deciding to bide his time. Of course, his reasoning was only pure conjecture, but something in his gut told him he was right about William's villain. Wendover was trouble.

As the days progressed, Drake was pleased to see that Victoria was recovering faster than anticipated. He made a few visits to see her, taking her for walks about the room while her abigail sat beside the bed. How could he ever have thought she was like Honoria?

He decided to hold his tongue about both Nightham and Wendover until she completely recovered. He was glad when his solicitor finally appeared at Percy Hall to fill in some parts of the puzzle.

Wilkins, a short, stout man dressed in a dark green jacket with pearl-coated buttons, made himself comfortable in the drawing room, sitting on the dowager's favorite chair, the fine art of needlepoint beneath him. A thick stack of papers rested on the rosewood tea table to the man's left.

Drake stood by the fireplace, stuffing his pocket watch back into place and shifting his gaze back to Wilkins. "You have some information that may interest me, then?"