A Murder in Time (60 page)

Once, twice, three times. Her ears rang from the blows and her vision blurred. She tried to twist away without letting go of the chain, her biceps trembling.

Kendra yelped as pain seared down her hip. Her eyes snapped down, and saw her dress turn crimson. Her gaze went to the knife Morland held. She'd forgotten about the damn knife.

Abruptly, she let go of the chain and rolled off him, staggering to her feet. Her side was a blaze of agony, but she never took her eyes off him. They were both breathing raggedly. The harsh sound filled the room along with the coppery scent of blood: Thomas's, Morland's,
hers
.

“Now who's not in their best looks?” she taunted even though the right side of her face felt swollen and sore from the beating. Her eyes darted to the table, which held the knives. They were closer to Morland. To get to them, she'd have to go through the bastard.

“I'm going to kill you!” Morland's voice was raspy from her attempt to crush his larynx. Bruises circled his throat. It gave her some satisfaction to know that she'd inflicted the same wounds on him that he'd given to countless women. She said nothing to his threat, conserving her energy.

Morland got to his feet, his gaze flat and cold. They eyed each other, two predators who understood the stakes. There could be only one victor—unless they killed each other.

Morland rushed forward, the knife held high in one hand. Kendra tensed, her attention focused on the blade. As he brought it arcing down toward her, she catapulted herself forward, grabbing his wrist and twisting sharply, the same classic policeman's maneuver that she'd used against Thomas in the forest.

Morland let out a cry and dropped the knife. But he was bigger, stronger, and smarter than Thomas. Instead of falling to his knees, he gave a punishing kick that knocked her sideways, loosening her grip. He twisted, striking her again, and they both fell in a tangled heap on the bed.

He rolled on top of her, pinioning her body beneath his. His eyes were wild as he brought his hands up to her throat, reversing their earlier position. Yellow dots swam in front of her eyes as his hands squeezed. But Kendra felt something sharp sticking into her side.

The hairpin.

Frantically, she swept the bed linens. It felt like forever, but it probably only took two seconds for her to find the slender wire and another second to grasp it. Then she brought her arm up and, with unerring accuracy fueled by desperation, she drove it into Morland's left eye.

He screamed, a high-pitched sound of agony, and let her go. His hands flew to his face. Kendra didn't wait; she brought her right hand up in a quick, powerful jab to the base of his eyebrows, and felt the gristle give way beneath the heel of her palm. She followed that with a one-two strike with her left hand, smashing his nose and punching upward, knowing that the bits of cartilage that she'd broke a second ago were now being forced up into his brain.

Morland made a strange gurgling sound. Kendra stared at the grotesque image above her. He hadn't managed to pull out the hairpin before her attack, and it now protruded horrifyingly from his blind eye. His entire face was covered in blood.

He swayed almost drunkenly. Then he toppled to the bed beside her.

Kendra's breath was coming out in such harsh gasps that she couldn't tell whether Morland was breathing or not. If he survived, he'd have brain damage, she was sure. He wouldn't be butchering any more women.

Slowly, painfully, she rolled away from him. She tried to stand, but her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor. She waited a minute, then managed to get to her hands and knees, shaking violently. She wondered if she could somehow crawl back to the castle, or if she'd die on the way.

70

The first thing that Alec saw when they ran into the cave was Gabriel's prone form. “My God, Gabriel . . .” He rushed over to his brother, and at first thought him dead. Then he realized that Gabriel's eyes were open, staring at him with awareness.

His gaze fell to Gabriel's bloody hands. His brother had balled up a handkerchief and was pressing it into his stomach, but the handkerchief was saturated, so dark it looked black.

“Morland . . .” Gabriel coughed lightly, and with a terrible sense of foreboding, Alec saw flecks of blood on his lips.

“Don't speak, Gabriel.”

“Morland . . .”

“We know. We know he's the monster.”

“T-thought I . . . thought I was the monster.”

Alec glanced around, and saw his shock reflected in the faces of the Duke, Sam, and Harcourt. He turned back to his brother. “You are no monster.”

“Morland . . . Miss Donovan . . . in t-the room . . .”

“Stay still, Gabe. We will help you.” As the Duke and Sam hunched down, Alec pushed himself to his feet. In the dim light, he saw a cut in the cavernous wall.
A hallway.
Pulling out the dueling pistol, he hurried over to it. He lifted the pistol, and pushed through the door.

The stench of blood hit him first. His eyes swept the room. Thomas was dead on the floor, a gaping wound across his throat, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Morland was lying on his back on a bed, his face dark with smeared blood, his nose flattened in an almost comical manner. And there was something . . . what the hell was sticking out of his eye?

“Jesus,” he breathed, as his eyes fell on Kendra Donovan. She was on her hands and knees, shivering uncontrollably and equally bloody.

Shoving the pistol back into his pocket, he rushed forward and lifted her into his arms. She let out a cry of pain. Her face was bruised, one eye swollen shut. But she was alive.

“Morland . . .”

“I know. He's the monster.”

She shook her head, and winced. “Is he . . . dead?”

Alec glanced over at the still figure on the bed. “I believe so. Good God. What the devil is in his eye?”

“Hairpin.” She allowed herself to curl against Alec's body. “I always knew those things could be lethal.”

71

Kendra woke sometime during the night, possibly the early hours of the morning. She wasn't sure; she'd lost track of time. Which was a hell of thing for a time traveler to admit, she supposed.

Vaguely she remembered being held and rocked. It had taken a couple of minutes for her to understand that she was being held in Alec's arms, on horseback. There were no ambulances or EMTs in the nineteenth century.

She'd passed out again, but came to as Dr. Munroe worked on her. She realized there were no anesthesiologists, either. When she'd moaned in pain, he'd spooned some liquid into her mouth that had knocked her out cold, which probably accounted for the vile taste in her mouth now. And the icepick headache—though that could've come from having the crap beaten out of her.

She opened her eyes. Or, rather, eye. The other was swollen shut. Her face felt monstrous, twice its normal size. Using only her good eye—and, Jesus, even that hurt—she took stock of where she was.

It was not, she realized, the bedchamber she'd shared with Rose. Above her was a shadowy canopy. Across from the bed was a Carrara marble fireplace. A low fire crackled in its hearth, a hazy glow. She could make out paintings, the gleam of wood, the dark shape of furniture. Her heart constricted in fear when one of those shapes rose. She let out a little moan of terror, her whole body tensing for attack.

“Sh-sh, sweetheart.” She recognized Alec's voice. He approached the bed and touched her hand, a featherlight caress. “You are safe, Kendra. Morland is dead.”

“It's over?”

“Yes. Go to sleep. You must rest.”

Kendra closed her eye. She doubted whether she would sleep, but next time she awoke, it was morning. A maid was bent over a nearby table, her back to her.

“Molly.” Her voice was so low and raspy that she was surprised that the tweeny even heard her.

Molly spun around and hurried over to the bed, where she burst into tears. “Oh, miss!” She attempted to mop up the flood with her apron. “Ye 'ad us ever so worried!”

“I'm fine. Just bruised . . .” She tried to sit up, and pain sizzled down her side.
Oh, yeah, and stabbed.

“'Ere now, let me 'elp ye.” Molly plumped up the pillows and gently placed them behind her so she was at least half-sitting. “Oi'm ter let 'is Grace know as soon as ye woke up.”

She hurried out of the room. Ten minutes later, the door opened again, but it was Dr. Munroe who came in. He set his black bag on the bed, studying her gravely through his Harry Potter glasses. “Well, Miss Donovan. It's been a while since I've had a subject who was still breathing. You were fortunate. The knife missed vital organs. You shall have a scar.” The dark eyes turned speculative. “Of course, it shan't trouble you any more than your others.”

Kendra knew he was waiting for some sort of explanation. Since she couldn't give him one, she said nothing.

“You are an enigma, Miss Donovan.”

“I guess I have you to thank that I'm an
alive
enigma.”

He smiled. “Yes, well, let's make certain you stay that way. I need to inspect your wounds. We wouldn't want infection to set in.”

Kendra shuddered. Even in the twenty-first century, infection was the predominant worry in hospitals. So-called superbugs could be more deadly than the illness that brought the person into the hospital. She didn't want to consider what could happen if she got an infection here.

Munroe might work as an M.E. but he knew how to deal with the living. He was both gentle and thorough in his examination.

Afterward Kendra sank back against the pillows, exhausted. “So what's the verdict, Doc?”

“I do believe you shall live, Miss Donovan.”

He was putting his instruments into his bag when the door flew open and Rebecca ran into the room in a swirl of lemon-colored skirts. Ignoring the doctor, she rushed over to grab Kendra's hand, and like Molly, burst into tears.

“You're the second person who started crying after looking at my face. I'm going to get a complex.”

“Pardon me!” Rebecca blotted her tears with a lacy handkerchief.

“Miss Donovan shall recover, your Ladyship.”

“Yes. Thank you, Dr. Munroe. It is only . . . dear heaven, Miss Donovan. You look simply
awful
!”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“Oh. You know what I
mean
.”

“Never fear, Lady Rebecca,” Munroe assured her. “The inflammation ought to subside in a few days. The bruising will take longer, though I shall have a poultice brought up to help with both matters. It should be applied three times a day.” He gave Kendra a long look. “I shall return later, Miss Donovan. Do not exert yourself.”

Rebecca sat on the bed. “Can I get you anything, Miss Donovan?”

“A glass of water?”

She popped off the bed, and hurried over to the table that held a glass and carafe. A moment later, she returned, handing Kendra the glass. “I simply cannot believe what has transpired,” she admitted. “Mr. Morland was the monster . . . and Thomas. And poor Gabriel . . .”

“Gabriel?”

“Oh.” Her eyes slid away. “I am uncertain—”

“Tell me what happened to Gabriel.”

Rebecca's eyes filled with tears again. “He was a member of that horrid club Mr. Morland founded. A vile, blasphemous club in the cave where you were held, where he—Morland—brought the other girls.” She shivered. “Gabriel had no notion—none of the men involved had any notion what Morland was about, you understand. 'Twas similar to Sir Francis Dashwood's secret society. Are you familiar with the Hell Fire Club? As an American—”

“I know of it. Benjamin Franklin was rumored to be a member.”

Dashwood had created the Hell Fire Club to mock the Catholic Church, Kendra recalled. He'd even purchased a medieval abbey for the club's activities, but when that had become too well known, he'd moved his group to his West Wycombe estate, where he had utilized its network of caves. There, the club members were reputed to have been involved in all sorts of drunken debauchery with prostitutes. The debauchery supposedly extended beyond sex into Satanism.

“I'd forgotten,” Rebecca murmured. “It caused quite a scandal at the time, and several gentlemen—including the baron—were ostracized from society. Morland thought to re-create this abomination, and lured bored young bucks to participate.”

“Gabriel.”

“Yes. Gabriel.” Rebecca let out a sigh. “He was troubled. More than anyone suspected.”

“Ripe for the picking.”

“I do not understand the whole of it. He . . . apparently, he had difficulty remembering events, details—”

“Blackouts caused by his alcoholism.”

“Yes, his drinking was to blame. He wasn't entirely certain if he'd murdered the first soiled dove.” She frowned. “I do not understand what exactly made him realize that he had not murdered her, but he
did
realize it. When you went missing, he knew where the caves were and went to find Thomas.” Rebecca shuddered suddenly. “Thomas and Mr. Morland—they were partners in this madness.”

Yes and no
, Kendra thought. Partners implied equality. She remembered how Morland had brutally slit Thomas's throat.

“Thomas was a puppet.” She dropped her eyes to the glass of water she held. “My profile never included two men. I should have factored that in.”

“Would it have mattered so very much if you had considered it? Would we have uncovered these madmen any quicker?”

“I don't know.”

“Partner or puppet, Thomas was as much a monster as Mr. Morland.” Rebecca gave another shudder. “Sutcliffe said that they found hair from the victims in his possession, and paintings of the young girls. Terrible paintings.
Evil.
The Duke ordered them burned.”

Kendra considered that. The Duke could destroy the paintings, but she knew it wouldn't be the end of such evil. In another hundred years, in 1920s Germany, there'd be an artistic movement called
Lustmord
—sexual murder. Artists would be celebrated for painting female sexual mutilations and death. Thomas had simply been ahead of his time.