Forget Me Not (31 page)

Brian abandoned caution and opened every door between the library and the orangery. If Lydia was hidden in any of the twenty-six rooms and broom closets between he would find her. At door thirteen—he should have known not to open such an unlucky number—he found a couple in a rather compromising position on a coffee table. Damn, but this weather had everyone acting like fools. “Er, uh, excuse me,” he muttered, not looking at their faces; some things he just didn’t need to know.

The sweet scent of the orangery wafted across Brian’s nostrils even before he reached the door. His hand fell to the handle and he threw a silent prayer heavenward,
please, Lord, let her be in here... without Northbridge.
Heart in his throat he peered through the glass window beside the door.

Row upon row of blooming roses and flowering fruit trees met his gaze. The atmosphere enveloping the orangery was perfectly serene, almost dreamlike; he understood why Lydia loved it here. Relief spiraled down upon him as his very prayer was answered. A goddess, Lydia stood
alone in a pool of perfect roses. A consortium of multicolored pedals kissed the glow of her skin and the honey-gold glow of her eyes. A small smile lit the curve of her flawlessly pink mouth, and her fingers gently feathered the silken pedals of a pale flower.
Perhaps a
Forget-me-not
?
  The array of pristinely arranged foliage unfolded endlessly behind Lydia but Brian could not take his eyes off of
her.
In that moment all uncertainty faded, his hand fell to the door handle and he prepared to take the first step toward the rest of his life.

Footsteps sounded behind him. He turned, expecting to see Mrs. Hayes come to tell him Lydia was not in her room, and froze in utter shock as the tall, ungainly form of Northbridge stopped before him. Damn it!  If anything was going to ruin this moment it would be the presence of Lydia’s fiancé. Christ!  Could the two be meeting in the orangery?  Bile rose in Brian’s throat at the mere thought. In any case he could hardly profess his love for Lydia and demand she marry him in the presence of the man she was betrothed to. Northbridge would fly into a rage… notify Sir William… Sir William would then make good on his threat to put Brian in a pine box…  Lydia and Brandon would be left to the general’s selfish schemes…  He stared dumbly into the viscount’s dark eyes, hoping the other man would speak first.

Northbridge stared back at him, an unreadable expression adorning his ever ruddy face. “I’ve been waiting for you Donnelly. I know why you’re here.”

Something in the viscount’s voice set every hair on the back of his neck straight on end. Uncomfortable, Brian glanced down the deserted hallway, debating his quandary. Pain exploded in Brian’s skull as a swift blow to the back of the head sent him to his knees. The world spiraled in a dizzying array of pin prick flashing lights, the display was absolutely nauseating.

“I overheard you and Sir William arguing, and I’ll not let a stable hand and that scheming runaway bitch destroy everything I’ve worked for,”  Northbridge sneered. “If this location were a bit more discreet I would kill you here and now. No matter.”  The viscount raised a heavy plank high above his head. “Your old friend Jonathan Roark will be along shortly to see that you’re taken care of. Enjoy Hell, Donnelly, and not to worry, your little Lydia will follow you shortly.”

“No,” he gasped. Holding his head in both hands Brian tried to rise, to defend himself—defend Lydia—but he did not even make it to his knees before a second blow to the temple laid
him flat.
Lydia!
Valiantly he tried to cry out to her, but the blackness closing in made any movement, sound or action impossible.

In that moment his life began and ended all at once. Everything he and Lydia could have been together… as one… flashed before his eyes. There lived a single moment where he knew no fear or loneliness, was truly liberated in his heart and soul, and in the next… it shattered. Lydia was gone.

Chapter Seventeen

“My lord, why are you doing this?”

The Viscount sneered condescendingly as he dragged Lydia toward the back door of the orangery. “I owe a great deal of money, my sweet, which is precisely why I agreed to a betrothal with a chit of your class. This afternoon I heard Donnelly and your father in the drawing room. I cannot afford to take the chance you’ll run off again.”

Lydia was too stunned even to scream as he pulled her through the door and into the blustery afternoon storm. The day was near as dark as the night. “H-how do you know about that?  Did Brian say something to my father?”  Lydia slipped in the rain soaked grass, but Northbridge continued dragging her bodily by the left arm into the yard.

“I’ve no doubt you and Donnelly were scheming all through Cumberland,” the viscount’s voice was barely audible over the din of rain and thunder. “That lowborn son of a bitch actually had the gall to request your hand.”

“He asked to marry me?” Lydia murmured breathlessly. She grinned—absurd seeing as she was being abducted and
dragged
through a raging thunderstorm—but just the same she smiled from ear to ear, tasting the rain as it coursed down her face and into her open mouth. For a single instant all fear diminished and for half a beat her heart swelled with the knowledge that Brian loved her.

The viscount wrenched her arm, cruelly indicating for her to pick up the pace. “Yes, he asked to marry you, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. He’ll be dead within the hour if he hasn’t been finished already. Roark should be carrying out my implicit orders to carry him from the grounds as we speak. Nothing will go wrong this time around. Nothing.”  Northbridge’s jaw set in a hard line. “I had hoped to have your sizeable dowry, and then inherit your father’s vast stores when he was killed on our wedding night, but you went and botched that.”

Lydia’s heart nearly stopped as the fleeting moment of bliss was doused with the fear Brian may already be lost to her. “I-I don’t understand. I thought you could pay off the debts with my inheritance after we wed?”

“Ha!  Your money would only serve to pay my creditors by half. Keith was hired to do your father in after we were married, but someone moved early and bungled the entire thing. When you disappeared the night before the wedding I feared your dowry and the subsequent inheritance from your father’s demise would be lost to me. It wasn’t until after you returned to the abbey I learned that Keith had double crossed me to save his own skin.”

Lydia’s mind spun as the night of her kidnapping swept fresh through her mind.
I warned you, Lucas MacGregor. No one crosses me. My instructions were implicit. You were not to make a move until after tomorrow night.
Keith’s voice rang with resounding clarity through her mind as the intricacies of the murder she’d witnessed coincided with the viscount’s plans. “Felix Keith killed Lucas MacGregor because he tried to murder my father too early,” Lydia murmured. “I saw him do it so in order to save himself Felix ordered his men to take me away, to kill me, even though it went against your plans. If he had succeeded you would have been left penniless.”

“Very astute, Miss Covington. I am impressed, but then you always were a bit too intelligent for my tastes. Women should be silent and obedient like dogs and horses.”

Bile welled in Lydia’s throat, she resisted the urge to spout epithets at the disparaging comment.
Dogs. How insulting
.

She blinked the heavy torrents of rainwater from her eyes, trying to grasp just what was going on. She’d managed to evade Lord Northbridge’s advances in the library and run to the orangery to hide. To no avail, he’d found her just a few minutes later. It was painfully obvious Northbridge had something sinister planned, but she was yet to understand his plans or reasoning. At present he was dragging her toward the carriage house behind the stables. Would he take her from the premises?  There would be no hope of her father or anyone finding her if he whisked her from Wheaton Abbey, worse no one would know to help Brian. The crashing of the rain left little hope that any would hear if she screamed but she had to try.

“Help me!  Someone please, help!”

“Shut up!  Just keep your damned mouth closed.”  The viscount swung menacingly around a threatening fist poised directly above her face.

Defiantly she glared back up at him. In an attempt to further thwart him she flopped to her knees, pretending to flounder in the sopping grass. The raised fist slammed into her jaw with crippling force. She fell limp into the lawn. Chilling rain soaked through the layers of her clothing and her head swam sickeningly from the force of the blow.

“Get up,” he ordered. When she did not immediately comply he grasped beneath her upper arms and yanked, planting her on her feet. “Stop this foolishness and I promise this will be far less painful for you.”

“What will be less painful?” She whimpered, wishing her voice sounded stronger. “I don’t understand any of this. Where are you taking me?”

“Why to be married of course.”  He sighed irritably as though the point was extremely obvious.

“What?  Married?” Lydia shrieked, jerking against the cruel vice imprisoning her arm. “I’ll certainly not marry you now!”

A cruel laugh escaped the viscount’s twisted lips. “It doesn’t matter if you speak the vows, Miss Covington. I know a parson near as desperate as I. He will sign the marriage documents, you will mysteriously disappear, and your fortune will be mine regardless. If you decide to cooperate and make the marriage legal it may buy you a little extra time.”

“You’re mad!” she spat incredulously. “How does hurting me or telling me any of this help you gain funds?  My father will never hand over a dowry if he is not present for the vows, especially if I disappear or am harmed in anyway. You will never get away with this. My father—”

“—Your father,
your father
, oh, pish posh. Your father will be dead within hours of your demise. Sir William will never have the opportunity to question our marriage much less your subsequent death. As will your prattling stepmother, and that horse trainer you’re so fond of. A political assassination, my dear. It seems a disgruntled follower took it upon himself to slay Sir
William and his family before the next election.
Your Brian Donnelly should suffice quite well in the role of assassin.”

Cold horror shook her to the core. “No.”

“Yes, my dear.” The viscount chuckled with a superior leer. “Unfortunately for you, I have thought of everything. Any who could speak against me will be dead by this eve’s end, our marriage will be officially, and unquestionably, documented, and I will be sole inheritor of Sir William’s fortune, investments and vast properties.”

“No,” she breathed again. “There is another way. There must be. Allow me to speak with my father. I will say nothing of these plans, he will give you the money, as much as you want, I swear to it, and I will leave this place and never bother you again.”

A bark of ironic laughter escaped the viscount. “Please, Lydia. Do you really think Sir William, General and hero of His Majesties service would give up any amount of funds as a result of coercion or without a just gain?  Nay. This is the only way. The best way for me. No loose ends and no more incompetent fools like MacGregor or Keith to ruin everything.”

It occurred to Lydia that everything could use a little ruining. “Why do you trust Jonathan Roark to do your bidding after he had a part in foiling your last plot?” She searched desperately for any manner of flustering the madman.

“Roark took his orders from Keith. None of Felix’s men knew I was the backer.”  The viscount brushed her point aside with what she hoped would prove a reckless nonchalance. “Jonathan Roark now takes his orders from me alone.”

Dread licked Lydia’s spine. The carriage house closed rapidly in on them and not another soul was visible. Of all the days to have a storm worthy of forgoing all outside work, it had to be today. The viscount shouldered through the wooden door, pulling her into the dimly lit interior of the dusty carriage house. A large bay was hitched to a small covered curricle. It appeared the viscount planned to drive them to their destination all on his own. The man was proving considerably more capable and intelligent than she’d ever given him credit for.

“Get in,” Northbridge demanded.

Lydia balked. “Never.”

“Move now you impossible little chit.”  He twisted her arm behind her back until she cried out, forcing her to walk toward the carriage.

She swallowed back a surge of fear. “You will never get away with this. One of your trusted lackeys will make a mistake and foil this plan the same as the last. You may even hang,
my lord.
At the very least you’ll be stripped of your title. How will a man of your breeding and tastes fare in prison?”

“Bitch!”  The back of Northbridge’s handmade sharp contact with the side of her face.

“Oh!”  Tears stung her eyes as she stumbled forward, pressing a free hand to her tingling cheek, it was sure to bruise. She had not wanted to cry out, hadn’t wanted him to see weakness of any kind, but the brutality of his touch and intentions was proving more than she could handle.

“Listen carefully, Miss Covington.” He tilted his head from one side to the other until a vein in his neck popped. “I will only ask you to get into the carriage nicely one more time. Do not try my patience.”  He faced her, the glowering razor sharp glint in his eyes sending shivers across her flesh.

The silent warning to keep her mouth shut, not to test him further was implicit, but she was unable to resist a final shot. “
That
was asking nicely?”

His face distorted in a vise of bitter rage. “You little bitch!”  He shook her upper body so forcibly her teeth clanked together. “I’ll kill you.”  His hands slid from her upper arms to her throat. “I will kill you here and now. I don’t need you for any of this!  The parson will sign the marriage documents with or without your presence.”  Slowly he began to squeeze. “I’d thought to wrap up this entire affair as cleanly as possible, kill everyone away from the Abbey to prevent a mess and then stage it all later for the magistrate.”

Fear unlike she’d ever known descended upon Lydia, a sense of doom so acute she could actually feel the breath of death’s angel whispering down her neck. Pain seared her throat as the viscount’s grip tightened with his growing fury. His eyes blazed with evil.
I am about to die
, the certainty whisked through her mind, rooting in the depths of her soul. Pure panic spiked, driving
her to action. She yanked at her attacker’s wrists, yearning for even a whisper of breath, but to no avail. Her lungs burned. Her knees grew weak, and blackness rippled at the edges of her vision, closing in. For a fleeting moment the pain, fear, and uncertainty of death became so intense she lost all ability to fight or rationalize. Her hands fell limp from his wrists, and her legs gave out. She sank to the floor supported only by Northbridge’s grasp around her neck.

But suddenly the fear was not so bad… her senses seemed blunted, almost blissful… and then she was floating. Floating away from the pain and burning… rising high above the anguish of death…  Nothing was left to fear. She felt warm and fuzzy and perfectly content.

*
             
*
             
*

“Is he alive?”

“Of course he’s alive, he’s breathing.”

Familiar voices invaded Brian’s throbbing skull.
Mrs. Hayes, Brandon… Oh, Christ, Sir William… Was that Molly as well?
  All he wanted was to slip back into blissful black oblivion he’d been roused from. What the hell had happened?  The last thing he remembered was Lydia standing in a sea of multicolored roses, beautiful as the day is long and brilliant as the sun. He’d been about to propose, but—

Abruptly he jerked upward, instantly regretting the quick movement. “Ugh, Christ in heaven,” he muttered. He tried to touch a hand to his searing temple but found his hands securely bound behind his back. Thick twine lashed his ankles as well.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sir William sliced a sharp blade through the knots at Brian’s wrists and feet.

The heavy lines fell away and Brian sat, closing his eyes against the sickening spin of the world around him. His fingers lightly feathered the side of his head and came away sticky with blood. “Lydia.” He struggled to get a leg beneath him.

“I warned you about her, Donnelly.”  Sir William dropped to a knee beside him, the knife blade less than an inch from his nose. “Now, I’ll ask again, what happened to you, and I’d better like the answer.”

“Northbridge,” Brian mumbled, desperately trying to make sense of his thoughts and words, “is going to kill her.”

“What?”  Four incredulous voices echoed in tandem.

“I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I’m near certain the viscount is Keith’s employer. The viscount also said he was sending Jonathan Roark to finish me off.”  At long last Brian managed to still his swirling vision and focused on the stunned faces of Sir William, Mrs. Hayes, Olivia and Brandon. Murderous anguish lashed the general’s face. Brian prayed it was no longer aimed at him. “Help me up. There is no time to lose.”

Sir William slid an arm around his waist to comply. “Donnelly, you’re in no condition to fight. Stay here, and I’ll get a few trusted men to handle this with me.”