Julia London (22 page)

Abbey shifted uncomfortably in his arms as she recalled the day she had received the violin. Her father had told her it was Michael’s Yuletide present to her. “Yes,” she said softly, hoping he would change the subject.

He did not.

“It’s unusual. Most young girls learn the pianoforte, don’t they? How did you decide on the violin?”

“It was a gift,” she said simply.

“From your father?”

Abbey hesitated. She was so awful at lying about anything. Her aunt had complained time and again that she was too straightforward for her own good.
You are as open as a book, girl. I can take one look at you and know what you are thinking, and if there is any doubt, you will tell me straightaway
, she had said. Abbey couldn’t help it, and in that moment decided the best way to handle the horrible, cruel lie her father had perpetuated at every moment of her life was to make light of the whole thing.

“Actually, it was from you,” she said nonchalantly, and felt him tense. “Papa said you wanted me to learn to play, and at the time, well, I simply
pined
for you, so I was happy to learn it. Do you remember when we were aboard the
Dancing Maiden
? I thought you were the most handsome man in the world. You know how little girls are,” she said, then laughed lightly in an effort to demonstrate that it was a little girl’s fancy, nothing more.

Michael was stunned. He recalled Sam saying that Carrington had given her gifts ostensibly from him, but he had not believed it. “You learned to play for me?” he asked hesitantly.

“I suppose you could say that, but I think it was the
only
way to get a headstrong, uncivilized little girl to play anything,
if you ask me. I’m sure that’s why Papa did what he did,” she said dismissively. She suddenly sat up and stretched her arms above her head.

Michael stared at her svelte back. “What else?” he asked cautiously.

“Pardon?”

“Did you father give you anything else … from me?” Abbey’s laugh sounded forced.

“Oh, I think a pair of earrings once,” she said casually, and came gracefully to her feet without looking at him. “Nothing spectacular—just some amethysts,” she said airily and strolled into the meadow. Michael clenched his jaw as he watched her glide across the tall yellow grass. She was speaking of the amethyst earrings that so complimented her eyes, he thought angrily. She had worn them every day, but he had not seen her wear them since … since she had learned of her father’s deception. He could not help feeling angry. Whatever had possessed Carrington to trick him was one thing, but his deception of Abbey bordered on vile.

He stood up and grabbed his coat. He angrily brushed the grass from it, then shrugged into it as he watched Abbey stroll toward Desdemona from the corner of his eye. He turned to see where Samson had gotten off to when a shot rang out.

Michael whirled toward the sound, crouching low as he pulled a pistol from his boot. Desdemona, for all her laziness, bolted like a young colt at the sound and collided with Samson, who bolted after the nag. Abbey stood frozen in the meadow, peering curiously toward the woods from where the shot had been fired. Panic swelled in Michael when she started to move in the direction of the shot.

He sprang to his feet and ran, hurling himself at her. He managed to avoid crushing her, but felt a slash of pain across his chest when they struck the earth. Ignoring it, he scrambled on top of her, covering her body with his while he searched the tree line. They were out in the middle of the blasted meadow, with no cover or protection. Michael jerked around and spotted a large rock boulder protruding from the
ground across the meadow. Beneath him, Abbey was struggling to rise, but he held her down.

“Abbey, when I tell you, you will run like the wind to that rock and get down behind it,” he said. Abbey nodded. Michael slowly slid off her back and trained his pistol on the wooded area. “
Now
,” he said gruffly, and Abbey scrambled to her feet and ran.

She was crouching behind the rock and peering toward the tree line when Michael dove in next to her. “What happened?” she asked as she tried to catch her breath.

Michael did not answer as he carefully scanned their surroundings. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. He turned to look at her. Her expression scared him; gaping at his chest, her eyes were wide and the color had drained from her face. Bewildered, Michael looked down. A dark stain had appeared on his shirt and was spreading.

“Oh, God! Oh, my God! Michael, you’ve been shot!”
She shrieked and threw herself on him. Startled, Michael fell backward as Abbey frantically sought the wound. He caught her face in his hands and forced her to look at him.

“Abbey, it’s all right, it’s all right, I have not been shot,” he cooed in a vain attempt to soothe her. She jerked her face from his hands and frantically searched him, her hands fluttering across his body and probing for the wound. Michael grabbed her hands. Through clenched teeth, he reassured her. “I’m all right. I must have landed on a rock,” he said, and struggled to sit up. He had to dump her off his chest to do it; she landed in a heap next to him. He gingerly inspected his chest. A long, deep gash just under his clavicle was the source of the blood. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the wound.

“A cut, all right, and a good one at that,” he remarked as he looked around for the horses. Samson had come to halt at the far end of the meadow. Desdemona was nowhere to be seen, and Michael guessed the nag was waddling as fast as she could for the safety of her stable. He sighed and looked at Abbey, who was intently studying his gash.

“It’s very deep,” she said, a worried frown wrinkling her brow.

“Yes, I think it is. Apparently we find ourselves in a predicament, Lady Darfield. Desdemona is long gone, and Samson is across the meadow. You’ll have to make a dash for him and ride to the house. You can do it,” he added hurriedly as she began to shake her head.

“No!” Abbey cried immediately, shaking her head so violently that wisps of satin hair swirled about her. “No, no, no! You are seriously hurt, and I’m not leaving you!”

Michael glanced up at the darkening sky. A storm was fast approaching from the west. He grimaced; there was no time to argue with her, especially if their assailant was still training a gunsight on them. “We will both go, then,” he said as he struggled to a squatting position. She started to leap to her feet, but Michael caught her wrist.

“Pay attention to me, Abbey. On my mark, run for Samson.” Abbey nodded gravely, and Michael cocked the pistol he was holding.

“Go.” Abbey picked up her skirts and ran. Michael was close behind her, his gun trained on the tree line. She ran like lightning until she collapsed against Samson’s neck. Michael, fast losing blood, could hardly keep up with her. He had to admire her; for a woman who had just been shot at, Abbey was behaving remarkably well. He would have expected her to fall into a fit of hysteria. He glanced up at the sky. The storm was moving in quickly; the temperature had dropped dramatically since the shot was fired.

“Please hurry. The storm is almost upon us,” Abbey said, having reached the same conclusion, and held out her hand to him. With chagrin, Michael realized he was light-headed. He glanced down at the small, turquoise jacket she had stuffed into his waistcoat and swallowed. It was soaked in blood.

“Give me your leg,” he said to Abbey, and pushed her up onto Samson’s back. With what strength he had left, he clumsily scrambled up behind her, and sent Samson galloping toward Blessing Park.

In blinding sheets of rain, Samson made his way home without help from either rider. Abbey gripped the saddle horn as Michael’s weight sagged against her. Half afraid he was dead, she was too frightened to look at him and kept her eyes glued to the path in front of them. When at last the horse entered the long, circular drive, Abbey shouted to a groom coming from the stable.

“He’s been seriously hurt!” She shrieked as she slid awkwardly from Samson. The groom caught Michael and helped him to the ground. Abbey gasped with fear when she saw him; his dark curls were plastered to his ashen face. He attempted a weak smile for her benefit, but she whirled toward the house and ran, screaming for Sebastian as she crashed through the front door. Sebastian, and Sam, who had stayed on after Routier and Southerland departed, heard her screams and bolted from the front drawing room, meeting her halfway down the corridor.

“It’s Michael!” she cried. “He’s been hurt! Someone shot at us, and he fell …” Sam was already striding swiftly down the corridor, ordering Sebastian to send for a physician right away. Sebastian dragged a dazed Abbey into the drawing room, where he yanked frantically on the bell cord several times. Jones appeared almost instantaneously, and with one look at Abbey, soaked to the bone and a look of horror on her face, he barked at a footman to fetch Sarah. Abbey pushed past the stalwart butler and ran to the foyer in time to see Sam dragging Michael through the door and Sebastian rushing to help them up the stairs.

Shocked, Abbey watched them struggle up the marble stairs with Michael hanging limply between them. It was not until Sarah firmly grabbed her elbow that Abbey allowed herself to be led to her chamber.

Sam had assured her Michael was in no danger of dying. Sarah had persuaded her to bathe and change, and except for
that one diversion, she had paced her sitting room, where Sam had banished her while the physician attended to Michael’s wound. When she heard a door close down the hall, she rushed into the corridor and accosted the physician as he made his way to the stairs.

“How is he? Is he all right?” she asked desperately.

The elderly doctor peered at Abbey over his round spectacles. “Allow me to present the Marchioness of Darfield, Dr. Stephens,” Sam mumbled.

“When did Darfield take a wife?” he demanded.

“A few weeks ago,” Sam muttered uncomfortably.

The physician frowned as he perused Abbey from the crown of her hair to the hem of her skirt, then glanced disdainfully at her wringing hands. “Stop your pouting, young lady—I’ve sewn him up and he shall be good as new on the morrow,” he commanded gruffly.

“You’re quite sure?”

“Certainly I am!” he barked.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Abbey sighed, relief evident on her face, and disappeared into her sitting room.

“What the hell is Darfield doing with a wife?” Dr. Stephens demanded again of Sam. “I’ve not heard a word of it.”

“It’s rather a long story, Doctor. I will save it for Lord Darfield to tell you,” Sam said as he showed the doctor out.

Sam immediately returned to the master chamber and strolled in, ignoring Michael’s annoyed glare from his bed, where he lay propped against a mountain of pillows.

“I was not jesting, Sam. I am not going to lie here like some infirm old man,” he barked.

Sam settled into an armchair of soft suede and stretched his legs onto the matching ottoman, crossing them at the ankles. “You lost a good amount of blood. The least you can do is lie there until the morning and replenish the black stuff that runs in your veins. If you don’t, you’ll scare the staff half to death. Some of them already believe you are not quite human.”

Michael grumbled irritably.

“Now that we are alone, what the hell happened?” Sam asked.

Michael exhaled loudly and shook his head. “I don’t know, other than someone fired at us. She was standing in the open, in the meadow, and I was near a lone oak. We were in the bloody open, and I knocked her to the ground. Must have sliced my chest on a rock.”

“Do you think it was poachers?”

Michael quickly shook his head. “No. We were in a meadow—not any large game there. It may have been a trespasser, but I think not. We were too deep within the estate.”

Sam was clearly startled. “But who in the devil would want to harm you?”

“I don’t know if the shot was fired at me or her. I am sure Carrington made some enemies along the way, but I can’t think of what anyone would hope to gain from her death.”

“He probably added some strange codicil to that blasted will of his,” Sam muttered angrily.

“He may have, but that doesn’t make any sense now that she’s married. Her fortune belongs to me; in fact, I have put it in trust.”

“But it cannot be widely known she is married, or that she is here,” Sam speculated. “If someone were after her money and thought she was the orphaned daughter and sole survivor to the Carrington fortune, that might explain an attempt on her life. If money is owed and stipulated in the will, I suppose one would have an easier time collecting through the courts if there were no survivors.”

Michael moved his arm and grimaced at the pain. “If that is true, then I should let it be known widely that I have married her. Can you get a notice to the
Times
?”

“Of course, but still, it makes no sense. Who besides your staff would have known you were riding today? It’s not likely someone could stake out the whole of Blessing Park and happen to have been there this afternoon. Whoever it was had to know where you were going.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed as he considered Sam’s remark. “Abbey doesn’t know how to ride. I had her on that damned nag Desdemona. If someone had been following her, they could have easily skirted around and waited ahead—it took us
more than an hour to go a distance of only a few miles. However, I can’t believe it was anyone in my employ—they all adore her.”

“Then who?” Sam asked, bewildered.

“In addition to the locals, my solicitors, you, and Southerland, there is only one other who knows she is here …”

Sam’s eyes narrowed and he nodded. “Routier. I was rather surprised to see him with Southerland in Pemberheath.”

“Quite by accident, Alex assured me. Routier was on his way here to collect on the settlement of Carrington’s estate.”

“Indeed?” Sam frowned and pressed his fingertips together. Malcolm Routier was a ruthless rake and unsavory businessman. Long ago he and Michael had usurped Routier’s supposed trade routes. It had been too easy. Routier had not really fought it, which led them to suspect Routier made his money from pirating, and not the legitimate trade he would have everyone believe. When Michael had threatened to expose his scheme, Routier had done his best to shame Michael by spreading vile rumors about the Devil of Darfield. And then, purely by chance, Routier had had the singular misfortune of falling in love with Michael’s sister, Mariah. Michael had, of course, refused his offer. Humiliated, Routier had vowed in private circles to see Michael brought down, a threat at which Michael had laughed openly.