Kiss the Earl (31 page)

Amelia's face crumpled. “I crept from my house this morning, intending to go to George and enlist his help in stopping this foolish duel between you and Father. I greatly regret involving you in this, Patrick.”

He resisted the urge to shake her, but only just. “Continue.”

“When I arrived at George's, I saw a wagon leaving his home. A woman was in the back of it, and she was screaming at George. She said that you were going to die, and it was all his fault.” A fat tear rolled down Amelia's angry-red cheek. “I ran to George and made him tell me what had happened. It was Ella. She had come to George for help, but she was dressed so poorly, and told him such outlandish, unbelievable tales that he believed her to be insane. He felt he had no choice but to have her taken to the magistrate's. He ran down the street and found these men who said they could help, and they have taken her to the madhouse. He did not know she was your wife, Patrick, you must believe that. He had no intention of harming—”

“Well, he did harm,” Patrick snarled. “That is my wife, Amelia! She is all that is good and kind in this world, and I love her more than my own life.” He closed the distance between them, leaning down until he was nose-to-nose with Amelia. “And if one hair on her head is harmed, I will come for your vicar, and I will show him what hell truly looks like. Do you understand me?”

Amelia nodded slowly.

“Good.” Dragging in a deep breath, he willed himself to calm. “Which asylum did they take her to?”

“Traywick's. George did not know, Patrick.”

At Amelia's soft-voiced response, Patrick clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked. Of all the madhouses in London, not even Bedlam had a worse reputation. Traywick's was more a prison than an asylum. The owner, a bastard son of a marquess, hated the peerage and took every opportunity to separate them from their coin. But the villain had powerful ties that kept him, and his black deeds, far from those who would punish him.

Patrick stepped back and mounted Argonaut in a single movement. “Iain, please convey my regrets to the baron. I will be unable to keep our appointment this morning.”

Iain nodded but frowned. “You know what that will mean, Patrick. Everyone will call you a coward.”

Patrick sent a glance Amelia's way, and she shook her head.

“I've been selfish. Do not worry about me.”

Laying the rein across Argonaut's neck, Patrick turned. “There is no help for it. Let them call me what they like. Nothing matters but her, and she suffers every moment I delay.”

With a brisk kick to Argonaut's sides, Patrick rode through the streets, his heart pounding hard against his ribs.
Traywick's
. The very name caused his innards to curdle. His Ella trapped in a madhouse, and all because she'd stopped at nothing to save him.

As he thundered toward her, Patrick made up his mind. If he were ever to hold her again, he would never, ever let her go.

Nothing mattered but her. And he'd be damned if he let anything else happen to her.

Since she'd been transported to the past, Ella had been scared a few times—when she'd realized she was alone with no way to get home. When she'd thought she might die from that awful infection. When she was sure that Patrick would never love her. But now, as she was dragged roughly from the wagon and brought to the back door of a dark, forbidding-looking building, she knew true, bone-deep terror.

Traywick's Home for Madmen
the sign by the door proclaimed. She tripped over the bottom step, and the guy on her left jerked her roughly.

“Watch it there, missy,” he growled. The other man rang the bell, and as the trio waited in the early dawn light, Ella closed her eyes and prayed. Not for herself, although she really needed it at this point, but for Patrick. The sun was creeping higher, and he was more than likely facing Lord Brownstone right now. He'd hate himself if he won, but if he lost, then so did she. No matter if she was stuck in this asylum or not.

The door creaked open ominously, startling Ella so much that she jumped, which irritated her captors. The shorter one gave her a vicious kick in the leg, and she cursed.

“Got a new one for ya, guvnor.” The tall one laughed as he shoved Ella forward. “Look at this dirty little dove. Calls herself a countess, she does.”

“Hhhmph,” the warden said. Ella tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry as she looked up at the man standing in the doorway. He was broad as a Ford pickup, with fat lips and a receding hairline that he'd tried to cover with a stringy, greasy comb-over. His shirt strained to cover his broad shoulders and broader belly. He brought one ham-sized hand up to grab Ella's chin, squeezing tighter when she tried to jerk away.

“Pretty one too. Best put her in the basement, or the jealous witches will tear her hair out.” Giving a cruel laugh, he let go.

“Please, I'm not crazy. That vicar was wrong.”

All three men burst out laughing.

“I'm serious, he was mistaken about me. I'm not insane, and I'm married to Patrick Meadowfair, the Earl of Fairhaven. Please, he's going to be really mad when he sees…”

“That you're mad?” The warden wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. “Ah yes, I can see why you are here. Strange accent, too. Or is that an affectation of the upper classes?” He winked at the other two men. “No matter if she's a countess or not, so long as her family pays good coin. Bring her in, and I'll get her sorted.”

“No, please!”

Ella's pleas and curses fell on deaf ears. They dragged her in, because she fought them all the way, kicking and flailing and even biting one of them when they clamped a hand over her mouth. She regretted that instantly, not only for the awful taste, but more for the fact that they chained her then. Manacles on her wrists and ankles, just enough length between them for her to take tiny, shuffling steps. Almost like trying on a pair of shoes in the store, with that little plastic connector between them, only much more scary.

“Here we are, Your Highness,” the warden grunted as he unlocked a cell door. Ella shivered. Once she'd been chained, the other two men left, and she was alone with the huge and scary warden. He'd frog-marched her down a long brick hallway, with cells lining it. Several women were crowded into each, some of them chained to the wall, some in straightjackets, a couple restrained on straw pallets that were covered in filth. Half of them were naked, and the other half wore rags that barely covered them.

They went down a long, curving stairway, which was almost impossible to navigate because of the chains around her ankles, and then they arrived at an empty cell. She wasn't sure whether to be grateful for the solitude or more afraid of what might be lurking in the corners of such a filthy and abandoned cell.

“In you go.” He shoved her so hard her chains tangled as she tried to keep her balance, and she fell face-first into the filthy, damp straw. The cell door clanged shut and she scrambled upright just in time to see the warden's terrifying grin. His teeth were black with rot. “I trust your accommodations are fitting, your ladyship. Your maid will be along directly.” After sweeping a mocking bow and laughing at his own joke, the warden turned and walked away.

She rushed to the door, jerking on the iron bars, but of course, they were strong. They were built for actual crazy people. Letting her hands fall, she leaned her forehead against the cold metal.

Somewhere down the hallway, a woman moaned, in pain or in madness, Ella couldn't tell. The smell of unwashed bodies made her want to retch, but she swallowed hard and tried to pretend she was back at Patrick's home. Well,
their
home, she reasoned, shuffling to the back of the cell where a tiny, grated window was. It was too high to see out of, but there was a stirring of fresher air blowing in.

Leaning against the cold stone, she closed her eyes and pretended. Patrick would be fine; he and the baron would talk things out and agree that a duel was stupid and unnecessary. George would realize that he'd been wrong, that she really was Patrick's wife, and he'd be so overcome with guilt that he'd rush to Patrick and tell him where she was. And then Patrick, her superhero, would whoosh in and save her.

For once, she didn't mind the idea of being a damsel in distress. She was definitely distressed at the moment, and no matter what she could try, there'd be no saving herself here.

Somewhere far off, another inmate began to sing a lullaby, haunting and sad. It fit Ella's mood as she sank to the floor, hugged her knees, and cried.

She woke, stiff and cold, in the same position she'd fallen asleep in. Wincing, she stretched out her legs and massaged them to get the circulation going again. She blinked and blinked again. The sun was up now, but not high. She couldn't have slept for more than an hour or two at most. Maybe less. It was hard to see.

Once the feeling came back to her feet, she stood, awkwardly because of the chains.

“Of all times to need to pee,” she said out loud as she scanned the cell. “What the heck am I supposed to do?”

There was a larger pile of straw along one wall, but other than the cold stone floor, there was nothing else in her tiny prison cube. Shuffling over to the corner, Ella peered down.

“Oh my God,” she moaned as she realized what she was seeing. Apparently the last inmate's leavings hadn't been cleaned out before they'd dumped her in there. Shivering, she resolved she'd never go to the bathroom again. Anything was better than squatting in a corner.

With a desperate glance skyward, Ella sank back against the wall as far from the toilet corner as she could. This was hell. Last night, with Patrick, she'd been in heaven, and now? She'd probably die here.

With that cheerful thought, Ella sank down again, resigned to try to sleep. The more she could sleep, the less she'd think about where she was.

At first she thought the masculine voice yelling down the corridor was a dream, a product of her desperate mind. She screwed her eyes shut tighter, willing the voice to keep yelling. Because of course it was Patrick, and he was calling her name.

Or had she died? Could she die of misery?

“Ella! I am here, Ella. Do not worry, love!”

She smiled. God, her subconscious was good. It sounded exactly like her husband.

“Ella! Sweet Lord, are you hurt?”

She could even imagine the way it would sound if he were at the cell door, jerking at it to get her attention. “Ella!”

And then she opened her eyes, and it wasn't a dream.

“Patrick!” She leaped to her feet and shuffled to the cell door as quickly as she could with her chained ankles. “Oh my God, you're alive?”

Though his face was lined with worry, he managed a smile. “Yes, I am. Come on, love. Let me get you home.”

Never had words sounded so wonderful. Never.

* * *

Patrick was incensed. Not only had they imprisoned Ella, but they had dragged her down to the basement of the place, where the loudest and most afflicted by their madness were held. The lunatics were chained, kept no better than dogs. And his wife, his precious Ella, was now chained here among them. The warden had shown him down the stairs, then took himself off, leaving Patrick to comb through the cells on his own. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Do not worry, my love. I'll have you out of here in a trice.” He gripped her hand through the bars, and her manacles clinked as she leaned forward.

“I know you will. Please hurry.”

He nodded and let go reluctantly, only to step into the corridor and yell.

“Warden! Attend me now, if you please.”

The man took his time, ambling forward as if on an afternoon stroll through Hyde Park. Patrick's fists curled tightly by his side, and he fought to keep his composure.

“What can I do for you, milord?” The warden gave a small half grin.

Patrick pointed to Ella's cell. “You have detained this woman—my wife—for no reason. I demand you release her at once.”

“On whose authority?” The warden arched a bushy brow at Patrick. “I can't just let a madwoman loose on the streets without Mr. Traywick's say so. You are a smart man, milord. You may be a peer, but Mr. Traywick's friends don't much care about things like that.”

His patience snapped, and Patrick grabbed the man by his throat. “You listen to me, you jackanapes. That is the Countess of Fairhaven, and she is not mad. You will release her to my care, and you will do it now, or so help me…”

The warden jerked backward, loosing Patrick's grip. Coughing and red-faced, he wheezed, “I can't do it, milord. Not without Mr. Traywick—”

“Then I shall have to persuade you.” Methodically rolling his sleeve up his forearm, Patrick arched a brow at the man. “You appear to be quite strong, but so am I. And, unlike you, I am very, very angry.”

“Patrick, wait.”

Ella's voice stopped him before he could advance on the man. Patrick turned. “What is it?”

She bit her lip. “As much as I'd like for you to beat him up, I don't think you should.”

“Why not?”

Her fingers wrapped around the iron bars of her cell door, and she parted her lips to answer, but the warden beat her to it.

“Come now, milord, you know where you are. You know the sort of man Mr. Traywick is. You may have a title, but in here, you're just a regular man like me. You may beat me, but I warrant I'll get a few good blows in before you do. And then Mr. Traywick would use his high friends to protect me. We could settle this much easier if you like. I ain't allowed to release any of the patients without Mr. Traywick's say, but I could be persuaded to forget this patient ever existed.” The man grinned then, spreading his huge palm wide in a beckoning gesture. “I think perhaps ten guineas would be enough to fix me memory.”

Though he longed to smash the man's face in, Patrick looked back at Ella. She was nodding.

“I just want to get out of here, Patrick. Please.” She shuddered, and the movement shook his very heart.

“Very well.” He felt for his purse. “Ten…guineas.”

No waistcoat. No coat. He'd not brought them that morning, certain he was heading to a duel and his own demise.

He had not a groat upon him, nothing of value at all, except…

Deep in his pocket, his fingers curled around his father's pocket watch. He closed his eyes for a moment.

All his life, he'd marched in his father's shadow, never stepping out of line, never daring to defy the man who'd impressed upon him the vital importance of behaving with decorum and honor, as a gentleman should. And in following those rules, he'd never really lived. Not until Ella had come into his life. This watch was the one gift his father had ever given him, the one piece of the man that Patrick always carried with him. But what was more important—the memory of the man who'd ordered Patrick's life for him, or the woman who'd shown him how to carve his own path?

The choice was clear.

“I have no money with me, but this will fetch many times your asking price.” Patrick tossed the watch to the warden. “Now release my wife.”

“Patrick, no! That's your watch. You can't—”

“I can, and I have.” Patrick stood aside as the warden unlocked the cell door. As soon as it swung open, he strode inside and swept Ella into his arms.

“You loved that watch,” she said against his chest as the warden unlocked her ankle irons.

“I love you more.” Patrick pressed a kiss to her forehead. Ella hissed as the manacles fell from her wrists, then rubbed at the chafed skin.

“Thank you for your generosity, my lord.” The warden bowed and grinned as Patrick walked past him, Ella still cradled in his arms. “I hope you had a pleasant stay, milady.”

“You should treat these people better!” Ella yelled over Patrick's shoulder. “They're sick, not evil. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

Her voice echoed down the corridor, and several of the patients echoed it. By the time they had reached the top of the stairs, the patients were chanting, “Shame! Shame! Shame!”

Patrick carried her through the building, then out the door. In the sunlight at last, Ella breathed in deeply, closing her eyes.

“Please tell me this isn't a dream. You're really here and alive, and I'm out of that place, and we're together.”

“It's not a dream, my love. We are together, and I'll never leave you again.”

Her eyes flew open and she stared at him. “Patrick?”

Letting her legs descend to the ground, he let her stand, then pulled her into his arms. “I mean it, love. I let despair and duty goad me into making foolish decisions based on nothing more than a wish to live as I'd been taught. But now I know that those things do not matter. What matters is you, and I refuse to live my life without you. Here, or in your home, it does not matter to me. So long as I am with you, I shall be happy. Always.”