On A Wicked Dawn (57 page)

She had to pause for breath.

Kirby stepped menacingly nearer. “I've heard enough.” He leaned close, thrust his face close to hers. “What sort of fool do you take me for? I checked—of course, I did!” His voice dripped scorn. “As soon as I realized the possibility might arise to cozen one of his sweet little sisters. No joy there, but his wife's an even better mark. I don't even have to try to charm you, and you won't be on my hands for long. The man's as rich as bloody Croesus and he worships the ground you walk on—he'll pay a small fortune for you, and that's
precisely
what I'm going to demand.”

His features had contorted with some ugly emotion; Amelia set her jaw and stared him down, her belligerence fueled by desperate necessity, and the irrational irritation of knowing she was half-right and he was half-wrong. “
You're
the fool if you believe that!” Eyes narrowing, she planted her fists on her hips and glared. “We didn't marry for love—he does not love me.” A complete and utter lie, but she could put her heart and soul into her next declaration: “And he's
next kin to a pauper—he hasn't a coin to bless himself with. I'm his
wife
, for heaven's sake! Don't you think I'd know?”

She flung her arms wide on the words—and glimpsed something from the corner of her eye. Until he'd stepped close, Kirby had blocked her view of the path into the clearing; looking past him, she saw Luc, standing motionless at the clearing's edge, his dark gaze locked, not on Kirby, but on her face. On her eyes.

For one instant, time stood still. Her heart contracted; she felt . . .

Kirby read her face.

He turned with a roar.

Amelia jumped, gasped, skittered back as Kirby flung himself at Luc, one huge fist rising, swinging.

She screamed.

Luc ducked at the very last minute; she didn't see what happened, but Kirby's body jerked, then the big man bent foward, only to straighten abruptly as Luc's fist connected with his jaw.

She winced at the sound, quickly scuttled farther away as Kirby staggered back. The close-packed trees gave her little room to move, but although Kirby's gaze flicked to her, he kept his attention on Luc.

Who, after one glance at Amelia, stepped into the clearing. That one graceful step held immeasurably more menace than anything Kirby had done.

Kirby groaned, slumped, then straightened; a knife flashed in his fist.

Amelia gasped. Tensed.

Luc stilled, his gaze on the blade, then he resumed his slow, prowling approach.

Kirby crouched a little, spread his arms wide, started to circle.

Luc drifted aside.

Amelia pressed back among the trees . . . a too-recent memory of Amanda with a knife at her throat flooded her . . .

Kirby lunged with the knife. Luc weaved back, just out of reach.

Horrified, Amelia stared—Kirby was quite plainly aiming for Luc's face. Her husband's beautiful fallen-angel face. A face Luc himself barely noticed, and certainly—contrary to what Kirby was imagining—felt no vanity over protecting.

She was very attached to that face—exactly as it was.

Jaw setting, she glanced around. Her gaze fell on a fallen branch—a nice, stout oak branch—large enough for a cosh, small enough for her to heft—best of all, close enough and free of debris so she could lift it undetected.

Kirby's back was to her. The branch was in her hands before she'd finished the thought.

She paused, gathered her strength, took one step as she lifted the branch high—

Kirby sensed her, started to turn—

She brought the branch down as hard as she could. It broke with a satisfying crack over Kirby's head.

He didn't go down. But he wobbled.

Very slowly shook his head.

Lips grimly set, Luc stepped forward, caught Kirby's wrist, holding the knife at bay. With his other fist, he delivered the
coup de grâce
—Kirby dropped like a stone to the leaf-strewn ground.

Clutching the remnants of her club, Amelia stared. “Is he . . . ?”

Luc glanced at her, then bent and removed the knife. “Unconscious. I don't think he'll wake for a while.”

In the distance, they heard voices, calling, coming nearer, yet here and now, there was just them.

And the silence.

Still ringing with all she'd said.

She frantically replayed all she'd gabbled to Kirby—how much had Luc heard? He could have been there for some time . . . but he couldn't possibly believe . . . think
she
believed . . . ?

She dropped her club, pressed her hands together, cleared her throat. “I—“

“You—“

They both stopped, gazes locking—locked. She felt like
she was drowning in the intensity of his eyes. Her lungs seized, as if she stood teetering on the brink of . . . happiness or despair, she wasn't sure which.

Stiffly, Luc stepped nearer, reached for her hands. Then he sighed and hauled her into his arms. Crushed her close. “I want to
shake
you for running off alone into danger.” He growled the words into her curls, his arms an iron cage about her.

Then she felt his arms ease.

“But . . . first . . .” He drew back, looked into her face. “I have to tell you something—something I should have told you long ago.” His lips twisted. “Two somethings, if truth be told. And they are the truth—the real truth.” He drew in a breath; his eyes held hers. “I—“

“Hroo-hroo!
Hroo!
”

Luc turned; they both stared.
“Damn!”
Releasing her, he faced the path; a steady crashing and rhythmic thudding were rolling toward them. “They've let the dogs out.”

On the disbelieving words, hounds came bounding up, a veritable tide, joyous and excited, thoroughly delighted to have found their master. It wasn't just a few dogs, however, but the entire pack. Luc stood before Amelia; clutching the back of his coat, she pressed close, not frightened but in danger of being batted off her feet by so many whipping tails and bumptiously overjoyed canines.

“Down!” Luc thundered. “
Sit!
”

Eventually, they did, but clearly believed they were due a great deal more thanks for having acquitted themselves so well.

Luc had just restored some semblance of order when the human tide descended. Portia and Penelope, more familiar with the woods, led the way, running and ducking branches ahead of Lucifer, Martin, Sugden, and a disgusted Simon.

They were all out of breath when they piled into the clearing.

“You got him!” wheezed Portia, one hand clutching her side.

Luc glanced briefly at Kirby, then Amelia, then he looked
at his sister. “We did.” He continued to look at Portia. “Who let out the pack?”

“We did, of course.” Penelope's tone stated that the decision had been fully evaluated and only a fool would dare challenge it. “They all reached the first fork, and didn't know which way you'd gone. The dogs were the only way to trace you.”

Luc looked at her, then sighed. Patsy pressed close, pushing her nose into his hand, whining with quiet joy.

“What's the story, then?” Arm braced against a tree while he struggled to catch his breath, Martin nodded at Kirby's slumped form.

Luc looked down, then shook his head. “As to that, I'm not sure—but his name's Jonathon Kirby . . . and I understand he's acquainted with Edward.”

Which, of course, told Amelia just how much of her tirade Luc had heard—all of it. She was still wincing at the thought when, hours later, she finally climbed the main stairs and headed down the short corridor to their rooms.

Dawn could not be far off.

Getting back to the house had proved an unexpected effort, not least because, with the villain caught and answers to all their questions doubtless to come, the determination that had fueled them all night abruptly waned. They slumped. Their feet dragged.

Luc dispatched Sugden, Portia, and Penelope to return the pack to the kennels. They went ahead, the hounds still alert, ready to dash off after anything at the slightest excuse.

Kirby, roused ungently, was too groggy to walk unsupported. Martin, Lucifer, and Simon took turns chivying him along in Luc and Amelia's wake; Luc was the only one who could lead them unerringly through the woods back to the Chase.

They'd arrived half an hour earlier to questions and exclamations. Portia and Penelope had said only that all was well before continuing to the kennels to help Sugden quarter the pack.

It was Helena who, in matriarchal fashion, eventually took charge. She pointed out that Luc himself was the local magistrate, that apparently there was a perfectly sound cellar below stairs in which Kirby—unanimously referred to as “the felon”—could be incarcerated for the time being, until they wished to question him further, and that, meanwhile, they all needed their rest.

As usual, Helena was indubitably right, yet Amelia hoped that before she and Luc fell asleep . . .

She didn't actually know what he wanted to tell her. Not absolutely. Yet entering her private sitting room, she was all but floating on her hopes and dreams. Two things, he'd said. In her heart, she knew what one of those things was.

The ultimate victory in her long and tireless campaign beckoned.

Triumph was a powerful drug. It seeped through her veins as she undressed and got ready for bed. She started brushing her hair, impatience escalating; to distract herself—she didn't know how long it would take Luc to organize the cellar and lock Kirby in—she tried to fathom what else—what other secret—Luc might wish to confess to her.

It couldn't be very serious, surely.

But why now? What had Kirby said to precipitate . . .

Her hand slowed, then lowered. She stared unseeing at her mirror. She and Kirby had discussed only two points. Whether or not Luc loved her enough to pay well for her return.

And whether Luc was, or was not, rich.

As rich as bloody Croesus.

Kirby had said he'd checked. He'd sounded very sure, and he was, after a fashion, clever. “As rich as bloody Croesus” . . . it wasn't easy to imagine him making such a big mistake . . .

The months rolled back. In her mind, she revisited all the evidence she'd garnered, all she'd seen with her own eyes, everything that had led her to believe Luc and the Ashfords were very far from rich.

She couldn't have been wrong . . . could she?

Of course not! He'd all but admitted she was right . . .

No, he hadn't. Not as such.

Not ever.

The marriage settlements—by his insistence written in percentages so no real amount, no value of his estate had been there to read. She'd assumed the amount had been small.

What if it had been large?

All those repairs—the lumber ordered early, within days of that dawn she'd first spoken of marriage, of her dowry.

What if he hadn't married her for that?

She refocused on her reflection, then gave a shaky laugh. She was imagining things. The events of the night had left her overwrought, small wonder . . .

What if he hadn't married her for her money?

A tap fell on her door.

Distracted, she called, “Come in.”

She looked around as Higgs stuck her head past the door.

“I was just off to bed, my lady, if there's nothing else you need?”

“No, Higgs. And thank you for all your support this evening.”

Higgs flushed and bobbed. “My pleasure, ma'am.” She started to back out of the room.

“Wait!” Amelia waved. “One moment . . .” Swiveling on her dressing stool, she faced Higgs. “I have a question. When I first arrived, that first morning we discussed the menus, you mentioned we could now be more extravagant. What did you mean?”

Higgs came in, shut the door, clasped her hands. Frowned. “I don't rightly know as it's my place to speak—“

“No, no.” Amelia smiled reassuringly. “There's no difficulty—I just wondered why you'd thought that.”

“Well, you know about the master's father, about how he died, and . . . all that?”

Amelia held her breath. “About how Luc's father left the
family in dun territory?” When Higgs nodded, she exhaled. “Yes. I know about that.” She hadn't been wrong. It was all a silly misunderstanding of Kirby's—

“And then, at last, after all his hard work, the master's ship came in, and he said we didn't need to watch our pennies any longer. His investments had made him and the family rich. That was
such
good news! And then he was marrying you—“

“Wait.” Her mind literally reeled. Investments? Lucifer had asked Luc about investments . . . “These investments . . . when did that happen? Can you remember when you heard?”

Higgs frowned, clearly counting through the days. Her eyes narrowed . . . “Yes—that's it. The week after Miss Amanda's wedding, it was. I remember I had Miss Emily's and Miss Anne's gowns to see to when Cottsloe came and told me. He said the master'd just heard.”

She felt so dizzy it was a wonder she remained upright; her emotions swung crazily, from ecstatic happiness to fury. She plastered on a smile, brittle, but enough to reassure Higgs. “Ah, yes. Of course. Thank you, Higgs. That will be all.”

Graciously, she nodded; Higgs bobbed and departed, closing the door.

Amelia set down her brush. One point she'd never understood swam into focus. Luc had been drunk that dawn she'd waylaid him; she'd realized at the time it had been a supremely un-Luc-like happening. He hadn't known she would materialize and offer to rescue him financially—he'd been drunk in celebration of the fact he'd
already
rescued himself from what, she now suspected, had been a much worse situation than even she had guessed.

For a full ten minutes, she stared, unseeing, across the room, while all the pieces of the jigsaw settled into place, and she finally saw the full picture, the real truth of their marriage and what had brought it about, then, determined, she rose and went into their bedroom.