One Whisper Away (33 page)

Turnabout being fair play and all, he didn’t mind in the least her staring at him, if she didn’t take offense at him staring right back.

He somehow managed to find something reasonable to say. “What can’t hold until morning and the proper confines of the breakfast room?”

“I . . .” She faltered, and looked away for a moment, but then squared her shoulders. “I waited for you.”

Speechless, Elijah stared at her, wondering if this was all some kind of bizarre hallucination. “Waited for me?”

Though her cheeks were now scarlet, Eleanor lifted her chin. “I suppose I could have more finesse in saying it, but that is about it. I waited all through last season for you to notice me and—”

“I noticed you,” he interrupted harshly, which he would not normally have done with a well-bred lady under any circumstances. “Take my word. I noticed.”

“If so, you are not easy to read, my lord.”

It had been a rather difficult past few days, and maybe it was the brandy, maybe it was just that she was there, like a barefoot goddess in his bedchamber where she absolutely should never have come at this hour—or any other hour actually—and maybe it was the revelation he’d experienced that afternoon when he’d walked out onto the terrace and seen her sitting there, alone and pensive and undeniably beautiful in the afternoon sun.

He wanted her. She wasn’t all that fashionable with her outspoken views, and certainly she hadn’t married her first year out . . .

Because she’d waited. For him. What more could a man ask?

“Is this clear enough?” he asked as he covered the two strides separating them.

He kissed her. There was no misinterpreting the way he pulled her into his arms and lowered his head to take her mouth. Eleanor stiffened in surprise, but to his gratification, she immediately melted against him.

He might not be Earl Savage, but there was definitely a primal edge to the long, intense embrace, and when he finally lifted his head, he discovered a shocking truth.

It was more satisfying than he had realized to not always be perfectly polite.

Eleanor, who had very cooperatively slipped her arms around his neck, gazed into his eyes and said in her direct way, “I think I understood you perfectly just now, my lord. But explain it to me again.”

M
orning. Not yet. Almost dawn, with reddish streaks in the sky, and he’d woken because he’d spent most of his life out of doors essentially and he was aware of the cycles of the moon and sun at all times.

Jonathan slipped the halter on Seneca, and not bothering with a saddle, he vaulted onto his back. The big horse had been in the city too long; it was there in his eager sidelong dance as Jonathan settled into place, in the toss of his head at the single rein.

They both needed a wild run.

All around them were gentle pastures and lanes and meandering streams. So he let the stallion have his way and they raced down the long drive, scattering small stones, the brush of the cool air a rush against his skin.

So this is happiness
, he thought as the stallion took a low stone fence with muscular ease, imagining his lovely fiancée still in her bed, her skin warm and smooth, her hair spread over the pillow in silky disarray as she slept. More than that, imagining the swift charm of her smile, the musical sound of her laugh, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him . . .

He hadn’t come to England to fall in love. He hadn’t come to England to form more than a dutiful acquaintance with family. How ironic that he had, in fact, not come to England willingly at all
,
but only because he had loved his father and knew it was expected of him and now his life was different.

Entirely different. It was a readjustment in thinking, for he’d promised Cecily he wouldn’t force her to go with him to America, but then again, he wasn’t at all sure she’d want to leave the island that had been her home her entire existence. He couldn’t blame her if she didn’t. His desire to return home was based on the same principle of wanting to continue the life he’d always known.

What if, he wondered as his horse picked up speed along a straight stretch and Jonathan’s hair whipped back as he crouched lower, he couldn’t convince her to leave with him?

Could he still go?

He doubted it.

What a sobering acknowledgment.

The countryside tore by and the dawn blushed into true daylight, and eventually, splashing through the same river where he’d made love to Cecily, Jonathan guided his mount back toward the ducal estate at a sedate walk to cool him off.

Then the beautiful morning changed.

The first bullet caught him squarely in the shoulder, the impact of it taking him by surprise since it was the last thing he expected, the telltale crack registering only as he realized what had happened by the slashing pain. Only by a miracle did he keep his seat as his startled horse lunged forward, and that was short-lived when Seneca swerved wildly at the sound of a second retort.

Hit twice
, Jonathan thought, the pain now blossoming lower also, spreading like a slow tide, the force of hitting the ground jarring, knocking the breath from his lungs. He lay there a moment, his brain signaling the need to move, to find cover, but his body not responding. He finally took in a shuddering breath and managed to roll to his knees. There was blood everywhere, his shirt was already soaked with it, which told him the second bullet had also hit him in the torso, but he really couldn’t tell where because it seemed like his entire body was on fire. There was a thicket of bushes and a small copse of trees to his right, but how to get there was a problem.

Bad. This is bad
. He’d been wounded in the war twice, but this was worse.

The attempt to get to his feet was unsuccessful, the weakness infuriating, and he tried again only to be shoved down violently by a booted foot that connected with his wounded shoulder with agonizing accuracy and thrust him onto his back. The world spun.

“You heathen bastard.”

Through an ever-growing haze, Jonathan looked up at his assailant. There was little doubt of it, for the man carried a gun in the crook of his arm. He was ordinary enough: once-fashionable clothes a little worn, his face weathered to a dark tan, a shock of black hair above features at the moment drawn into a scowl. Eyes as dark as Jonathan’s own stared at him with unmistakable hatred, though he didn’t recognize the face.

“I finally got you, Augustine.”

Twice shot, he found it difficult to respond. As far as he could tell he was bleeding . . . everywhere.

“I’ve been laying for you. Waiting. Your cousin, too, so high and mighty. Letting me go after years of service. Telling me he thought I was stealing. Did you think I would just walk away?”

Letting me go
. . .
what the devil did that mean?
It took his foggy brain a moment to process that statement but then it slowly crystallized. Browne. The former manager he’d instructed James to dismiss. The one looming over him at the moment and still holding a gun.

The man leaned forward and Jonathan could smell not just the coppery blood leaking from his wounds at what seemed an alarming rate, but the scent of burnt powder as well. “I followed you here for the grand party after I missed you that night back in London. Hoped it would be easier here to stay out of sight. In London there’s always people about. I knew you’d go riding alone.” His smile was chilling. “Not yesterday, though. Weren’t alone at all, were you? You defiled the daughter of a duke like she was some whore, not a proper lady. Stripped her bare and dragged her into the water and had your way with her, you did. He’ll pay me money to keep that quiet, especially once you’re dead and not able to be taken to task for it.”

If the man hadn’t viciously kicked him in the side, Jonathan would have pointed out that he wished to marry Cecily, that the duke had agreed to his offer of marriage, so he certainly didn’t have this level of objection, and while His Grace might not be happy over the indiscretion, the lady had clearly been a willing participant.

And that Jonathan loved her.

So deeply that as he knew consciousness was only barely in his grasp all he could think of was how to stay alive. Cecily, his daughter, his sisters, James . . . he had a lot to live for.

“I am . . . ” He fought to gasp the words, because he was fairly sure he could now add broken ribs to his ever-growing list of injuries. “The Earl of Augustine. I’ll—”

“Look at you. You aren’t no bloody English lord,” the man argued contemptuously. “And you’re worth more to me dead. I brought two guns. Didn’t want to chance a miss. Your cousin will no doubt come looking for you. I can’t wait to see him face-to-face again. Told the smug bastard I’d get even.”

James had been attacked back in London also, and then there was the cracked wheel of his carriage that the driver swore had been deliberate. . . . They’d just never connected the events.

A mistake, Jonathan realized through the haze of pain.

The next kick caught him in the temple.

The world went black.

 

Being late for luncheon was not the way to win her grandmother’s affection. Cecily glanced at the clock again and decided that trying to apologize on her fiancé’s behalf was a futile endeavor. He’d gone out riding early, according to a stable lad, declining to saddle his horse and simply jumping on the animal and departing at a speed that impressed the boy if his gamin grin was taken into consideration, but truly, he was
late
.

So they went ahead and ate, the guests pointedly ignoring Lord Augustine’s absence, but it was duly noted, and she had to admit several hours later, when James Bourne took her aside from a lawn game that she wasn’t really participating in anyway, his face showing true concern, she shared it.

“Jon wouldn’t do this,” he said succinctly. “It’s time to go looking for him. He might depart on a long ride, but not for over half a day, and certainly not when he was someone else’s guest, and most of all he wouldn’t do it because of you and Adela. He wouldn’t embarrass you and he never misses breakfast with his daughter.”

“You think there’s been an accident?” Her chest constricted because she’d been telling herself for hours that, no, nothing bad had happened.

“Absolutely. Don’t you?’

“Perhaps he got lost.”

“Jon?” He looked at her incredulously. “He can navigate the wilderness blindfolded. No. I have no idea where he might be, but he isn’t lost, my lady.”

She hadn’t really thought so either, but if she accepted that, then she also had to accept that something was truly wrong.

“Even if there was an emergency and he was called away suddenly, he’d hardly just leave all his belongings and his child and sisters behind without a word to anyone.” James ran his fingers through his hair in an agitated movement. “I do not want to alarm you without cause, but I think there
is
cause.”

Cecily agreed. Her mouth was dry. “Where could he be?”

“Let me take a couple of the footmen and we’ll start looking. I don’t want to stir up alarm up unless it is necessary.”

She nodded resolutely. Anything was better than just sitting and waiting. “Give me a moment to change and I will come with you.”

“My lady, I—”

“I’m coming,” she interrupted with finality, and James smiled slightly in surrender.

“You are going to be a good match for him.” He inclined his head. “Fine, then. I’ll have your horse saddled as well.”

He turned toward the stables, and she made a brief excuse to her grandmother, who was watching the game from a chair in the shade of a spreading elm, and hurried toward the house at an unladylike run. She changed swiftly, her fingers slightly shaking, not bothering to ring for her maid as there wasn’t time. James was waiting for her in the circle of the drive, her mare ready.

As he helped her mount, he said, “I’ve already sent several of the servants out on foot into the grounds of the park to search the wooded areas. We’ll ride south first, toward the village. Maybe he’s been seen.”

 

Someone groaned.

He might have even made that low sound of pain, Jonathan realized. He fought to open his eyes, failed on the first attempt and wondered if consciousness was even a good idea, and finally succeeded.

Sky. Blue.

The smell of crushed grass, birds twittering in the trees, the gentle rush somewhere of water . . .

Where the devil was he? What happened?

His head ached incessantly, as did the rest of him, and the searing pain when he went to lift his arm was enough to make the world fade away again for a moment.

In the world between light and dark, he drifted, aware of the agony but not connected to it.

Then it came back to him. The shots, the vindictive Browne, the blow that had sent him into oblivion . . .