Perilous Risk (33 page)

“No, I’ll get my own drink,” she said hastily as she bolted from the bed, as she had longed to do for moments now. She hurried over to the china tub where she’d left the bottle and glass earlier. Once she’d taken a few swallows, she became morbidly curious. She had to know. She had to understand.

“Who was your…
target
?” Her voice shook on the last word.

He went quiet. Her heart sank. She should never have asked something like that. But good God, he was a killer?

She was waiting for him to explain. Because she wanted him to clarify it all away in manner that would allow her to still feel safe with him. In a manner that would make it not true. She’d never been able to face hard truths. She had spent a lifetime doing things to distract herself from unpleasantness. Eloping with Donald. Having an emotionally unfaithful friendship with Stephen when he had been just a boy and drawing strength from his cool-headed approach to life.

Yes, she had admired that about him. Now she was faced with the truth of what that cool-headedness made him capable of doing.

With a shaking hand, she tipped her glass backwards and swallowed the remainder of her drink. Yes, she was always running. Running to Jon for solace from Donald’s sexual and emotional coldness, from the failure of her marriage. Running back to Father and playing the dutiful daughter to hide from the pain of losing Jon.

Always running.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, energy surging in her legs.

She wanted to run straight from this chamber, right now. She didn’t want to know Stephen’s truth. She didn’t want to feel his pain and guilt. Oh, God, why wasn’t he saying anything?

Was that it?

Was that all he would share with her?

Maybe it was better that way—

“The Earl of Cannock.” Stephen spoke in such a conversational tone, he might have been about to tell her a story about this man.

Whilst she gripped her empty glass, part of her waited in expectation to hear his tale.

But she knew what he meant. Her heart skipped a beat and then thudded several times with the same cadence as a horse’s hoofs on clods of uneven earth. She had to cough to release the feeling of uneasiness in her chest.

“But I remember hearing about that.” Her voice cracked and she had to swallow. “He died in his sleep.”

“He died in his bedchamber. But he also died much in the same manner as Mr Buckman at Eastwood Place.”

She caught her breath, remembering the horror of that night so long ago when Mr Buckman had suddenly dropped dead in the parlour amid all the frolicking of Mr Kean’s naughty orgy.

The bed ropes creaked.

She glanced up.

Stephen sat on the side of the bed. “You’ve gone quite pale.”

She couldn’t speak. Her breaths were coming harder, faster.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You don’t anything about the true nature of either of those men. They were wolves. They were evil.”

“Y-you poisoned those men?” She took a ragged breath. “Y-you’re a poisoner!”

“I am a killer, Rebecca. I pick whatever method will prove most efficient and discreet. It is nothing personal. It is a duty. I rid the world of scum. I rid the world of evil men who have eluded justice.”

For all that he’d said the matter was an impersonal one, he said that last with such conviction. Such idealism. Crouched naked on the floor, with the fire nothing but coals now, she hugged her knees. “But you just took it upon yourself to decide that those men were evil. That they must die.”

“Their deaths were ordered by my superiors. I was entrusted with the job. I was enacting a duty for the protection of my country.”

She just stared at him, afraid to say a word. Afraid to further acknowledge what he’d said.

“Jonathon Lloyd killed men. He also ordered his men—some mere boys—to kill. He ordered them to face the fire and risk their lives, all in the name of duty to country and King. You accepted this.”

“Yes, but that was all done in the open, according to certain rules.”

He arose from the bed. As he approached her, her heart hammered violently and her breath came quick and hard. He stopped and stood before her naked, his tall, elegantly powerful, masculine beauty unlike any she had ever known before. The Stephen she knew…and yet, he was a stranger to her, all over again.

A man capable of instructing his men to kidnap her.

A man capable of murder.

“Yes, when warfare is enacted on a battlefield there are certain rules, certain expectations. But what about evil that hides behind a title? That hides behind the protection of the laws? What then?”

His eyes burned with intensity, boring into hers.

Her heart in her throat, she blinked several times. “I suppose one must send a wolf in to deal with them.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Oh God.”

“You wanted to know, Rebecca. I warned you but you insisted on knowing.”

“I did not expect it to be something like this.”

He knelt beside her.

She caught her breath again, all too aware of the vital, virile energy that poured off of him. It electrified her blood, set her pulse pounding. She was no different than she’d been in her youth. She was so reckless for adventure, for thrills, she could be aroused by a murderer.

She daren’t breathe as he bent closer.

He laid his lips on her forehead. “You will accept what I have told you. You will come to accept who and what I truly am. You just need time to come to terms with the shock.”

She swallowed against an increasingly dry throat and nodded. But she did so just to appease him. In truth, she was far from certain she would ever be able to come to terms with such a weighty revelation.

* * * *

Rebecca tossed from her stomach to her back then gave a lengthy exhalation.

Her feet were sweating.

Sticking to the rather clammy feeling sheets. There was something coarse about the cloth, it irritated her arms, the bare portions of her legs. And just like the inn the other night, there was something stale about the smell of this chamber.

God, the air seemed so thin.

Not able to bear it a moment longer, she leapt from the bed and rushed to the window. The gentle sway of the barren branches beckoned her. The winds were not too high, thank goodness. She hugged her arms.

Somehow she had lain back in that bed beside him. She had held herself absolutely still until she’d been certain he was asleep.

But the whole time, she’d been weighing her options.

If Stephen thought that a guard at the door and being on the upper floor would prevent an old campaigner like herself from escaping this chamber—well, she wasn’t exactly sure she intended to escape.

But she hadn’t been able to sleep. She just needed to be alone, away from him, and to breathe some fresh air. She needed to sort out her thoughts.

God, she just had to get out of here.

She cast one last glance at Stephen.

How peaceful he seemed in sleep. One would never guess he was a madman.

A murderer.

Her heart twisted at the thought. She didn’t want to believe that in the time since she’d known him as a boy, Stephen had apparently gone mad. He’d become a cold-blooded assassin.

Maybe he had always been touched but had hidden it.

She thought of Donald, poor Donald. He had done his best to hide his mental instability too.

It wasn’t Stephen’s fault. He was apparently insane and sick. She remembered that moment in the carriage, when he had stared at her with those beautiful, dark eyes. Dilated eyes. He was taking some kind of opiate. He must be. That meant he was in dreadful pain. Men did not take easily take medications, they needed powerful incentive to do so.

Her heart twisted again.

Oh poor, poor Stephen.

Was she cursed to be attracted to men who were troubled?

Why was she standing here, feeling soft towards Stephen? He had kidnapped her.

Kidnapped her!

What should she do now?

What did she want to do?

A sane woman would run. She wouldn’t countenance spending a moment longer with a madman than she had to.

Rebecca had always considered herself a sane woman. Until the past few days, at least.

Run?

Yes, for God’s sake, woman, yes.

But he’s ill.

Tenderness coursed through her, weakening her resolve.

She shook herself.

No, she needed to stop thinking there was a way to stay with him; no matter if he was ill or not, she had to take care of herself. Yes, he was ill, but he had servants to see to his needs.

At the thought of running, her palms began to sweat, her breaths came too quickly and her face started to feel overheated.

She leaned her head against the frosted window. The shock of the cold began to clear her mind. Her fast-swirling emotions and thoughts settled.

All right, so she would escape, run away from the madman—but run to where?

Back to Jon?

I want you settled. I don’t want to have to worry over you.

Jon’s words and the impatient tone in which he’d said them came back to her. Apparently, from what Stephen said, Jon had his hands full with his ill wife and children. Jon had called one of the best physicians in Mayfair to treat his wife. He didn’t need the input of an apothecary’s daughter. A soldier’s wife turned nurse experienced in the grim and primitive skills necessary on the battlefield.

She could never, ever lean on Jon again.

She would go to her uncle. It was time she started relying on her own kin. And staying where she belonged. Between her uncle and father, surely they could afford a solicitor for her, someone to fight back against Maria Seymour and this Earl of Barnet. Yes, that was a calmer approach. More practical. Sensible.

For several moments, she waited for the relaxed feeling of an epiphany to settle over her. Waited for the resolution to take root.

When it didn’t happen, she knew that she’d been lying to herself. Neither her uncle or her father could afford a solicitor powerful enough to hold his own against a powerful duchess.

If she went to her uncle’s home, she would stay there just long enough to gain her bearings and to prepare for her flight from England.

The uneasiness of ambiguity settled over her.

She really had no one to lean on now. She had to take care of herself.

So, to Uncle Frederick’s and then to America.

Defeat made her shoulders sink. No, that was no good. She must leave England, if only to spare Edwin the shame of having a mother in gaol.

With a dreadful tightness in her guts, Rebecca straightened her back and moved away from the window. She crept to where Stephen had placed their things in a neat pile. She rummaged through his clothes and found his drawers and donned them, trying the waist tight then rolling the legs up to accommodate her far shorter frame. She dressed in her clothes and shoes.

Then she went back to the window, eased it open and crawled over the sill to the heavy oak branch.

Rebecca followed the light of the torches to the front of the coaching inn. The whole time, she had a heavy feeling in her chest. And her feet seemed to drag along. Dread bore down on her, reminding her of the night she had climbed down the tree from her bedchamber window to the post chaise that Donald Howland had acquired for their flight to Greta Green.

How dramatic and romantic it all had seemed.

Yet, leaving her family and her father also had seemed such a dire choice. She’d nursed a heavy heart all the way to Scotland.

It really hadn’t ended up well, had it?

That wasn’t true. She had Edwin, that was a positive, right?

A cold, brittle wind ruffled the ties of her bonnet.

Rebecca! Stop it. This isn’t the time to dwell on past sins. The dangers of the moment are all you need concern yourself with. Focus.

The darkened shadows made the hairs on her nape stand on end. She reached to hold her collar tighter to her neck and focused on the light pouring from the inn. The front was painted in a welcoming white and yellow. It would be warm in the taproom and she could order a hot drink and ask about hiring a post chaise. Surely, even at this hour, there would be at least one driver eager to earn a fare. Stephen had taken opiate before they had slept. She had heard the clink of the claret bottle against his glass. Had seen him put something into his mouth. He would likely not stir for hours. She would be long gone when he did.

She was just a short time from being free.

Just a matter of days from being with Uncle Frederick, who had always made her feel safe and loved.

So why then did she find herself pausing with her hand frozen on the doorknob?

The sensation of that heaviness in her chest increased and spread into her guts.

Stephen was ill.