Rescuing Mr. Gracey (39 page)

Roden shoved Gracey’s shoulder but did not move him one inch. Gracey’s stomach clenched as the earl poked a finger into his chest. “You will discharge the Catholic laborer from the mill. You will release the washerwoman from your services. You will encourage all other clients to do likewise. You will return the march through Dolly’s Brae. You will see that the flax field is destroyed on July twelfth. Is that clear?”

Fury boiled in his gut. How he longed to smash the aristocratically straight nose until it busted right in half. The earl seemed to recognize the dangerous spark that flared in Gracey’s eyes. Perhaps he even remembered that once, before he had been pulled from the streets, Gracey had earned money as an undefeated street fighter. That was before he accidentally killed a man—a secret kept by Roden.

The earl took a backward step, then stomped from the room. “Prove your son’s loyalty by tomorrow, Gracey. Traitors can find themselves dead.”

The stench of arrogance remained long after the lord’s departure. Gracey stood immobile before collapsing into a chair. His exhale sounded like a groan. The man had just threatened Alec’s life.

He passed a shaky hand over his pounding forehead.
Lord, how the Smyth family rots the peace that once surrounded this house.
Dread crept up his spine and wrapped fingers around his throat. He hooked a finger through the elaborate cravat, loosening the pressure that strangled him.

Hunger, filth, desperation slithered closer and threatened all that held his world together. He downed his forgotten drink in one swallow.

A sound like a sob caused him to whip about. There, hidden within the shadows of the adjoining doorway to a ladies’ parlor…
Isabella.
She’d heard. She knew.
Lord, not that.

Her haunted gray eyes darted about the room as if searching for escape. “Alexander,” she whispered. “We cannot give in to these demands. We cannot destroy innocent people like that…” Rushing toward him, she collapsed against his chest. “Please, Alexander. Please,” she begged, clutching his shirt.

“Bella…” He hugged her tightly. “Ye’ve no concern in this, dear. I’ll take care of it.” Her legs folded, and her weight melted toward the floor. Lifting her, he carried her to the couch. “Bella…don’t.”

Her eyes, wide with terror, pleaded. “Secrets… Oh God. Secrets consume us.” Her dark head fell forward, and she buried her face in his shirt. “We are caught, Alexander. I have kept a secret from you.” Gasping, she lifted her tear-stained face once more. “We all must pay a wicked price.”

His chest tightened as he cuddled her closer. “Bella. What are ya rambling about?”
 

Her trembles became convulsive. Her head tossed back and forth, her eyes squeezed as if to hold back a nightmare. “She is a Smyth,” she whispered. “Miss Frances is Mary Smyth.”

The words, like a knife, ruptured his heart, stole all his bravado. The world darkened as Isabella showered strings of words heard through his turmoil—
Alec heartsick; Mary, she healed him; he nearly died, knew no other way.

“Bella, what have ya done?” He buried his head in his hands.

“No choice,” she kept saying. “No choice.”

“Mary. How can it be? She is educated—she’s a lady.”

Isabella’s arms hugged her waist. “Alexander. Look how your prejudice has blinded you. She is a Catholic, but she is still everything you admired this morning.”

Crossing to the fireplace, Gracey leaned on the mantel and focused on hypnotic flares. For the first time in memory, he could not think of an offensive plan. Nervous perspiration beaded upon his upper lip. “Someone spies on us, Isabella. We will all be caught now.”

“But, Alexander, what do we do? The plans for Dolly’s Brae… We can’t let Mary suffer like that.” She crumpled into a chair and rocked like a saw through dead timber. “Please, Alexander. Help our son. Help Mary. We owe her much.”

No one—his son, his wife, Mary Smyth—would escape the upcoming rage. The march could not be stopped, the Ribbonmen, even if warned, would suffer. Homes would burn, fields would be destroyed. The earl had seen to it. And he was pretty sure that somehow the bloodshed would circle back and land upon him and his own son—after all, Alec was guilty of all that the earl accused. It would be easy enough to lay all the blame upon the Graceys. But falling in love with a lowly washerwoman, that, of all that had occurred, was unforgivable…not only from his side, but from hers.

Fisting his hand, he pounded the mantel. Roden would climb out as the hero for having put a stop to the heresy of both.

Even as Gracey pondered all the terrible tangles, his wife whispered the most terrifying sting. “James knows. James knows about everything.”

Alexander groaned. Bender was an untrustworthy snake who had been disinherited by his own family. He would betray any confidence for more money. Pacing, he clutched his hands behind his back and tried to think of anything to keep his family safe… to keep Mary safe.

In the past, Gracey knew how to outmaneuver, out-scheme his opponent. Whenever he found himself backed into a painful corner, he risked all the more and fought his way out.

But these stakes…

Suddenly, inspired by a risky, very bold idea, Gracey paused midstride.

~ 37 ~

“And one we shall adore…”

The glassy image mocked her. The frayed brown muslin dress, white cap, and stained apron proclaimed her to be a laundress. Yet her creamy, softly blushed complexion should be tanned and freckled. A skinny, sharply boned figure now looked curvy and developed. Mary held her hands before her. Even they betrayed her identity. Once so callused and blistered they bled, her hands were now smooth, manicured.

She had changed. Not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. Convictions and opinions wobbled, her heart pulled in two opposing directions. Childish dreams had matured, her love for Alec expanded.

Mary rubbed at her aching head. How would she return to sixteen-hour workdays with little food and no love? How could she maintain a routine of wake, work, sleep? Without hope, his laughter, his sensual attention, his attentive protection?

Biting her lip, she reprimanded herself. How vain and lazy she had become.
Ya’ve been spoilt, Mary Smyth. And ya’ve grown weak.
Taking a deep breath in, Mary vigorously scraped her hair back with an ivory-handled brush, then whipped the long hair into a single braid down her back. Laying the brush down, her fingers traced a gentle path over the beautiful raised edges. She would miss Betsy and her gentle care.

Stop, Mary Smyth.
Stoically, she picked up the note just written to Isabella and Alexander, scanned the contents, and then propped the farewell upon her pillow, just as Alec had asked her to do.

Emotion bobbed in her throat; a watery gasp escaped. Tightening her jaw, she flipped her cloak over her shoulders. Time enough for tears later.

She looked over the instructions given to her late last evening by a footman. Dressed in her own clothing, personal items packed, note of explanation written to his parents, gifts from Alec left behind on the dresser, Mary knew she must erase all traces of her life at the manor.

Pressing her lips together, she let a pang of hurt disturb her heart. Truthfully, though she knew the choice was inevitable, Alec’s abrupt decision had startled her, especially since an hour before he had insisted she stay. Perhaps he thought this an easier path than enlarging the farewells. At least he wished to say good-bye at the lake—one last kiss, one sweet memory of his smile, his touch.

Nibbling her lip, Mary tucked the note inside her muslin cap. Once home, she would put this with the other keepsakes—a dried flower he had plucked at their picnic, a handkerchief embroidered with his real initials,
AJG,
another box of rose-scented soap.

Mary’s gaze touched all the corners of the bedroom a final time—the lovely flower wallpaper, the overlarge down bed, the warm creamy rug—the luxurious sanctuary that masked the struggles of her heart. Poignant and painful, the stunning beauty of this home was like the rose garden that surrounded the mansion—prickly thorns of prejudice and hatred protected the surprisingly delicate flower of kindness and generosity that resided within.

Be done with it, Mary Smyth.
Nervous hands fluttered over wet lashes. Flipping the hood to disguise her hair, as instructed, she quietly slipped from her bedroom, down the servants’ stairs, and out the kitchen door.

Mary kept her head bowed as she left the home. Once through the last manor gate, she released a soft, emotional sigh.
Don’t look back, Mary Smyth.
She took the forest shortcut, surprised at the tingle of homesickness that mingled with regret. Questions and worries for her family occupied her thoughts. Did the crop flourish? Did her mother manage the laundry without her? Was there any news from Bridget or Michael? Had little Joe grown?

Though Daniel brought her family notes assuring them of Mary’s well-being, they had not returned the correspondence. She wondered what they thought of her, living at Gracey Manor. Were they angry? Disappointed? Frightened?

After crossing the bridge, she hurried down the path and entered into the lake’s cove. The sun had just begun to break over the horizon. Mystical pockets of mist clung to
Slieve Donard
, while soothing whispers of pink and blue hurried away shadows of night. Water lapped rhythmically at the sandy edge, birds sang, breezes carried soft scents of wildflowers.

Mary closed her eyes and let her memory walk back to moments shared with Alec—picnics and laughter, teasing and splashing, rescues and intimate smiles. Gathering her cloak, she hugged the images closer, smiling tenderly, sadly.

She did not hear the slight crackling of twigs. She did not see the shadow that stealthily approached. She did not recognize the threat until a hand heavily grasped her arm.

The intruder jerked her toward him, then violently shook her. His contempt, dark, sneering, stunned her. “You filthy pagan,” Bender growled. “How long I’ve tried to get Alec out of your clutches.” He laughed, his expression wild. “Finally, finally, I did the deed myself.”

He squeezed her arms and snapped her frame toward him once more. Bravely, she elevated her courage and jerked her arm. “How dare ya, sir? Alec will be here any moment. I suggest you leave.”

“Dare? Dare.” His jaw locked, ugly green eyes darting insanely. Like a rabid dog, he snarled, “The nation will not be brought down by a lowly little washerwoman.” He spat. “Do you know how I’ve tried to be rid of you—paid a drunk to toss you in jail, wrote a note to the popish farmer to redirect your interest, wrote letters to Gracey and to the earl. But he wouldn’t see the danger.”

Mary should have guessed—every attack, every letter had been plotted by this man. Without considering the consequences, Mary raised her hand and slapped him so hard, his head jerked backward. Her print whitened the vivid purplish color that stained his cheek. “Alec will kill you. Be gone now while you can…”

His lips curled with frightening pleasure. “You stupid woman.” He laughed, the sound both eerie and grating. “You don’t even see a trap when you’re in its midst.”

Alec is not coming.

A large, freckled hand encircled her face, compressing until she thought he would break her jaw. “Just like the slut who stole my inheritance. So stupid. She finally learned her lesson, and now ’tis your turn.”

Momentarily forgetting his purpose, his gaze drifted. The vacant look terrified her more than his fury. Then his snake eyes returned. His brow wrinkled with confusion. “I had to kill her. The whore stole everything from me… Alec will also die if he does not understand.”

Mary gasped. Alec die for her?
Alec. Dear Lord, what is he talking about?
She hardly recognized the bloodcurdling scream that came from her mouth.

“You made me do it.” He brutally tossed her several feet. She landed hard upon the sandy ground. “You ruined everything.”

She flipped, desperately scurrying on hands and knees toward the forest. Bender caught her cloak and pulled. The tied cord on her neck thinned, strangled. Frantically, Mary clutched at the string. Black shades closed her sight. Her lungs heaved pitiful wisps of air.

Her cap was tossed to the hedges. His fist captured her braid, and he dragged her to her feet. Frowning, he scoured her with his gaze. He wound the braid around his fist, bringing her to his chest. A snakelike glare trapped her. “What does he see in you…a skinny little river rat with bulging eyes? Can he not understand you only wish to suck wealth and power just like the slut did to me?”

He lost focus again. Eyes glazing, he stared at some unseen point beyond her. Whispering to himself, he said, “No…no. I must not. I must not do that again…” Once more, his attention returned to her.

Terrified, Mary watched as two different men wove in and out of the same body. Once more, his expression cleared, and a fanatical smile emerged. “Mark my words, lass, you have two choices this day.” He leaned so close, his hot, hate-filled breath suffocated her. He paced, dragging her behind him by her braid. He gave a shrill whistle. From behind a grove of trees, a British soldier emerged to stand perfectly erect, and Mary knew this man represented the earl.

Bender turned to her and smiled. “Your first option is to spend the next several years locked within the deepest prison. Alec will never find you or understand what became of you. And then, once you emerge, you will be undesirable and unrecognizable.”