The Secret Rose (17 page)

“You have no idea what is best for me, Abigail, or you wouldn’t have left London.”

His words caused her to pause. “Yes, I do. We can’t marry. I heard what Captain MacDonnell told you. You have to leave before this Stafford fellow finds you.”

Ethan sat back in his chair and stared at her, the look in his eyes filled with concern. He took a deep breath, but not before she glimpsed a hint of fear.

“Gather your things,” he said, his rigid composure back in place. “We have to leave.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m afraid we have no choice but to go to Fallen Oaks. It’s too far to go back to London, and the horses are too tired to make the trip back.”

“You don’t have to go with me. I’m perfectly safe traveling by myself.”

“You think so?”

“Of course,” she retorted. “I have Stella and Bundy with me.”

He stared at her a moment, then shook his head. “You don’t even know what you’ve done,” he whispered so softly she wasn’t certain she heard him correctly.

He rose from his chair and offered her his hand. When she took it, he wrapped his strong, sturdy fingers around hers and held tight. A feeling of safety engulfed her, and she wondered what she could possibly have feared before.

He didn’t look at her, but led her out of the inn and across the cobbled yard. The midday air still had a chilly nip to it as they made their way to the waiting carriage. Bundy sat atop, ready to set the horses in motion. Stella sat bundled inside, her shoulders huddled in the corner, sending a look that said
I told you he’d be angry
. Ethan waited until she was inside, then closed the door and walked away without a word.

Abigail settled herself, then peeked out the window to see him give last-minute instructions to Bundy. She couldn’t hear his words, but saw from the excited bobbing of Bundy’s head and the deep frown that covered his face that Ethan’s orders were important.

When he finished, he mounted his steed with the practiced moves of an expert horseman and sat ready to ride. He leaned forward to pick up the reins and at the same time jabbed his hand into the side pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a pistol, which he moved to the right-hand pocket of his dark velvet jacket.

Abigail’s heart skipped a beat. Why would he possibly think he needed a weapon so close to Fallen Oaks? No one had been attacked or robbed anywhere near here for years. No one had even seen a highway robber since she was a little girl.

Ethan urged his horse forward, and the carriage followed with a jerk that shifted Abigail back against the seat. They traveled at a fast clip—Ethan riding even with the carriage, his head swiveling to the left then to the right as he kept watch.

Abigail studied him from her window, praying the nervous fear roiling through her was a result of her imagination and not a premonition of something yet to happen. Surely the man called Stafford wouldn’t have followed Ethan here. Surely she hadn’t put him in danger by leaving London.

She knew the answer to her questions even before Bundy’s gut-wrenching warning cry cut through the air. Before the first shot rang out.

“It’s a trap!” she heard Ethan bellow. “Get her away from here, Bundy!”

His order was followed by the loud slap of the reins hitting the horses’ backsides. The carriage lurched forward, tossing her against the back of the seat.

Stella screamed, then crumpled in a heap on the floor.

Abigail righted herself just in time to see Ethan pull the weapon from his jacket and turn his horse around. Just in time to see the end of a whip snap out and wrap around his chest. The force of the long leather cord pinned Ethan’s arms to his body and pulled him to the ground. The gun he held in his hand flew forward, leaving him with no way to protect himself.

“No, Ethan!” she cried. “Bundy, stop!”

The carriage didn’t slow, no doubt because Ethan had given orders to get her to safety. Then, without warning, the carriage jerked to a halt.

Before she had time to collect herself, the door flew open and a big, burly man pulled her from the coach.

Her first sight was that of Bundy’s still body lying on the ground, a thin stream of blood running down the side of his face. “Bundy!” she screamed, struggling to go to him, but the man held her back.

“Abigail, run!” Ethan cried, a look of frantic fear in his eyes as he fought against the whip that circled his body. “Get away!”

She struggled against the arms holding her, biting and kicking and scratching in her attempt to get away. She needed to go to Bundy. She needed to make sure he was still alive. She needed to get the weapon Ethan had dropped on the ground. She needed to free him from the man she knew wanted to kill him. From Stafford.

Dear God
, she silently pleaded, looking at Ethan.
Help him. Please, help him.

This was all her fault. If only she hadn’t left London. If only she’d have stayed where they would have been safe.

Somehow, Ethan managed to free his arms. With lightning speed, he landed a strong punch to Stafford’s face, then another, and another. Stafford fell to his knees. But before Ethan could attack again, two of the men with Stafford rushed forward and grabbed Ethan from behind. Each held one of Ethan’s arms behind his back while Stafford bounded to his feet. His swelling face darkened with rage. He doubled his fist and hit Ethan in the jaw, then in the stomach, while the other men held him.

“You aren’t so high and mighty when the tables are turned, are you, Captain Cambridge?” Stafford said, swaggering over to Ethan. “You’re not so cocksure, now that you’re outnumbered, are you?”

“Go to hell, Stafford,” Ethan slurred, the cut on his lip poorly shaping his words. “You wouldn’t be standing if you had the courage to face me by yourself instead of relying on these bullies to do your fighting for you.”

“Oh, the fighting is fair, Captain. My men are going to handicap you, just like your men handicapped me. Like your sailors held their guns on me while you loaded my property onto your ship and sailed away with it.”

“Those were people. Not property. You were going to kill them.”

A slow, sardonic smile lifted the corners of Stafford’s lips. “I was punishing them. Just like I’m going to punish you, Captain.”

“No!” Abigail screamed. She struggled harder, but it was no use. The man holding her was too strong.

“How touching,” Stafford said, walking over to Abigail and lifting her chin with his finger. “I’d almost forgotten about the lovely lady.”

“Leave her alone!” Ethan pulled against the two men. One of the men lost his grip and Ethan lunged forward, only to be stopped by Stafford’s whip handle coming down across the side of his head.

Ethan staggered, giving the second man time to grab his arm and fasten his hold. A cut opened above Ethan’s eye, a small river of blood flowing down the side of his face.

“You touch her and you’re dead, Stafford.”

“My, my. The Captain is certainly protective, isn’t he? Just like I tried to be the night he humiliated me in front of my wife and my friends.”

Stafford turned to Ethan. “My wife still reminds me how weak and inept I was against you. How I failed to stand up to a handful of incompetent British sailors to save what was mine. How I let you sail away with every slave I owned.”

He lifted his hand as if he wanted to strike Ethan, then stopped. “Do you know how it feels to be laughed at by your wife? By your friends? I am ruined. As a Southern gentleman, I am disgraced. And it is your fault. You humiliated me and took away all I own. I think it is only fair I do the same to you.”

The look in Stafford’s eyes burned with hatred, a vile and vindictive glare that bordered on insanity.

Abigail looked for a way to help Ethan. She scanned the ground to find the pistol he’d dropped.

Ethan cast her a frantic look. The helplessness she saw on his face mirrored her own ineptitude. This was all her fault.

“Strip him and tie him to the carriage.” Stafford snapped his whip in the air. “I owed Henry twenty lashes for his insubordination. Since it’s your fault he’s not here to receive them, you will take them in his place.”

“No!” Abigail screamed again, but she knew her pleas would go for naught.

“And you, my dear,” Stafford said, walking over to her, “can watch and listen while the brave and courageous Captain Cambridge receives his punishment. We will see how long it takes for him to beg me to stop. And then,” he said, “I will take you away with me, just like the good captain took all my slaves. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

A painful knot tightened in the pit of her stomach.

“Let her go,” Ethan bellowed. “Do what you want with me, Stafford, but let her go.”

“Oh, no. I want you to know how it feels to have what you cherish taken away. I want this lovely lady to see how weak you really are.”

Stafford laughed—a harsh, shrill laugh that shot chills down Abigail’s spine.

“My wife was privileged to watch you hold me at gunpoint while you stole everything that was important to me. I will afford you the same courtesy. Strip him!”

Ethan fought, but it was no use. There were too many of them.

First they pulled his jacket from his shoulders, then ripped his white lawn shirt from his back, stripping him bare to the waist. Next, they stretched his arms out and tied him to the carriage, making sure he could not move.

Ethan turned his face toward her, impaling her with a look that exposed his vulnerability. Black fury raged across his face, the frantic helplessness spearing through the charged air, twisting in the pit of her stomach.

She couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered through hot, heavy tears that streamed down her cheeks. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

Stafford raised his arm, then brought the whip back. The long leather strap halted as if suspended, then sliced through the air. It snapped with a loud crack as it met its target—Ethan’s flesh.

His back arched. His muscles bunched. His body jerked once before he clenched his hands around two metal strips on the carriage and held tight.

A part of her died.

The whip snapped again. And again. And again.

“No!” She struggled against the muscled arms that held her. The look in Ethan’s eyes blazed hollow, vacant, as if he needed to detach his mind from the pain being inflicted on his body. The breath that left his lungs hissed through his teeth, as he quivered in obvious agony.

Each snap caused another bloody stripe to mar his smooth, bronzed skin. Lashes crisscrossed with one another until they meshed like an ugly patchwork with no particular design.

With each downward swing of Stafford’s arm, another cut appeared. Ethan’s blood flowed in small rivulets toward his waist.

His face paled, and twice his legs buckled beneath him. But he did not cry out.

Abigail felt as if her heart was being ripped from her breast. His head dropped to his chest as he fought to maintain consciousness.

She watched as long as she could, willing him her strength. When she couldn’t stand to see Ethan’s body recoil in pain another time, she pinched her eyes shut.

Another snap echoed in the stillness, followed by a muffled groan. It was worse not to see. She opened her eyes, focusing first on the ground, then on the carriage wheel, then on the dull metal object behind it. Ethan’s pistol.

Her heart beat faster. Her breath quickened. She had to get it. It was the only way she could stop Stafford.

Without considering if her plan would work, she raised her foot and brought it down hard on the instep of the man holding her. At the same time, she lowered her head and bit his arm. With a loud yelp, he released her.

Before the man could stop her, she dove for the weapon beneath the carriage wheel and grabbed it in her hands. She heard Ethan’s weak voice yell a warning, but nothing could have deterred her. It was her fault Stafford had found Ethan. Her fault that blood ran from his flesh. Her fault she may be too late already, and he may die.

She jumped to her feet and turned. She aimed the pistol to the middle of Stafford’s stomach. “Put the whip down. Now.”

He held the whip high, poised to strike once more. The look in his eyes questioned whether or not she knew how to fire a weapon, or had the courage to do it.

“Put the whip down, sir, or I will blow a hole in you as big as my fist. I’m sure you know that a wound to the stomach is almost a guaranteed death sentence. And a very painful way to die.”

Stafford laughed. “You expect me to believe a delicate woman such as yourself would have the courage to kill a man?”

She stepped between Stafford and Ethan and smiled. “I pray you give me the smallest excuse to answer your doubts.”

The condescending smirk left his face, replaced by an obvious hint of concern.

“I spent most of my youth on London’s docks with my father. He considered it essential that I learn to protect myself. Although the pistols I used were usually much smaller, I assure you, they were just as deadly.”

The frown on Stafford’s face grew darker.

“Drop the whip, sir, and take your men and leave.” She motioned to Stafford’s men and they moved to stand beside him.

Stafford hesitated a moment, as if considering what she would do, then lifted the corners of his mouth in a wide grin. “As you command,” he said, bowing in mock conciliation, then lowering his whip to his side. But not dropping it to the ground.

He turned to his men and nodded, but his look was not one of surrender. Instead, it seemed more a signal for alertness. Every nerve at the back of her neck prickled in fear.

The next few seconds happened in the blink of an eye. With a loud cry, Stafford put his hand in his jacket and pulled out a gun.

Before he could fire, Abigail pulled the trigger.

Stafford’s gun fell to the ground and his eyes opened wide, the look on his face filled with disbelief. He stared at her, then down at the blood oozing through his fingers that clutched his side.

“You bitch!” he yelled, his voice raspy and harsh. “You filthy bitch!”

The men in Stafford’s employ stopped. They gaped at her as if they could not believe she’d pulled the trigger. As if they feared she might pull it again.