Wicked Promise (14 page)

That he wanted her went without saying. But he wasn't some sort of animal governed by its primitive instincts. He could control himself, keep a leash on his burning desire for her. Besides, he had received a reply to the message he had sent to Sydney Birdsall. In less than two weeks, Elizabeth would be leaving.

He spotted her now in the garden, sitting quietly a few feet away from one of the bird feeders that now hung from the trees along the gravel paths. She was studying an olive-green bird with a yellow-green rump and a yellow tail, listening to its loud, rapid trill.

He stood in the shadows till the bird flew away and Elizabeth rose from her seat, then approached where she stood beside a tall cypress.

Nick smiled, feeling his chest go tight in that odd way it did whenever she looked at him. "All right, don't keep me in suspense—what kind of bird was it?"

She laughed, a sweet, uninhibited sound. "A greenfinch. They're pretty, aren't they?"

"Very pretty." But he was thinking it was she who was pretty, with her fiery dark hair and her pink and white striped gown, the small puffed sleeves making her look so very young.

"You're home from work early today," she said. "You have finished supervising the timber cutting?"

"Actually, I've been here all morning. One of the broodmares foaled last night. I thought you might like to see her new colt."

Elizabeth grinned, her face lighting up. "Truly, I should love to."

He offered his arm and she took it. Together they walked the path leading back to the stable, entering the cool interior, pausing at a stall near the rear.

The mare nickered at their approach, shook her head and tossed her thick black mane. She was a rich blood bay, nearly sixteen hands, bred to his black Arabian stallion, and the colt was as black as its sire.

"Akbar is the father?"

He nodded, resting a boot on the bottom rung of the stall. "I've named him Prince, for his sire is surely a king."

"Prince will surpass even his father, I think." She assessed the blazing white star on the animal's forehead. "Akbar has quite outdone himself with this one,"

He smiled, pleased that she saw what he did, that the colt had the makings of a champion. They watched the foal for a while, teetering uncertainly on its new legs, then nuzzling up beneath its mother's belly, searching for something to eat. Then they walked to the little gray Arabian's stall and Nick handed Elizabeth a chunk of sugar to feed her.

Silence fell between them. He was amazed how much he enjoyed even those moments when nothing was said. They walked to another stall and he felt her eyes on him, felt them probing, gently trying to read him.

"There is something I would ask you," she finally said. "If you do not wish to speak of it, I will understand."

"We are friends, Elizabeth. I will tell you whatever it is you wish to know."

"I realize it is not a pleasant topic." She glanced down at the gray stone floor and then back into his face. "I wish to know why it was that you killed Stephen Hampton."

A coil of tension filtered through him, remembered wrongs, regrets about how he had failed his sister. "It's been years since I've spoken of the murder. For my sake, it doesn't matter, but there is Maggie to consider."

"Maggie? Do you mean your sister?"

"Yes. Margaret is the reason I killed Stephen Hampton." His dark gaze drifted away. "Knowing the way he hurt her, I would not hesitate to do it again."

Elizabeth said nothing, but he felt the slight pressure of her hand on his arm.

He took a steadying breath. "She was only sixteen when she met Stephen. I was twenty, supposedly older and wiser." He shook his head. "I should have kept her safe from a man like that, but somehow I failed to see the danger until it was too late."

"Your father was still alive. It was his responsibility more than it was yours. Apparently, he was unsuspecting as well."

Nick sighed wearily. "None of us suspected. Hampton was my age. I was never really close to him, but we were friends after a fashion. Like a fool, I believed it was I he came to visit whenever he came to the house. In truth, it was Maggie who had captured his interest."

He reached down and picked up a stem of straw, smoothed it between his fingers. "She was in love with him—why I couldn't begin to guess. Not that he wasn't handsome—and charming after a fashion. He was also ruthless and self- serving. Stephen was married. He kept a number of mistresses and still wanted Maggie. I don't know what he said, how he managed to seduce her, but he did."

"Your sister was young and impressionable. It could happen to any young girl. That is the reason she went into the convent?"

"Part of it. Mostly it was the scandal. For years I hoped she would leave that place, but I never could make her see. She deserved a different sort of life. God, I wish I could have convinced her."

"Perhaps she is happy. After what happened—"

"That is exactly the point—what happened between her and Hampton never should have occurred." The anger rose up, needling him, prodding him to remember the old hurts, the old pain.

"And that is the reason you killed him?"

Nick jerked hard on the straw, snapping it in two then letting the pieces drift to the ground. "No. I killed him because when she told him she was with child, he beat her so badly she lost the babe. I gave him the same treatment he gave her. In the fighting, Stephen wound up dead."

"You shot him?"

"Yes."

She studied the harshness that had crept into his features and seemed to ponder his words. "There is something you are not saying. What is it?"

She was observant, he had to give her that. Birdsall had said she was intelligent and he was right. "I went there to shoot him, so perhaps it doesn't matter. But the truth is, Stephen pulled a dueling pistol from a pair that was sitting on the mantel. I drew my weapon and shot him in self-defense, but no one believed me—his brother saw to that."

Elizabeth fell silent, absorbing each of his words. "I believe you. And I am glad, my lord, that is the way that it happened."

Nick glanced away. "I would have killed him anyway. It is what I went there to do."

Elizabeth made a negative shake of her head. "I do not think so. I do not think you are the kind of person who could shoot an unarmed man."

The knot of tension began to unravel inside him. Perhaps he wouldn't have. It was a question he had asked himself a thousand times. He would have called him out—there was no question of that. In the end, Stephen Hampton would still be dead.

But perhaps there was a difference, as Elizabeth seemed to believe.

As they walked back to the house, Nick discovered he wanted to believe it, too.

"Come now, dear. What can you be thinking that has got such a serious look on your face?" Sitting across from Elizabeth in the sitting room of their suite, Aunt Sophie pored over a stack of wrinkled foolscap she had carefully set on the table in front of her. She was busy tearing off the written-on portions of the paper and stacking the unused portion in a neat, separate pile, which she obviously intended to keep.

Elizabeth bit back a smile. Her aunt might be eccentric, but she was still one of the warmest, most giving women she had ever known. "I was thinking about Lord Ravenworth. I do not believe he is the villain people have branded him."

"Of course he is not," Aunt Sophie said with no little force. "Why, his father and mother were the very best sort. His younger sister, Margaret, is a delightful young woman."

"I think he behaves as he does because that is the way people expect him to behave. Secretly he is laughing at them, tweaking their noses. That is what I think."

Aunt Sophie tore away a particularly large chunk of paper. "I wouldn't know about that. I know the earl has been a god send to us, protecting you from that awful Lord Bascomb. We shall both of us be forever in his debt."

Elizabeth wholly agreed. She couldn't stop thinking of the day he had told her about the shooting, confiding in her, trusting her with his terrible burden. He was telling her the truth, she was sure of it.

As she watched her aunt complete her self-made task and carry the scraps of paper back into her bedchamber, an image appeared of Nicholas in the stable, a long booted leg propped against the stall, watching the little colt as if he were the proud father of the horse instead of Akbar. He had only kissed her once, yet she could remember every touch, every breath, the solid feel of every muscle beneath his shirt.

Sweet God, she was falling in love with him. He drew her with the force of a leaf tossed in a windstorm, a chunk of driftwood in the vortex of a stream.

She couldn't let it happen. The man was married, for heaven's sake—forever out of her reach. She had to be more careful, had to protect herself. Then she thought of Nicholas, of the loneliness she read in his face whenever she looked at him, and wondered if loving him would really be so wrong.

Charlie Barker stood in the darkness along the high stone wall of the house. A few feet away, one of the new men Bascomb had hired slipped quietly through the shadows. Charlie heard a muffled thud, then the sound of a body sliding into the dirt. Two more of Bascomb's men were moving over the grounds, taking out the rest of the guards Ravenworth had placed around the mansion.

"You ready?" Charlie whispered to Nathan, who stood at the base of a ladder they had stolen from the blacksmith's shed and propped against the wall.

"I suppose so."

Charlie went up first, one-handed, the other arm still in a sling, finally reaching the window that led directly into the Woolcot girl's bedchamber. They knew the entire layout of the house; their informant, one of Ravenworth's most trusted servants, had done an excellent job. Bascomb had come through as he always did, or more correctly, Bascomb's money had come through.

Charlie smiled with satisfaction. Ravenworth would hardly be pleased to know he had a spy in his midst.

The window creaked open. That information was also correct—getting in would not be a problem. Charlie stepped over the sill and motioned for Nathan to follow him in. The girl was sleeping, dressed in a prim white night rail, curled in the center of a big canopied bed, a long braid of dark reddish hair nestled against a slender shoulder.

Nathan rounded the bed on one side, Charlie the other. He. hated to do it, but he had to keep her quiet. The moment she sensed their presence and her eyes snapped open, Charlie swung a sharp blow with his good arm that struck, her on the jaw. She made a little whimper but that was all, just sagged back down on the bed as limp as a rag doll.

Nathan quickly stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth and tied it in place around her head. "Let's roll her up in that fancy silk cover," he suggested.

Charlie eyed the mauve silk folded neatly at the foot of the bed. "Good idea."

Charlie unfurled the cover while Nathan hefted her up and settled her carefully on top, rolling her up inside neat as you please. Even if she did wake up, her arms and legs were pinned, and her cries would be silenced by the gag.

"Come on," Charlie said, "let's get outta here."

Nathan nodded and took a quick peek out the window. "All clear," he said.

With Nathan's help, Charlie slung the unconscious girl over his good shoulder, waited for Nathan to reach the bottom of the ladder, then started down himself. Even with his injured arm, it was easier than he had expected. The girl weighed no more than a feather in a poke, and the men Bascomb had hired were silently efficient. They waited by the horses till Nathan was mounted, the girl draped over the saddle in front of Charlie, then they rode off.

A couple of miles down the road, they split up, the men traveling in one direction while Charlie and Nathan rode off in another. Behind them, no one stirred. Apparently anyone who might have been expecting trouble had been eliminated by the guards. Charlie inwardly winced to think what the men must have done.

He hoped to God they hadn't just up and kilt them.

T
he pink light of dawn broke over the horizon as Nick strode toward the stables, grim-faced, his blood up and pounding in his ears. Sweet Christ, he could hardly believe it. He had one man still unconscious and five others nursing an assortment of injuries from concussions to broken bones,

"The bastards knew what they were about," Elias said, his long strides keeping pace with Nick's. "Soldiers, maybe. Plenty of 'em around these days, what with the war and all. I figure there was three or four outside, one or two what went into the 'ouse."

"How much of a lead do you figure?" The words came out harsh. He still couldn't believe Bascomb had actually succeeded.

"Accordin' to the men, it was nigh onto midnight when the bastards struck. That gives 'em a little better'n a five-hour 'ead start." Elias didn't need to remind him the men he had hired as guards had all been gagged and trussed up like pigs. They had lain on the cold damp ground until one of the gardeners had come along and found them, then sounded the alarm.

"We'll find 'er, Nick. Don't ye worry."

"I am worried, dammit. I swear if Bascomb has laid a hand on her, I'll see him as dead as his whoreson brother."

"Easy, boy. We'll stop 'em before they ever reach West Clandon."

"We'd better." But he worried just the same. Elizabeth was alone with six hard-edged, obviously well-seasoned men. She was young and she was beautiful. He, more than anyone, knew how strong an urge lust could be.

Nick slung a leather bag over the black stallion's back and swung up into the saddle. Elias mounted a light gray hunter. Silas McCann and Theo Swann were riding a pair of bays. Several others had volunteered—Jackson Fremantle, his coachman, even Edward Pendergass had wanted to come along.

"Let's go." Nick had thanked them all and politely declined. He wanted to travel light, just him and Elias, hoping to make better time. But there were at least four men, possibly as many as six or seven. He wanted Elizabeth returned, but he wanted to be certain she got back unharmed. In the end, taking Silas and Theo was the least he could do.