CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“I have told you the Lacey men are not to be trifled with. You did not suppose I meant only Blackmore, did you?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth.
He did not remember shoving, heaving against the brute behind him, nor slamming the man against the doorframe. Did not recall grabbing the knife from the back of his waist. Nor driving that knife into the brute’s arm and shoulder and throat. He scarcely remembered crossing the room to Syder, ignoring the others who had crowded inside, dismissing the shouts and deafening blasts of gunfire.
One moment, he was watching his wife’s blood ooze from Syder’s cut. The next, he was dodging a slicing swing from Syder. He caught the man’s arm with his own blade. Felt something strike his shoulder and neck from the right. The cane. It was in Syder’s other hand.
It was nothing. The knife was nothing. Syder could beat him. Cut him. Kill him. It meant nothing.
Colin had already died.
Syder’s flat eyes flared as Colin calmly grabbed his wrist on the next swing. Calmly smiled. And then calmly sank his own blade between the butcher’s ribs. Pulled back and sank again, hearing a satisfying grunt. Sank again. And again. Watched blood drain until skin was ashen and eyes were dull.
“Lacey!” The sharp bark from behind him was as nothing.
He pulled back and felt the blade puncture again, a small resistance then a gratifying slide.
“Lacey! Stop, man. You must stop.”
Other hands pulled at him. He did not want to stop. He liked seeing Syder’s eyes fade, the faint surprise dimming until they were flat for another reason.
“She is still alive, brother,” Harrison murmured in his ear after wrapping unyielding arms around his shoulders and neck, struggling to move him away from the butcher. “Do you hear? She is still breathing.”
Someone was panting, harsh breaths loud in his ears. “S-Sarah?”
“She needs you.”
He let the arms pull him away from Syder’s body, now limp and collapsing in a heap on the floor. The cane, too, clacked onto the wooden planks, released from Syder’s slackened hand.
Colin’s eyes moved to her. Sarah.
Beneath smeared blood, she was white and still, her honey eyes closed, her soft mouth parted. But breathing. Atherbourne knelt beside her, pressing his cravat hard against her throat.
Behind him, Dunston questioned one of Syder’s men, his affable voice hardened to steel. Tannenbrook grunted as he tied another one’s hands.
But all he saw was his wife. Like a cannon had been shot into his chest, he felt both devastation and unimaginable fire. He must get her to a surgeon. Now.
“Harrison,” he rasped, falling to his knees before her, stroking her pale, precious cheek. “A physician. A surgeon. Please, God. She cannot die. She cannot.”
“Dunston has a man. He is on his way to Clyde-Lacey House. We must move her outside. Dunston’s coach is waiting.”
Atherbourne turned dark, sympathetic eyes on Colin. “The cut is not as deep as it first appeared,” the viscount said quietly. “He probably meant it as a warning, intending to keep her alive a while longer to gain your cooperation. She will need stitching, but—”
“I will not let her die.” Colin noted someone had already cut her hands loose. He quickly sliced through the rope binding her ankles and let his knife fall to the floor with a thud. “I will carry her. We will take her home, and she will not die.” He slipped his arms behind her back and beneath her knees then looked to Atherbourne. “Hold her wound.”
He stood with Sarah in his arms while Atherbourne pressed the now red linen against her neck. She was so light, so small. When she was conscious and standing before him in quiet defiance, arms folded, chin thrust into the air, she seemed indomitable. A great, towering goddess of honey and stubbornness. Now, she was only delicate bone and too little flesh.
While they waited for Thomas to open the door of the coach, Colin whispered in her ear, ignoring the snowflakes falling and clinging to her lashes. Ignoring the blood that smeared onto his cheek. “Don’t leave me, sweet. Please don’t leave me.”
They climbed into the coach, Atherbourne using his long arms to maintain the pressure on her neck while Colin settled her gently on his lap.
He read Atherbourne’s grieving sympathy on his face. He wanted to shout at the other man that she would live. Because she must. Because he had already died once today, and he could never bear it again.
Instead, he rested his lips against her temple, where her curls could tickle his chin. He rocked her with the motion of the speeding coach.
And he begged in repeating whispers, “Please don’t go, my love. Please don’t go.”
*~*~*
Sarah was having the most peculiar dream. Her mother was singing to her, a country tune from her childhood, perhaps. Her father was whispering to her that he loved her, telling her he wished to see her hold her children someday. Then he joined in the song. She lay beneath her quilt in her bedchamber at the cottage. It was bright. Probably midday. But she felt so weak she could scarcely keep her eyes open. She tried to ask her mother for the name of the song. Something about it was so familiar. Comforting.
Her throat hurt. The searing pain was distracting. Frustrating. She wished to speak, to tell her father that she had missed him terribly.
Something brushed her lips, brushed her eyes, brushed her hair away from her forehead. A warm, strong hand enfolded hers.
At last, she was able to open her eyes a bit. Her father was there, smiling down at her. But it was not his hand. Not his voice she had heard. It was Colin, holding her wrist to his lips, rocking back and forth in the chair beside her bed.
She sighed, relieved and happy. He was here. Her husband. She let her eyes close and drifted off to sleep, hearing a tender lullaby.
When next she awakened, she was alone. This time, she lay in her bedchamber at Clyde-Lacey House. She recognized the red draperies and the cream divan beneath the window. Snow swirled outside.
Blinking, she reached up to rid herself of whatever was causing that horrible pain in her neck. Her fingers found linen bindings.
“Sarah?”
It was her mother, entering with a tea tray. She tried to say, “Mama,” but it came out as a croak.
“Oh, my darling. Do not try to speak. Lord Dunston’s surgeon said there would be a bit of swelling that would make you uncomfortable for a few days. Blackmore’s physician has given you laudanum for the pain.” Her mother’s fingers brushed her forehead, then her cheek. “Let us see if you can manage to drink some tea.”
After a bit of maneuvering, Sarah was able to sit up and take small sips. It hurt quite terribly to swallow, but she was painfully thirsty. The two discomforts warred, and the thirst won. She finished an entire cup before her eyes began to flag, her need for sleep intruding.
“Mama,” she mouthed.
“Yes?”
“Colin?”
Worried green eyes met hers. A subtle frown. A downcast gaze.
Sarah grasped her mother’s wrist. “Colin?”
Eleanor sighed, brushing wispy curls along the side of her coiffure. She looked exhausted. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she took Sarah’s hand. “He is sleeping. He was awake for three days. We gave him a bit of your laudanum.” She read the stirrings of alarm in Sarah’s expression and tightening grip. “He is well, aside from not eating or sleeping. He has been mad with worry for you, daughter. Simply mad. He would not leave your side. His brother had to pick him up and drag him bodily from the room so the surgeon could work in peace.”
Again, Sarah’s hand drifted to the bandage at her throat.
“Yes, you were cut, I’m afraid. A few stitches were necessary, but both the surgeon and physician assure us you should heal very well. Perhaps a small scar, that is all.”
Lethargy was taking over now, warm weight and a floating sensation. Her eyelids listed. Her mother’s lips brushed her forehead.
“Sleep now, my sweet babe. Let Mama care for you.”
The third time she awakened, the room was dark. Only the fire and a single candle served as illumination. At the window stood a man, broad shoulders covered in white linen, blond hair boasting of its curl. His back was to her, head tilted forward, one hand on his hip.
Her heart squeezed. She loved this man. Loved his humor and wit, generosity and sensuality. She even loved his poor attempts at being stern. It filled her like music, soaring and booming and lilting and singing. If only he could love her in the same way. For a brief moment, when he had entered a parlor in Knightsbridge, she had thought he just might. But that had been a desperate moment. And sometimes desperation looked a good deal like love.
She shifted, feeling the aches in every part of her body—her head, her throat, her back and arms and knees. Drawing a deep breath, she stretched her neck to see him more clearly. “Colin.” This time, his name was more rasp than croak.
He turned, gazing at her with blue, tormented eyes. He held a letter in his hands, which he quickly folded and tucked away. “How are you feeling?”
“Hurts.”
Striding to the bed, he sank down next to her and lifted her hand in his. “I know, sweet. Let me give you a bit more laudanum.”
She shook her head. “How are you?”
He laid a tender kiss on her wrist, then a few more on her fingertips. Turning aside briefly, he measured liquid from a bottle and poured it into a cup of tea, then added a teaspoon of sugar. “Here,” he said, lightly tapping the spoon against the rim. “Drink.”
Sighing again, she complied, letting him help her by holding her head up. When she had finished the brew, which tasted bitter and sweet, she grasped his wrist. “Not your fault.”
He refused to meet her eyes, setting the cup and spoon on the table with a quiet clink. “It is entirely my fault. And I shall never forgive myself.” He grinned, the gesture breaking her heart. “A new one to add to the list, I fear.”
“No, Colin. Mine.”
“It was my duty to protect you. I failed in that most fundamental of tasks.”
His duty. His task. It was as she had feared. To him, she was an obligation, another act of contrition and charity on his road to redemption. Swallowing hard, she winced at the pain. Nevertheless, she could not countenance his blaming himself for what Felix Foote and Horatio Syder had done. Once again, she grasped his arm, digging with her fingers until he looked at her. “I left.” She placed her free hand over her heart. “Me. I went to Miss Thurgood’s.”
“I should have known you would not adhere to my wishes. I should have been here with you.”
Sighing her impatience, she shook her head on the pillow. “My fault. Not yours.” Lassitude seeped into her muscles. Pain began to lessen. The laudanum was taking effect. She wanted to argue further, but she could scarcely think, sleep beckoning like an old friend.
Warm, tender lips traced her forehead, then settled for a breath against her mouth. The sweetness of the kiss made her want to weep.
“Every day for the rest of my life, I will remember the moment when I failed you, Sarah.” His warm breath flowed over her as his forehead rested against hers. “You knew of my weakness.” Lifting his head, he whispered his final words seconds before sleep took her. “Is it any wonder you contemplated leaving me?”
*~*~*
“Miss?” The housekeeper entered the library where Hannah sat, practicing chess. First moves were sometimes the hardest. “There is a man to see you. Says he has news about your father.”
Hannah’s fingers froze above her knight. If someone else was here with word about Horatio Syder, that could only mean he was dead. He never allowed others to see her. Not in ten long years.
“Show him in,” she said softly.
Loud, heavy footsteps approached the library door. Clomp-clomp-clomp. Regular rhythm, no tapping.
“Miss Syder.”
Without glancing up, she held up a single finger in his direction. “That is not my name.”
“I—I beg your pardon?”
Finally, she made her decision. The knight. Definitely. It was the right move for this game.
“My name,” she said, turning to the big, rough-looking man in the doorway of the library. “It is not Miss Syder.”
The ugly man appeared confused, his worn, floppy hat twisting in his grip.
“What is it you wished to tell me?”
His discomfort seemed to grow. He tugged at the collar of his brown woolen coat as though it itched. “I regret to say your father—that is, Mr. Syder—he is dead, miss.”
She closed her eyes slowly, let them rest and savor the knowledge. Dead. He was dead. She let it wash through her, repeating the word. Dead. Dead. Dead.
“Miss. I—I am most sincerely sor—”
Without opening her eyes, she interrupted, “Is that everything, then? Have you anything else to tell me?”
His boots clomp-clomp-clomped further into the room. She opened her eyes to see what he was doing. He took an envelope from inside his coat and placed it carefully on the nearby desk. “He made arrangements. Set aside funds. The name of the solicitor is inside. It is all there for you when … er, when you’re ready.”
Slowly, a smile emerged. “Thank you,” she said softly, returning to her game. “That is excellent news. Excellent news, indeed.”
*~*~*