Chapter 17

The sound of men, their voices raised in argument, brought Rose back to her senses. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious. Or where she was now. She only knew her head pounded, her body felt like rock, and her mouth tasted of sand. What was more, she could not lift her eyelids no matter how hard she willed them to obey her.

“I won’t let you marry her.” It was Kirkwood’s voice. “For God’s sake, she is with child. No, no, I have made an arrangement with Tremain. He’s signed a document giving me most of Roxborough’s assets upon Drake’s death.”

“A document?” Francis almost shouted the words. “What kind of fool are you? We cannot trust Tremain. That document is evidence, and he’ll use it against you. When he exposes this plan, he will not be the one to hang.”

Kirkwood growled low in his throat. “I’m not the fool here. He will do exactly as I say. I hold proof that he killed that young girl, Claire, all those years ago. After all these years Tremain thought he’d got away with it. Why do you think he agreed to my two-thirds cut? Because he has no choice. Besides, if I know him, he’s already plotting how to rid himself of Rose as soon as possible to enable him to take another rich wife.”

The clink of glass on glass and the gurgle of liquid told Rose one of the men was pouring himself a drink.

“It’s still risky,” Francis said. “Better to keep the business within the family.”

“What if her child is a boy?” Kirkwood said. “The bloodline—my bloodline—must remain pure. I’ll not have Cumberland’s bastard take my title. The babe ruins everything. I only let the affair with Cumberland go on for so long because I knew he would never marry her, and I had thought he’d be more careful about getting her with child. However, it did give me time to build my reputation as the fair and patient guardian, so that no one will suspect me—us—in this matter.”

Francis laughed. “It won’t come to that. The child might be a girl. But even if it is a boy, the problem is not insurmountable. Many children die in infancy. Either way, we’ll have the money.”

“Money.” More liquid gurgled. “All you think about is money. We would not be in this situation had you not been so greedy. I tried my best, but you are your mother’s son. Weak. Rash. Without honor.”

“Honor!” Francis almost howled the word and then snorted with laughter. “You’re prepared to kill a child to save a title, and I’m the one without honor.”

There was a crack as flesh met flesh, and Rose hoped Kirkwood had loosened several of his son’s teeth.

“You’ll pay for that, old man,” Francis said thickly, all humor gone. “You have nothing to say about what I do. As soon as she wakes I’m marrying her and then we set sail for the Americas. By the time we return—and with her big with child—no annulment will ever be granted.”

“There is more to this business than your marrying the woman.” Kirkwood sounded frustrated, and not only with Francis. “We’ll have access to her jointure immediately, and that will stave off the creditors for now. But to get our hands on the real money, young Roxborough has to die.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something, Father.” There was something mocking now in Francis’s tone. “After all, it won’t be the first time you’ve evaded a murder charge. But killing Mother all those years ago was different. She had no one to protect her.” Francis paused before adding, “They’ll guard the boy once they know what I have done.”

Kirkwood had killed his wife? Rose’s fear almost sent her back into unconsciousness.

“I’m his guardian,” Kirkwood said. “That gives me certain rights. He will stay with me while you are on your extended honeymoon. They have no grounds to make a case to the chancery. But we must be patient. He can’t die immediately or Cumberland will raise hell.”

Philip. Rose’s heart lifted in a savage joy. Oh, yes, Philip would most certainly raise hell.

Francis’s next words stopped her breath.

“No. Cumberland has to die, too. I’m not coming home only to be challenged to a duel—and he will want to kill someone for this.”

Philip wasn’t the only one. Rose would do her best to kill both men if they touched a hair on her son’s head.

“Christ,” Kirkwood snapped. “We can’t kill everyone. I still say that to throw in our lot with Tremain is less risky. I need my money. Let Cumberland kill Tremain.”

Fury raced through Rose’s blood so violently that it made her fingers tingle. His money! It was hers. It was Drake’s. It was not Kirkwood’s.

Warily, she slitted one eye open.

Francis paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, obviously considering the idea. “That would work. We could pin everything on Tremain. Let him marry her. We kill the brat and get our share of the money. Then we frame Tremain for Drake’s death, and watch Cumberland challenge him to a duel and kill him.”

Kirkwood smiled, full of ice and teeth. “Now that is a plan I like. We get the money without having another man’s bastard in our bloodline. Very well. Now, until I can get word to Tremain, we just have to keep her hidden.”

On those words they both turned to where she lay.

Rose kept her breathing steady and shallow, pretending unconsciousness. They must have thought her still insensible because they turned away again and continued their conversation.

“Tremain left to travel north to Mr. Hemllison’s house near Yorkshire.” There was the sound of a drawer opening, the scratch of quill on parchment. “We need to get word to him immediately.”

“What about Cumberland?” Francis sounded concerned. “Would he or his friends know about this house? Should we move her somewhere else?”

“It’s unlikely,” his father said. “Besides, this is the safest place to keep her. The priest’s hole has kept its secrets for hundreds of years. Even if Cumberland finds the house, he will never find her.”

Rose risked another peek in time to see Kirkwood scatter sand on the note to dry it. Then he folded it and added his seal. He strode to the door of the room and threw it wide.

A man appeared in the doorway. “My lord?”

Kirkwood shoved the note at him. “I want this taken to Lord Tremain. He’s traveling north to Yorkshire on the main road. Stop at all the coaching inns along the road until you find him.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said and left.

Kirkwood closed the door with a sharp click and glanced over to where Rose lay, still feigning unconsciousness. “Quickly now. Move her before she wakes.”

Francis hurried to do his father’s bidding. He heaved her over his shoulder, thumping her in the breast as he did so. She bit her tongue to silence the moan of pain. Then, to her horror, he walked toward the large inglenook fireplace.

For one awful moment she thought he was about to throw her in. Instead, Kirkwood moved in front of them and ran his hand over the stones on the right. There was a grating sound, and the stone pillar itself moved back slowly to reveal a low doorway.

In the light from the room behind her Rose could see Kirkwood had obviously planned her imprisonment for some time. A narrow bed had been pushed up hard against one wall. Its mattress was thick enough, but there were no sheets, only a stack of blankets piled at the foot, and a single pillow at the head. A chamber pot was shoved carelessly under the bed. A pitcher—which she hoped contained something to drink—sat on a rickety-looking table next to the pillow, a slop bucket beside it.

Francis stooped down to enter the room, strode across to the bed, and dropped her unceremoniously onto the mattress. Then, without a word or a second look at her he turned and strode back out.

As the secret doorway started to close, the light began to dim. Only then did Rose realize she’d seen no candles on the table, no lantern. They were leaving her alone. In the dark.

But she didn’t dare make a sound to show she was conscious. The light dimmed. Dimmed further. Vanished.

She curled up on the piled blankets, shaking, and sick to her soul. No one knew where she was. What if something happened to Kirkwood and Francis? No one would ever think to look here. She and Philip’s child would die together in the dark. And Drake. What would happen to her son?

Exhausted and terrified, she pressed both hands over the gentle swell of her belly. “It’s all right,” she whispered to the little life within her. “You’re safe. I won’t let them hurt you. Sleep. Your father will come for us.”

But for all her brave words, a tear trickled, warm and wet, along her cheek. “He will come,” she said again, and there in the silent dark, she prayed with all her might for Philip to find and save them all.