Chapter Seventeen
The explosion had come out of nowhere. One moment, Caroline was admiring Richard’s skill in taking the corners on the appalling road, and the next, over the top of the pounding hooves and the rumbling wheels, an almighty crack sounded. At the same time, her arm jerked of its own volition, spinning her against the side of the curricle, and the horses screamed in fright.
“What the…?” came Richard’s voice, then, “Dear God, Caroline!”
Somehow, he must have got the horses under control, for a moment later, she was lying in the road, with him looming over her.
“What happened?” she asked blankly. “How did I get here? Did I fall out?”
“Sort of,” Richard said hoarsely. “It’s as well I managed to halt them first. Be brave, my dear, I’m afraid you’ve been shot. It must be highwaymen, and one of them is running toward us.”
As he spoke, he produced a pistol from the pocket of his overcoat. She could make that out although the fringes of her world were growing misty. It seemed to take a long time for his words to penetrate.
She frowned up at the sky. “I’ve been shot?” She turned her head toward the sudden, galloping pain in her arm. There was blood. “Oh dear, so I have. Am I going to die? I mustn’t! Who will care for Peter? And I must not abandon Rosa. Oh, where is he?” Sudden, weak tears filled her eyes because she would die without seeing Javan again, without telling him…
“Oh, put the pistol away, you lummock, it’s me,” said an irritable voice, surely in her imagination, for it sounded like his. Hasty footsteps sounded on the road, and his face swam before her misty eyes.
“Help her,” Richard’s voice pleaded. “I don’t know what to do.”
Caroline smiled, reaching urgently for Javan with her good arm, because even if he wasn’t real, she wanted his presence so much. But the skin of his neck was warm and firm under her hand, his deeply scarred face frowning and desperate.
“I have you, Caroline,” he whispered, his rough fingers gentle and soothing on her face. “I have you. Hold on.”
Enchanted by the warmth of his voice, she let the happiness explode within her. She tugged him closer, gasping his name as she pressed her lips to his. “I love you,” she whispered.
She felt the aching, tender response of his lips for a bare instant. And then, his voice, “Then you’d better let me see that wound, so I can remind you of the fact for years to come.”
“Years,” she said blissfully. “Am I dreaming, Javan?”
“No, but I need somewhere cleaner and safer to get the bullet out of you.”
His hands were beneath her, swinging her up across the sky, and then she seemed to be back in the curricle with Richard. She tried to ask where Javan had gone, and then she saw him on horseback, riding beside them. The world sped up and vanished into blackness.
*
When she woke, she was between crisp sheets. She had a memory of excruciating pain that went on and on, relieved only by the sweetness of Javan’s voice. She’d trusted him to make it stop. She must have been dreaming. The fierce ache in her arm told her it hadn’t all been imagination. And behind that was some nagging worry that she had something important to do.
“Javan?” She turned her head on the pillow, searching.
A silhouette by the window stretched into the shape of a man springing to his feet. He strode toward her and she saw with wonder that it truly was Javan.
“It is you!”
“It is. How are you?”
There was something incredibly wonderful in him sitting on the edge of her bed. He touched her forehead, no doubt feeling for fever, and then moved on, stroking her hair.
“I’m well, I think,” she replied, “though my arm hurts. Was I truly shot? And how in the world did you come to be there?”
“I was trying to catch up with you, came across that fellow with a rifle. I shall never forgive myself for not stopping him in time.”
“I thought I might die,” she remembered. “And it seemed so cruel without seeing you again, and then you were there.”
He took her hand, his fingers curling around hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m afraid I’m a mess of a human being. I didn’t quite understand until you left how much you mean to me.”
“I do?” she said, enchanted.
He smiled, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers, then her knuckles. “I love you, Caroline Grey. Please don’t leave me again.”
She frowned. “I didn’t leave you, precisely. I had to…” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Peter! Peter is ill. I had to go to him this time. Have I missed the mail coach? Where am I?”
She struggled to sit, but his hand on her good shoulder pressed her back into the pillows.
“Be still,” he said severely. “I know, Richard explained to me. Yes, you have missed the mail coach, because we haven’t yet made it to Carlisle. We brought you to the nearest inn, where, not three hours ago, I dug a rifle ball out of your arm. Which explains why you are not going anywhere for a couple of days.”
“But I feel fine,” she protested. “And Peter—you don’t understand—he cries for me when he’s ill, for my sister cannot abide sickness and goes to pieces and my mother… Well, she was used to servants doing her bidding and has no idea how to nurse, and Peter might die!”
“Drink this,” he said, sliding one arm under her shoulders and holding a cup of water to her lips. She drank it obediently, though it tasted peculiar, for she was very thirsty. And besides, there was something beguiling in being held in his strong arm against his chest. It did strange things to her heart and her stomach.
“I understand from Richard,” he said calmly, easing her gently back on to the pillows, “that your sister asked for money rather than your presence, so we doubt Peter is actually at death’s door. However, since you are clearly worried, either Richard or I will go there for you if you wish and see what is to be done. For, as I said, you are not going anywhere until I am assured you are well.”
She frowned, trying to make sense of all of this. Somewhere, she liked him commanding her, for though she was used to people’s orders, they weren’t normally given for her benefit. She found the novelty curiously sweet. However, in some things, she, too, was immovable.
“You are not a physician,” she pointed out. She frowned. “So how is it you took the ball from my arm?”
“Practice,” he said. “My men didn’t always have access to a surgeon. Don’t look so impressed. Once you’ve taken a ball out of your own body, extracting one from someone else’s is a blessed relief.”
In spite of herself, she laughed, just as the door opened and Richard sauntered in with a large tray of food.
“Ah, that sounds more like our Miss Grey,” he said cheerfully, although his glance was piercing and more than a little anxious. “I’ve brought food.”
“So I see,” Javan murmured.
“The boy’s following with drinks,” Richard said. He cocked one eye at Javan. “Do you want to feed our prisoner?”
“Lord, no, let him stew.”
“Prisoner?” Caroline asked, intrigued.
Richard’s lips twisted. “Killer Miller,” he said with contempt. “The man who shot you.”
Her eyes widened. “You caught him? Shouldn’t you have handed him over to the authorities?”
“Probably will,” Javan said without much obvious interest.
“Is he an infamous highwayman?” Caroline asked, accepting a little bread and butter. The ache in her arm seemed to have eased just a little and she felt very sleepy, but there were things she needed to know.
“He’s an infamous rogue for hire,” Richard said grimly.
“But how did you capture him?” Caroline demanded. “I want to know everything!”
“Javan just rode up the hill and fetched him,” Richard said. “Having taken the earlier precaution of knocking him cold with his own rifle. We needed to be sure there were no other gunmen around taking pot-shots at us.”
“And were there?” she asked breathlessly.
“No,” Richard replied, taking the tray of ale and coffee from some unseen person at the door. “You see, he isn’t a highwayman, but a ruffian hired by our old friend Marcus Swayle.”
“Who will pay,” Javan said in a cold, dangerous voice, all the more chilling for its absolute certainty.
“We assumed this Miller had mistaken me for Javan,” Richard said, “and hit you by accident. Turns out, his orders were to shoot you.”
“Me?” She dropped her nibbled crust on the plate. “I’m the governess! Why would Swayle want me dead?”
“To further discredit Javan,” Richard explained. “Put the blame on him and hope he hanged for it.”
Caroline gazed from him to Javan. “But that’s…”
“Unforgivable,” Javan finished for her. “Even Miller seems to think so, for he’s quite happy to land his paymaster in the soup. Apparently on Swayle’s instructions, it was Miller who hired Nairn for one more howling at the hall. Also, according to Miller, he told Swayle he wouldn’t kill you if he could help it.”
“You would have made it easier for them by being there,” Caroline speculated. She frowned at Javan. “Why were you there? Why were you following us?”
Richard grinned with unabashed mockery. “He thought we were eloping.”
A gurgle of laughter broke from Caroline. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Javan said shortly. “And you needn’t look so pleased about it because—”
She threw out her hand, effectively silencing him and his fingers closed around hers. “I’m so sorry about the engagement sham. I didn’t know what to do for the best and everything seemed wrong.”
“It was,” Javan said ruefully. “It was I who should have claimed the betrothal.”
“Yes, you should,” Richard said frankly, “considering you were the one who was kissing her.”
“I didn’t want to be pushed,” Javan muttered. His fingers tightened. “More than that, I didn’t want you to be pushed. I don’t want you to marry me to save your blasted reputation.”
“Is it really that bad?” she asked.
A breath of laughter escaped Javan. “Your reputation? Hardly. I don’t believe the Tamars or the Grants would have blabbed. I suppose we should care that no one realizes you are now travelling alone with two male Benedicts, but—”
“Actually, that doesn’t seem to be strictly true,” Richard said from the window. “Come and see this.”
“Not you,” Javan said severely to Caroline as he strode across the room to join his cousin. It seemed to her that his limp was less noticeable than when she’d first arrived at Haven Hall.
“Good God,” Javan said in awe. “How the devil did she know? And she’s brought Rosa!”
“Who has?” Caroline demanded. She really was very sleepy.
“Marjorie,” Javan said. “It seems your reputation is saved. Although it will still seem odd, no doubt, when you return engaged to the other Benedict cousin.”
Caroline frowned. “Neither of you ever considers asking.”
“I’ll ask,” Javan said softly. He was standing by the bed again, leaning down to stroke her hair, and she couldn’t help smiling through the waves of sleepiness. “When you’re awake and well. Now, before you fall asleep, where exactly does your family live?”
She blurted out the direction, just as she finally recalled the odd taste in the water. “Laudanum!” she exclaimed, “You gave me laudanum…”
“You need to sleep,” he said softly. “So, sleep.”
She did.
*
Javan crossed into Scotland before nightfall and rode straight through Gretna Green, travelling a few miles east, off the main Edinburgh road, to the Rose and Thistle. This was a smaller inn he’d been told about by the landlord he’d just left. The two innkeepers were apparently related, and the English one was very proud of his Scottish cousin, who apparently had a business on the side, marrying people according to peculiar Scots law. More to Javan’s immediate purpose, the inn was closer to the village of Ecclerigg, where resided Caroline’s mother, sister, and nephew.
Although the taproom was busy, the innkeeper gave him a choice of bedchambers for the night and brought him a hearty dinner.
After a disturbed night—he worried too much about Caroline to sleep well—he ate an early breakfast and rode on to Ecclerigg. This turned out to be a small, picturesque village at the foot of two hills. The blacksmith was happy to direct him to Mrs. Grey’s cottage.
The cottage was not large, but it looked well-cared for and had a neat garden. A child of around four played in the garden while a maid hung up washing and hummed to herself.
Javan dismounted and looped the reins around the fence before he opened the gate and closed it again behind him.
“Good morning,” he said civilly to the maid. “Is Mrs. Grey at home?”
The maid, her humming cut off, showed a tendency to stare with her jaw dropped. It was the child who stopped galloping around the garden to say, “Yes, she is. Is that your horse, sir?”
“Yes. You can stroke him if you like. He’s very well mannered.”
Grinning, the boy ran at the horse, who eyed him disdainfully across the fence.
“Give him this,” Javan advised, taking a lump of sugar from his pocket. “Flat on your palm like so. He will love you forever. Are you Peter, by any chance?”
The boy nodded absently, watching with awe as the horse lipped the sugar gently from his hand.
“And who might you be?” the maid demanded with a hint of aggression that might have been her way of protecting the child from a stranger.
Javan gave her a slightly crumpled card. He hadn’t had any printed for some time. “Be so good as to take this to Mrs. Grey. She will know my name as her daughter’s employer.”
The maid’s eyes widened. “Peter, come in,” she ordered, seizing the boy by the hand. “You’d better come too, sir.”
She showed him through the narrow hallway and into a pleasant parlor, then, taking Peter with her, she left him. He heard the clumping of her footsteps on the stairs.
Peter, clearly, was not at death’s door. He was doubly glad he’d left Caroline on the other side of the border.
After several minutes, when he could hear voices upstairs, a flurry of feet coming down heralded the arrival in the parlor of a middle-aged lady in a cap, and a young and very beautiful lady who held Peter by the hand.
“Mr. Benedict,” the elder lady said, curtseying. “I am Mrs. Grey. This is my daughter, Mrs. Dauntry.”
Javan bowed civilly.
“How can we possibly help you?” Mrs. Grey asked anxiously. “Caroline is not here.”
“I know. I came on her behalf because she seemed to believe Peter here to be…very ill.”
“He has had such a terrible chill,” the beautiful Mrs. Dauntry said a shade nervously.
“But that was weeks ago,” her mother said. “He has been fine since. I wrote to Caroline and told her so.” She frowned. “Though, do you know, I may have sent it to Braithwaite Castle! I am so scatter-brained…perhaps she never received it?”
“Oh, no, she received that letter. It was sent over from the castle. No, this was a later one, from Mrs. Dauntry. I believe monies were required to pay the doctor? Because Peter had relapsed.”
Mrs. Dauntry cast a glance at her mother, half-imploring, half-frightened. “Oh no…that is, I was afraid he might…” As though recollecting herself, she cast a dazzling smile at Javan. “But sir, you are amazingly kind to take up my sister’s cause and come here in her stead. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”
Mrs. Grey didn’t look grateful. She looked confused and not a little put-out.
Javan inclined his head slightly and waited.
“Please, sit down,” Mrs. Dauntry urged. “Will you have tea?”
He met her gaze and read there the confidence of a beautiful woman who knew she could bamboozle and win whichever man she liked. What was it she’d wanted the money for? Another new gown with which to seduce the local gentlemen? Or just a better class of dinners? Clearly, it had never been for Peter. The mother knew it and was not best pleased. Which said something for her. Just not enough in Javan’s opinion.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I won’t have tea. I came really, to bring you news of Miss Grey. Since neither of you have asked, it is my duty to inform you that she is not currently well. She left my house in desperate haste to see Peter and was injured on the journey. She currently lies at an inn near Carlisle, in the care of my sister. The direction is written on the back of my card, should you need it. Good morning.”
“Wait!” moaned Mrs. Grey. “Sir, what has happened to Caroline? You must tell me!”
“She was shot,” Javan said brutally, and was only slightly mollified to see the sister whiten as she sat down too quickly.
“Shot!” the mother exclaimed. “Dear God!”
“Will she die?” Mrs. Dauntry whispered.
Javan relented. “No, I don’t believe so. I have some experience of gunshot wounds and providing we can avoid corruption, I believe she will recover well. But I am glad to be able to relieve her mind over Peter.”
“What were you thinking of, Eliza?” the mother burst out. “Do you think a governess earns so much—?”
“I was selfish,” Mrs. Dauntry whispered, bowing her head. “You know I have been dull since I returned from Edinburgh and…and I so wish I hadn’t written that stupid letter. Truly, I did not think it would matter. This is all my fault.”
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Grey snapped. “Go and pack your bag and Peter’s—one bag, Eliza! Sir, might we request your escort to my daughter? If you are returning there.”
“I am. And I would be happy to escort you. I believe we can hire a chaise for you at the Rose and Thistle.”
“Then we shall meet you there,” Mrs. Grey said decisively. “We can borrow a conveyance that far at least and I know you are riding.”
He bowed again, and began to walk away, but to his surprise, she caught his arm. “Sir, I thank you for your care of my daughter.”
“It is the least I can do, ma’am. Her condition is more my fault than yours.”
A frown flickered across her face at that. “I don’t know how that may be. But you must find us selfish and neglectful. In truth, we have grown to rely too much on Caroline. She was always our strength, and Eliza has always been too indulged…that is my fault, for I imagined she would make a splendid marriage which would save us from penury when my husband died. But in truth, there is no excuse for her writing such a lie to Caroline.”
“I do not judge either of you, ma’am,” Javan said, not entirely truthfully.
“Thank you, for Eliza is not truly bad-natured. Just impulsive and inclined to selfishness, as are we all.”
“As are we all,” he agreed. He smiled faintly. “Except for Caroline.”