Chapter Thirty
When Flynn’s carriage passed through the tall gates of Greystones Manor, John took his fine pair of Manton’s pistols out of their case and checked them. He handed a gun to Guy. The men searched the dense woodland bordering the road, alert for any sign of trouble as their carriage trundled on.
When they rounded a bend, a giant carrying a shotgun lurched from the trees onto the road. The horses were pulled to a stop, plunging and rearing. “It’s my man. O’Mainnin!” Flynn yelled. He threw open the door and leaped onto the road.
The big man loped up to Flynn. “A carriage passed through ’ere a short time ago with two men inside, milord.” He scowled, drawing in great gasps of air. “We was expecting them, ’cause her ladyship spied the blighter in Dublin. I got off two warning shots. I’m on my way to the ’ouse.”
“Jump aboard, O’Mainnin.” Flynn climbed back inside. “Crowthorne has found his way here, but Althea was expecting him! Let’s hope that gives us more time.”
O’Mainnin scrambled onto the box, and the coachman urged the horses on with a crack of his whip. They careered along the rutted forest road. The sky lightened as they emerged from the trees into parkland. Moments later, the wall bordering the formal gardens came into view.
“Let’s turn this to our advantage and surprise them,” John said. “How far to the house?”
“We’ll be within sight after the next bend,” Flynn said. “We’d best stop here.” He banged on the roof, and they filed out of the carriage before it came to a stop. “Go to the stables, O’Mainnin. Warn Gaffney. Both of you keep away from the house.”
With John and Guy following, Flynn ran through the gardens and entered the lime walk. They emerged from the trees, and keeping their heads low, crossed the terraced area and skirted the fountain. They followed the beech hedge toward the front aspect of the mansion. There was a wide lawn which offered little cover ahead. Flynn peered through the branches and swore under his breath. An armed man stood guard at the front door.
“I’ll distract him, tell him my horse went lame back on the road,” Guy said.
“I don’t like it, Guy…” Flynn began, but Guy was already on the move.
“Shoot him if he looks at you twice,” John urged in a low voice. “We’ll be close behind you.”
Guy set off at a fast gait down the carriageway and soon approached the house. The man at the entry leveled his gun at him. He called out.
“No need for that mon ami.” Guy raised his hands and continued toward the armed man.
Flynn and John darted to the rear of Crowthorne’s carriage while Guy burst into outraged, excitable French. The man’s mouth fell open. He stared, engrossed. “Speak English, ye heathen, or you’re dead,” he yelled and took aim.
Guy dropped to a crouch as John stepped clear of the carriage. His shot brought the rogue down. The man rolled to the bottom step and sprawled there, unmoving.
Guy walked over and nudged him with his foot. “Dead.”
Inside the great hall, Quinn lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, blood gushing from a wound on his forehead. Flynn knelt beside him. “He’s alive, thank God.”
Had Crowthorne found Althea? She would be hiding somewhere. Surely they would’ve left if that were so. Flynn sprinted to the stairs. “We’ll spread out,” he called as he ran. “I’ll take the upper floors, John, you take the ground, Guy, see what you can learn from the staff. Keep them all out of the way and do what you can for Quinn.”
Flynn reached the landing and raced along the corridor to Althea’s chamber. Empty. Doors banged back revealing empty rooms as he ran, calling her name. No answer. His heart beating, he threw open another door, his mind dealing with the facts as he found them. She’d had time to strip her bedchamber of her possessions and arrange a signal to alert them when Crowthorne was on his way to the house. Therefore, she would’ve had time to choose a hiding place. But where? The oubliette. Would she go down there? She’d turned away in horror when he’d shown it to her. Hardly daring to breathe, Flynn ran down the winding stone stairs. The dungeon door was locked, the key gone. Did Quinn have it? Damn, he wished he’d thought to check him for it. He would have to go back.
Flynn spun around.
The loud blast of a gunshot echoed hollowly around him. Surprised, Flynn crashed back against the wall. When his legs failed to hold him up, he slid to the floor. A dark mist began to blanket his sight, and he could just make out Crowthorne aiming a kick at his side as he stepped over him. The key in his hand, Crowthorne laughed and stood at the dungeon door. Flynn felt his blood drain from his body, his pistol wavering in his weak arm. He raised it in Crowthorne’s direction while he fought to make his useless fingers work. Then he knew no more.
*
Had she heard gunshots? Not knowing what was happening made her bite her lip in frustration. Althea feared for Quinn and the other servants. Crowthorne wouldn’t care who he shot. He could hold them for ransom and demand to know where she was. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
She shivered violently, her clothes damp, the dank air filling her lungs. Goosebumps sprung up on her arms. At the bang of the trapdoor, she started. It was too dark above her to make out who was at the top of the ladder. She didn’t dare cry out for it could be Crowthorne. Had he tortured poor Quinn to find out where she was? Not able to stand it a moment longer, she jumped up from the chair dropping the blanket. She edged backward and came up against hard cold stone. Please let it be Quinn! All they need do is light a lamp and they would discover her here. There was nowhere to hide. She removed the safety catch from the pistol and waited.
At the clank of the grill, she held her ground, taking huge breaths to steady herself.
A dark shape appeared on the ladder.
She stepped forward and raised the gun.
“That’s quite far enough. Declare yourself, or I’ll shoot you,” she said, forcing the words out with a gasp.
“Please don’t shoot, Lady Brookwood,” a pleasant voice said. “It would be an embarrassing way to die.” The big, fair-haired man came swiftly down the ladder. “And I’ve no doubt you want to leave this cursed place.”
“Lord Strathairn!” She choked the words out. He reached her as her legs crumpled.
She gripped his arm. “Just as well I didn’t shoot you,” she said with relief. “I thought you were Crowthorne.”
“I’m glad to hear it wasn’t something I’d done to upset you,” he said. “Allow me to assist you up the ladder.”
It should’ve been Flynn. “Where is Lord Montsimon?”
“He has been injured, but he lives, my lady.”
“What happened!”
“He was shot. We have sent for a surgeon.”
Althea gasped. “Take me to him, please.”
Strathairn’s strong hands pulled her out through the hatch. When he led her out the dungeon door, Althea stumbled. A crumpled body lay against a blood-spattered wall. Crowthorne’s head had sunk onto his chest, his eyes blank.
“Flynn shot him,” Lord Strathairn said in a brisk tone. “Made a dashed good job of it in the circumstances. It appears Crowthorne took him by surprise.” He hurried her past Crowthorne’s body.
They reached the stone stairs leading upward. “How badly hurt is he? Tell me the truth, please.”
“I have every confidence he will rally. Hard to keep a man like Flynn down. He’s been taken to his chamber,” Lord Strathairn said in a calm voice.
Was he merely placating her? Gasping, she hurried ahead of him.
In his chamber, Flynn lay still in the four-poster bed, his face far too pale. Althea was relieved to find his hand warm when she held his palm to her cheek.
“I’ve bandaged him the best I could until the doctor comes.” Lord Fortescue drew a chair up beside the bed for her. “Fortunately, there’s no need to dig for the ball. It passed right through his shoulder.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“We gather that Crowthorne forced his way in. Flynn will tell you everything when he wakes.”
She studied the neat strapping binding Flynn’s shoulder and chest. “You have some expertise, I see, Lord Fortescue.”
“I had much practice during the war.”
“You’ve had a trying time, Lady Brookwood. Can I order tea for you, or something stronger?” Strathairn asked.
“Thank you, but I’m all right. Where is Quinn? Are the servants safe?”
“Quinn was injured when they broke in, but he’ll recover,” Strathairn said.
Althea’s eyes filled with tears. Quinn had tried to protect her. “But he will recover?”
“He will. Just a bad headache.” The baron placed a light hand on her shoulder. “And try not to worry about Flynn.”
She bit the inside of her lip so hard she tasted blood. Flynn’s dark eyelashes fluttered on his cheek. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. She placed her hand on his forehead. “You are sure?”
“As I say, I’ve tended many wounded. For you to be here when he wakes will be the best medicine.”
“He is fortunate indeed to have such friends by his side.” Althea gazed up at Strathairn. How grave he looked. Was the baron merely trying to ease her worry? “I shall take care of Flynn,” she said. “I’m sure you both could do with a drink. There’s Irish whisky in the drawing room.”
Strathairn bowed. “An excellent idea. I’ll endeavor to get tea sent up. The servants are rushing around like headless chickens, I’m afraid. Lord Fortescue and I will await the surgeon downstairs.”
Still holding Flynn’s limp hand in hers, Althea sat in the quiet room, her eyes remaining on his face. He couldn’t die. She loved him. God would not be so cruel.
A flustered maid brought in the tea tray. Althea sipped the brew to moisten her dry throat. Barely tasting it, she put the cup in its saucer.
Flynn’s eyes opened. He peered dazedly at her. “Althea!”
“Oh, my love.” She impatiently swiped at the tears beginning to cloud her vision.
His face twisting in pain, Flynn struggled to sit up.
“Please don’t move, darling. The surgeon will be here soon.” She poured a half-glass of brandy that Lord Strathairn had sent up with the tea and added a dash of water to it from a jug on the dresser. She supported Flynn, adding a pillow behind his head. He drank a little, and color flooded back into his face.
He laid his head back on the pillows. “Crowthorne?”
“Dead. You shot him.”
Flynn’s brow lifted and his eyes widened. “I did?”
“According to Strathairn.”
His smile became a painful grimace. “I have you here, safe, that’s all that matters.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“I will later. I love you, Althea.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I have for a long time. You must forgive me for my tardiness. I’m a slow-witted fellow.”
She smiled as hope warmed her. “That you are not.”
“I want to marry you, for us to share our lives together…but the king’s grant was not a financial one. I remain a very poor bargain.”
Althea raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed your mind then? You wish to marry an heiress?”
“No!” He huffed out a painful laugh. “Good God no!”
“Then we shall manage.” She would wear rags and starve just to be with him.
“The king wishes me to become ambassador to Spain.”
Her heart leapt. “Then we will go to Spain.”
“Spain remains far too dangerous.” He frowned “Will you wait for me?”
“No, I will not. I shall come with you. You shan’t get rid of me that easily.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” he said, smiling slightly.
“I mean it Flynn. You’ll not leave me behind.”
He sighed. “I expect you’ll wish to live in England. Not here in this shabby place which is impossible to clean and heat.”
“I love this house. You haven’t had a chance to appreciate my improvements.”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “What have you done?”
She told him of her small touches and her plans for further improvements.
He ran a finger along her cheek. “How lucky am I?”
“I love you, Flynn.” She leant over him and carefully pressed her lips to his. Flynn’s good arm came around her and, with a soft moan, he deepened the kiss.
“Begorra!” The door had opened to admit the surgeon carrying a leather case. “I was called to attend a man at death’s door. That cannot be you, my lord?”
Lord Strathairn, who followed the doctor in, grinned and nodded at Flynn, then left the room again.
“How are you Dr. O’Leary?” Flynn smiled. “It’s been a long time.”
“I’m in fine fettle, but what about you?” The surgeon approached the bed. “I would’ve preferred our meeting to be under better circumstances.”
“This is Lady Brookwood, doctor. My betrothed.”
Dr. O’Leary bowed his head. “My felicitations, my lady. Now let’s see to this wound, or you will make for a sorry bridegroom.” He removed his half-hunter from his waistcoat pocket and took hold of Flynn’s wrist. “I won’t need to bleed you. And I see someone who knows a thing or two has strapped you up. A shame I must remove it.” He opened his bag.
“Will he be all right, Doctor?” Althea watched him cut away the bloody bandages.
The doctor leaned over Flynn, examining the wound. “He’s a strong, healthy specimen. A clean wound by the look of it, so, baring infection, I believe so.”
“Do you need my assistance?”
“No, my lady. All is well.”
“Then I’ll leave you to treat his lordship,” Althea said, the relief making her voice tremble. She left the room before she cried again. She hurried down to see how Quinn fared. Flynn loved her. He had asked her to marry him. He must get better. He must!