“Recently, I was reminded that granting favors rarely benefits the grantor as fully as the grantee.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, in reference to her nephew’s continued misbehavior at Oxford.
Once again, she had chosen a frightfully warm summer day to trek across fields and through forests with a heavy, cumbersome basket. “I am bloody daft,” she muttered, pushing up her spectacles as a leaf thwacked her breast. She pushed it aside impatiently and continued toward the cottage.
The little stone house sat cheerfully in a clearing, surrounded by ash and oak trees, its multi-paned windows lending it a welcoming air. It had once been the gardener’s cottage, before Harrison’s father had ordered a new one built near the walled garden on the opposite side of the fish pond. Apparently, the gardener had spent too much time trudging through these thick woods and not enough time tending his duties.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist before knocking on the oak door. Inside, she could hear a muffled crash, like pots hitting the floor, then a quiet curse. “A moment, Boswell,” the masculine voice shouted, referring to the footman assigned to deliver food and supplies each day.
Tapping her foot, she waited.
The door swung open. “You weren’t due to return until tom—Jane!”
She smiled up at a round-eyed Colin. “I am certain you will see Boswell at his appointed time. But today, you have me.” She raised the basket an inch or two, her arms burning from the effort. “And this monstrously heavy basket.”
Shaking his head, he immediately took it from her and waved her inside. Thankfully, the interior was much cooler, the shade of the trees and the thickness of the stone walls a blessing in midsummer. It was neither large nor luxurious, with bare plank floors and few embellishments. But the simple wooden chairs were made more comfortable with pillows at the back, and the round table in front of a small stone hearth was topped with a matching cloth and a pitcher of daisies.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he said sheepishly, setting the basket on the table and running a hand through his hair.
She glanced over his sparse attire—a simple linen shirt tucked into dark trousers—and shrugged. “You are not unclothed.”
He chuckled, the sound a bit rusty. “It is good to see you, Jane.”
Grinning, she cracked open the basket to begin placing items on the table. “And you, Colin. How are you feeling?”
“Better. A few days of rest, and my head no longer feels it is about to tumble off my shoulders.”
“And this”—she held up a loaf of freshly baked bread—“should speed that along. Monsieur Renaud is masterful with all things, but anything baked is shockingly delicious.”
As they sat and ate together, Colin’s easy companionship soothed Jane in a way she could not explain. The cold lump that had grown and stretched against her ribs over the past two days eased and thawed, letting her breathe again.
“It wasn’t until the fourth time she found a dead spider on her pillow that Victoria suspected it was I who had committed the dastardly act. Before that, she believed wholeheartedly the terrifying tale of the Ghost Spider that haunts the darkest corners of Blackmore Hall, preying upon small children who accidentally trample one of its offspring.”
Holding her sides, Jane laughed harder than she had in ages, struggling to catch her breath. “Did—did she ever forgive you?”
“Oh, eventually. Victoria has a temper, but there are few people more loving on this earth.”
Her laughter fading to a smile, Jane nodded. “She is extraordinary, your sister.”
His eyes dropped to the table, his fingers tracing a crack beneath the cloth. “I have written her a letter. I haven’t posted it, for obvious reasons. But I do want her to know how much I regret the harm I brought upon her and her husband.”
Jane’s hand covered his, which felt alarmingly thin and bony. “What will you do, Colin? Where will you go from here?”
He squeezed her hand in return. “In a few more days, I will return to Liverpool, and from there, sail to America.”
As she gazed into his eyes, she could see him doubting his own survival, the blue brighter than it had been, but still shadowed by the knowledge of what chased him. “What if you had the funds to pay the debt?”
“Harrison offered me this place for a short time. I cannot ask for more than that.”
She shook her head. “I have an allowance. It is not a thousand pounds, but with the money from the wager and my funds, you could—”
“No.”
“Colin—”
“I have taken enough from you. Bloody hell, Jane, you are too good for your own good.”
Smiling, she gave his hand one last pat then withdrew to dig into the basket. “Perhaps you are right. But I will not stand by and see you tortured or murdered when I can do something to stop it. If nothing else, you are the brother of my best friend and my husband. That makes you my brother, too.”
He was silent as she pulled out a reticule Genie had given her. Covered in a bevy of bows and little tufted feathers, all in pink, the thing was hideous, an experiment Genie had regretted soon after it was finished. But inside, was two months’ worth of allowance, perhaps enough to save a man’s life.
She held it out to him. “Here,” she prompted. “It is yours.”
“I do not want it.”
“Don’t be silly. The reticule is merely the package.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I know that, Jane. I will not take your money. That is final.”
She dropped the pink monstrosity onto the table with a plop. “Yes, you will. And furthermore, you shall repay me at a future date.”
“Oh, shall I?”
“Double the sum.”
“Double?”
She winced. “Very well. The total sum, along with … fifty percent.”
“That is highway robbery.”
She folded her arms, mimicking his posture. “Then, what is a fair return, Colin Lacey, if you know so much?”
“Nothing. I am not taking your money.”
Pushing back her chair, she stood. He did likewise. “Ask Boswell to return the basket when you are finished with it,” she said, donning her bonnet and walking to the door.
He grabbed the reticule and chased after her, holding it aloft before her nose. “Take it back. I do not want it, Jane.”
She paused inside the open doorway, braced her hand on his shoulder, rose up on her toes, and kissed his cheek. Then, she patted his arm. “Fifty percent. I believe that is quite reasonable.” And she left him standing there with the pink reticule and a look of consternation wrinkling his brow.
Smiling as she wended her way through the thick woods, she felt a glow in her chest that wasn’t due to the weather. She sighed and looked up at the canopy of leaves, smelled the rich earth, loamy and ripe in the summer heat.
She might not be much of a duchess, but she was a good sister. A good friend.
About twenty feet before the edge of the woods, she heard a sliding rustle, like a foot slipping in the moist layer of leaves on the gently sloping ground. She turned, expecting to see Colin following behind her. But there was no one. Only trees and thick brambles.
She frowned, setting her spectacles higher on her nose. Squinting, she looked for an animal. Perhaps a bird had made the sound. She shook her head at her own imaginings.
Jane, you ninny, she thought as she resumed her path to the edge of the wood. Soon, you’ll be crediting the terrifying tales of the Ghost Spider, as well.
*~*~*
“Where is she, Colin? If you do not tell me the truth, so help me God, you will pray you had.”
Colin slammed his hand down on the table with a crack. “I told you, I do not know where she is. She left here some time ago. I assumed she would return to Blackmore Hall.”
Harrison’s heart was choking him, his insides twisting and pressing outward. She was gone. She’d been gone for hours.
When he had discovered the drawing room empty, he had searched her usual haunts—the libraries, the music room, her bedchamber. With each successive room, his urgency had increased. Beardsley and Mrs. Draper were of little help, but finally, he had thought to ask the bloody Frenchman with whom his wife got on “quite well.” Resentfully, the cook had informed him of her destination.
His eyes fell to the basket, sitting on the floor in one corner of the small cottage. She had prepared a picnic for his brother, hauled the basket here to share with Colin. Alone. The knowledge was a burning coil inside him, winding and seizing his rational thoughts inside a vise. He knew he must contain it. She was gone. And he must find her. That was all that mattered.
“Which way did she head when she left here?”
Colin heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “The main path through the woods.”
“And you did not accompany her?”
“You asked me not to leave the cottage. I did not request that she visit me, Harrison. She simply … arrived.”
The knowledge did nothing to ease his mind. If anything, it made the pain in his gut worse. His eyes fell to the table, where Colin’s fists bracketed a peculiar pile of pink ribbons and feathers. “What is that?”
Colin straightened, his chin lifting. “I did not want it. I told her as much.”
Harrison snatched it up. It was a pouch of some sort, a reticule. Inside, he found the answer to why she had come here in the first place. His voice grew colder, more deliberate. “This is nearly six hundred pounds.”
“Yes. I am aware. She wants repayment at fifty percent. You will be doing me a favor to return it to her. As I said, I will not take her money, nor will I accept her outrageous terms. Fifty percent. Preposterous!”
Blood turning thick and chilled, heart pounding, Harrison shook his head and dropped the reticule. “The pistol I gave you. Bring it to me.”
“Do you think I am stupid?”
“Colin,” he gritted, giving his brother a deadly glare. “We must find her. Now.”
Colin swallowed, his face growing ashen. “You believe she is in danger.”
“She would not be gone this long. If someone discovered you were here, and he was watching for visitors …”
It took his brother only a moment to retrieve the pistol, which he handed to Harrison. “Have a care. It is loaded,” he warned, carrying a hunting rifle of his own.
Harrison nodded, feeling slightly sick as he took the gun in hand. He had not fired a pistol since the day he had shot Gregory Wyatt through the heart. The memory was less than pleasant. But if someone had taken Jane, had hurt her in any way, he would gladly put a bullet in him.
First, they searched the perimeter of the cottage, looking for signs of men who might have been lurking nearby. They found nothing—no bootprints, no disturbed foliage. Next, they moved down the path into the woods, retracing Jane’s steps. He could clearly see the small indentations of her feet in the moist soil. Trailing behind, Colin whispered, “She came this far.”
Harrison nodded and waved him forward, scanning the surrounding woods for motion. Moving slowly and deliberately, he stepped over a prominent root, his eyes constantly shifting from the path to the thick foliage on either side. His pounding heart demanded he quicken his pace; it wanted him to run, to fight, to do violence. His mind knew that would be the worst sort of recklessness. His mind won the battle by the barest margin, but with every second that went by, that margin grew thinner.
He motioned Colin to a halt. There, less than twenty feet before the path emerged at the edge of the wood, her footprints ended. His stomach rolled threateningly, his skin freezing until gooseflesh rose. Another set of prints—deeper, larger—intruded on the path, and then disappeared into the leaf-strewn undergrowth.
Someone had taken her. His wife. His Jane.
He was not a violent man by nature. Killing Gregory Wyatt had been accidental and one of the most horrifying moments of his life. But the part of him that Jane touched without even trying, the part he hid from everyone except her—that part wanted blood. The blood of the villainous whoreson whose bootprints consigned him to death.
*~*~*
The setting sun slanted through the windows of the farmhouse, causing the dusty interior to glow a vivid gold. Everywhere Jane looked, there were brightly colored fabrics—yellow gingham framing the windows, apple-green florals on the aged sofa, strawberry-red dotted twill and white lace on the table coverings. She cast a surreptitious glance at the grimy weasel who had pressed a gun to her neck and forced her here. He was wiry and ugly, his face curiously flat, his eyes furtive and pale. He stood at the window, nudging aside the gingham with the end of his pistol. The golden light glinted off his eyes, turning them an eerie, pale green.
“Does your wife know what you have been doing?”
Without turning, he answered, “Haven’t got a wife. Now, I told ye, shut your mouth.”
“Oh, I was just admiring the many fine colors in this room.”
He glanced over his shoulder to where she sat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She had not moved from the chair since he had shoved her into it upon entering the house. “House belonged to my mother,” he said.
“Where is she, your mother?”
Turning back to the window, he muttered, “Dead.”
“Ah. So, this is your home. You were raised here.”
He grunted. She took it as a yes.
“Then, you are familiar with the Duke of Blackmore.”
“Bloody nob. I know ’im.”
“You may be interested to learn he is my husband.”
He cast her a dubious look. “Right.”
“Truly. I am the Duchess of Blackmore.”
Snorting dismissively, he shifted his gun from one hand to the other, using his right to wipe his mouth. Jane had noticed he had a tendency to spit when he spoke. “Ye don’t look like no duchess to me.”
It was strange to hear her own thoughts echoed back to her from the mouth of this foul creature. Strange and irritating. “Regardless, I am a duchess. And, as such, perhaps I can make you a better offer than the one you previously accepted.”
“Offer?”
“Yes. Whatever you have been paid for your … services, I shall double it.”
“Ain’t been paid for this bit, yet. Only the five quid to watch for the nob’s brother. Londoner already knows. Men’ll be here in three days. When they see what else I got, I’ll get paid more.”
Swallowing at the knowledge that Colin’s hunters would arrive in only a few days, she continued with her attempts to distract her captor. “And what is it you suppose you have?”
“Lacey’s ladybird. Saw ye when ye left the cottage. If the Londoner wants Lacey to go easy, he’ll need someone like ye. Pay plenty fer it, too.”
She frowned at the nasty ruffian. “I am no man’s ladybird.”
“Know what I saw. Lacey likes ’em plump, I reckon. Me, I’m not much for the fleshy ones.”
“Hmmph. You are a rude man. What would your poor mother say about your appalling behavior?”
The man took several steps in her direction, his posture threatening. She shrank back into her chair. “Ye got a mouth what needs closing. Best shut it before I do it fer ye.” He paced back to the window, his boots loud in the silence. “My mother’s dead. Before that, she couldn’t so much as leave her bed without me, moanin’ and shoutin’ all bloody day and night. Enough to drive a man mad. I told ’er. Said it a thousand times.” His fist hit the windowsill with startling force, causing Jane to jerk in her seat. “Had to die,” he muttered. “Had to.”
Hearing him speak those words to himself, Jane felt as though she’d been standing on the surface of frozen water, slick yet solid beneath her feet, only to have the ice break from beneath her, plunging her body into the dark, frigid deep. Her fingers went numb; her heart slowed and floundered in an awkward rhythm; the light around her turned from gold to gray.
But she could not allow her horror to show. Could not allow it to stop her from thinking, from finding a way out. Harrison would come for her. She had little doubt of it. She might not be the duchess he wanted, but she was his wife. He would not take her disappearance lightly. But would he find her? And would he do so before …?
She shuddered. Best to devise a plan of escape in the event he did not.
Drawing a trembling breath, she glanced around the room. It was a small farmhouse, set far away from the village, from any other houses. From anyone who might hear her cries, or even the shot of a gun. It had taken them over an hour to get here, with the Weasel yanking her along by her arm, occasionally digging the gun into her ribcage.
Outside, it was a plain, timber-framed house, but inside, it was surprisingly cozy, cheerful. His mother must have had a love of fabrics, as they were everywhere. Perhaps she had been a seamstress. In the corner, Jane spotted a small bookshelf. It sparked an idea.
“M-might I retrieve a book from that case?”
He cast a mean look over his shoulder. “Will it keep ye quiet?”
She nodded. He waved his gun. “Make it quick.”
Rising on unsteady legs, she paused to let the blood return to her feet before walking carefully to the back corner of the room. There, she selected the heaviest of the small assortment, a thick, leather-bound Bible. It must have been precious to his mother, as it was well used, but also well cared for and fairly expensive.
“Sit back down,” he said flatly.
She turned to see him pointing the gun at her. Swallowing, she complied, sinking back into the chair and opening the book in a show of reading. Slowly, the light began to fade as night fell. The Weasel lit a lantern, so she was able to continue pretending to read, but the darkness outside appeared to make him more nervous. He now paced between the two front windows.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
As the moon rose higher, the echoes of his boots on the floorboards clashed with the songs of frogs and crickets, the light wind sighing through leafy branches. Over the pounding of her heart, she tried to take comfort in the familiar sounds. Tried to devise a plan that would help her escape this hideous man who had quite clearly hastened his mother’s death, if not outright murdered her. He was only of middling height, and wiry rather than large, but she knew she could not possibly match his strength. She must, therefore, take him by surprise. Perhaps eventually, he would grow weary and relax his guard. His anxious pacing, however, had not slowed since sunset.
Suddenly, he stiffened, turning sideways along the wall flanking the window. His body now tensed like a filthy, nasty barn cat poised to pounce on a hapless rodent, he glanced back at Jane, his eyes narrowed and glittering. “It’s the bloody duke,” he hissed.
Oh, God. Harrison is here.
Simultaneously, a warming wash of relief flooded her body while a stone hardened in her chest. She watched in dawning horror as the Weasel sidled to the door, inched it open a crack, and aimed his pistol. The sounds of the night muted and slowed, the stone in her chest growing until her lungs strained at the intrusion, her limbs weighted by lead.
The click of the gun being cocked was cannon fire in her ears. It signaled her body to move.
To leap up.
To grasp the Bible in both her hands, the weight of it lifted by her fury.
To surge toward him.
Raise it over her head.
And bring it crashing down upon his with a mighty thud.
He did not go down. Instead, he covered his head, cursing her loudly. But she could scarcely hear over the screaming. Who was screaming?
“You bloody whoreson! You dare point a pistol at my husband, you wretched pile of dung! I shall kill you!”
She swung the book at him over and over, bludgeoning his head and his arms and his shoulders. On her last swing, she caught his wrist, sending the gun toppling to the floor. A loud crack rang through the air. Then came his wrenching yelp as he crouched over his injured leg. With a growl, he swiped out at her, his fist meeting her belly unexpectedly.
Her breath fled in a whoosh, the pain rocking her backwards into the edge of the table. Just then, the door flew open with a resounding crash.
And standing there with silver light behind him, filling the doorframe like a vengeful god, was Harrison. Her Harrison. Tonight, he was not Apollo. He was Hades. Dark and sinister and possessive of what he considered his.
He came to stand over the Weasel, calmly pressed the barrel of his pistol to the man’s forehead, and fully cocked the gun with a click. That was when she knew. He meant to do it. He would kill him. His eyes—those beautiful eyes—were pure, blue fire.
“Harrison,” she said softly, still catching her breath. She stumbled, reaching toward him. “Harrison, do not. Please.”
She couldn’t bear for him to live with killing someone in cold blood. Even though the Weasel richly deserved it. Even though she would like to pull the trigger herself. She approached her husband slowly, her hand gently stroking his upper arm. The fine tremors of the muscles there spoke of his control.
“He must die, Jane.”
The quiet statement, spoken so calmly, sent chills running over her skin. “No.”
“He must die for touching you. For taking you.”
She shook her head, though he did not look at her. Instead, he stared unblinking into the eyes of the panting, sweating Weasel kneeling on the floor before him.
“Not by your hand, my love. Not by your hand.” She laid a kiss on his arm, wedging herself against him, sharing her heat. “He is not worth the price.”
Distantly, she heard hooves thundering the ground outside, men shouting to one another. Harrison’s gun did not move, pressing against the Weasel’s skin with bruising pressure, forcing the other man’s head back on his neck. Wisely, the Weasel kept silent.
Colin appeared in the gaping doorway. Instantly, he took in the scene. “We are here now, brother,” he said soothingly. “All is well.”
Still, Harrison did not withdraw. Not an inch.
Colin looked to her. “Jane? Are you quite all right?”
Jane nodded and wrapped her arms tighter around Harrison’s arm, rubbing her cheek on the fine weave of his coat.
Dunston entered, a long hunting rifle in his hands. “We’ve brought the magistrate, Harrison. Why don’t you let us restrain this scaly wretch while you comfort your lovely wife?”
At last, reason seemed to penetrate. Harrison took a deep, shuddering breath, his hand easing the pressure of the barrel against the Weasel’s skull. Slowly, reluctantly, he released the hammer and let his arm fall to his side. Colin and Dunston moved in to haul the Weasel up by his arms and slammed him into the chair Jane had vacated. Several strapping footmen entered, along with a heavily whiskered gentleman who was only slightly taller than Jane and twice as wide.
He bowed to Jane as he entered the now-crowded room. “Your grace. I am Francis White, the magistrate.”
She gave him a nod. “Mr. White.”
“A travesty, what’s happened. I shall do whatever I can to set things right.”
Mr. White had kindly eyes and a gentle mien. And though her head was spinning, she managed, “M-my thanks to you, Mr. White. I am certain you will.”
He turned to eye the Weasel with a shrewd gaze. “What have we here, gentlemen? Oh, ho! Oswald Hodges.” He tsked, waddled over to the ruffian, and bent forward with his hands braced on his knees. “I have been anticipating your return. Thought we would never suspect what happened to your poor mother, did you not? Well, best think again. Your friend Barker told us where you buried her. And you shall hang for it.”
Clinging tighter to Harrison’s arm, Jane closed her eyes and swallowed against a wave of dizziness. Handing his gun to a footman, her husband turned to stand between her and the others, his arms coming up and cinching tightly around her. Melting at his nearness, she sighed, laying her cheek against his chest. He wore no cravat. No waistcoat. Only a shirt beneath his riding coat. There was not a speck of starch to be found. Nothing to prevent her hearing his heartbeat, steady and strong. She burrowed her nose against him, feeling his hands exploring her back and her neck and the sides of her face.
“You were gone,” he whispered, his warm breath stirring the fine wisps of hair at her temple.
“I knew you would come.”
His mouth found hers in a sliding, feather-light kiss. “Do not ever be gone again.” The command was airless, as if he had not meant to say it aloud.
She stroked his beloved face with her hand, feeling the bristles on his jaw. Her answer was to kiss his descending mouth.
A throat being cleared proved a distracting interruption. “Apologies, Harrison,” said Dunston. “The magistrate would like your permission to employ a few of your footmen to haul Hodges to the gaol.”
Harrison nodded. “Take whomever you require, Mr. White.”
Two of the larger footmen gathered up the bleeding, pale Hodges, who was now tied hand and foot, and hauled him out into the front garden. The magistrate tipped his hat, assuring them he would report all progress directly to the duke, and then followed his prisoner outside.
Jane, noticing Colin leaning heavily on the table she had crashed into earlier, felt a spark of urgency rise again. “Colin,” she said. His head came up. “They are coming for you.”
He blinked, taking two drifting steps toward her. “When?”
“Three days. He said they will be here in three days.”
“Then we shall be waiting.” The cold, silky words came not from Colin, but from the man standing solidly at her back. Harrison.
“No,” said Colin, shaking his head.
“We must send a message,” Harrison insisted. “If he threatens my family, he shall pay a very dear price.”
“These men are nothing to him,” Colin replied. “Expendable. No. I must lure them away. As long as they are pursuing me, they will be no danger to you.”
Jane felt Harrison’s rejection of Colin’s words as his muscles hardened to steel. “Like bloody hell,” he snarled.
“Listen to me. He will never stop. I know that now. I cannot risk anyone else being harmed. You. Or Jane.”
“You will not offer yourself as bait in this way.”
Colin gave his brother a heartbreaking grin. “It is what you would do.”
“Oh, Colin,” she whispered.
“I shall give you the funds,” said Harrison. “Twice the debt, so he cannot balk.”
The sweet-faced boy who had become a weary, hunted man began to protest, but Harrison would have none of it. “That is the end, Colin. We will deal with the men who come here. And you will take repayment to the man who sent them.”
After exchanging hard gazes for what felt like eternity to Jane, her husband’s brother—now her brother, as well as her friend—conceded to Harrison’s demand. “Very well,” he said, holding out his hand.
Harrison glanced down at the offering. Then he did something she did not expect. Stepping out from behind her, he drew Colin into an embrace. “Be safe,” he said, his voice cracking, his hand thumping Colin’s back. “And come back to us.”
Colin closed his eyes and held his brother in return. “I will.”
*~*~*