The Mistress
“I probably shouldn’t tell you.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this sick or this tired or anywhere near this scared. “But I guess it doesn’t matter now. When Kingsley and Søren were teenagers, they had a relationship.”
“They were lovers?”
“Yeah. That. They were in school together. It was a—”
“Catholic school, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was.”
“This is starting to sound familiar.”
Wesley told her what he knew of the story. Kingsley and Søren falling in love, the sister, Marie-Laure, coming to visit, Søren marrying her so that she and Kingsley wouldn’t have to live an ocean apart anymore. But the sister had fallen in love with Søren and when she discovered that he loved her brother...
“She faked her own death?” Grace asked, aghast.
“By killing a runaway who had the same color hair as her. The body had on her wedding ring. Nobody even guessed it was someone else. Kingsley thinks his sister crossed the border into Canada and lived in Quebec for a while. According to him she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Easy to find a rich man to take care of her.”
“But why all this? Why take Nora now after all these years?”
“No idea. He doesn’t know what set her off, either. Something must have.”
“Where’s Søren now? Can I speak to him?”
“He’s in Kingsley bedroom. Third floor. Door at the very end of the hall.”
Grace stood up.
“I don’t think you’ll get much out of him, though.”
“Why not?” Grace asked from the doorway.
“He’s unconscious.”
“What?”
“Kingsley gave him a shot of something. Apparently Søren was going to call the cops and the rest of the world. Kingsley said it would be the worst idea ever.”
“Unconscious or not, someone should check on him.”
“He’s all yours.”
Grace started to leave but hesitated in the doorway. She turned back around, came to him and dropped a quick kiss on his forehead.
“She’ll be all right. I have faith in her,” Grace said, squeezing his shoulder. It was the first kind thing anyone had done or said to him all day. He could have wept from simple gratitude alone.
“Thank you,” he said, and could barely hear himself speak. Grace said nothing, either, merely smiled at him before leaving the room.
Alone in the front room, Wesley prayed. He prayed helplessly, not even knowing what to pray for other than a miracle. That’s what they needed now. A miracle. A sign from God. Something to tell them everything would be all right, Nora would be safe, the world hadn’t spun out of God’s control even if it felt like it had.
Somewhere nearby Wesley heard the sound of a car door slamming. He ignored it.
If Nora were here she’d tell him to relax, to take deep breaths, to take care of himself. Stop worrying about me so much, Nora would say to him, had said to him a thousand times. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.
But he was supposed to take care of her. Søren had entrusted Nora to him and he’d let her get taken by some lunatic with a thirty-year-old grudge. And now he felt forsaken. Losing Nora was his punishment for not taking better care of her while they were together. He’d thought she’d be so much safer with him than with Søren, and now she was gone. Stolen from him. He’d failed her, failed them all.
Please, he prayed once more. Give me a sign you’re still listening.
Wesley heard a sound then, a knock on the front door. He waited, not knowing if he should be answering the door in someone else’s house or not. But then it came again, louder this time. The door had a bell. Why was the person knocking instead?
He went to the door and opened it. A girl lay curled up on the landing, bleeding from a cut on her face.
She opened her eyes—bright blue eyes, intelligent and scared.
“Hello?” He knelt down and met her face-to-face.
“I have to deliver a message,” she said, her voice strangely accented.
“From who?” Maybe it had happened. Finally. A message from the kidnappers.
“From God.”
9
THE ROOK
Grace walked down the third-floor hallway, leaving the men of the house to their own devices. They were all terrified—Wesley, Griffin, who’d let her in the house, even Kingsley, although she could see he had much more practice at hiding his fears than the rest of them.
Nora... Grace prayed her name as she neared the bedroom she’d been warned away from. She could put together no other words for a prayer. All the possibilities she could pray against were too terrible to imagine. Wesley said Kingsley’s sister had Nora. His sister...a woman. Better a woman than being taken by a man. A woman kidnapped...surely his sister had help, had men around her. Impossible to think any lone woman could get the better of Nora Sutherlin. Dear God, Nora. It turned Grace’s stomach to even consider what might be happening to Nora right now.
Outside the door to Kingsley’s bedroom, Grace paused and wondered for a moment what she was doing. She merely wanted to see him...this man, this priest, the one person her usually fearless husband ever admitted to being afraid of. Nora seemed the ultimate free spirit to Grace—she trod across the world in leather boots with black sails flying. And yet when she spoke of Søren she called him the man who owned her. Owning Nora sounded as dangerous as owning a nuclear bomb. Valuable and powerful it may be, but who would want that sort of thing under one’s own roof?