Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Page 16

  It was a moment of eerie silence except for the thrashing harness of the frantic horses. The assailants in the coach were either dead or wary and she couldn’t afford to think of them. She aimed for the mouth of that musket because it was the center of her target. Surely she’d have to hit some part of the gunman.

  No more time. She squeezed the trigger, felt the kick—

  The explosion deafened her. Her pistol had never made that much noise before. Then she heard screams.

  She stared up at the writhing, bloody men on the coachman’s box, the coachman swaying sideways, head a mass of blood …

  Then the driverless horses took off, coach racketing down the road, leaving a trail of gore in its wake.

  Her ears still rang.

  In the sudden, resettling silence, the marquess rolled onto his side, head propped on hand. “You are a most delightfully bloodthirsty wench,” he said. But then his expression changed, and he gathered her into his arms, there in the dirt of the road. “Ah, Diana, weep. It hurts to kill.”

  She shuddered, but tears would not come. “I didn’t expect … I just wanted to stop him. I didn’t mean—”

  He rocked her. “You must have put your ball down the muzzle. Then he pulled the trigger only a fraction after you.”

  “It exploded.”

  “Indeed.”

  Though her ears had stopped ringing, Diana thought she’d hear that explosion for the rest of her life.

  Were they dead by now, those two shattered men? Darkness gathered …

  Oh no. She’d fainted last time she’d killed. Not again.

  She pulled free, scrambled to her feet, and despite swimming head, started brushing at her ruined dress. “Clara. And your manservant. We must find them.”

  “We can’t do that just yet.” He leaned in the coach and produced a flask of brandy and a small glass. He filled it and passed it to her. “Drink.”

  The quick fire of the spirit made her shudder again, but seemed to clear her head. “I don’t regret,” she said fiercely.

  “Nor do I.” He passed the brandy to his coachman with permission for him and the groom to drink, then he knelt by the fallen outrider.

  She followed. The poor man was badly wounded in the chest, but not dead. “Do you have bandages in the coach?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. An oversight.” He was letting the grimacing man clutch his hand, and now he stroked the sweaty, livid brow. “I’ll take care of everything, Miller. Don’t worry. You did well. Everyone is safe and the villains have gone. Quite likely they are all dead …”

  Diana went to her knees on the man’s other side, praying, but it would need a miracle. Miller must be in terrible pain, and blood was pooling under him. His eyes were glazing, but he seemed to take comfort from his master’s calm voice. Then, with a strangled, rattling cry, he went limp.

  Diana covered her mouth with her hand. She’d never thought he’d live with a chest wound like that, but for a moment, under Bey’s calm, she’d hoped.

  He rested his hand on the man’s face for a moment, almost like a caress, but then he rose and seemingly unmoved, wiped blood from his hands with his handkerchief.

  She rose too, not knowing what to do or say.

  In the end she decided to be practical, and gathered the outrider’s two fallen pistols. He’d fired one, but the other by a miracle, hadn’t gone off when dropped. “I do hope they’re all dead,” she said bitterly.

  “So do I. And painfully.” He took the spent pistol and the man’s powder and shot and set about reloading all three guns.

  Diana stood there, absorbing the fact that the attack had taken only seconds, and that the whole incident, including the outrider’s death, had lasted only a minute or two. The plan had surely been expected to take even less time.

  One shot for the outrider, one for the marquess, and then speed off. Miller’s quick action had changed things, or perhaps it had been her insistence on standing close that had caused a momentary hesitation. She hoped so.

  But she was beginning to shake.

  His arm came around her and pressed her against his chest.

  “I’m not going to faint,” she insisted.

  “Of course not.”

  “Don’t humor me!”

  “Of course not.”

  “I fainted after I shot Edward Overton. I hated that.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “He screamed, too.”

  “People generally do. The distressing thought about someone trying to shoot me is that I might end up writhing and screaming.”

  She looked up. “Don’t joke about it!”

  “I was not particularly joking.” His eyes were gentle however, and she suddenly realized what had happened. Things had changed again.

  They were Bey and Diana now. Comrades in arms.

  Much more dangerous.

  But wildly wonderful.

  He stepped away, breaking the connection. “Do you wish me to reload your pistols?”

  “Of course not.”

  Without protest, he continued to do the larger ones, and she took the balls, wadding, and powder flask from her pistol case. When she tried to pour the right amount of powder down the barrel, however, her hands started to shake. Strive as she might, she could not make them behave.

  “Damn it all to Hades,” she muttered and he turned.

  He took pistols and powder from her. “Practice being the conventional lady, just for a little while. Sit in the carriage and swoon. I will endeavor to survive unguarded. In fact …”

  He did something in the carriage. When he helped Diana up the steps, she found he’d created a bed, even producing a soft blanket from somewhere. A shelf stretched from the seats to the far wall, padded with the opposite seat cushions and back. She climbed onto it and stretched out. He placed the blanket over her, then leaned forward to kiss her temple.

  “Peace be with you.”

  Diana wanted to ask him to lie with her.

  She wanted something more. Wanted it more intensely than ever.

  “I know,” he said, brushing a finger over her lips. “It happens after violence.”

  But then he left, and she heard him speaking to the two remaining servants. She absorbed the fact that she really would have tumbled with him here with the servants nearby, and thought modesty, dignity, and reputation of no concern at all.

  She tried to keep her ears alert for more trouble, but she feared she’d done as much as she could in one day. Carr had told her she needed to learn how to use her skills under stress, and he was right. If another attack came, she might not be able to cope, and that was intolerable.

  It was full dark by the time they arrived at the White Goose Inn in Bay Green. The first outrider had returned with two ostlers and four horses to pull the coach the mile to the inn. He hadn’t been totally shocked by the mayhem since they’d come across the other coach overturned, driverless horses tangled in the traces, and three corpses—two tumbled off the box and one inside.

  “Had to shoot two of the horses, milord,” the man had reported with a degree of stoicism which made Diana wonder how many such adventures Bey’s men enjoyed.

  They’d gathered a small audience in the road by then anyway, since three men had come over from a nearby farmhouse to check out the explosion, and the York Fly had halted to help. They’d certainly provided unusual entertainment for the weary passengers.

  “Shocking!”

  “What is the world coming to?”

  “Is that really the Marquess of Rothgar?”

  “So they say. There’s certainly a crest on the carriage door …”

  Diana stayed lying down, hoping she was invisible.

  The Fly had no spare room and a timetable to keep, so it had rumbled off with promises to alert the authorities. She suspected Bey would rather have avoided that, but it was impossible.

  The men from the farm had gone to find ropes to drag off the torpid horses when they finally died. The dead outrider—Thoma
s Miller—was wrapped in sheets and blankets and put into the coach beside her for the short journey. She didn’t mind. She’d asked and found out that he had a wife and young children, and had grown up on Bey’s estate, son of a tenant farmer there.

  One of his own. She knew how that must hurt.

  She wasn’t sure how Bey traveled the short distance, but it wasn’t with her.

  The White Goose was too small and too close to Ware to be a major inn, but their bedraggled party received the best of care both because of rank and because of the furor of their story. The local magistrate—a Sir Eresby Motte—had already been summoned.

  “Time for me to practice being a very conventional lady, I think,” she said to Bey in the low-ceilinged inn parlor.

  “And you, of course, would not know how to fire a pistol. To have created such carnage single-handed can only enhance my reputation.”

  Tempted to fall into wild laughter at that, she let the innkeeper’s flustered wife lead her to a small but comfortable bedchamber and ply her with sweet tea. When Clara staggered in, however, disheveled but whole, Diana hugged her and surrendered to tears.

  The story there was simple. No yew for the horses, but a frayed piece of harness that required a halt to fix. As the groom had worked on it, they’d been surrounded by four masked men and forced away from the coach behind some bushes. There, they’d been tied up, and the villains had made off with the coach to prosecute their murderous attack.

  Four. She’d thought so, and yet there had only been three corpses. The fourth murderer was on the loose?

  Diana shivered. It had been planned with such cold-blooded efficiency. No one could guard themselves day after day, everywhere they went. She longed to go to Bey now, to be with him, to guard him, but she knew that giving in to that would be another consuming fire. No matter what happened, soon they must part—he to his life, she to hers.

  He would have to live or die without her.

  She wasn’t sure she could bear it, but she must.

  Once Clara was calm again, Diana sent her to find a fresh gown. The maid soon returned. “I’m sorry, milady, but all your boxes were in the second coach. No one seems to know where they are, or what condition they’re in.”

  Diana looked down at her muddy gown, but couldn’t stir emotion over it. “Why wasn’t something put in the boot of the main coach?”

  “Well, milady, apparently there’s a machine traveling in there, all bundled up in blankets and quilts.”

  Diana laughed at that. Of course the automaton would travel in style. She opened the small valise she carried with her, but a change of garments hadn’t magically appeared inside. Some books, her writing case, creams and lotions with which to refresh herself, and her pistols. This might be the total of her possessions until she met up with the rest of her belongings in London.

  Ah well, no need of vanity here, and she was far too weary to care. She and Clara ate the hearty soup sent up, then climbed into bed. Clara only had the one nightgown with her, so Diana made do with her shift.

  Despite exhaustion, however, sleep would not come.

  Soon Clara was snuffling softly beside her, but Diana lay awake, mind staggering through fear and around danger, and on to danger of another kind. That kiss. Then rushing forward again through fear and danger and bloody death, and all the changes it had brought.

  To Bey.

  The Marquess of Rothgar.

  The éminence noire of England.

  Her comrade in arms, embracing her in the dirt after death.

  Holding the hand of a dying man, making death as tolerable as possible with a calm voice and steady eyes.

  Glimpsed in a revealing moment later, as they waited for help to arrive, face stark with that death of one of his own.

  Who was comforting the comforter now?

  That, in the end, was her excuse for slipping out of bed, for pulling the pink cotton coverlet around herself, and venturing out into the corridor of the night-quiet inn. The innkeeper’s wife had said there were only four good rooms here and no other guests, so it shouldn’t matter if she picked the wrong one.

  She hesitated for a moment, wondering what his reaction would be, but it didn’t stop her. She quietly opened the door next to hers and found the room unused. She went to the two doors opposite and listened at each.

  Nothing.

  Did his manservant sleep with him? That would be awkward. Lord Rothgar, however, seemed a very private person. If there were enough rooms, she felt certain he would sleep alone. She carefully opened one door and peeped inside.

  Regular soft snores.

  With a suppressed laugh, she decided that must be Fettler. Surely the éminence noire’s throat would not dare to snore!

  Closing the door again with only the quietest click, she turned to the next one—

  And found the marquess in open-necked shirt and breeches, watching her. His dark eyes were completely unreadable.

  Clutching the coverlet more closely, she whispered, “I wondered if you were all right.”

  For a moment he did nothing, but then he moved away from the door and gestured her inside.

  Heart racing, she walked into his bedroom.

  Chapter 15

  It was a similar room to hers, not large, with space only for the bed, two chairs bracketing a small table, and a washstand. Simple quarters for such as they, but not unpleasing. It was clean and neat, and a bowl of fresh flowers stood on a table by the dark gable window. The pastel-shaded petals glowed softly in the light of the single, flickering candle. Sweet peas. When she sat on one of the wooden chairs, the heady perfume wove around her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He stayed standing. “Most people think me made of cold steel.”

  “Perhaps you encourage them to.”

  “Would it do any good to encourage you to?”

  “I don’t think so. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Hardly surprising.” After a moment, he gestured to a glass and half-full decanter on the table. “Port. Indifferent quality, I’m afraid. My own is doubtless spilled on the road somewhere. But would you like some?”

  She nodded, and he refilled the glass and passed it to her. Then he sat in the opposite chair. “We are safe here. There’s no need to be afraid.”

  She took a mouthful of the port, which as he said was not of the finest quality, but welcome. “I’m not afraid. Our attackers died. It will surely take longer than a few hours to regroup.”

  His eyes rested on hers. “Did you recognize either of the men in the coach?”

  “There was no time to—” She stared. “You noticed.”

  “Am I not omniscient? Four men with the coach …”

  “And three corpses. But surely the survivor will flee.”

  “I’d rather catch him. Lady Arradale,” he said, “were you perhaps trying to protect me from worrying knowledge?”

  She smiled ruefully. “’Tis my nature to protect.”

  “We are likely to trip over each other then. So, did you recognize anyone in the coach?”

  “Truly, there wasn’t time—for a mere mortal, at least.” But then she realized. “De Couriac?”

  “Not so mere a mortal after all.”

  “A deduction, that’s all. Who else could it be? What if he pursues you here?”

  “I am awake.” When she glanced at the decanter, he added, “And no longer on guard. I sent immediately to London for reinforcements and they arrived a little while ago. This place is now guarded by my men. It truly is safe.”

  The knot of scarce-acknowledged fear untangled, and she took a deep drink of the port. “Why are they doing this? What can you do to harm the French?”

  “I can oppose their principal objectives. They want to rebuild their fleet, and preserve their fortifications at Dunkirk, since that is their base for invasion. I want to see it torn down immediately.”

  “Invasion! England hasn’t been invaded by a foreign power since the conquest.”

&nbs
p; “But has frequently been invaded by contestants for the throne. It will be the Stuarts again, of course.”

  Wine and weariness seemed to be making it hard to think. She put the glass down. “Then why hasn’t Dunkirk already been destroyed? It was part of the peace treaty.”

  “It was part of three previous peace treaties and still stands.” He took the half-full glass from her loose hold and drank from it. “The French are very fond of Dunkirk, and the acting French ambassador is working hard to preserve it. He has just come up with the delightful notion that the artificial canal there should not be demolished, but renamed the Canal Saint-George in honor of the English.”

  “You jest!”

  “Alas no.” He drained the glass, then with a steady hand, refilled it and put it down between them. “The king is quite touched by the idea, especially as the first name suggested was the Canal Saint-Louis.”

  Diana had watched him drink, and now awareness of his lips almost blinded her to anything else.

  Our kiss.

  Trying not to suck in breaths, she picked up the glass and deliberately sipped from the place still moist from his mouth. “The king is so easily duped?”

  “Perish the thought. And I mean that seriously,” he said, though astonishingly vaguely. Even she could see that her words had been foolish, almost treasonous, yet he did not say more. His eyes darkened, and only then did she realize that she had just licked some port from her lips.

  He looked away, to touch the petals of the flowers. “The acting French ambassador—a Monsieur D’Eon—is a very clever and charming man.”

  “And lethal?”

  He drew a blush-pink blossom from the bowl and looked back at her. “Possibly.”

  A much more subtle blossom than the scarlet field poppy, and yet she was spinning back to that flirtation. She had no stiff bodice tonight down which a flower stem could be tucked. She was, in fact, shockingly under-dressed. Less than half her mind now on the conversation, she was still aware that he was talking to her as an equal, and even trusting her with things he must surely share with few men.

  He leaned back, the blossom resting against his lips. She thought she saw him inhale. She took a large mouthful of port and let it travel slowly down her throat.