CHAPTER 25
Genevieve stared at Wickburgh, horrified at the deranged squint in his eye and the twist of his mouth. He would kill her and then go after Christian and Rachel to remove witnesses to his crime. She relived all their many kindnesses, their jubilant zest for life, their companionable love. All that would be shattered. She imagined Christian lying cold and dead, his beautiful face frozen in a death mask. Dark terror engulfed her.
No. She would not allow that to happen. Somehow she’d protect them. Him.
Through the blinding pain, a clear, quiet determination surfaced. Wickburgh would not harm Christian or his family. He would not break her. She’d suffered through his abuse, his threats, his cutting insults, his cruel games. No more. She would not allow this monster to destroy her. His cruelty would end tonight. Now. Here.
Wickburgh struck her again. Pain flashed across her face. As she cried out, he continued to hit her. Whimpering and sobbing like the Genevieve of her past, she curled up around her abdomen as if to protect herself from the blows raining down upon her. Feeling her way in the semidarkness, she slipped her hand into her pocket and retrieved the small gun Rachel had lent her. The cold metal felt steady and sure.
The coach pulled to a stop. Finally Wickburgh stopped hitting her. A bell clanged nearby and water lapped against a shore or edge. Her heartbeat ratcheted. He’d taken her to the riverfront where he probably planned to dispose of her body after he killed her. Wickburgh grabbed her by the arm and jerked her upward. The lamplight illuminated his face and his cold stare bored into her.
“Please,” she rasped, stalling. “Please don’t do this. I’ll come back with you. I’ll do everything you say.”
His lip curled into an icy smile. “You’ve taken Amesbury as a lover. I won’t keep a wife who has cuckolded me. I want you dead. I want to look into your eyes and watch you as I choke the life out of you.” He wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed.
Pain shot out from his fingers and her breath cut off.
Madness glinted in his eyes. “Die, you worthless, unfaithful trash.”
Genevieve wrenched the gun out of its small holster and brought it up. She fired. The gunshot ripped through the evening stillness. There was a brief look of surprise. He fell back, clutching at his chest, writhing and gasping.
Genevieve stared numbly at him. Strange calm crept over her. She’d done it. She’d shot him.
Men’s voices shouted from outside the carriage. The door wrenched open and Christian filled the frame. Sweat streaked his face and his chest heaved. His gaze searched her face, lowered to the smoking gun in her hand, and finally to Wickburgh lying back against the seats clutching his chest.
Very softly, Christian said, “Genevieve, give me the gun.”
She blinked. A disjointed, surreal calm descended over her, and she couldn’t think of what she was supposed to do. She looked up at Christian in the doorway. A thin line of blood trickled from his mouth and his eye had swollen.
Wickburgh had fallen silent and lay looking up at Christian with absolute hatred twisting his expression until he looked the very devil.
Turning away from him, Genevieve reached for Christian as if he were her salvation from that creature of darkness. “You’re hurt.”
“Nothing serious.” Christian held out a hand. “The gun, Jen.”
What gun? She looked down at her hand clutching a pistol with white fingers. Slowly, as if her arm were filled with rocks, she laid her gun in Christian’s hand. He tucked it away, put a hand under her elbow, and guided her out of the carriage. Her footsteps and the rustle of her skirts echoed in her head as if every noise were shouted. Outside the cool night air cooled the perspiration on her face. Next to the carriage, Grant stood pointing at pistol at Wickburgh’s coachman who sat with his hands raised in surrender.
Behind her, Wickburgh made a wild leap out of the coach, ran past her, and jumped into the water. Grant ran to the river’s edge and peered over. Still moving slowly as if in a dream, Genevieve dispassionately watched bubbles on the surface. Wickburgh never resurfaced. The bubbles popped and the river returned to its normal calm.
Grant cursed. “He’s either dead or a really good swimmer.”
Christian let out a scoffing noise. “It would be too much to hope he’s dead. He was wounded, but I doubt it’s really over.”
Genevieve looked up at Christian’s grim face. He met her gaze and pulled her in close. “Let’s get you home.”
Grant waved his gun at the coachman. “Leave. Now.”
The coachman snapped the reins and disappeared into the growing fog. With Genevieve’s hand tucked firmly into the crook of Christian’s arm, they started walking. Along the way, Grant hailed a cab. Silent and grim, Christian kept an arm around her as if he feared she’d disappear if he released her.
As they arrived at the house, the remaining guard, John Barrow, stood with his gun trained on the door. He relaxed as he recognized them. Rachel rushed to them. She let out a cry at the sight of Genevieve’s face.
Barrow said, “We’ve prepared another place. Jackson’s replacement, Hinkle, is there keeping watch. I’ll take you there now.” They bundled into a carriage and drove in tense silence.
Rachel took her hand. “Are you all right, Genevieve?”
Was she all right? She wasn’t sure. A terrible numbness overtook her until nothing remained.
Christian’s jaw was set and hard. “He tried to kill her. I got there too late. She had to protect herself from him.”
Genevieve shook her head. Had she really shot Wickburgh? After all this time she spent cowering in fear, she could have shot him a long time ago. She wet her lips. “I only wounded him. He got away.”
As the horror of the night’s events washed over her anew, Genevieve shook so hard her teeth chattered. Wickburgh had tried to kill her. He’d almost succeeded. Even after all the torment, she’d never believed he would actually mean to murder her. Until tonight. The world spun and her limbs lost all strength.
Christian’s voice broke through her haze of horror as he scooped her into his arms. “I have you, love.”
She clung to his solid strength. He was the only thing real in her world of uncertainty. When the carriage stopped, Christian carried her inside and lay her on a bed. Desperate for his reassuring touch, she wrapped her arms around him, and held on as if he alone protected her from death.
“Don’t leave me,” she sobbed. “Please.”
He went still, no doubt wrestling with the stigma to her reputation if he remained in a bedroom with her. His compassion clearly winning out over his propriety, he encircled her in his arms, and rubbed her back. Muffled voices buzzed around her but she squeezed her eyes shut, willing them away. Finally, blessed quiet stole over the room.
Christian stretched out on the bed beside her and held her protectively close. His body warmth seeped into her, soothing her terrors. The steady beat of his heart and the soft rush of air as he breathed beat a comforting cadence. She immersed herself in his quiet steadiness, his fortitude. Peace and contentment settled over her.
How long they lay like that, she couldn’t guess, but when her shoulder began to ache from lying on it so long, she shifted. He loosened his arms until she’d resettled, then simply held her. He made no move to seduce her, merely offered her comfort. She almost smiled to herself. Of course he wouldn’t seduce her. His sense of honor would never allow him take advantage of a woman in distress.
Although, at the moment, she had a hard time convincing herself making love to Christian would be a bad thing.
CHAPTER 26
Christian lay next to Genevieve, listening to her deep breathing. Unable to sleep, he lay still, offering what comfort he could. At first, his body craved her so deeply that it took all his will not to peel off her clothing and show her just how much he loved her. But he refused to take advantage of her, and his bone-deep anger at Wickburgh for trying to kill her gnawed at him, leaving him tattered and raw.
Coming so close to losing her intensified his desire to have her for his own. He wanted to hold her every night, wake up to her every morning, spend the days with her. But first he had to set her free.
Though his house was two streets away from the old one, the smell of smoke from the fire Wickburgh had set permeated the air, just as the threat of Wickburgh and his cruel and murderous games permeated his life. Wickburgh had been wounded, true, but rodents like him didn’t simply throw themselves into rivers and die. They had to be exterminated.
The clock in the hall struck midnight. Careful not to wake Genevieve, Christian disentangled himself from her limbs and eased out of bed. He covered her with the counterpane on the bed and slipped out of the room, through the open door—he’d at least thought to make that small nod toward preserving her reputation—past Barrow standing guard, and down the stairs. The new guard, Hinkle, prowled around the house. No doubt, Grant patrolled outside.
In a small library, Christian poured himself a brandy, gulped it down, and poured a second before taking a seat. He hunched over with his arms braced on his knees.
Wickburgh had almost won tonight. That monster had endangered his family and tried to kill Genevieve. Christian had almost lost her. He wouldn’t fail her again. He’d die before he’d lose her.
Grant had sworn out a warrant for Wickburgh’s arrest, but the constables had yet to find him. It would be too convenient for Wickburgh to be dead already.
“Chris.” Grant stood in the doorway.
Christian remembered the brandy in his hand and tossed back the contents. Not in the mood to banter with Grant, he stood and refilled his glass without replying.
Grant’s mouth curved slightly on one side. “Your face will be colorful tomorrow. Didn’t anyone teach you to block a shot?”
Without looking at him, Christian said dryly, “You know us baby brothers, we just can’t seem to handle ourselves.”
Grant sobered. “You handled yourself well.”
“I should have killed him last year when I had the chance.”
“Probably. But killing a person, however deserving, always marks the killer.”
Had that been a reminder about Christian’s role in Jason’s death? The image of Jason’s lifeless body on the ground burst into his mind, along with all the sharp guilt that always accompanied it. Pushing back the image, Christian watched him narrowly, but Grant only appeared thoughtful, not condemning. Regardless, Christian would do anything to protect Genevieve. Even kill. As soon as the scoundrel reappeared. Christian downed his glass.
Grant leaned against the doorjamb. “Planning on drinking yourself under the table?”
“Will it help?”
“No.”
Christian drank another anyway.
“This isn’t like you.”
Something about the confusion, or maybe the condemnation, in Grant’s voice fueled his anger and it bubbled up inside him. “No. I’m tired of being like me. I want to be someone else.” He tossed back another drink and finally, blissful numbness sank into his muscles, un-bunching them.
“Pigs must be flying now, otherwise you wouldn’t be getting drunk. Don’t tell me your next act will be to visit a brothel.”
“Know any good ones?” Christian quipped half-heartedly.
Without any warning, Grant strode to him and slapped him. His cheek stung. Shocked, Christian stared, too surprised to even register anger.
“Get a hold of yourself,” Grant growled. “The world does not need more careless rakes. It needs honorable men like you. Don’t lower yourself for an image you think you want and realize later you despise.”
Christian stared in stunned silence. Grant’s words echoed in his head.
Honorable men like you
. He ran his hand across his stinging cheek. Grant wanted him to remain honorable, the very thing for which he’d mocked Christian their whole lives. The idea was as laughable as it was sad.
Well, he’d be honorable. He’d kill her husband honorably. No jury convicted a man for dueling if he followed the gentleman’s code. “I’ll despise myself if Wickburgh gets near here again. I will finish this.”
If only Jared were here. He’d serve as Christian’s second just for the adventure, but Jared was a married man now and Christian wouldn’t risk him. James Ingel would probably agree to do it, he was still rusticating in the country. Christian sifted through friends who might act as his second, but he doubted any were in London during this time of year. Many had gone to the country or the seashore or abroad.
Grant narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to challenge Wickburgh to a duel, aren’t you?”
“If I can find him, yes. I cannot allow Genevieve to live in constant fear. The only way to stop him is to kill him.”
Grant raised his brow. “So turn him over to the law.”
“He may hire someone to finish her while he awaits trial. And we risk him being acquitted; you know how hesitant peers are to convict each other.”
Nodding slowly, Grant went still as if plotting his next move. “If you go after him, you might get hurt.”
“I’m a very good shot.”
“True, but duels are unpredictable.” Grant poured himself a brandy and examined the glass as if judging its color. “Who will be your second?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He turned to face Christian. “Then allow me to serve in that role.”
Christian stared. This night had been full of unexpected twists. “You would do that?”
“If you can’t trust me to have your back, who can you trust? You know, since Jared and Cole aren’t nearby.” He quirked a faint smile.
“You jest.”
“Believe it or not, I don’t really wish for your demise.”
Christian snorted. “When did that change?”
Grant’s mouth twisted. “Probably sometime during the war. I waxed rather poetic about home and family while I was amidst all the carnage. If you need a second, you can count on me.”
Maybe it was the alcohol, but Christian’s throat tightened. He coughed into his hand to cover up his emotion and managed, “My thanks.”
Now all they had to do was wait for Wickburgh to crawl out from underneath the rock where he’d been hiding.