Authors: Melissa Lynne Blue
“Who?” Brian grasped a wad of the man’s expensive shirt, lifting him clear off the ground.
Keith spluttered, a mist of bright red blood spraying from his mouth. His gaze fixed on Brian, a single moment of clarity shimmering at the surface before his eyes dimmed and rolled back in his head.
“No!” Brian shook the body with both hands, pulling Keith’s face to within an inch of his own. “Do not die on me ye bloody bastard! Who are ye workin’ for. Tell me before yer whisked to hell.” Again he lifted the corpse, violently shaking the upper body. Keith’s head bobbed forward and back totally lifeless. “Son of a bitch,” Brian swore, heaving the body to the side, and pounding a fist in the grass beside it. Never had he thought he’d be disappointed to see Keith dead, but with Keith’s demise went any hope of discovering whose foul treachery he’d
been hired to perform. The henchman of the aristocracy was gone, and lord only knew what evil secrets would follow him to the grave. More frightening was whether or not Keith’s employer would continue to threaten Lydia. Could Sir William be behind this? Doubtful. Brian had watched the general closely since returning to the Abbey and nothing suspicious had come to his attention.
Sickened by the thought that despite Keith’s death Lydia could still be in grave danger Brian hauled to his feet. Blood coated his hands. He pulled a wad of leaves from a nearby bush scrubbing them as clean as possible before striding purposefully into the barn.
“Potter. Johnson. Stark! Come with me.”
The three grooms looked up in obvious bewilderment, but made no move to comply.
“Don’t just stand there and gawk at my ugly face.” He grabbed a handful of John Potter’s shirt and dragged him forward. “Move it out.”
“Er, Mr. Donnelly?” Johnson began hesitantly.
“Shut up, and follow me immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Johnson and Stark fell quickly in line.
Brian quickly led the men to the murder scene.
“Jesus!” Stark stumbled backward, knocking into Johnson. “He’s dead.”
Brian beat back impatience, reminding himself that not all men had seen bodies and war. These grooms in particular he knew were not members of Keith’s personal cohort, none had worked for Sir William more than three months. “Yes, he’s dead. Now, I want you three to see to it no one disturbs this body or any of the surrounding area. If it starts rainin’ harder cover the body with an oilskin from the barn,” Brian instructed sternly. “I will be back with the magistrate, Sir William, and Lord Northbridge as soon as possible. Should ye need anythin’ in my absence one of ye may come to the main house to find me, but keep two on guard at all times. Do I make myself absolutely clear?” His gaze swept three earnest faces.
“Of course, Mr. Donnelly.”
“Good.” Curtly Brian turned on a heel and strode purposefully toward the house. “Goddamned rain,” he muttered as the roiling clouds piled ominously over the abbey. Lydia’s lecture about the Latin distinction of clouds flashed through his mind. Once again he decided it didn’t matter what the clouds were called when it was obvious a downpour was forthcoming. Mother Nature had dastardly timing. He exploded through the front door just as the heavens unleashed, startling Harkens and a portly maid.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” The vase the maid was dusting clattered to the floor, shattering. It looked expensive, old too, but Brian couldn’t have cared less at the moment.
“Where is Sir William?”
Harkens took a step back at the force of Brian’s words, jaw agape. “I asked where to find, Sir William. The matter is life and death.”
Literally.
Brian glared at the butler, wondering at the man’s delay in answering. “Answer me, man.”
“Dining with his family, Mr. Donnelly.” Harkens gestured obtusely down the hall, eyes trained on Brian’s shirt.
“Thank you.” Brian dashed to the formal dining room relieved to hear the light voices of Lydia and Brandon tumbling through the halls. He rounded the corner and found Sir William, Lydia, Brandon, and Olivia having what appeared to be an intimate family dinner. The viscount was not present.
“Felix Keith is dead,” he blurted. All eyes turned to him, then widened simultaneously.
Sir William stood instantly. “Hell, Donnelly, did you kill him yourself?”
“Sir?” In total confusion Brian’s eyes drifted across the stricken faces sitting around the table.
Did I miss something?
“Yer covered in blood, Brian.” Brandon was the first to answer. “Did you shoot ‘im?”
Brian looked down to find the front of his shirt drenched in Keith’s blood. He wiped a hand across his face, smearing the sticky substance across his forehead. “Oh,” he murmured dumbly. “Uh, no I didn’t kill ‘im, but he died in me arms a few minutes ago. I’ve posted three
guards around the body until the magistrate can be summoned. As of now, no sign of Jonathan Roark.”
“Christ.” Sir William threw a napkin onto his plate and strode to the end of the table. “I don’t suppose you saw who did this?”
Regretfully Brian shook his head. “I was on me way to the barn when I saw a man run into the woods, but I didn’t get a good enough look to have any idea who it might be. When I went behind the barn to investigate, I found Keith stabbed in the chest.”
“My goodness.” Lydia’s stepmother swayed in her chair. “I think I may swoon.”
The general threw a concerned glance to his wife. “Perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere.”
“Aye.” Brian backed toward the door.
“Well, I for one am coming with you.” Lydia stood without waiting for assistance with her chair and strode toward the door. “Shall we convene in the study after Mr. Donnelly has had a chance to freshen up?”
Olivia lifted a hand. “Lydia, I do not think this is a suitable conversation for you to listen in on. It would be far more appropriate for you to remain here.”
Lydia bestowed an arch stare upon her stepmother. “I cannot think of a more suitable conversation for me to be involved in considering it is my life threatened by this entire debacle.” With a decided toss of her hair, Lydia continued toward the door.
Her father placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Lydia, your mother is right this is not a subject suitable for proper young ladies.”
“But, Papa—”
“I forbid it.”
Lydia glared at her father before turning a pleading stare to Brian. He knew better than to get involved in family spats despite his own opinion, and raised a hand as though to say,
I’m not the boss.
“Very well.” Lydia turned primly away from them. “Come along, Brandon, I’ll show you the books with the picture paintings before bed.”
The lad leapt to his feet, scampering after her. “You certainly pissed her off, Brian. I’d think you’d have learned yer lesson by now.”
“Watch yer language, mister, there are ladies present,” Brian scolded as the boy sidled past.
“Sure there are.”
Brian declined further comment.
“I’d say you have your work cut out for you with that youngster, Donnelly.”
“I’d say yer right about that, sir.” Releasing a weighty sigh, Brian held an arm toward the door. “Shall we, General?”
“We shall.”
Thirty minutes later Brian had changed clothes, a rider had been dispatched to retrieve the magistrate, and he was sitting in the general’s private study watching Sir William pace animatedly about the room. If not for the dire situation the scene would have been comical. Thunder roared overhead setting a dour mood.
“Where the hell is Northbridge? He left to meet with some business contact hours ago. How could he leave at a time such as this?”
“A time such as what, Sir William?” The viscount strode into the room wearing his typical bored expression. Frogs could rain from the sky and his lordship would no doubt slurp brandy and yawn.
“Finally!” Sir William roared, whirling on the viscount. “We found Felix Keith. The son of a bitch was murdered this afternoon.”
“Excellent.” Northbridge flipped his snuffbox open and took a pinch. “Then we should have no more reason to fear for Miss Covington’s life.” Another clap of thunderheads shook the manor. “Hell of a storm we’re having.”
Damn, but he’d love to pop the bastard square in the nose. It irked Brian to no end that Northbridge could remark on Lydia’s wellbeing with the same nonchalance as the weather. “What of Jonathan Roark?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Northbridge shrugged. “I’ve little doubt this other chap, Roark, is halfway through Scotland by now. Surely he’s learned the law is after him. No need to worry further.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Brian began, unable to quench insatiable irritation with the viscount. How could the man show such indifference to Lydia’s safety? The woman to be his viscountess… bear his children… share his very life… “Keith was nothing more than a hired henchman, and I suspect Roark is little more than a hired assassin as well. What concerns me is that we don’t know who Keith was actually working for or what his true job was. What if the employer will continue to want Lydia silenced?”
“You said yourself she knows nothing of the true motives of the crime she witnessed. With Keith out of the equation there is no one to desire her silence.”
“Except for Jonathan Roark.”
“And Lydia has already told half the countryside what she knows of Roark’s involvement. Killing her would do him no good now. Suffice to say she is safe,” Northbridge stressed, pinching the bridge of his nose as though irritated by the subject of conversation.
Searching for an ally Brian looked to Sir William. “Yer thoughts, General?”
His former commander sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand through his graying locks. “I think His Lordship is right, Donnelly. This entire ordeal was likely over for my daughter the moment you returned her home. Keith had nothing more to gain by silencing her, and now neither does Roark.”
“That may be, sir, but then who killed Felix Keith?”
“That is a question for the magistrate.” Northbridge thumped into a chair, pulling the nearest bell cord. “Donnelly, you are dismissed.” The viscount’s hand fluttered in his direction. “Go await the magistrate or something useful. Now, Sir William, shall we toast to the upcoming nuptials?”
The prospect left Brian sick to his stomach. This man, this lord, did not deserve a woman of Lydia’s caliber. The proposition to elope with her dangled tauntingly before him. He glanced toward Sir William, the closest thing he’d ever had to a father, and sighed. The general would never forgive Lydia for an elopement. Family was important, more important than she realized. Brian had lost every person he’d ever loved and would never risk the alienation of hers as well. It was a pain too acute to wish even on his enemies.
*
*
*
The hour was late when at long last the magistrate took leave and Keith’s body was picked up by the local undertaker. Everyone seemed in accord that Lydia was no longer in any danger. Even Brian had to admit that it was perfectly plausible that she was now safe, except that his senses fairly screamed something was not quite right. If only he could put his finger on what.
As thanks for bringing Lydia safely home, Sir William insisted he and Brandon stay in their assigned guest quarters until after the wedding. Taking advantage of the proximity Brian now drifted down the darkened halls, past his own quarters… to Lydia’s. A part of him needed to see her, ensure her safety, but moreover he wanted to tell her of the day’s developments. She deserved to know what had transpired, and it was growing ever more apparent that Sir William and Northbridge did not hold her in high enough regard to let her in on even the barest of details.
Her life hung in the balance for the love of Christ!
Brian was only just beginning to understand her frustrations. Lydia was a pawn in everyone else’s lives, expected to be meek and submissive. Every decision was made for her, she was never allowed to speak her mind, and when she did speak freely… no one listened. It killed him to think of a quiet Lydia. As much as the lass infuriated him, he loved to hear her laugh, and
the way she said whatever came off the top of her head. Lydia was imperfectly perfect. The viscount would never see it. He would quench her fire.
A flash of lightening pierced the sky, lighting the way to… her.
God, but his heart was hammering with such force he was sure it would leap straight out of his chest. The heavy paneled mahogany door loomed before him like a beacon, drawing him in. He knew it was the worst folly to go to her room, but he didn’t care.
Without bothering to knock he turned the brass knob, pushing the door inward. The hinges squeaked. “Lydia?” he whispered as the portal opened a few inches. He poked his head through.
“Brian!”
In obvious surprise Lydia swung to the edge of the bed knocking yet another of her books to the floor in the process. The book bounced hard on its worn spine before flopping open to reveal not words on a page, but a drawing, a hand drawn sketch of…
Brian’s gaze flew upward. Heat crept up Lydia’s face as she drove to hide the page from him. It was too late. He’d seen whose face lay on the paper.
Brian stooped to lift the volume, disbelief washing through him. He stared, blinked, and stared some more at the page before flipping through the earlier and later sketches. After a long moment he looked to her with a mixture of accusation and… mayhap surrender?