Authors: Melissa Lynne Blue
“Absolutely not. If anything were to happen to her…” There was no need to finish the sentence.
Sir William nodded tersely. “Very well. Let’s get going.”
With the general’s help, Brian stood, and staggered toward the orangery door. “How did ye find me so quickly, sir?”
“Molly found you stuffed behind the door and that there chair. Brandon and I were about to play checkers when we heard her screaming bloody murder. Mrs. Hayes and Olivia arrived close behind us.”
Brian turned to the girl he’d hurt beyond measure. “Thank you, Molly,” he said solemnly. “There’s little doubt in me mind that ye saved my life.”
Molly just nodded, pale as a sheet, and shaking like a leaf in the breeze.
“I was on my way to the orangery when I heard the screams,” Mrs. Hayes added. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donnelly, I may have arrived from my errand too late to help you.”
“No need to blame yerself, Mrs. Hayes.” Brian sent a silent thanks heavenward knowing that if Molly had been any later Roark may have found him first. Then where would Lydia be? It was a thought he had no desire to entertain.
“Well, Donnelly,” Sir William strode ahead of him through the orangery door, “any ideas where to begin looking for my daughter?”
“I have a sneaking suspicion we should begin by the barn,” Brian said thoughtfully, thinking back to the afternoon he’d found Felix Keith’s body. “Just do me a favor, General Covington, and watch me back instead of aiming for it.”
*
*
*
The door to the carriage house exploded inward, admitting Jonathan Roark. “My Lord, we have a problem.”
The viscount’s hands fell away from Lydia’s neck; she crumpled to the packed dirt floor. Slowly air filled her lungs. A rush of clarity invaded her senses but she remained perfectly still, praying the men would believe her dead.
“What sort of problem?” Anger, cold and dangerous gilded Northbridge’s tone.
“It’s Donnelly, milord, he is out looking for Miss Covington with Sir William and a handful of other men. They’re headed this way. There is no way you can leave in the curricle without them seeing.”
“Damn it, man.” Northbridge grasped the front of Roark’s shirt. “Are you completely incompetent? All you had to do is go to the orangery, collect Donnelly, take the bastard to the woods and kill him. What is so difficult about that? You are as useless as Felix Keith, Roark. Completely inept.”
“My lord, please,” Roark placated, “this is not the time. We must act before the situation gets out of hand.”
“Out of hand?” the viscount roared caustically. “I’d say it is already out of hand, compliments of
you
, Mr. Roark.” He fell silent for a moment. “Just the same it does not change the fact we must now take care of the lot of them before leaving Wheaton Abbey. They’re headed this way?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then we will wait for them along the corner of the barn. How many ready pistols do you have?”
“Two, my lord.” The ominous click of a pistol cocking reverberated through the narrow confines of the carriage house.
“Excellent. And you were a soldier so I assume you can reload in a timely fashion.”
“Very timely, my lord. What should we do about the girl?”
“She’s dead,” Northbridge said flatly. “Wrap her in a horse blanket and stuff the body in my curricle. That should prevent anyone from happening upon her.”
It took every ounce of willpower Lydia could muster to hold perfectly still and stem the unconscious urge to tremble as Roark rolled her in a musty smelling blanket. Roughly he hefted her limp form and flopped her onto the hard wooden seat like a sack of potatoes. A sharp corner dug into her scalp, she stifled a cry. With bated breath she listened to the men make final preparations.
“We’ll wait for them behind the barn,” Northbridge said.
Roark quickly agreed and the creak of hinges signaled the brigand’s departure from the carriage house. When she was certain they would not be returning she threw the dusty blanket off and began to clamor from the coach. She stopped short, spying a storage compartment hidden in the seat. Quickly she lifted the wooden panel.
“Just what I was hoping to find.” She reached into the compartment and withdrew a single flintlock pistol. It was loaded. Rummaging through the box she located powder, ball and primer enough for one additional shot.
Well
, she mused,
two shots is better than nothing
. A confident marksman would believe one shot is all she needed. Surely Brian and her father were armed enough to take down an army brigade. Silently she thanked her father for teaching her to shoot, and scooted out of the curricle.
Slowly she eased to the windows and peered through. It was near impossible to see anything through the hammering rain. The menacing clouds left the sky dark as the dusk.
Carefully she edged toward the door, she knew Roark and the viscount would be hiding behind the barn, she would make her way there.
She may be the only person able to save Brian and her father’s life. If Brian had been about to propose she was not about to let the viscount’s greed rob her of happiness. She would rescue Brandon and get around her father’s dire threats.
Lydia stepped into the rain and dashed around the back of the carriage house toward the barn. She planned to sneak up behind Roark and Northbridge, observe how the events unfolded. She could shoot and shoot straight, but held little confidence in her ability to fire off two rounds before at least one of the men turned on her. Not much of a plan, but it was certainly better than nothing.
Lydia hunkered among the trees and shrubberies lining the yard around the stable. Soon the figures of Northbridge and Roark crouched beside a corner of the barn materialized about thirty paces before her. Roark held himself as one well trained in the art of battle. If the need arose she would shoot Roark first and worry about the viscount once the soldier was down. With any luck Brian or her father would be present and armed should the need to fire a weapon arise.
Her hands shook with the mere thought of taking a life. “Them or us,” she murmured trying to calm her nerves. The pounding rain made creeping soundlessly forward easy, but just the same she moved carefully so as not to alert the men of her approach. She needed to be as close as possible to be aware of any sudden movements or changes.
Lydia crept to within fifteen feet of the men before situating herself between a cluster of leafy bushes and an ancient oak. The tree provided little shelter from the rain but branched into a Y at exactly the right height for use as a gun rest. She slid the barrel into the crevice and cocked the hammer, holding her breath. Neither man so much as turned their head in reaction to the metallic click. A whoosh of relief sighed from her lungs.
Voices rose over the din and her heart leapt into her throat as Brian’s hulking frame came into view. Even in the meager light he emanated an intimidating aura of poise and power. A thrill ran through her. Brian turned as someone called out to him, Jonathan’s Roark’s right arm raised leveling a pistol at Brian’s broad back.
Pure dread gripped Lydia heart and soul. She reacted. Be it out of instinct or sheer desperation she would never know, but she must have been more fitted to a soldier’s life than she’d ever believed possible. Like a natural she turned a practiced eye down the barrel sites, found the hollow between Roark’s expertly rolled shoulder blades and fired.
The muzzle flashed, lighting the gray around her. Lydia never even heard the
bang
. Intently she stared at Roark’s back. Nothing happened. Roark’s weapon exploded. Panic nearly consumed her as, with shaking hands, she fumbled to reload the pistol. Simultaneously Roark and the viscount turned. She cringed back into the bushes. It was then she spotted Brian lying on his stomach in the grass, unmoving.
No!
Internally she screamed, dying inside.
Brian was dead.
No sooner than the thought crushed her mind than Roark crumpled to his knees, the flintlock slipping from his limp fingers. For a moment it seemed he looked directly into her eyes, Lydia’s breath hitched, but Roark collapsed face down in the mud. Dead. Northbridge did not as much as glance at his fallen henchman before striding with dangerous intent toward Lydia’s measly haven.
A second muzzle flash glinted off the falling raindrops with the eerie beauty of sparkling diamonds. It took Lydia half a heartbeat to realize the spark flashed from where Brian lay in the grass, and half a beat more to see the viscount flop face first into the grass.
Could Brian still be alive? Had he shot the viscount?
“Brian!” The pistol dropped from her hand squishing in the muddy grass. She clawed through the bushes, letting them tear her expensive skirts, and sprinted across the stretch of barren lawn between them. She couldn’t get to him fast enough. A surge of relief flooded her senses as he rose to a knee, eying the surrounding area. “Brian.” She sobbed, running headlong toward him arms outstretched.
A jagged lightning strike creased the sky, lighting his face. Horror laced his features. “Lydia!” He charged forward, lifting the pistol as though to fire. When nothing happened he threw the weapon aside, lunging for her.
Confusion washed through Lydia.
What’s wrong?
She swung her head around. Another crisp bolt of lightning illuminated the kneeling figure of Lord Northbridge, a weapon leveled in his hand trained on Brian. Her heart stopped cold. A muzzle flash sparked through the gray.
Without a thought she threw herself in front of Brian. Searing, white hot pain exploded through Lydia. “Augh.” She crumpled forward.
I’m shot.
Brian’s arms steeled around her, cradling her against his chest as he slid to the sodden ground. Vaguely, she was aware of shouting, and more muzzle flashes.
“Lydia, Lydia, no. Why did ye do that?” He grabbed the side of her face in a palm. Eyes crazed with sorrow bored into hers. “Someone please! We need help over here.” His hand traveled down to the wound in her back. “We’ve got to get ye inside, love. I cannot tend yer wound out here.”
Excruciating, throbbing pain radiated from the left side of her back, paralyzing even the will to fight. A low ring hummed in her ears, making it difficult to concentrate. Blackness rippled at the edge of her vision. “Brian,” she whispered hoarsely, wrapping her fingers in his shirt, holding him as an anchor. She needed an anchor.
Anguish embedded every facet of his handsome face. “Hush, love, don’t try to speak.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Hang onto me, lass. Just hold on. Ye’re goin’ to be fine. Just fine.”
Numbness traveled up her limbs, blocking the cold. The hold on his shirt weakened, her fingers slipping down his chest. A strange, almost fuzzy sensation took over her senses. “But, I—I must tell you…” She swallowed, her tongue thick. “Before it’s too late.”
“No, love, don’t talk that way. Just stay with me. It’s not too late.”
But it was too late. Lydia knew that. “I have no regrets, Brian. Not one flowing through my mind.” The rippling blackness closed in. Her eyes drifted closed, the effort to keep them open monumental. “I love you.”
*
*
*
Blood, thick and warm, pooled in Brian’s hand. “Oh, God,” he sobbed, hefting Lydia into his arms. Her head bobbed back, completely lifeless. For a single heart shattering second he feared she’d stopped breathing. He pressed a cheek to her mouth and nose, reassured by the warm gusts still escaping her lips.
“Sir William!” Frantically he searched the dim surroundings for any sign of the general. Brian spotted the man kicking the unmoving figure of Northbridge, a gun trained on the viscount’s head. “Sir William,” he called a second time, but the din drowned the call. “Bloody hell,” he swore, heaving to his feet, clutching Lydia to his chest.
He ran to the house, exploding through the front door. “I need help!” Instantly he strode to the stairs.
“My, God, man.” Harkens voice answered Brian’s call. “What is the meaning of—” The butler stopped dead in his tracks, aghast. “Oh, dear.”
“Miss Covington has been shot.” Brian continued mounting the stairs two at a time. “Have boiling water, fresh linens and bandages brought to her quarters immediately. Also see to it Dr. Byler is summoned. There is not time to waste.”
“Right away, Mr. Donnelly.” Harkens scurried down the hall.
A flurry of mumbling voices followed Brian to the second story as servants piled into the front hall.
“Lydia’s been what?” Olivia’s voice screeched from the foot of the stairs. “Shot? No, it can’t be! William! Where is my William?”
Brian blocked the hysterics from his mind, focusing on his primary purpose—get Lydia into bed and put pressure on that wound before she lost
any more
blood. With effort he ignored the trail of blood trickling down the hall behind them.
He stepped through her bedroom door, instantly assailed by sweet memories of the night before. Despair nearly crushed him. What a fool he’d been to push her away. Now all chance of happiness with the woman he loved may be lost. The worst was he’d never told her how he truly felt. Brian shoved the miserable thoughts away.