In the Brief Eternal Silence (77 page)

If he were beating Andrew like a dog, it
wasn't only because he thought the younger man needed it most
badly, but because he was certain if he didn't knock Andrew
unconscious soon, he wasn't going to control the battle much
longer.

St. James pistoned his right fist down in as
rapid of a succession of blows as he could manage while still
keeping Andrew from rolling to atop him. Andrew's clawing on his
chest changed. And St. James read his cousin's mind as clearly as
if Andrew had spoken his intention aloud.

St. James' linen bandage half-rolled,
half-ripped from his chest and he flung one more desperate punch.
It landed a second too late, for Andrew dug all four fingers into
the wound over St James' rib and ripped his stitches asunder.

St. James' head flung back, his hair, sticky
from Andrew's blood and wet from the prior rain, plastered itself
to his pale forehead. Andrew, dazed from that last, forceful punch
to his head, watched St. James fall back, his torn white shirt
staining with blood, spreading like high tide coming in on the
shore.

The older man cursed and Andrew struggled to
sit up. He was stopped in his motion by the sudden appearance of a
pistol in St. James' hand.

“Jesus Christ, St. James!” Andrew said
through the blood in his mouth. His hand trembled as he wiped it
across his face, trying to clear his vision. “You're not going to
shoot me?”

“You would doubt that I would after all your
crystal clear revelations about my character?” St. James asked, his
other hand clutched to his bleeding chest.

“I—uh—Good God! I didn't think I was really
correct, you know,” Andrew said nervously.

“I will take that as a retraction then, thank
you,” St. James said in cold fury. “Now you will forgive me if I
still do not put away my weapon as I still do not quite trust you
with my life, you dirty son of a bitch. I'm taking the filly back
to Miss Murdock and you had better pray upon your life that I don't
pass out and die before I reach her.” Which was an uncommonly
bizarre statement for St. James, for quite obviously, if he were to
die, then Andrew would probably not be fearing for his life.

But Andrew only nodded, for he had never seen
his cousin so beside himself with rage. And as St. James kept the
pistol leveled with remarkable steadiness upon him for all his pain
and exhausted, weakened condition, Andrew made no attempt to help
him even as that man stumbled to his feet, gathered his coat and
placed it across his shoulders and then reached for the reins of
the filly.

“You're leaving me Ryan's horse?” Andrew
asked, anxious. “For I did twist my ankle, you know.”

“Yes, goddamn it! I'm leaving you the horse,”
St. James returned. Then he turned the filly, placed his arm
holding the pistol across her neck and aimed down at Andrew and
struggled into the saddle. “Don't follow me, Andrew, or I swear I
shall kill you.” He hesitated a panting moment and then fumbled
into his coat pocket for something, pulled out a folded slip of
paper and dropped it on the road between the filly's black silk
legs and Andrew's sprawled out ones. “Make a trip to London and do
something with your mother, for after you read that, I am sure you
will understand that I will not wish to see her planted in
grandmother's house upon my return. Or anywhere on English soil for
that matter.” He turned the horse with a sudden jerk on the reins,
kicked it into a furious gallop, and listing in the saddle with
pain and fatigue, his coat sliding to reveal his blood soaked
shirt, headed for Lizzie.

Andrew watched him go with sudden doubt that
St. James would make it. Which seemed incredible, for his cousin
always came through everything, no matter how impossible the odds
seemed.

But with one angry, jealous act on Andrew's
part, he realized he may indeed have killed his cousin. It suddenly
seemed very cowardly to him, what he had done. It had not been a
life or death struggle. If St. James had really meant to kill him,
he would have shot him immediately and not bothered fighting with
him in the mud of the road at all.

The paper that St. James had flung down lay
in the mud of that road. Andrew struggled to his feet, wincing as
he did so, his ankle swelling in his boot. His face throbbed but at
least his nose had clotted. He hobbled to the paper, bent and
picked it up, unfolding it as he did so.

It was a bank draft, written on an account
held in trust for him. And his mother's signature was at the
bottom. But the payee was puzzling and the amount was shocking
enough to make him draw in a deep breath. Why ever would his mother
have written out such a stupendous amount? And without even
speaking to him about it! It were not as if he were two years old
and could have no input on how his inheritance were being spent,
for God's sake.

And how ever had St. James come across
it?

Andrew looked up, but St. James and the black
filly were gone. He turned, found Ryan's horse that his cousin had
been riding near at hand, snagged the reins with one agonizing
step. He mounted with difficulty and it took him some few minutes,
but when he was at last in the saddle, he turned his horse not
toward the junction and the road that would take him to London, but
back to follow on the heels of St. James.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Miss Murdock went above stairs to bathe and
to change. And when her lady's maid, Jeannie, appeared, Miss
Murdock told her that she wished no assistance but preferred to be
alone and that poor young lady was left to only go and lament her
troubles to Mrs. Herriot.

Mrs. Herriot was of course scandalized over
this lack of consideration on Miss Murdock's part of her soon to be
role in life and she determined she must go above stairs and
straighten that young Miss out at once, except that the imperious
banging of the Duchess's cane sounded from in the parlor. With a
sigh, she turned in to that old lady instead, telling Jeannie that
she must go back above stairs and pound upon the door until the
young Miss had seen reason and admitted her.

So while Mrs. Herriot was hearing a loud,
long and irate tirade by the Duchess on the gall of her grandson,
Earl Larrimer, in ignoring her summons, Miss Murdock was being
treated to the devious tactics of Jeannie to be allowed admittance
in to her room, which varied from the before recommended poundings
to desperate pleading.

Miss Murdock looked at the window, wondering
if she could escape, swore beneath her breath that she would choke
Mrs. Herriot, and applauded her father for surviving without
shooting himself. Then she capitulated less than gracefully, flung
the door open beneath Jeannie's knuckles and bade her to come in
already and to stop that infernal banging and pleading, for she was
giving her the headache.

Mrs. Herriot, who by this point was coming up
the stairs on one side of the Duchess, with a summoned Soren upon
the Dowager's other side, was just in time to hear this loud
summation, and any lingering hopes she had maintained of milord's
fiancé having a gentle nature were quite squashed.

Miss Murdock slammed the door behind Jeannie
as she entered the room. “No. You may not help me bathe or to
dress, for I am perfectly capable and can do it much faster without
you. But you may pack a valise for me, as I have been given to
understand that the Dowager saw fit to bring a good many of my
clothing with her from London.”

“You are leaving then, Miss?” Jeannie dared
to ask, for the easygoing and easily guided Miss that she had
become accustomed to in London was not in the least evident.

“Indeed, I am. For I could scarce call this
home any longer even if circumstances were different. It is a
wonder my father has not choked me for bringing all this down upon
his head. Although it was his folly that brought it on, so perhaps
I should be grateful to see him made so uncomfortable. No. No
stays, Jeannie, for I shall be damned if I am going to be laced to
the point where I can barely breathe.”

In the room next door, the Duchess was
bidding Soren that she be made ready to leave also, and that her
luggage be light as the rest could follow later. And if Soren
bethought this very strange of her employer to be traveling without
her multitude of baggage she was wise enough to not question
it.

Miss Murdock bathed and washed her hair,
which Jeannie rinsed for her and Miss Murdock did not upbraid her,
as that, at least, was quicker when having someone helping. Then
she dressed in a powder blue traveling dress, allowed Jeannie to
put her hair up in something called a French twist, that Jeannie
assured her was just beginning to become all the rage, and which in
its severity, suited her.

She forwent her bonnet, as Jeannie did not
have it at hand and would be forced to search through the still
largely unpacked luggage, and she hurried from the room and down
the stairs.

If Lizzie's eyes were still somewhat
bloodshot, and her face still paler than was normal for her, Mrs.
Herriot upon coming across her at the bottom of the stairs was
still brought up short at this somewhat remarkable transformation
of milord's fiancé. “Why, Miss, you are not so very bad after all!”
she exclaimed with happy pleasure.

But Miss Murdock only waved an irritated hand
at her. “Oh, bother. As if I care a whit one way or the other. Has
Lord Larrimer's coach been brought around yet?” and she opened the
entrance door to see for herself. “And I shall need a cloak, Mrs.
Herriot, if you do not mind running above stairs and getting one
from Jeannie.” For Jeannie was still digging frantically in search
of a matching cloak, not heeding advice from Lizzie that she did
not care if it matched or not.

But even as Lizzie said this, Jeannie bounded
down the stairs with the discussed garment in her hands, and as it
was powder blue also, she held it up with triumph. Outside the open
door, Bertie came to the foot of the flagstone steps, the Squire at
his side, still in his dirty robe and boots. They moved slowly, for
it had stormed (a circumstance that Miss Murdock had not even
particularly noticed) and although it had quit raining there was
still a good deal of damp in the air, and her father's gout had not
taken kindly to this spurt of bad weather.

Andrew's carriage was waiting, and Lizzie saw
this with relief. Although she imagined she would spend many
grueling hours of worry in it, and still more hours across the
border waiting, she still had an urgent feeling of haste. The fact
that St. James would in all likelihood, if he survived, be many
hours behind her could not dispel this feeling. For she well
realized that there would be Tyler to attend to, and St. James
would not leave him until he was certain that he could be made well
and comfortable. And there would be the business of the two
assassins. And finally the business with his aunt that would
necessitate him traveling to London, quite the opposite direction
of Miss Murdock, and the actual confrontation, and then of course a
great deal of distance to be covered in coming back. Somewhere in
there, he would have to sleep also.

She reasoned this all out, but still had this
dreadful feeling of hurry, hurry, and she refused to study upon
this compulsion, for she very much feared her true reason was that
she was afraid if she did not leave soon, she would have word of
his death, and would not even have the hours of hope that the
traveling and waiting would afford her.

And if she were normally not so cowardly as
to not want to face up to bad news immediately, she was feeling a
good deal cowardly now and wished to delay that possible news as
long as possible.

Bertie glanced up at sight of her in the
door. “They are ready, Miss Murdock, as you can see. If you can but
give me a few spare minutes, I will gather a few of my items and be
with you.”

“Of course,” she agreed, but had no chance to
expound, for her father, perceiving Bertie's words and Lizzie's
intent, interrupted her.

“What is this, lass? You do not mean to say
that you are leaving again? Not when you have only just arrived and
that infernal scoundrel of a fiancé of yours. . . has. . . ridden—”
his words trailed and then broke off as he turned with distraction,
as did Bertie, and they were part way up the steps and had a clear
view of the lane, and it was the sound of horse's hooves, galloping
unchecked toward them, that had drawn their attention.

Lizzie saw over the top of the waiting
carriage that a horse ran with abandon toward them. She recognized
it as her black filly, and before she could wonder who had saddled
her and taken her out, she saw that the figure in the saddle listed
far down, one arm hugging the filly's bobbing neck as a last resort
before falling.

And as illogical as it was that he had ridden
out on one horse and was returning on another, Miss Murdock was
certain it was St. James!

“Egad!” her father exclaimed. “Someone check
that horse, for I am certain it is running wild and he is not even
conscious to control it!”

But before any of them could decide how this
feat was to be done, or make a move to try and do so, another horse
they had not even noticed spurted forward from behind the filly.
Its rider worked it hard with pumping legs, risking his own life
for if he did not catch the filly and pull both mounts to a halt,
he would soon be past a point of being able to rein in his own
mount from this great speed, and they would both crash into the
parked coach.

His horse shied in desperation, having more
sense than the young filly that was only aware of the awkward and
frightening position of her rider hanging on her neck. Lizzie now
recognized Andrew on the second horse, but more from his build than
his countenance, which was bloodied and swollen and bruised.

Andrew gave a loud curse, reined his mount
into line again, kicked it hard in its barrel in command for it to
make up the ground it had lost with its swerving. Then he leaned
from his saddle, made a last desperate snag at the filly's loose
reins, and dragged back on them and his own mount's in a manner
that surely bloodied both horses' mouths.