Kathryn Smith (34 page)

Blythe’s answering smile was grim. She gave her sister-in-law a brief hug. “Send word if he comes here.”

She nodded. “I will. And dearest?”

Blythe stopped at the door and turned. “Yes?”

Varya’s expression was of wry concern. “If you do find him first, try not to hurt him too badly.”

She grinned at that—how could she not? “I will try.”

Miles and Devlin had gone off in one of Miles’s vehicles, leaving their borrowed carriage for Blythe to make her journey back to their borrowed house. Again she thought of how nice it would be once they were in Devon, in their own house, and not spending their time chasing after other women’s husbands.

“You have company,” Piotr informed her in his guttural accent as soon as she crossed the threshold. “Lord Carnover is in the sitting room.”

Oh what relief! How glad she was that she hadn’t given Piotr those instructions to turn Carny away if he came to call.

Now she could strangle the idiot for making them all worry about him!

Her stride full of purpose, her shoulders set with determination, Blythe made her way down the corridor to the sitting room. She opened the door expecting to find Carny waiting for her, all charm and sheepish smiles.

What she saw shocked her into stunned stillness in the doorframe.

Lolling like a rag doll on the chaise, a bottle of wine dan-
gling from his pale fingers, was Carny, but it was a Carny Blythe had never seen before.

His normally perfectly groomed hair was a tangled mess, sticking out in all directions like the frayed edge of a hem. His eyes were so red she could see it from across the room, and heavy-lidded with drunkenness. A day’s growth of stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He had lost his cravat, and his open shirt revealed a shocking amount of chest and throat for a gentleman of his station, and the rest of his clothing was dirty, as though he had fallen several times, or perhaps spent the night sleeping on a tavern floor.

If not for the smile he flashed when he finally saw her, Blythe wouldn’t have believed this creature to be Carny at all.

“There you are,” he slurred. He didn’t attempt to stand. “I’ve been waiting.”

“What’s going on, Carny?” she demanded, finally crossing the threshold. She closed the door behind her, not wanting to give the servants fodder for gossip.

He heaved himself up into a sitting position, resting his forearms on his thighs, the bottle hanging between his knees. Perhaps he wasn’t as foxed as she originally thought.

“Spent the entire night drinking,” he replied. “Never did get drunk enough to forget.”

“What did you want to forget?”

He sighed and took a deep swallow from the bottle. “That m’wife doesn’t love me anymore.”

“That’s rubbish and you know it, although you have certainly put her through an ordeal with this latest stunt. She’s terrified something awful has happened to you.”

He laughed bitterly. “Perhaps it has.”

She didn’t even bother trying to decipher that cryptic remark. “I am going to send a note to Wynter Lane now so she will know you are alive and in one piece.” She started for the small writing table on the closest wall. “By God, I hope you
suffer for this. Do you know that Miles and Devlin are out searching for you?”

Now that she was certain Carny was unharmed, her anger came pouring forth like the cheap wine he was guzzling. To be so inconsiderate and put them all through such worry just because he was feeling sorry for himself was the height of selfishness. The worst part was that if only he had gone home yesterday, he would have discovered his foolish fears and insecurities were all for naught.

“They are? They are looking for me?” His bleary gaze followed her across the room.

“Of course they are,” she replied, not bothering to look at him. “You frightened us all.”

“Were you frightened?”

She shot him a sharp glare. “Of course I was.”

The bounder seemed pleased by that. “And Teresa was frightened as well?”

“Teresa is more than frightened, you ass,” she retorted, taking paper from the small drawer in the writing table. “She is hurt and confused and—”
pregnant.
“You’ll be lucky if she forgives you for this.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him rise to his feet. The paper forgotten, she turned to face him as he moved unsteadily toward her.

“Oh, Blythe.” He sighed and tried to run his hand through the snarls in his hair. “I’ve made such a mess of things.”

She wouldn’t disagree with him there. “Yes, you have.”

The bottle of wine hung precariously from his lax fingers as he came toward her on drunken limbs, and suddenly Blythe was nervous. She had never backed away from Carny in her life, but every instinct screamed at her to do so now. She did, but met unyielding hardness, and she knew she literally had her back to the wall.

“I should have done the right thing and married you,” he
lamented, lifting the bottle to his lips for another drink. “You would not vex me as Teresa does.”

Her hands slid clumsily over the table beside her, trying to find some kind of weapon just in case one became necessary. A weapon to use against Carny. Good Lord, it seemed impossible. “Only because you would not love me as you do her.”

He nodded dumbly, too drunk to see the illogic of his statement. “But at least you loved me.” His gaze met hers. “You would not be so fickle. You would love me still. I could make you.”

Warning bells clanged in Blythe’s head as she tried to inch away from the wall. He was almost upon her now. “But I don’t love you Carny, not anymore. I love Devlin.”

“But you did love me once. You could love me again. I’m so sorry, Blythe. I should have loved you. It would have been so much easier than loving Teresa.”

“But you do love Teresa, Carny.
She
is the one you want.” She tried to move past him, but he grabbed her by the arm with surprising strength for a man so deep in his cups. It was then that Blythe realized that while she might be big and strong for a woman, she still wasn’t as strong as a man.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try her damnedest to fight him if she had to.

He pushed her backward, throwing her hard against the wall, so hard that she couldn’t stop the cry of pain that escaped her lips.

Carny seemed not to notice that he had hurt her, which didn’t bode well for his awareness or his sense of reason.

She shoved at him, turning her face away from the liquor-sourness of his breath. It was no use; he was using his full weight to pin her against the wall. “Carny, you do not want to do this.”

“But I do,” he insisted. “I should have done it a long time
ago. He reached out and caught her jaw in his hand, forcibly turning her head so she had no choice but to look at him.

“I know you have wondered what it might have been like between us. Well, I’ve wondered too, and now I think it’s time we both found out. Love me again, Blythe. Please.”

He was the second man who’d demanded her love without offering it in return, but he didn’t hurt her with his denial as Devlin did. He made her angry.

Before Blythe could reply, before she could insist that he leave her alone, or cry out for Piotr’s assistance, Carny brought his mouth hard against hers. Even as she pushed against his shoulders, whimpering in protest, she couldn’t push him away.

And she knew he wasn’t going to stop at kissing.

“A
nything?”

Devlin shook his head as he climbed into the carriage. “No one’s seen him.” He had gone into a tavern that many former soldiers frequented on the off chance that Carny had gone there, but the search had proved fruitless, as had their visits to the clubs Carny belonged to.

“Damn.” Miles slumped against the plush squabs. “What do we do now?”

Running his hands through his rain-soaked hair, Devlin sniffled. As if smelling like a wet sheep wasn’t bad enough, he was going to catch a chill on top of it. “Return to Blythe and see if he’s gone there.” He didn’t bother to voice his suspicion that Carny would eventually run to Blythe if he hadn’t already.

But Miles wasn’t a stupid man. “How long has he been visiting her?”

There was no use pretending ignorance, and he didn’t want to lie to Miles. “Since shortly after the wedding.”

“Christ.” Miles rubbed a hand over his eyes. “And she’s the woman he’s been seeing—the one Teresa believes him to be having an affair with?”

Devlin nodded. “Blythe says they spend most of their time talking about his marriage to Teresa.”

Miles shook his head in disbelief. “If you are having problems with your wife, you talk to
your wife,
not someone else’s.”

“Perhaps he simply wanted another female’s perspective.” Now he was defending Carny’s actions even though they annoyed the hell out of him. Wonderful. It wasn’t enough that he had saved the man’s life, now he had to try saving the blighter’s marriage as well.

Miles eyed him shrewdly. “You are a good man to say that.”

A good man. No, he wasn’t that at all, not really. People assumed that he was, but they’d change their tune if they were privy to the thoughts that drifted through the darkness that sometimes blanketed his mind.

“Look, we’ve both known Carny a long time,” he began.

“He’s been acting strangely lately, but that doesn’t mean we should believe the worst. You know how mad a woman can drive a man.”

His friend appeared surprised. “My sister’s driving you to distraction, is she? Well, good, she tortured me for a good many years. It is high time she vexed someone else for a change.”

“Blythe could never vex me.” Devlin squared his shoulders defensively.

His humor fading, Miles nodded. “I know. I never would have allowed you to marry her if I did not think you were her match.”

It was on the tip of Devlin’s tongue to inquire just how Miles would have
tried
to stop him from marrying Blythe once she said yes, but he didn’t. Miles meant no offense; he was simply stating his regard for his sister.

Silence fell between them, marred only by the sound of the horses’hooves and the carriage wheels as they rolled over the cobblestones. The coach swayed and jostled gently, rain
pitter-pattering on the roof. It was a comforting melody, despite the anxiety twisting in Devlin’s chest. Was Carny all right? What if he did go to Blythe? Would she take him in?

“Are you jealous?”

A smirk curved his lips as he stared out the window. “Insanely,” he replied, watching a young man with an umbrella run down the street. What was the point in denying his feelings any longer? No doubt Miles would know if he tried to lie.

“You shouldn’t be. She never looked at him the way she looks at you.”

An invisible hand wrapped around Devlin’s throat, squeezing until it was a chore just to swallow.

“He was a youthful infatuation, nothing more. Why do you think I never sued him for breach of promise? If I thought he had truly hurt her, I would not have kept him as a friend.”

Devlin turned from the window. “I’ve often wondered why you never beat the snot out of him.”

Miles shrugged. “I wanted to, believe me, but it would not have done any good. It wouldn’t have changed things. I had to forgive him just as Blythe has. She realizes what a poor match they would have been.”

The carriage pulled up in front of Delvin’s and Blythe’s temporary home. He would be so glad when he could take her back to Devon and have her all to himself. No company for at least two months; he would make certain of it.

“I don’t know about you,” Miles said as they stepped out into the rain, “but I could do with a cup of cider.”

Devlin flung open the door. “Something hot, definitely.”

Piotr met them in the foyer. “Lord Carnover is here, Mr. Ryland. He is with Lady Blythe in the sitting room.”

So Carny had come to Blythe after all. He should be pleased that his friend had been located, but he wasn’t—not completely. The fact that Carny had come to Blythe was like a splinter festering deeper and deeper beneath his skin.

“Thank you, Piotr.” He handed the burly Russian his coat and strode across the foyer in the direction of the sitting room, Miles hot on his heels. All thoughts of hot drinks and dry clothes were forgotten.

The door to the sitting room was closed but thankfully unlocked. If it had been bolted, Devlin would have kicked it into kindling.

Perhaps he should have kicked it in anyway. It might have been enough to scare Carny away from Blythe. It might have saved him.

Jesus Christ.
It was more a prayer than a blasphemy. For a second, Devlin could only stand frozen in the doorway, watching as Carny, a wine bottle in one hand, tried to shove his other down Blythe’s bodice. She struggled against him, God love her; she was trying to get away, but Carny was by far the stronger of the two, especially with obvious desperation on his side.

He was trying to force himself on Blythe. Just as Devlin’s father had forced himself on his mother. In his estimation, it was the lowest thing a man could do.

“Devlin—” The cautionary voice came from behind him. It was Miles. Devlin didn’t listen, he was already halfway across the room, and in the span of one unblinking second, he had slipped his left hand between Blythe and Carny, wrapping the fingers around the smaller man’s throat.

He pulled. Hard.

Carny stumbled as he was yanked away from Blythe. Wine splashed over the both of them. “What’s this?” he mumbled drunkenly. “Oh, Dev. It’s you.”

And that was it—no apology, no half-assed explanation. He didn’t even try to explain himself.

Devlin snarled, the fingers around Carny’s throat tightening.

Carny dug weakly at his fingers. “Can’t…breathe.”

“Devlin,” Blythe’s voice cut through the haze of rage. “Devlin, let him go.”

He did what she told him. He let him go.

Then he slammed his fist into Carny’s face with all his strength.

More wine sloshed out of the bottle as Carny reeled backward from the force of the blow. He went down hard on the carpet. The wine bottle smashed. Carny struck his head on the table beside where he’d had Blythe pressed against the wall and crumpled to the floor.

There was a few seconds of nothing—as though time had simply frozen, as the three of them who were still standing watched to see if Carny would open his eyes. He didn’t.

Blythe gasped and rushed forward. It wasn’t Devlin she rushed to. It was Carny.

“He was drunk,” she said, shooting him an angry look.

“He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Devlin stared at her. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

But she wasn’t looking at him now; she and Miles were rolling Carny’s limp form over onto his back. The neck of the wine bottle lay next to his lax fingers. The front of his brocade waistcoat was bright with crimson. Blood trickled from his nose. The hands that cradled his head—Blythe’s tender hands—came away smeared and glistening with it.

What had he done? Good Lord, what had he done?

Devlin glanced down, a strange roaring in his ears. His own hands trembled; the right was already swelling a bit. Had he broken it when he hit Carny? He’d hit him pretty hard, hard enough that the skin over his knuckles had split and was bleeding.

Blood on his hands.

The front of him was spattered with deep red, several large splotches visible on the pale fabric and the white of his shirt-sleeves. It was wine. Just wine. He kept telling himself that, but even though he knew it was true, his mind kept jumping back to another time when it hadn’t been wine, when it had been something thicker, something warmer.

Blood on his clothes.

He had wanted to kill Carny, just as he had wanted to kill that French soldier, just as he had killed Carny in his dream. This wasn’t a question of survival, it had been rage, pure and simple.

“His head is bleeding fairly badly,” Miles said to Blythe. “Better send for a surgeon.”

A surgeon. Not dead then. Hurt though. Badly hurt. His fault.

Blythe rose to her feet. She stopped to look at him as she moved toward the door. The expression on her face changed from grave concern to something deeper, something less calm.

“Devlin?”

He met her gaze, ready to face the damnation there, but there wasn’t any. Her eyes were wide and fearful. Scared.

Of him?

Of course she was. She’d just witnessed him trying to murder someone, a man he used to call friend. A man whose life he had sacrificed another to save, and now would have snuffed out like a bug because he dared take liberties with her.

How could she look at him at all? He wasn’t a man, he was a monster, a monster who didn’t deserve her love, who had probably lost it anyway. He’d been kidding himself thinking he could ever be good enough for her, be what she deserved.

She deserved better.

She came closer. “Devlin?”

“I—” He jerked back as she tried to touch him. “No, blood!” No more blood on him, he couldn’t stand any more. He was already drowning in it, couldn’t she see that?

She froze, her eyes widening even more, until the iris sat surrounded by a wide border of startled white.

“I have to go,” he heard himself say in a voice that sounded hollow and flat. “Have to…can’t…I’m sorry.”

Her voice rang out behind him as he bolted from the room,
but he didn’t stop. He didn’t dare stop. If he stopped, everything inside him was going to try to force its way out, and he didn’t know if he could stop it. He wanted to cry, wanted to scream.

He wanted to haul Carny to his feet and pound on him some more.

He didn’t bother with a coat. He ran out into the rain, the door hanging open behind him. He raced through the downpour, his boots splashing through puddles, water seeping in through worn stitching. Water ran down his face, into his eyes, plastering his hair and clothes tight against his skin. He didn’t care what happened to him. He just had to get as far away as possible from that house, from the blood.

From her.

“Blythe, are you listening to me?”

Dragging her attention away from the door through which her husband had just disappeared, Blythe turned to her brother. “Sorry, Miles. What did you say?”

He was crouched beside Carny’s motionless body, his hand underneath his friend’s head. “I said we will go after Devlin later. Get something to put under Carny’s head to staunch the blood while I get him to the sofa.”

Blythe glanced around for something to use. Her gaze fell upon the tea tray she’d rung for earlier. There were serviettes on it that should do the trick until the surgeon arrived.

Devlin momentarily forgotten as she leaped into action, Blythe snatched up the napkins and folded them into squares as Miles lifted Carny onto the sofa. She pressed one to the cut on Carny’s head. It didn’t look serious, but it was bleeding quite profusely. The other she used to wipe the blood away from his nose. It looked like the more serious injury of the two, as it was slightly off center and discolored.

“I’ll take care of him,” she told Miles. “Go have Piotr fetch a doctor.”

As her brother left the sitting room, Blythe knelt on the carpet beside the sofa, holding the makeshift bandage to Carny’s skull. He looked so peaceful, so familiar now that he was unconscious. Whatever had possessed him to act as he had?

“You are lucky Devlin did not kill you,” she scolded, even though he couldn’t hear. He was fortunate indeed. She had seen the look on her husband’s face, seen the anger and betrayal in his eyes. It hadn’t been directed at her, thank God. He didn’t blame her for the incident, only Carny. It didn’t seem possible their friendship could survive this.

Could her own relationship with Carny survive? Perhaps. Despite the violence with which he attacked her, despite his intentions, Blythe couldn’t bring herself to hate him. It was the drink and his own desperation that made him act so. He never would have done it if he had been sober and thinking clearly, of that she was certain. Carny could never hurt her—not intentionally. He would have stopped. He wouldn’t have defiled her. She was certain of it.

It didn’t matter now. He hadn’t hurt her, and she refused to think of what
might
have happened if Devlin and Miles hadn’t arrived and Carny hadn’t returned to his senses.

She’d been so angry at Carny when he released her that she could have punched him herself. And then Devlin had hit him, and the damage he’d done with just one blow was staggering. Even though part of her had thrilled at his primitive defense of her, she hadn’t wanted him to hurt Carny further. That was why she had tried to defend Carny’s actions by blaming the drink. Devlin hadn’t believed it.

He’d looked so lost, so hurt when she went to Carny instead of him. But he wasn’t the one in danger of leaving a horrible stain on Varya’s carpet. And then when she had gone to him, he recoiled from her as though she were some kind of poisonous snake and ran from the room.

He’d run away from her, and she didn’t know where he’d gone or when he’d be back, or if he would be. She couldn’t even go after him because they had to deal with Carny.

“Idiot,” she muttered at the unconscious form on the sofa. She pressed harder on his wound, hoping the pain might wake him up. It didn’t.

How seriously injured was he? His breathing seemed normal, but she knew nothing of these kinds of wounds. Perhaps Carny wouldn’t have passed out if he hadn’t been so thoroughly foxed. Then again, he could be seriously hurt.

Dear Lord, Devlin would never forgive himself if he’d done irreparable damage to his friend, no matter what his initial reaction to the situation had been.