Recklessly Yours (45 page)

“Simone.” The name struck a memory. “The man who attacked my sister—”

“My brother,” he interrupted.

Holly nodded. “He spoke that name to her.”

“Because she resembles your mother so strikingly. For an instant, he believed your sister to be her.”

Tears, raw and burning, sprang to her eyes. “D-do I look like either of them?”

He smiled sadly. “You take after your father's mother, who had hair the color of fire.”

Holly's hand went to her hair, her fingers absently tracing a curl that strayed from beneath her bonnet. There were so many questions she longed to ask, about her family, her kin, her home . . . yet one concern clamored with even greater urgency.

“These things that have been happening to me . . . last week, during a ball here, a man accosted me in a corridor. And then only days ago on the road to Devonshire, Lord Drayton and I were shot at . . .”

To each reference, he nodded. “My brother.”

“But wait . . . on the moor . . . was it he who protected me from the angry villagers?” She studied the man before her. “I didn't see him close up, but it couldn't have been you that day, though you do resemble the man I saw. Why would your brother protect me if he wishes me ill?”

If she'd had any suspicions that it might have been this man on the moor that morning, the surprise that flashed in his eyes dispelled them. “Obviously he had plans for you, my dear, ones he dared not implement in front of witnesses.”

She shuddered. “And the colt—what has he to do with all of this?”

“Henri has been watching you closely. He knows the colt is important to you, that he can use it to manipulate you. Your sisters have remained secluded, always under the protection of family or friends. Only you have strayed from that haven in recent days. Henri guessed that with the colt he could lure you farther from safety.”

Holly's hand flew to her throat as her pounding heart sent the blood pulsing through her veins. “Oh, God . . .”

“Mademoiselle, what is it? Why have you grown so pale?”

“Colin . . . the earl . . . he's gone after the colt . . .”

“Where?”

Her thoughts lashed in confusion. “I don't know. He received a message earlier telling him that if he wanted the colt he must go . . . oh, he wouldn't tell me where. He didn't wish for me to follow.” She looked wildly around her, taking in the paddocks, the racecourse, the open heath beyond.

“I have an idea where he might have gone,” de Vere said.

“Then take me there, immediately.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“I don't care. We must help him. Perhaps we should bring footmen with us.”

De Vere hesitated, then shook his head. “There may not be time for that. If indeed Lord Drayton has gone for the colt, he may be in grave danger. We must go at once.”

Instead of retreating the way they had come, Monsieur de Vere led her along a path that bypassed the stables and gardens, passing through a wooded garden that skirted the manor's west wing. As they stepped from the shade of tall oak, pine, and walnut trees into the bright sunlight of the front lawns, Holly saw three riders racing up the drive.

“The earl has returned,” she exclaimed. She started to run, but de Vere caught her by the wrist and held her back. She scowled down at the offending hand. “What are you doing? Release me, sir.” She waved her other hand over her head. “Colin!”

“Have a care, my dear,” Antoine said sharply. He peered toward the riders. “Who accompanies him?
Mon Dieu
, I believe it is my brother.”

Holly struggled against his grip. “Then surely there is no danger, or they would not have ridden back together. Surely this has all been a vast misunderstanding.”

“No, my dear, there has been no misunderstanding.”

Still maintaining his hold on her, de Vere tucked his free hand into his coat pocket. To Holly's horror, when it reappeared, it held an ebony-handled pistol.

 

“You don't dare fire upon us, Antoine,” Henri de Vere shouted across the way to his brother. “There are three of us, and only one of you. You cannot beat such odds.”

Kirkston and Henri flanked Colin as the three of them strode across the lawn, their weapons at the ready. At the sight of Antoine restraining Holly, Colin's heart lodged in his throat.

Suddenly, almost comically—if Colin could have found even a particle of humor in the situation—a window on the ground floor opened and Geoffrey popped his head out. “About time you returned. We've a visitor, and he—”

“Stay inside,” Colin ordered tersely and kept walking, the other two men keeping apace.

Near the trees, Antoine continued to train his gun on them. To all appearances he might have been protecting Holly. Confused, Colin experienced a crippling doubt about the man striding beside him.

“You don't dare fire upon
me
, Henri,” Antoine called back. “Your odds of hitting Hélène are too great. Or would you murder our young cousin in cold blood, before witnesses?”

“I wish to kill no one, Antoine,” Henri yelled. “Not even you. Put your weapon down.”

“And you drop yours as well,” Colin ordered the man. From the corner of his eye he saw Henri flick him a glance. The barrel of his pistol dropped toward the ground, but to Colin's continued frustration the weapon remained in his hand.

“I wish you would all put your blasted guns down.” Holly attempted to wrest free of Antoine's hold. “Nothing can be accomplished this way.”

Antoine, not as graying or as sharp-featured as his brother, held her fast. Colin and the men with him continued their approach until Antoine gestured with a flick of his weapon. “That is close enough. Lord Drayton, my brother has tricked you. You would do well to take him into your custody.”

Colin heard the words, but his attention was riveted on Holly, on her expression, her every movement. If he could only get her away from there, he wouldn't care who fired or who was hit—not even himself.

She had stopped struggling against Antoine and the fear had left her gaze. She seemed to be communicating a message to him, and it took him all of a split second to understand it.

The message held no reservations, not the slightest hesitation. She believed in his ability to save her; she believed in him. And in the faithful shimmer of her eyes, he found his courage, his confidence that he
would
save her, that somehow, together, they would save each other.

He pulled his gaze away from her. The two de Veres were arguing, leveling charges at each other that seemed to encompass several decades of bitterness. Colin caught references to the wars, to aristocrats sent to the guillotine and innocent people chased off their lands or massacred in their beds . . . he heard accusations of arson, and of the coldblooded murder of family members. . . .

“You cannot win, Antoine.” His voice unnaturally calm, Henri took several steps across the grass, stopping only when Antoine raised his pistol and took what appeared to be lethal aim. Henri held out his arms, his own weapon pointing benignly toward the shrubbery off to his left. “The secret is out. What is more, the sisters are not the anonymous orphans you believed them to be. They never were. The man they called their uncle Edward saw to that when he deliberately established ties between them and England's young queen. Surely you realize you cannot kill them and expect their inheritance to be handed over to you. It is time to listen to reason. . . .”

Still talking, Henri started forward again. Antoine tensed in response, his grip on his gun tightening. Undeterred, Henri extended a hand. “Perhaps we might find a way to share the inheritance with our cousins and end the violence—”

A blast drowned out the rest of his words. Henri crumpled to his knees. Across the way, as smoke wafted from Antoine's gun, the recoil sent him staggering backward. His grip on Holly loosened and she pulled free, then stumbled and fell, landing on her bottom and sliding on the leaves at the base of an oak. With several feet now between Holly and Antoine, Colin took aim and squeezed the pistol's trigger. The shot rang out, the explosion deafening, dizzying. Colin kept his stance, cocking the second barrel to fire again when Antoine lurched an unsteady step toward him. Another blast was fired, one so violent that it launched both Colin and Kirkston to the ground. Colin wasted no time in scrambling to his feet. When he looked toward the trees, Antoine had vanished.

H
olly landed hard on her hip, her back striking the tree trunk behind her and knocking her half senseless. The last thing she saw before the impact was Colin being thrust to the ground, and the boy . . . Geoffrey, running into harm's way.

Run, run somewhere safe
she tried to call out to both of them. Whatever was happening, whoever these Frenchmen were, it had nothing to do with the Ashworths. This was
her
past,
her
ghosts, rising up to commit violence.

But she was on the ground, her senses in a sickening whirl, her voice caught in a throat inundated with the rancid stench of gunpowder . . . and something else. Something metallic and moist and frightening. Upon forcing her eyes open, the first sight to greet her was the splatter of blood—on the grass, on the roots of the oak, on her skirts. Whose blood? She looked wildly about her.
Dear God, whose?

Footsteps thudded toward her, and then a pair of arms closed around her and a torso nearly crushed her. She felt herself being rocked and smothered as frantic, frenzied hands traveled over her. A voice rumbled in her ears, the same words repeated over and over again.

“Are you hurt? Are you shot? Oh, God, Holly, dear God . . .”

Even as she tried to form words of reassurance, she could not prevent her own hands from desperately searching Colin's body, spurred by both hope and dread. They were talking, whispering, shouting all at once, until she realized they were asking the same questions and speaking the same answers.

She found his dear, handsome face and framed it in her hands. “I am all right. I wasn't hit,” she said slowly and carefully, repeating it until she saw the panic leave his features. Only then did she release him and slide her palms over his shoulders and down his chest, searching for holes, moisture. . . . “And you, my love?”

His hands tightened around her upper arms. “Not hit.”

Relief came in a consuming wave, but a brief one. “That man . . . he's vanished.”

“He had to have been shot. Badly.” His gaze dropped to the ground. “So much blood. God help me, for a moment I thought it was yours.” His eyes reddened, misted unabashedly.

A commotion from the house drew their attention to the team of footmen spilling around the corner. Some half dozen of them came to a halt, taking in the scene. Two went to where Colin's valet crouched over the fallen man. After helping Holly to her feet, Colin beckoned to the remaining four.

“There is an intruder on the premises. We believe he's been wounded, so he can't have gotten far, but he is armed, so proceed with caution. Summon all the menservants and raise a search.”

They raced off, and Colin, his arm secure around Holly's waist, started toward the man lying on the ground. She stopped him, one hand clinging to his coat front. “How do we know which man is telling the truth? Perhaps they were both lying.”

“I don't think so.” He covered her hand with his own. “Henri refused to fire his weapon. He didn't dare risk hitting you.” His eyes glistened with tears again. “Just as I couldn't take that chance until Antoine had released you and you stumbled out of the way. Even then . . . it took more courage than I knew I had to aim straight and fire that shot. But I had no choice, or I'd risk allowing Antoine to seize you again. Or worse.”

His last word ended on a strangled note. Holly pressed her lips to his cheek and tasted salty moisture. She wrapped her arms around him. “I heard two shots. Who fired the second? Your valet?”

“No. I did.”

She turned toward the house and gasped. “
Geoffrey
?”

 

The youngest Ashworth strode toward them, a rifle clutched in his hands. “I shot the bastard, and I shan't apologize for it. Someone's got to look out for you, Miss Sutherland.”

Colin grasped Holly's hand—tightly, as if he feared she would vanish into thin air—and together they met his brother partway across the grass. Colin's eyebrows hovered like storm clouds above his eyes. “Damn it, Geoff, I told you to stay inside.”

“Yes, but you didn't tell me not to listen in. And having heard what I did, I acted in the only logical way possible. I ran to my room and pulled this”—he held the rifle up higher in front of him—“out from beneath my bed. You can't blame a fellow for taking decisive action.”

Colin snatched the weapon away. “Where did you get this? Father—”

“Keeps his firearms under lock and key.” Geoffrey angled his face. “That never stopped you. Besides . . .” The boy's eyes narrowed and his features hardened in a way Holly had never seen on him before, but that reminded her very much of his eldest brother when he was angered. When Geoffrey spoke again, the words sizzled bitterly on his tongue. “Father isn't here, is he?”

“No. Indeed he is not.” Colin stared down at the rifle, his knuckles whitening around the dark, polished wood. He lifted his gaze to regard his brother, and without another word passed the weapon back to him. Geoffrey's mouth quirked, and Colin nodded, and for some odd reason tears stung Holly's eyes and a lump pushed against her throat.