As he dug his toes and left hand into the rough ground, the wind whipped her hair sideways and he saw with horror that dark crimson blood was saturating the auburn strands. If the bullet had struck her before hitting Frazier, she might already be dead.
But he would not let her fall. He made a wide sweep with his left arm and caught a scrawny shrub. It pulled up in seconds but held long enough for him to grasp another stronger bush.
Temporarily they were safe, but it was a precarious balance. The angle of the slope was so steep that they would slide downward without his hold on the bush, and already his left arm was shaking from the strain of supporting their weight.
He glanced to his left. The next suitable handhold was a couple of feet beyond his reach. If he were alone he could probably have scrambled up to it, but that was impossible when Rebecca's weight was dragging him downward.
Though he doubted she could hear, he said through gritted teeth, "Trust me, Ginger, we're not going over."
But it was bravado. A tremor ran through the shrub that was his handhold. When it broke, they would both go over the edge. Perhaps Sir Anthony could help— but he was a light man. Unless he found a secure grip, he would be pulled down with them.
Then suddenly the wind gusted violently, shoving against their prone bodies. It shouldn't have made a difference—but for an instant Kenneth was relieved of most of Rebecca's weight. At the same moment he got a burst of extra strength. He released the failing shrub and kicked against the sloping surface, driving himself upward until his clawing fingers caught a deep-seated rock two feet farther from the brink.
Panting with exertion, he pulled Rebecca toward him until he could wrap his right arm around her. Then he dragged them both upward, the muscles of his left arm shaking with the strain of supporting two bodies.
When he was as high as he could go, he rested for a moment, drawing great ragged gulps of breath. Then he reached for another handhold. The angle was becoming shallower, and each foot was easier to achieve than the one before.
It took half a dozen more moves up the rough slope to reach the safety of level ground. Too exhausted to stand, he lay gasping for breath, Rebecca's limp form cradled against him as if sheer proximity would ward off harm. But Christ, where was her pulse? He felt her throat and couldn't find it. Despairing, he sat up and laid his hand in the center of her chest. There he found the steady, blessed beat of her heart.
Weak with relief, he looked up. Though it had seemed like a terrifying eternity, very little time had passed since he had fired his pistol. Sir Anthony was racing toward them while Frazier stood swaying in shock, his right hand pressed to his bleeding left shoulder.
As Sir Anthony dropped to his knees by his daughter, he said furiously, "You'll hang for what you've done, Malcolm. Before God, I swear it."
Frazier jerked as if he had been struck. Then his expression changed to cool arrogance. "I lived and painted in the Grand Manner," he drawled, "and I shall die that way as well."
He turned, straightened to his full height, and walked off the cliff.
He did not cry out as he fell. If there was a sound when he hit the stones below, it was carried away on the wind.
"The fool," Sir Anthony swore. "The stupid, bloody fool. He had talent and wealth and a passion for art. Why did he become a murderer?"
As Kenneth examined Rebecca's wound, he said dryly, "Frazier's real passion was not art, but imposing his ideas on the world."
He had also loved Sir Anthony too much and in the wrong way, Kenneth thought, so his unadmitted resentment had been turned against the women who were close to his friend.
Sir Anthony drew his daughter into his arms, her blood staining his white shirt. "Did… did the bullet strike her?"
"No. She gashed her head when she hit the stone. Scalp wounds bleed like the very devil, but her breathing and heartbeat are strong. I think she'll be all right." Kenneth pulled out his handkerchief and folded it into a pad, then yanked off his cravat and bound the fabric tightly to her head.
He stood, then bent and lifted Rebecca in his arms. She looked heartbreakingly fragile. Yet she had managed to fight off a man half again her size long enough to save her life. Indomitable Ginger. He brushed a tender kiss on her forehead. "Time to take her home."
When they reached Ravensbeck, Kenneth carried Rebecca directly into the drawing room and laid her on a brocade sofa while Sir Anthony shouted for medical
supplies and for a doctor to be summoned posthaste. Chaos ensued, with servants running every which way, the more excitable ones weeping.
Lavinia appeared and imposed order, then efficiently cleaned Rebecca's wound and put on a better bandage. Kenneth sat on the arm of the sofa and kept a hand on Rebecca's shoulder, unable to bear having her beyond his reach.
Sir Anthony was pacing anxiously about the drawing room when a startled male voice said, "Good God, what has happened? Have you been shot, Anthony?"
Kenneth glanced up to see Lord and Lady Bowden standing in the open door. Probably the front door had been left open and they had walked in. But why were they at Ravensbeck?
As Sir Anthony stared at the visitors in shock, Bowden strode toward him, his alarmed gaze on the blood-soaked shirt.
Sir Anthony ran trembling fingers through his disordered hair. "I'm fine, Marcus. My daughter has been hurt, but Kenneth says she should be all right."
Bowden looked across the room to where Rebecca lay unconscious. "What the devil happened?"
"One of my oldest friends went mad and tried to kill her," Sir Anthony said tersely. "He had already killed Helen."
There was an appalled silence. Bowden's gaze went to Kenneth, who said, "It's true. Lord Frazier was the villain."
Recovering his irony, Sir Anthony said, "To what do I owe the honor of this highly unexpected visit, Marcus?"
Bowden said stiffly, "Margaret told me in no uncertain terms that I've been a stark-raving idiot where you and Helen were concerned and that it was time to make my apologies."
"You know I would never use such intemperate language, Marcus," Lady Bowden said with gentle reproach.
Sir Anthony smiled. "You haven't changed, Margaret. It's good to see you." He took her hand and squeezed it affectionately before turning to his brother. "She's made you a much better wife, you know. Helen was not at all biddable. She would have driven you mad."
Bowden's face worked. "I'm a lucky man." He gave his wife a look of mingled love and apology. "And a thrice-damned fool for not having realized it sooner."
"Things happen in their own time, my dear. Before, you were not ready to hear what I had to say." Lady Bowden touched his arm gently. Her expression made it dear that she was supremely content with her husband's new attitude.
Bowden swallowed hard. "After the way I have behaved, will you allow me under your roof, Anthony?"
His brother said quietly, "You would always have been welcome, Marcus. Always." He extended his hand.
Bowden took it in a grip that started tentatively, but quickly became heartfelt.
Thinking it was time to leave the brothers to become reacquainted, Kenneth said to Lavinia, "I'll take Rebecca to her room. She needs peace and quiet."
Lavinia gave a nod of agreement. "I'll show you the way."
Kenneth carefully lifted Rebecca. Still unconscious, she gave a small sigh and rested her head against his shoulder.
Lord Bowden turned to study her pale face. "She is very like Helen," he said with a note of wonder.
"Helen's looks, and my talent." Sir Anthony took the knee rug from the sofa and tucked it over his daughter. "Yet in temperament, she resembles you more than she does Helen or me. Strange how these things happen."
Bowden smiled wryly. "My younger son is very like you. Charming. Clever. Maddening. I'm trying to be more understanding than Father was with you."
Sir Anthony glanced at Lavinia and said with a challenge in his voice, "I believe you know Lady Claxton. We intend to marry when I am out of mourning."
That might have been too much for Lord Bowden, Kenneth thought, but not his wife.
Lady Bowden took Lavinia's hand and said warmly, "How wonderful. Helen once said that if anything happened to her, she hoped you would marry Anthony, since you were her best friend and the only woman she knew who would take proper care of him."
Her husband said with horrified fascination, 'You and Helen were in communication?"
His wife's lashes swept enigmatically over her soft blue eyes. "Our paths sometimes crossed in town."
Bowden shook his head, then said with determined graciousness, "Please accept my best wishes, Lady Claxton."
"Thank you, Lord Bowden," she said sweetly. "And don't worry. I'm not half so wicked as you think." Then she escorted Kenneth from the room.
He carried Rebecca up the stairs, his spirits lighter than they had been in weeks. An estrangement that had lasted nearly three decades had been healed.
Perhaps there was hope for him and Rebecca.
Rebecca awoke to darkness and a throbbing head. She blinked muzzily and realized that she was lying in her bed in a room illuminated by a small fire and a lamp shielded to keep the light from her eyes. The faint, familiar scratch of a steel drawing pen came from her left.
She turned her head and saw Kenneth sitting in an upholstered chair a few feet from the bed. He had a drawing board across his lap and was carefully adding detail to what appeared to be a watercolor. He looked tired, and the planes of his face were harsh in the dim light.
She wanted to go to him and kiss the shadows from his eyes. She settled for swallowing against the dryness of her throat, then whispering, "Trust an artist to stop and sketch the flames when Nero is burning Rome."
He glanced up with a smile that transformed his expression. "You sound remarkably clear-headed." He set the drawing board aside. "How do you feel?"
"Fragile." She ran her tongue over dry lips. "Thirsty."
He poured a glass of water. When he brought it to her, she pushed herself to a sitting position and drank, sipping slowly until her mouth felt normal again.
Feeling much better, she mounded the pillows into a backrest. "How long have I been unconscious?"
"About ten hours."
"What… what happened?"
He took his seat again. "What do you remember last?"
She thought. "Lord Frazier hitting me in the midriff so hard that I couldn't move. A very strange and unpleasant sensation. He was hauling me toward the cliff when you thundered up like a regiment of cavalry. You're a fearsome sight, Captain."
"I've had a lot of practice," he said modestly.
"Papa came, and a gun fired. You shot Frazier, didn't you? I don't remember anything after that." Gingerly she touched the bandage on her head. "Was I hit by the bullet?"
"No, but Frazier was, and he dropped you on your head." Kenneth smiled a little. "Luckily, that's stone hard. According to the doctor, there is no serious damage. Frazier wasn't critically wounded, but when he realized that his sins were about to catch up with him, he stepped off the cliff."
The image of a falling man crossed her mind. Her mouth tightened. "If I were saintly, I might feel sympathy for his madness. Instead, I'm glad he's dead. If I'd had a pistol and known how to use it, I would have shot him myself."
"Personally, I would have liked to see him hang. Very publicly. But this spares you and your father the strain of a trial, so perhaps it's for the best." Kenneth glanced toward the fire. "There's soup warming on the hearth. Would you like some?"
She nodded, and he went to ladle soup into two mugs. Only then did the realization sink in that her mother had been murdered.
It hadn't been suicide
.
Helen Seaton had not taken her own life because of inner demons; Rebecca and her father had not failed her mother. The knowledge produced a rush of relief so intense that it left Rebecca shaky.
When Kenneth brought her a warm mug of soup, she accepted it gratefully. It was a creamy potato leek blend. Delicious. Warmth and strength began flowing through her.
Suddenly aware of the incongruity of his presence, she asked, "Why are you here?"
"I came up from London because of something I found in your mother's diary." Between sips of his soup, he gave a succinct explanation of what he had discovered and his trip north, then continued, "The specific reason I'm in your bedroom is that I ruthlessly intimidated Lavinia, your father, and Lady Bowden, all of whom wanted to stay with you until you awoke. Luckily, I'm far larger than they are."
She blinked. "Lady Bowden?"
"The other main event of the day was Bowden and your father reestablishing relations."
"What!"
He chuckled as he sat down with his own mug. "I suspect that Lady Bowden told her husband it was time to grow up, and threatened to kick him out of bed if he didn't."
She smiled at the thought of her elegant aunt saying any such thing. No doubt Lady Bowden had been more subtle, but after so many years of marriage, she must have known what notes to strike. "I'm so glad. I think Papa regretted the estrangement. There was a wistful note in his voice whenever he mentioned his brother."