Romancing the Rogue (25 page)

“Wil!” Her cry stuck in her throat, and she recognized Philip’s voice hushing her, his arm barring her way. More gunshots punctuated the mix of strange noises. Strong arms wrestled her to the ground and covered her, protecting her from the gunfire. She wrestled back, feeling the jolt of alarm turn to a blanket of mindless dread. “Philip, let me up!
Now
.”

Then she was reduced to begging and fighting for her life even though she knew it was unreasonable. He must have understood the desperation in her voice; Philip lifted her to a sitting position, and a scene straight from her nightmares played out next to that lovely fountain.

Amidst trampled hedges, an impasse. Wilhelm’s arm wrapped around Chauncey’s neck from behind, each of their right arms locked in struggle to control the pistol. Wilhelm’s hand covered Chauncey’s fist, shaking in effort to turn the barrel away from her.

And that was why Philip, O’Grady, and Sir Gideon stood in front. Gideon looked ridiculously young. He could not be twenty, but there he stood like Saint Peter guarding the pearly gates, blocking her from the line of fire.

She hadn’t noticed with all the flailing and heaving, but a glint of light drew her eye to a blade in Chauncey’s other hand. Her knife! She moved to look over Philip’s shoulder — he stood not quite as tall as the human boulders on either side — and wished she didn’t see the gashes on Wilhelm’s arms and thighs. He twisted to counter Chauncey tossing his head back, their balance teetered, and she saw bright red blood seeping through Wilhelm’s shirt across the side of his ribs. Blood ran down his arms, deep scarlet where it soaked through his trousers in dark lines.

“Do something,” she muttered under her breath. Panic?
Now
she was panicking. “Do something! Stop him!” Sophia pushed against her captors, but they moved not an inch, her hands ineffectual opposition against the wall of beefy shoulders.

“Hush,” all three hissed over their shoulders at once.

“Do
not
distract him,” Gideon muttered.

She noticed O’Grady fingering a pistol in his fist. “When I get a clear shot, I’ll take it. But right now, I am as likely to hit Wil. Stay calm and let him concentrate.” His gruff burred voice in low tones sounded calm, but his eyes followed the action with a sharp alertness that made her nervous.

At the crack of another gunshot, they ducked again, covering her in a shield three bodies deep. Voices shouted across the garden in sounds of triumph, all four dogs barked, and the men smothering her made sounds of relief and helped her stand.

“Bastard!
Whoreson!
” she heard Chauncey shouting, and thankfully the rest garbled. His face turned a dangerous shade of purple as Wilhelm tightened his arm, still locked around Chauncey’s neck. In a riot of movement, Wilhelm’s blood-slicked hand slipped, losing control of the pistol. Chauncey threw his weight back in an effort to topple Wilhelm at the same time Wilhelm kicked the back of Chauncey’s knee. They both went down in a heap.

Where had the knife gone? And the pistol? She couldn’t see the grappling, a blur of ham-like arms striking and blocking Wilhelm’s sinewy limbs. Chauncey was stronger, but Wilhelm much more agile. Chauncey landed a fist to the corner of Wilhelm’s jaw with a wet thud. She swallowed a cry of despair as his head jerked back. Wilhelm stumbled, swaggered, his eyes rolled. When Chauncey chambered his fist for another strike, Wilhelm sprang from his pose and darted under Chauncey’s arm with a lightning-fast palm strike to the nose, spraying blood. Chauncey roared, enraged, and Wilhelm righted his balance without fanfare.

She watched, incredulous, as moments played out as though frozen in time while other actions seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. She tasted blood as she bit her cheek, refusing to cry out and distract Wilhelm. Chauncey shouted and cursed, charging and flailing, while Wilhelm remained silent and focused. Blood matted his hair, soaked his clothes, coated his arms. His cold focused gaze, flared nostrils, and straining muscles made him an eerie vision in contrast with his deadly calm.

The sounds became unbearable, the snapping and popping. A dull
snick
and Chauncey’s elbow bent the wrong way. He made an inhuman keening noise. Philip flinched. Gideon hummed in approval. O’Grady twitched, kneading the handle of the pistol in his palm. They all seemed to be waiting for something.

Chauncey roared and threw his weight into a swing with his other arm. Wilhelm pivoted and ducked beneath the blow. Movement blurred, then he gripped his hands around Chauncey’s throat, his thumbs poised under the corners of Chauncey’s jaw. Sir Gideon sucked in a breath and held it. Chauncey froze, making wheezing sounds, his jaw upturned and back arched stiff in imposed submission.

Wilhelm squeezed, making Chauncey’s knees buckle, and it seemed Wilhelm held up the larger man solely by the sides of his throat, a disgustingly vulnerable, pitiful position. It made Wilhelm appear the consummate predator, lowering a shaking Chauncey to a kneeling position with smooth control. Chauncey’s skin flushed red then purple, his limbs trembling as he was forced to stare into the cool gaze of his victor.

Her husband finally spoke, low oaths she couldn’t make out, but she heard sheer hatred in his tone and saw it in his bared teeth and clenched jaw. One could wish a person to hell in any language and be understood.

Unreasonable that she should feel so little. Only raw anxiety. A desire for the end. And she couldn’t keep her eyes from the bloody weapons lying on the grass, the pistol and the knife.

Chauncey’s mouth moved, forming sneering words she couldn’t hear.

“Small world, Duncombe,” Wilhelm taunted.

Chauncey’s gaze darted to Sophia, his lips curled in a twisted smile as he muttered something else she couldn’t hear.

Wilhelm burst with anger; he shook Chauncey’s neck and shouted, “
No right
to speak her name!
You traitor!
Murderer
!”

She saw the change as it happened: Chauncey’s desperate reply altered Wilhelm instantly. The fight drained from him, his hands loosened. His cold façade gave way to a stricken, ill look. Wilhelm stepped back, staring in horror at Chauncey, who heaved for breath.

What in hell had her father said?

Wilhelm retreated another step. O’Grady shifted his weight, his gaze steady on Chauncey as he herded Sophia backward. What was going on?

Wilhelm shook his head and clenched his jaw so tightly his skin turned white at the edges. “Never.” His voice caught, hoarse. “Never.” He turned to trade glances with the men guarding Sophia; it seemed he looked straight through her.

The dagger lay embedded in his thigh to the hilt — when had that happened? He seemed to pay it no heed. “My girls?” His bloodshot eyes betrayed tumult, the only sign he was not as collected as he appeared.

Chauncey struggled to stand, and Wilhelm allowed it.

Gideon raised his arm and made two wide gestures with his hand. He watched across the field then answered with another gesture. “Secure.”

O’Grady stared at Chauncey with relentless anticipation, ignoring the surrounding scene.

“LeRoy?”

“Dead.”

“Lowdry?”

“Captured.”

Lowdry?
She tried to ask why he would be there, but her mind scrambled. Lowdry had come with Chauncey to reclaim her? A surge of nausea made her throat lurch, but she forced herself to calm.

Wilhelm sighed and slumped his shoulders. She’d never seen him so tired or somber. He nodded toward Chauncey. “Arrest him. Send for the constable. We will do this the right way.”

He meant to walk away?

Wilhelm balled his fists then flexed his fingers but took another step back. She saw it in his expression: devastation, bloodlust, and a sadness that made her heart clench. He warred with desire for vengeance. Yet still he walked away.

Philip and Gideon tentatively approached, flanking him, waiting to see if Wilhelm would succumb.

Her instincts prickled a moment before she shrieked, startled by a sudden movement and fierce growl. Chauncey lunged at Wilhelm, thrusting out the pistol. Fire erupted from the barrel. Thunder rang in her ears and she crashed into the hedge.

Numbly she watched as Chauncey sprawled over Wilhelm, and they both collapsed. High-pitched ringing robbed her of hearing, and her pulse pounded through her head with a noise like ocean waves. Her mind chanted,
No! No! No!

Gideon blocked her view as he darted forward, and she waited desperately while he rolled Chauncey over to reveal Wilhelm.

Breathing?

Impossible to discern if he’d been shot, already covered in blood.

Wilhelm turned his head to the side and moaned. His chest moved up and down as he drew a breath, and relief unfurled in her chest, growing into a ray of pure joy.

Colonel O’Grady lowered the barrel of his smoking pistol.

Her mind registered the meaning as her gaze darted to Chauncey, sprawled on the ground with his limbs turned at odd angles. She saw it, the round dark hole through his right temple, leaking fluid too dark and viscous to look like blood. A rank odor drifted her way, and she understood what the term
stench of death
meant. Chauncey’s eyes stared wide at her, but he lay unnaturally still.

Dead.

She felt nothing for him.

Strong hands gripped her arms and hauled her to her feet — Philip, the only one of the three men making any sound, cursing under his breath. He brushed over her back and turned her around, supposedly searching for signs of injury. Then he stood behind her, letting her lean on his shoulder while her legs remembered how to hold her weight.

“Fine shot, Ben.” Wilhelm rolled and posed in a crouch, panting with his hands resting on his knees. The dagger still protruded from his leg, but it had been wrenched downward, lengthening the gash. He didn’t seem to notice the blood seeping from the wet edges of the cut, dripping onto the ground.

“Damned fool,” O’Grady answered.

Sophia blinked, trying to think through the wave of shock. Her heart pounded; her pulse throbbed in her throat. She didn’t see how O’Grady could have shot Chauncey but missed Wilhelm. It had all happened so quickly.

She began to comprehend the circumstances. Chauncey was dead and she finally had her freedom. Wilhelm hadn’t murdered him. None of the Cavendish girls had fallen victim. Could it truly be so favorable?

“Ben, send for the coroner. I am going to have to explain.” Wilhelm stood, slowly, with strain. He drew his handkerchief and wiped his face and arms, making little progress in removing the spattered blood. She peeled her hand from Philip’s arm and staggered toward Wilhelm. Her legs still didn’t function properly, unwelcome remainders of her panic. Wilhelm drew her against his left side, holding her away from his injured leg. She ignored the damp spots of blood on his shirt and soaked in his warmth, reveling in his simply being alive.

“Philip, fetch a surgeon. You are the fastest rider here—” He looked down at her and amended, “besides Sophia. See if you can find Mr. Greyes.” Philip sprinted away toward the stables, shouting orders to the groomsmen.

With no small commotion the Cavendish girls ran from the house, trailed by Lady Chauncey and Aunt Louisa. Sophia watched, amazed, as more than two dozen men gripping rifles emerged from the tree line around the property, converging around the west drawing room window. Wilhelm’s army, she supposed.

“Aunt Louisa, take the girls back inside. Everything is under control.” Wilhelm’s voice rolled in that calm lilt he used on his horses. Aunt Louisa stared wide-eyed at the dagger embedded in his thigh, and the girls gasped and cried in dismay. “Go!” he thundered, jarring the women from their shock.

Helena crept forward and peered at her dead husband lying in the grass. No one seemed compelled to reach down and close his eyes.

“Deepest condolences, my lady,” Wilhelm said quietly to her.

Helena turned and squared her shoulders. “You will find me the merriest of widows.” She wore no expression, mirroring the fractious disconnect Sophia felt. Surreal, to live with abject fear every day of one’s life, only to have it eliminated suddenly. It went against her instincts to view her father’s death and still feel nothing, no loss, no grief, not even joy or vindication for all the animosity she had harbored.

Sophia felt Wilhelm sway and leaned against him to right his balance. Oh, no. How could she be so stupid? This was Wilhelm the Soldier,
Iron Wil
who displayed unwavering leadership and infallibility at all costs. Even as he bled out.

“Wil. Let them help you inside.” She caught O’Grady and Sir Gideon’s attention, gesturing for them to help. “Now, please.”

“It’s nothing, Sophie. I’ve had much worse.” He spied Martin approaching and shouted instructions, something about a wire to Ashton in Lancashire.

Martin responded, “Apologies, but it already went out. By now Preston—”

Sophia wedged herself between Wilhelm and Martin, scoped the men in the clearing with her gaze, staring them down one by one. “Martin. Colonel O’Grady. Sir Gideon.” The latter raised his brows in surprise, and she remembered she had no polite explanation for knowing his name, but didn’t care.