Ruthless (27 page)

The next few days passed in a blur, and she was almost glad she didn't see Marcus until the morning of her wedding. To her surprise there were to be no
witnesses or guests apart from those at the registry office, but she dutifully dressed in the fussy day dress of puce and lavender and was handed into the carriage by her husband to be.

She surveyed him critically from across the small carriage. He was indeed a handsome man. His lips were full, almost overgenerous, and his color was high and healthy. He would kiss her with those lips, later today, she thought. And she would let him.

Or perhaps, like Sir Christopher, he wouldn't kiss her at all. She would find that a great deal more preferable.

The marriage ceremony went quickly, with only the parson's wife and clerk in attendance. Marcus spent an unexpected amount of time making certain that the marriage was duly recorded, that all the paperwork was in order, and by the time he was finally ready to escort her to a celebratory lunch her appetite had gone from nonexistent to flirting with nausea. Perhaps her new husband hadn't suffered from sickness of the sea during their travels but instead a stomach illness that had now transferred to her. The thought was hardly reassuring.

Nor was his kiss once they were alone in the carriage. She could scarce complain—he had every right to put his hand on her breast, to breathe into her mouth and chew away at her lips as if they were his last good meal. The thought that she'd spend the rest of her life with this didn't help matters, but she simply remained still, grateful at least that Marcus, like Sir Christopher, preferred her to be still.

“I thought we might go for a walk along the sea,”
Marcus said after finally releasing her. “Unless you prefer to go back and retire…”

“A walk sounds divine,” she said hurriedly, trying to avoid the sight of those lips.

“The bluffs overlooking the harbor are particularly delightful, don't you think?” he said.

“Indeed,” she said. She remembered those bluffs. They were high over the rocks near the ruins of the old abbey, commanding a spectacular view of the coast, and if it were up to her they'd be hiking until midnight, despite the less than clement weather.

The abbey overlooked the bluffs, and the place had served as a most excellent picnic spot in her youth. A brisk wind was blowing when she alit from the carriage, and she pulled her cloak more tightly around her as she glanced up at the darkening sky. It was still the same cloak Rohan had provided, and it had gone from being despised to giving her a nameless comfort. She took her husband's arm, and he put his gloved hand over hers as they started over the stubbled grass.

She looked down at his hand. It was so very different from Rohan's pale, languid, surprisingly strong one. This was undistinguished, with fat fingers and a hamlike appearance, and she quickly looked away. Those clumsy hands would be touching her tonight.

One wall of the old abbey still stood, the gaping windows an eerie sight on a gloomy day. They walked past it, heading for the bluffs. She and Lydia would play hide-and-seek among the ruins when they were younger. There were innumerable places to hide, and in retrospect Elinor shuddered at the thought. The
cliffs were far too steep for two children to be playing there unsupervised, but Nanny Maude's painful legs had precluded her accompanying them, and the chambermaid that had charge of them was far more interested in flirting with one of the undercoachmen who'd driven them.

The wind grew stronger as they approached the bluffs, and she sensed an odd excitement in her new husband. She glanced up at him. His eyes were shining with anticipation, and he licked his thick lips…and Elinor's heart sank. He was clearly looking forward to the coming night with a great deal more enthusiasm than she was. Men were indeed odd creatures. He scarcely knew her, and yet he wished to perform that most intimate of acts in her body.

The ground grew uneven beneath her light shoes, and she slipped. His hand was there to catch her, and she laughed lightly. “Had I known we were going to go hiking I would have worn boots to my wedding,” she said.

“I should have warned you.”

There was the strangest note in his voice. “Had you planned this, Marcus?”

He smiled down at her. “In a way.” They were at the edge of the pathway, close to the edge, closer than what she deemed comfortable. While she had no particular fear of heights, the bluffs at Dunnet were well-known as a place where unsuspecting hikers could fall to their deaths, and she had a healthy respect for the crumbling ledge.

“Come, my dear,” he said, tugging her.

“This is quite far enough,” she replied firmly, trying to remove her hand from his grip.

She couldn't—his hamlike hand was like iron. She looked up into his handsome face and felt a moment's dizziness. There was no love in his eyes, so like her own in shape and color. There was malice.

And murder.

Suddenly everything was made clear. She froze, looking up at him. “I've been very stupid, haven't I?” she said softly.

“My dear?” He was tugging her closer.

“You're going to kill me, aren't you?” she said, her voice deceptively calm. “I cannot imagine why, but that's what you've planned all along, isn't it?”

“Dear Elinor,” he said, pressing her hand. “Where did you get such a strange idea?”

“From your eyes, Marcus. I know your eyes.”

His smile changed then, going from solicitous to something verging on evil. “I was hoping for your sake you wouldn't realize until it was too late, my dear Elinor. You've been so distraught over your titled lover that you've barely looked at me, and I was afraid I couldn't contain myself on a number of occasions. It has taken a great deal of time to get to this point, and you'll allow me a moment of pride.”

“Should I?” she responded calmly. “But why do you want to kill me, cousin?” He was pulling her closer and closer to the cliffs, and the ground was rough beneath her slippers. She was going to die, and for some reason she couldn't view that probability with anything more than distant curiosity.

“My dear, I'm afraid that I lied to you. And most everyone besides. I've almost managed to convince everyone that I truly am your distant cousin, Marcus Harriman. Your marriage to me ensures that any remaining questions will be answered.”

“If I die on my wedding day?”

“It will be a great tragedy,” he said in a solemn voice. “But you were ever known as a daredevil in your youth. Plus you've been moping around most conveniently, and I've let it slip that you've suffered an unfortunate love affair. I've managed to get rid of most of the old servants, but a few of the families remain in the area, and they remember you. It will be viewed either as one of those unfortunate, freak accidents or a melancholy suicide. I don't really care which, but I always like to have a backup plan.”

“I could pull you down with me,” she said in a cold little voice, feeling the first stirrings of anger.

“No, my dear, you could not. I'm a great deal stronger than you are.” He patted her numb hand again. “Come along, Elinor. I'd hope to be back home in time for tea.”

Madness, she thought. This was real madness, not the crazy joyousness of falling in love. “If you're not my cousin then who are you?” she asked.

His smirk was most unpleasant. “Haven't you guessed? I must confess you've been surprisingly slow about all this. I'm afraid our relationship is much closer. In fact, I'm your half brother—unable to inherit by English law, while your sister, with her unknown father, has more right to this place. Surely you can see
how wrong this all is? I had to do something about it. By all rights this place should be mine, not yours.”

The shock of his words was enough to give her the strength to pull away. “You
married
me!” she said in horror. “You
touched
me…”

“And I would have happily bedded you. I'm not at all picky about such things. You spread your legs for Rohan, you could do the same for me. But since you were willing to come out here it seemed wiser to simply have done with it.” He looked over his shoulder and frowned. “It looks as if we're about to have guests. We'd best hurry this up.” He moved toward her, but he'd underestimated her.

She didn't want to die. It was simple, clear, and she wasn't going to simply let him kill her. She held very still, and then at the last minute she moved, slamming her reticule against the side of his head. There wasn't much inside, but it gave her the element of surprise. She ducked under his arm and began to run down the pathway toward the old ruins. There were a thousand places to hide back there. Pray God she could find at least one.

 

Francis Rohan had never been so terrified in his entire life. Not when he followed his father and brother into battle at the age of seventeen, facing almost certain defeat. Not when he'd cradled his dying brother in his arms and looked up to see one of Butcher Cumberland's men bearing down on him with a pike.

Not during the long, endless night he'd escaped across the channel, curled up in the bow of a small boat,
determined not to cry, trying very hard not to wet himself.

They'd been moving nonstop, racing across the southern coast. They'd lost Jacobs outside of Dover, but by then he'd told them all they needed of the layout of Dunnet and the great house. He only would have slowed them down, and Rohan had given him money and sent him back to Paris to watch out for Lydia, assuring him that they would bring Miss Elinor home safely.

He and Charles went directly to the registry office, only to find out they were mere hours late. Harriman had already married her. Which meant that Elinor would be a dead in a few short hours…or, if they reached her in time, merely a widow.

The local inn was just as helpful. The happy couple had headed toward the cliffs for a walk before returning to the Harriman estate—if they hurried they could reach them and offer their felicitations. Rohan hadn't waited for Charles—he'd leaped onto his horse and taken off in the direction of the cliffs.

He could see the figure of a woman up ahead on the bluffs, racing across the grass with someone close on her heels, and his blood froze. They were almost too late.

He spurred his horse just as Charles caught up with him. He had no idea whether Harriman was planning on raping her or murdering her, and it didn't matter. He was going to cut his heart out and make him eat it.

Rohan barely waited for his horse to stop before
jumping down. They'd disappeared into the ruins, and he started after them, sword drawn, Charles close behind him. And deep inside his cold, black heart, he prayed.

 

Marcus was fast behind her, too close, and Elinor was sobbing with fear. In the distance she saw a dead branch lying on the ground and she allowed herself just enough time to snatch it up, whirling around as Marcus overtook her and smashing it across his face.

He let out a howl of pain, momentarily blinded, and she ran. The foundation of the old refectory was on the right, and she'd hidden down there any number of times. Lydia had never wanted to venture down there to find her—she firmly believed it was haunted by all the dead monks that King Henry had burned alive. She raced down the ancient corridor and found the small well she'd once used as a hiding place.

Climbing over it, she ducked down, crouching in the shadows, pulling the hood of her cloak over her face so that he wouldn't see her fair skin in the darkness. It was smaller than she remembered, or more likely she was larger. She waited, listening to the hammering of her heart.

She heard his booted footsteps first, ringing on the old stone. “You're down here, aren't you, sister mine?” he called out in that smooth voice of his. “It's useless to run—you may as well make it easier on yourself and come out now.” The footsteps faded for a moment, but she didn't dare move. And then they
approached once more. “You know, you were very unwise to run down here, though I do thank you for it. I'll simply break your neck and leave your body until the place is once more deserted, and then I'll toss you over the cliffs. If the witnesses are produced and they ask where we disappeared to I can always tell them we were consummating our wedding vows.”

The faint nausea that had been plaguing her for the last few days grew worse. She clapped a hand over her mouth and waited, praying, wordless prayers winging up. She had the errant thought that she must believe in God after all, no matter how ill-used she felt. Perhaps this time, when she most needed it, help would be forthcoming.

Closer, closer. He had a particularly heavy footfall, and Elinor shut her eyes in despair. He was coming closer, and there was nothing she could do. No ornate pistols in this dim place, nothing like the one she'd threatened Rohan with. Nothing to defend herself with but her hands.

She had a brooch on her cloak, a large, ugly thing that her…brother had given her as an engagement present. With shaking hands she unfastened it. If nothing else she could try to jab it in his eyes, anything to slow him down.

And then there was no more waiting. He stood over the small place where she hid, and she knew he'd have that affable smile on his thick lips. “There you are, wife,” he said genially, and put his ugly hands down to haul her up.

Rohan, she thought, clutching the pin, the sharp
side out. If she were to die, the last thing she wanted to see in her mind's eye was Rohan. Marcus drew her up, out of the small well, and she lashed out with the pin, aiming for his eyes.

He howled with pain, dropping her, and she went down hard on the ancient stone floor, the pin flung from her grasp. She looked up, and saw
him
—saw Rohan, and she wanted to cry. Death was merciful, and he would truly be the last thing she'd see. A vision or a dream, it didn't matter.

“Get away from her.”

The voice was low, deadly and very real. She lifted her head. He was there, he really was, with Charles Reading behind him. Rohan looked like the wrath of God, and she tried to get to her feet, to run to him.