Chapter 24
Kit woke from a restless, uncomfortable slumber as a shaft of light shot through the shuttered window and fell upon her face. She had slumped against the wall and fallen asleep, curled into a ball, tears streaking down her cheeks. She’d never considered sleeping in the bed on the chance Rutledge might return during the night and incorrectly assume she’d accepted her fate. She was thankful he had not.
She wondered if Martin was searching for her. Surely he had returned to their rooms last night and found her missing. What would he think? Might he consider she’d run away? He might have been angry with her but surely he would not believe she would leave him. But when he found her gone, he would not know that Rutledge had taken her. He didn’t even know Rutledge was in Pentridge! How would Martin ever find her?
Perhaps he would not.
The thought of never being in his arms again, of never being able to share with him all that was in her heart, caused Kit to despair. Eventually Rutledge would have to return to London, and she might escape him there, as she had done once before, but what if he left her imprisoned her in the Midlands? That thought sent cold chills through her body. Somehow, she had to escape. She had to get back to Martin.
It scared her to think that somewhere in all that had happened she had come to love Martin with the passionate love her father had for her mother, an irresistible, unstoppable love. Perhaps, in the end, one really had no choice but to accept the love the heart gave in full measure, and all the risks than went with it. Even if the loss of it could break one’s heart.
Her feelings softened toward her father as she remembered the kisses he’d bestowed on her mother, the way he used to wrap his arms around her in delight. He had been smitten, just like Kit was now smitten with Martin. In the end, the loss of that love had robbed her father of his will to live, and that was the part she thought wrong. But it was possible to love like this and still live to celebrate that love if it were ever taken from her. She prayed she would not lose Martin.
Kit had searched the room in which she was imprisoned and knew it to be devoid of weapons. With the window nailed shut, the small panes of glass would render escape through that exit impossible. A sharp piece of glass could be a weapon, but could she break a pane without making a noise that would immediately draw the guard’s attention? She thought not. And she might as easily cut herself as anyone else while trying to use such a crude blade. In her desperation she had even considered the chimney, but the passage was too narrow for her body to fit. No, she would have to go out through the door.
When that same door was opened last evening by the guard to permit a serving woman to carry in a tray of food, Kit had scanned the tray for weapons, disappointed to find only a spoon. She’d tried to catch the serving woman’s eye, hoping for sympathy or possibly an indication of a willingness to help, but the older woman kept her head down, likely thinking the lord from London kept an unruly mistress who needed taming. But Kit’s spirits rose when, as she sat staring at the pot of tea on the tray, she had an idea. If this morning’s breakfast tray brought another pot of the nearly boiling liquid, she would use it to escape. It was her only chance, and though it was a slim one, she would take it .
Rising from the floor, she stretched out the kinks in her back and braced herself for what lay ahead, her mind racing with all she had to do. She didn’t have long to wait. The door slowly opened, just as it had the night before. The guard allowed the older serving woman to carry in the tray then stepped into the doorway to watch. As the tray was placed on a small table, Kit took a deep breath and moved quickly to the teapot.
“Thank you,” she said to the woman. Picking up the pot of tea, she removed the lid. Her hands were trembling as she took the few steps to where the guard stood, but his manner was unwary. Perhaps he thought she’d come to offer him a cup. She mustered her strength and hurled the scalding liquid into his face.
The old woman shrieked. The guard bellowed in rage and covered his scalded face with both hands. Using all her strength, Kit shoved him aside and hit him over the head with the teapot, shattering the pottery. Then she flew down the stairs and out the front door.
She’d covered only a short distance across the lawn when she heard heavy footfalls behind her. Suddenly grabbed from behind, she tripped. A man’s body slammed into hers, and they both hit the ground. Air was forced from her lungs and for a moment Kit just lay there panting, bruised and defeated.
“Not so fast, missy,” the guard said, rising from the ground. “Ye’ll not be leaving until his lordship says so.” He pulled her up, and she saw that this burly guard was not the same one she’d assaulted with the tea. She recalled Rutledge had said there were guards .
She tried to shake off his grip. “Let me go! I’m being held against my will! My husband will have his vengeance on all of you. ”
“His lordship said to expect ye’d give such an excuse. Yer his to deal with, not mine.” Then, thrusting her roughly before him, the guard ordered her back inside.
Rutledge reined in his horse and handed the reins to the guard he’d ordered remain in front of the house he’d leased so conveniently from the Duke of Devonshire. Just as the housekeeper opened the front door, however, the guard said, “Yer lady tried to escape this morning, yer lordship, but she’s in her room now.”
Rutledge paused to consider this new bit of information, then shrugged and entered the house. He was not surprised Katherine had attempted to flee. Hadn’t she done the same in London? But soon, very soon, he would make the girl his own. In time she would come to accept her future with him. After all, he was not a bad lover and, though well-born, she had few options. No woman could prefer a common Frenchman—a criminal, no less—to an earl. Then, too, he was certainly higher in rank than her first husband, the old baron. Yes, she should be content as an earl’s wife.
And if she was not? Well, then, he would follow his plan to get her with child. She would not flee after that.
Kit had been dreading what she knew would surely be a fight she must wage even if she lost and was bloodied in the process. Unsurprised when the door suddenly opened, she braced herself against the wall.
“There you are, m’dear,” Rutledge said, eyeing her like a hunter sighting his prey. “Did you have an active morning?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. When she said nothing, just stared, he went on. “Any attempt to flee will not go well for you…and, as you’ve seen, will be unsuccessful.”
His dark hair was mussed and his elegant clothes wrinkled as if he’d slept in them. Never had she seen him so disheveled. Usually every hair was in place and he was flawlessly attired. Always he’d been particular in his person, fastidious to a fault. Where had he been all night?
She watched as he laid aside his coat and slowly began to unbutton his waistcoat. Though she thought she knew quite well his intention, she couldn’t help asking, “What are you doing?”
“Why, undressing, of course, m’dear. Did you think I would have you fully dressed?”
His demeanor was cold, his tone detached and passionless, his only hint of emotion the lust in his eyes. Fear crawled through her veins like cold sap. He was evil.
“You cannot do this!” she yelled. “I am married!”
“Ah, yes. If that bothers you, it will soon be remedied. Even now they are rounding up the rebels who last night marched, weapons in hand, determined to reach London. Your husband the Frenchman—Donet, isn’t it?—was among them. He, too, will soon be arrested and, I daresay, await the hangman’s noose.”
“My husband with the rebels?” Kit was horrified. Could it be? She had convinced herself Martin was no party to the insurrection planned by the men of Pentridge and their Nottingham Captain. He was a knight awarded the honor by the Prince George. Her husband had asked for her trust, and she had given it as well as her heart. She would no longer believe he had anything to do with treason, no matter his reasons for associating with the treasonous.
“I have it direct from the magistrate that they are even now rounding up more traitors. The hussars dealt with many this morning. Soon they will have your Frenchman. ”
It was then Kit realized Martin might not even know she was gone from their rooms, not if he’d never returned. Hopelessness swirled around her like a black cloud. Where was he? Surely he would come for her if he knew where she was. He loved her. She believed that.
Down to his shirt and breeches, Rutledge approached. “Come, m’dear. I had a long night and I am tired, so this first time will be rather quick. But there will be many more…opportunities for us to take our pleasure.”
He reached for her hand and she pulled away. “No!”
“Oh, yes, m’dear,” he said, grinning, and Kit wondered not for the first time if he was out of his mind.
“You’re mad!” She shouted the words as if throwing them at him might hold back his lechery.
“Consumed with the thought of finally having what is mine? Yes, I freely admit it. But mad? Certainly not.”
He cornered her and this time successfully gripped her wrist to swing her up and onto the bed where she landed with a thump. Determined to escape, Kit quickly sat up on her knees and backed to the far side of the bed, all the while watching him to anticipate his next move.
He was fast, and he leapt upon her. After a brief struggle he pinned her, but writhing under him she fought with all her strength, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and trying to force him back. When his mouth slammed down on hers, she bit his lip. He reared back, glaring at her, and then he grabbed her hands, holding them away from her body.
“It will do you no good to fight me, Katherine.” Shifting his body over hers, his heavy weight stopped her futile struggling. “It seems we were here once before,” he reminded her, huffing with exertion. His face was only inches from hers, and she felt his arousal press hard against her .
He tried to kiss her again, but she jerked her head to one side, avoiding what would have been a punishing kiss. “No! Let me go!”
“Take your hands off my wife!” Martin bellowed from the doorway, and he stomped into the room.
“Martin!” Relief flooded Kit at seeing her husband stride toward the bed like some fierce dark angel of wrath. He had come for her!
Rutledge let go of her hands and started to move.
Martin’s eyes were frozen blue flames and his intent, visible on his face, terrifying. Grabbing Rutledge by his shirt, he dragged the earl from the bed and in one lightning strike slammed his fist into the earl’s face.
Kit scurried from the bed and watched as the two men grappled. She’d never seen Martin use fisticuffs but, given all she knew, she was unsurprised that he had the speed of a wildcat and the force of a lion. Yet the earl fought back, determined and mean.
Breaking free of Martin’s blows, Rutledge staggered backward, hand to his jaw. Blood trickled from his mouth. “ Your wife? And just who are you?”
Ignoring his question, Martin drew his pistol from his coat and trained it on the earl.
Kit rushed to her husband’s side and welcomed his arm around her shoulder as he drew her close. His eyes still on Rutledge, his voice full of concern, he said, “Did he harm you, my love?”
Her heart still pounding in her chest, she said, “No, but thank God you appeared when you did. I was so afraid you didn’t know where I was. How did you find me?”
“It will soon be apparent. Now I must remove this vile creature.”
Rutledge scowled, wiping the blood from his face, and arrogantly said, “You have not answered my question. Just who in the hell are you? ”
“I am Sir Martin Powell. And the woman you have twice tried to violate is my wife. Now, down the stairs with you!” He gestured to the open door with his firearm. “Your landlord, the duke, would have a word.”
Rutledge seemed to accept defeat and proceeded haltingly through the doorway. As he stepped into the corridor, over his shoulder he said, “Powell? The Crown’s agent? I understood she was married to a Frenchman named Donet, one of the revolutionaries.”
“It is not important what you know,” Martin sneered. “Twice you have tried to force yourself upon my lady. If you want to remain among the living, you will never come near her again.”
Martin prodded Rutledge with his pistol, forcing the earl into the corridor and down the stairs. Kit followed. From the top of the steps, she glanced down to see a tall man with chestnut-colored hair standing in the entry next to a footman in livery bearing a pistol. Kit realized the elegantly dressed man must be the Duke of Devonshire, Ormond’s friend. She’d not met him before and was surprised at his youth, for he was barely older than she.
The two guards who worked for Rutledge were tied up on the floor. Standing nearby, the old housekeeper wrung her hands and trembled in obvious fright.
With Martin’s continued prodding, Rutledge arrived at the base of the stairs, still wiping blood from his face.
“Wasn’t my doing, Yer Grace,” the old housekeeper assured the duke, her gaze darting between all the men in the room.
Devonshire nodded his acceptance and then said to Martin, “All in hand, I see. Well done!” To Rutledge: “You have much to account for, sir.”
Martin shoved his pistol into the earl’s back, and the duke stepped aside to allow them to pass through the entry hall. Kit felt the tension in Martin’s body as he reached out with his free arm to pull her to him.
As he passed the footman, Rutledge grabbed the pistol from the servant’s hand. The footman reached to retrieve it but was too late. Kit gasped. Rutledge backed out of the house, pointing his weapon at Martin. Slowly, Martin retreated with Kit back toward the stairs.
It all happened at once. Kit heard Rutledge cock the weapon, the sound echoing off the walls. Martin thrust his body in front of hers, shouting, “Get down!” Then, before she could move, two gunshots sounded.
Martin’s body slumped, his weight driving her to the floor. She looked out the door and saw Rutledge lying on the ground in front of the house. The entry was full of the familiar bitter smell of gunpowder. In the duke’s hand was a smoking pistol.
Kit struggled to move from under Martin, gently laid him on the floor and saw the blood oozing from his jacket. “He’s been shot!”
The patch of blood on his jacket was growing larger. Martin’s unfired pistol dropped from his hand to the ground.
The duke set aside his weapon and knelt next to them. Martin, still conscious, looked up and said, “It seems I was a bit slow.”
“Not slow,” replied the duke gravely, “just protecting your lady. And had you not made that sudden move to put yourself before her, I suspect the ball would have struck your heart.”
Kit lifted Martin’s head onto her lap just as he closed his eyes. “Martin,” she whispered.
He must have heard the fear in her voice as it faltered. Opening his eyes slightly he said, “Not…fatal, I think.” Then he closed his eyes, and his head rolled to the side.
Feeling the warm blood soaking through her husband’s shirt, waistcoat and coat, Kit reached down and tore a strip from her petticoat to staunch the bleeding. Shouting to the housekeeper she demanded, “I need clean cloths and hot water.”
The old woman, eyes dazed and mouth agape, came out of her stupor to respond.
The duke reached inside his coat and took out a cloth. “Here,” he said, “this should help until she brings more.” He faced his footman. “Get a physician, and on your way check on the earl.”
“Yes, Yer Grace.” The footman hurried to where the earl lay on the ground in front of the house. Shortly, he returned.
The duke eyed the door where the footman stood. “Rutledge?”
“Alive, though he needs a healer if he’s to stay that way. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“We’ll do our best for him while you summon the physician. Be quick.”
Kit heard a horse’s hooves hitting the ground as the footman galloped away. She pressed her cloth to Martin’s wound, now a pool of red on his chest. The blood quickly soaked through the duke’s handkerchief, a warm wet heat under her palm. She stared down at the man she loved and knew fear.
The housekeeper returned, stepping around the two guards lying tied up on the floor, handed Kit several linen cloths and set a bowl of steaming water on the floor. Ripping open Martin’s shirt, Kit pressed linen to the wound, tossing aside the blood-soaked handkerchief and strips from her petticoat.
The duke, watching, said, “I am hopeful, Lady Powell, that Sir Martin has the right of it and the wound is not fatal. The physician is not far, just in Codner. He’ll be with us soon.”
“I do hope you’re right,” Kit said, still staring at her unconscious husband .
The duke spoke to the waiting housekeeper. “More cloths, good woman. Bring them to me outside where the earl lies. We must see what we can do for him.”
The old woman nodded. Hastening to another room, she soon returned with more cloths and another bowl of water and followed the duke through the open door. A moment later, the duke returned.
“Is he still alive?” Kit asked.
“For now, yes. I hated to shoot a peer, even this one,” the duke said, wrinkling his brow, “but I had to stop the man before he killed your husband. It seems I was not entirely successful.”
Kit wasn’t at all sure she cared for Rutledge to survive. He had tried to kill Martin and violently attacked her. She gazed down at her husband, pale and still, though she was glad to see him breathing steadily. With her free hand, she brushed the lock of dark hair from his forehead and stroked his cheek.
“You have my gratitude, Your Grace,” she said to the duke. “You saved his life.”
“It was an honor to help Prinny’s man, Lady Powell. I wasn’t aware until your husband paid me a visit that Rutledge had even rented this house.”
She gazed up at him. “Thank you for aiding in my rescue. I will be forever in your debt.”
“My pleasure. How is he?”
“The bleeding has slowed, I think, but I will be more at ease when the physician is here. The ball needs to come out of his shoulder.”
It wasn’t long before the physician arrived. He first assessed the earl and, with the footman’s help, both Rutledge and Martin were moved to beds. Shortly thereafter, the duke informed her that Rutledge was not likely to survive, a major vessel having been severed .
“Yet another pistol wound,” the physician said to Kit as he dropped his bag and leaned over the bed Martin lay upon.
“I think the bleeding is stopped,” she told him. “I’ve not disturbed the wound.”
“You did fine.”
Kit forced herself to watch, and she assisted as she could while the doctor cleaned the wound. She was glad Martin was unconscious when the physician removed the shot from his shoulder and stitched up the flesh. It appeared a painful and bloody process. And she was worried. While she was relieved to learn the shot embedded in his shoulder had severed no major blood vessel, she knew men could die of such wounds, especially with fever.
“Will he recover?” she asked anxiously.
“If a fever does not claim him, he should recover with rest. See that the bandage is changed once a day.”
The duke stepped into the room as the physician completed his work. “I insist you and Sir Martin return with me to Chatsworth, Lady Powell,” he said. “He’ll be well cared for, and you can rest. My carriage should be here soon.”
“Thank you.” Kit was only too happy to agree to the duke’s kind invitation, though she had no intention of leaving Martin’s care to others.
Soon the footman returned with the duke’s carriage. Another footman was dispatched to take a message to John. Arrangements were made for the care of Rutledge and for the two bound guards to be taken to the nearest magistrate.
Martin, still unconscious, was carefully lifted into the carriage and settled onto the seat. Climbing in with the duke’s assistance, Kit lifted her husband’s head onto her lap. The duke followed, sitting across from them, and as the carriage departed he said, “I had intended to offer you and Sir Martin some time at Chatsworth as my guests, a beginning of your delayed wedding trip. It seems you will be my guests after all, but under slightly different circumstances.”
“Your Grace,” she responded with a grateful heart, “we cannot thank you enough for all you have done.” She could not imagine taking Martin back to Pentridge in his condition.
“When Sir Martin is better,” the duke said reassuringly, “and he will be better, Lady Powell, then we will see about tidying up this business he was handling.”
“He has told me little of his affairs in Pentridge, Your Grace,” Kit admitted. “Perhaps as we travel to Chatsworth you might illuminate me?”
“I can at least share what I know,” the duke offered. “And you may call me Hart. All my friends do.”