Chapter 24
Brand looked around, feeling as if he was emerging from an insane fire. Two bodies lay on the floor. The Countess of Arradale and Edward Overton. Someone had called “Halt,” then fired a pistol. They must have shot Overton instead of him. Overton had been screaming, but he was quiet now.
Someone had taken Rosa away. That was as well.
He could hardly feel the passage of time between riding toward the house and seeing into this window—seeing Rosa struggling—and being here now with the aftermath.
Rosa was safe, though. That was all that mattered.
He knelt by the man lying in a pool of blood. The servant shook his head. “Not quite gone, sir, but soon. Took him right in the side and it’s in there somewhere. Did you … ?”
“Best not speak about it.” Potts had sent word that Edward Overton had returned to Wenscote. Brand had raced up here, driven by the certainty of danger. He picked up the pistol that must have fallen from Overton’s hand. Not fired. A bottle had spilled its contents on the floor.
“Poison?” Potts gasped. “Again?”
“Again?”
Potts gestured to the bed, and for the first time Brand saw the shrouded shape. “Sir Digby?”
“Aye, milord. But I was told not to mention …” he whispered. “I’m pleased, milord, that you shot Mr. Edward, and glad he suffered. That’s the truth, unchristian though it might be!
Brand didn’t correct him, though he had no idea who’d fired the shot. It couldn’t have been Rosa. Who else was there?
He rose to stand by the corpse, looking down at the remains of a man he’d liked, a man who had stood between him and his heart’s desire. His conscience twitched that he’d not sent a warning. He’d never thought Overton would go this far, but had he been selfish?
With honesty, he could say no. To serve his lady, however, he would arrange matters here as best he could.
The first thing was to get rid of the wide-eyed servants.
The housekeeper, though glassy-eyed, seemed to have some of her wits back.
“Why don’t you make some tea, Mrs. Monkton? ” he suggested. “For everyone.”
With a nod, the woman staggered off, shooing away the servants as she did so.
Now what? He wanted to go to Rosa, but the damned countess was lying there. Stupid woman to be fainting when she could be of use. He gathered her into his arms, arranging her frippery silk-and-lace nightgown for decency. Then he smelled powder on her hands, and saw dark dust on the white silk.
’Struth! She’d fired the shot? The woman needed a keeper. He carried her into the corridor, listened, then went toward voices. As he hoped, he found Rosa sitting on a bed, her mother comforting her.
“Diana!” Rosa gasped, quickly making room on the bed.
He placed the countess there. Rosa’s mother produced smelling salts and waved them briskly under the countess’s nose until she spluttered and came around.
She pushed the pungent stuff away. “I hate that!” she complained, then sagged back, a hand over her eyes.
“Stop that, Diana,” the older woman said briskly. “Just because you’re embarrassed to have fainted.”
“I never faint,” Lady Arradale muttered. “Never.”
“You’ve doubtless never killed anyone before,” Brand pointed out. “If your aim had been better, you could have killed me!”
The countess sat up, glaring. “If you rush into people’s houses, you must expect to be shot.”
“I rushed in because I saw what was happening!”
’Struth, he must be in shock himself to be squabbling with the woman. He turned to his pallid beloved. “Are you all right?” Of course, she wasn’t. Why could he never comfort her when he wanted to?
“As well as can be expected,” she said, with a gallant attempt at a smile. He could see that she had no more idea how to behave in this situation than he did.
He fell back on convention. “I’m deeply sorry about Sir Digby.”
“Thank you.” She tried the same approach. “Have you met my mother, Mrs. Ellington? Mother, you know Lord Brand Malloren?”
“We met at Arradale,” said the plump, sensible-looking woman in nightgown, shawl, and nightcap.
Brand bowed as if he was in a drawing room, feeling increasingly unreal. “Your servant, ma’am.”
“You must have traveled a long way, Lord Brand.”
“From Thirsk.”
Devil take it, they’d be talking about the weather next. Everyone here must know the true situation. He perched on the bed near his lady’s feet, and took her chilly hand. “You’re safe now, love.”
“I know. It’s all right.” But then she swallowed, looking only at him. “He wanted to … to … Brand.” She began to shake, and then she tumbled herself toward him and he was free to gather her preciously into his arms at last.
For a moment, that was all, a connection too long denied, and deeply hungered for. Then she whispered, “He wanted to get rid of the baby, Brand. He was trying to make me swallow something.”
“Hush.”
“I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t even scream—”
He held her closer. “Hush, love. It’s over. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
If only he could. He longed to lie with her, comfort her, and protect her, but this was her husband’s house, and Sir Digby lay dead not many yards away.
He was going to have to leave again.
He couldn’t bear it.
Suddenly, the countess slid off the bed. “I need tea. With brandy in it.”
Rosamunde’s mother rose from her chair and nodded. “Excellent idea.”
She bustled past and briefly—amazingly—pressed her hand to his shoulder.
Well, who was he to go against a mother’s wishes? As the door closed, he sank onto the bed, his lady safe at last in his arms. She spoke wildly for a while, going over and over what had happened, what Edward had said, how she’d fought, the shock, the explosion, the screams….
He just held her and eventually she quieted, and finally slept. Arms around her, he kept watch over his lady through the night, as a true hero should.
Rosamunde woke. In someone’s arms? Digby?
No, not Digby.
She opened her eyes, hardly daring to hope that her final memories hadn’t been a dream. It was Brand. Heavy-eyed, but watchful and with her.
“You saved me. Or rather, the child.”
“Wouldn’t any father save his child?”
She closed her eyes. “Brand …”
“Hush.” His fingers weighed gently on her lips. “I’ve had the night to imagine all the troubles. But we can triumph over them. I don’t think you know my family’s unofficial motto.”
“Let me guess. ‘We are gods and do just as we wish.’”
His smile crinkled his eyes in the most delightful way. “Close. ‘With a Malloren, all things are possible.’”
She looked directly at him. “What do you want to be possible?”
“I’ll be hurt if you don’t know.”
“I need you to say it.”
“I want to marry you, Rosa, and love you, and cherish you, and guard you, and delight you forever and ever, Amen.”
She laughed, fighting tears. “You almost make me believe.” Then she touched his face, roughened with stubble again. After his long journey and adventure, he was close to the Brand she’d rescued. “Does it happen often, this sudden force? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t think sense has anything to do with it.”
She expected—half-feared—a kiss. She didn’t know what to do, what to wish for in this extraordinary situation. “Brand, I’m so confused. The baby … I’ll have to …”
“Hush. We’ll find a way. Just tell me, do you want to marry me? I won’t force you.”
Could he doubt? “If I’m silly enough to object, please use force!”
He laughed softly, laying his head against hers. That was all, however. That was one of the things she loved so dearly about him, his honor and his true sense of what was right.
“Rosa,” he said, “we can’t do anything just yet, but I will find a way. Trust me.”
She stroked his hair. “I trust you. And we can be together, as long as we give up the baby.”
He looked into her eyes. “You won’t want to give up your child.”
“We can’t always have what we want. I’m resigned to it.”
“I’m not. ‘With a Malloren, all things are possible.’ If you don’t believe me omnipotent, perhaps you have faith in my brother.”
Faith wasn’t the word for her feelings there. “He won’t try to stop me concealing this child, will he? I won’t shame Digby.”
He smiled. “You look so fierce. And formidable. You realize, Lady Richardson and her spotty maid outwitted the Marquess of Rothgar. It’s unique.”
She thought of the kidnapping, wondering if he knew of that defeat. She was sure the marquess must be plotting revenge. “He frightens me, Brand. Don’t let him interfere.”
“’Struth, love, there’s no avoiding that. But the plan will be as you wish. Only let me try to find one that gives us everything we desire. Everything.”
She looked at him almost with exasperation.
Didn’t he know, Malloren or not, that some things simply couldn’t be?
They couldn’t marry and have their child with them without shaming her and Digby.
She’d give him what trust she could, however.
Taking his hand, she said, “I will pray for a miracle, then, my love.”
The air stilled. The pull of the forbidden kiss swayed them closer.
But then, he said, “This is Sir Digby’s mourning time.
We’ll both regret it if we forget.” He rolled off the bed to stretch and yawn as if it were just another morning.
He was tousled, stubbly, beautiful, and impeccably honorable.
All this at least she would one day have.
She would not let loss of the other shadow it.
It would be enough.
He turned to her. “I must leave. Will you be all right?”
She wanted to keep him here. “We’ve parted too often in our brief time….” But she found strength to add, “I have Mother and Diana, and my family will be here soon to walk Digby down. You don’t want to stay for that?”
“I have no place here. Yet.” He was deftly restoring himself with the aid of the small mirror. It pleased her that he didn’t need a manservant for every little thing.
“Where will the service be?” he asked.
“In Wensley.”
“I’ll be at the church there, then. Just an acquaintance paying my respects.”