Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
Apprehension coils through my insides like a venomous snake. If Rowland is right about Rochester surviving, then he’s already out there. Watching. Hunting. Planning his next move while I’ve been hacking through doors like a madwoman.
I grab the chains securing Rowland’s wrists. The iron shackles won’t budge. There has to be a lock mechanism somewhere, but my hands shake too much to find it in the poor light.
“They won’t open without a key,” he says, his voice stronger now that I’m here. “It’s in Mrs. Fairfax’s pocket.”
My belly churns. I glance toward the corner where that skeleton sits in its rocking chair, its yellowed bones visible through gaps in the rotted fabric. Of course the key’s with that corpse. Even in death, she’s still Rochester’s housekeeper.
“Are you sure?” I rasp.
He shudders. “Last thing I saw before I blacked out was Edward rifling through her dress. Leaving the key there is the kind of twisted game he’d play.”
Bile rises in my throat, but I force my legs to carry me across the attic. Each step feels like walking through quicksand. Up close, the skeleton is gruesome. What’s left of her face clings to the bone like jerky. What I thought were wisps of gray hair are actually thick cobwebs.
I reach toward the yellowed apron with trembling fingers.
The fabric is stiff but intact enough to hold its shape.
I feel around where pockets would be, trying not to think about what I’m touching.
There’s nothing on the first side apart from a bone jutting through the cloth, and I have to swallow back a surge of vomit to continue.
Suppressing a shiver, I search the other side. My fingers close around something small and metal.
“Got it,” I yank my hand back like I’ve touched fire.
By the time I turn around, Rowland’s head is bowed, as if he’s lost consciousness. I rush back to him and fumble with the shackles until I find the lock mechanism. I free his wrists, and he collapses forward with a groan, his weight nearly sending us both to the floor.
“Annalisa,” he groans, pulling me into a hug. He’s damp with blood and sweat, but all the tension that’s squeezed my chest since finding that blood in the kitchen fades.
“I thought you were dead,” I whisper into his neck, breathing in his masculine scent. “I searched everywhere. Every building on the grounds, terrified I’d never see you again.”
His arms tighten around me until I can feel his heartbeat. “I heard you calling my name. That was the only thing keeping me conscious. Knowing you were out there, still alive.”
I pull back to look at his battered face, and cup his cheek with my palm. Fresh cuts mark his forehead, and his left eye is swollen nearly shut. But at least he’s alive.
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks.
“What for?”
He dips his head, his gaze dropping to his lap. “I promised to protect you, and I failed—”
“Don’t say that. You survived. That’s how we win.” I lift his chin, forcing our eyes to meet. “What happened to us isn’t anyone’s fault but his.”
We gaze at each other in silence, our breaths synchronizing, taking this moment to reconnect. Seeing Rowland safe and well is everything. I never realized how deeply I cared for him until he was gone.
Having him here fills my heart to bursting, and I can see myself spending the rest of my days basking in his love. But I don’t linger, not if Rochester is out there, waiting for the right moment to strike.
I run my thumb over a cut on Rowland’s lip. “Can you walk? How badly are you hurt?”
He flexes his hands, testing his wrists where the shackles left angry red marks. “A few burns, some cuts. Nothing permanent. He didn’t have time to do any real damage. His dark eyes search my features, taking in every detail like he’s memorizing my face. “Did he touch you?”
“No,” I say. “That bastard never got the chance. I smashed him over the head before he even tried.”
“My brave girl,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re safe.”
“Come on. We need to find out if your brother is actually dead.”
Jaw tightening, Rowland’s eyes harden. “Let’s make sure Edward doesn’t survive the night.”
We both groan as I help him off the cot. His weight settles on my shoulder, making my knees sag. Whatever Rochester did to Rowland has him disoriented and swaying on his feet.
After securing the cleaver, we make our way down the narrow stairs, Rowland’s hand gripping my shoulder for balance.
He’s heavy against my side, but his weight is reassuring proof that he’s alive.
I squeeze back through the splintered hole in the panel first, then help pull him through.
His shirt catches on the jagged wood, tearing fresh holes in the fabric.
We continue through the hallways and down the stairs in silence. Rowland breathes hard at my side, dripping blood on the floor. My heart aches. There isn’t a single thing I can do to help him until we find a first-aid kit.
When we reach the kitchen, he pulls open the drawer to select a carving blade with a wicked edge, then lowers himself into the chair with a groan.
I fetch the first aid kit and tend to his wounds. There are bruises, shallow cuts, and burns. Rowland looks like he barely survived Rochester’s frenzied attack.
“What the hell did he do to you?” I ask.
“He’s done worse,” he replies, the words gruff. “But we can’t delay. Let me tend to your wounds then we’ll find my brother before he finds us.”
Rowland eases me onto a kitchen chair, fumbles through the kit, and dabs antiseptic on my wounds with trembling hands. I close my eyes, my body melting under his touch. After surviving Rochester and scouring the grounds, I have to look ghastly, but he touches me like I’m precious.
Afterward, we step outside into the predawn air.
The sky lightens in the east, painting everything in shades of gray and pale gold.
Smoke hangs over the grounds like fog, and the breeze carries the stench of burned wood.
It mixes with the scent of dew on grass and the distant salt smell of the ocean.
As we head toward the orchard in silence, I can’t help noticing how everything looks different beside Rowland. The estate is smaller, less ominous. Less like the nightmare it felt when I was alone in the dark.
The cottage crouches like a blackened skeleton beneath the apple trees.
Most of the roof has collapsed inward, and we walk around its perimeter to find the soot-covered windows all shut.
Embers still glow deep in the ruins, pulsing red against the charred wood.
Steam rises from the wreckage where morning dew meets hot ash.
The wooden door hangs crooked on its hinges, warped by heat but still closed.
“He has to be dead,” I say. “No one can survive a fire like that. If the flames didn’t reach him, then he would have suffocated on the smoke.”
Rowland stares at the smoldering shell, his face grim. Lines of worry crease his forehead as he studies every angle of the destruction. “There’s a tunnel connecting the cottage’s basement to the house’s cellar.”
My breath stalls. Of course there’s a secret passage. Of course this nightmare has layers. But I still blurt, “What? Where? Why?”
“Our great-grandparents were smugglers,” he mutters. “And there’s a trap door beneath the basement. If Edward had a key and made it down there before the fire spread to the floor...”
Rowland doesn’t finish the thought, but I can see it in his eyes. Rochester could be in the house right now. Could be watching us from the windows, biding his time.
“Where does it come out?” I ask.
“Wine cellar. Behind the racks.” Rowland grips the knife so hard his knuckles turn white.
“Let’s go.”
We head back toward the house, but as we reach the lawn, Rowland’s steps falter, and he grabs my arm. I glance up to find him scanning the windows, seeming to look for any sign of Rochester.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“You need to be somewhere safe while I handle my brother. Go upstairs and lock yourself in the bathroom.”
I yank free of his grip. “We’re stronger together. I’m not hiding while you face him alone.”
Rowland’s eyes search my face. His features war between his need to protect me and his recognition that I’m right. That two of us have a better chance against Rochester than one. That I’ve already proven I can handle myself.
Finally, his shoulders sag. “You’re right. But stay by my side. No heroics.”
We reach the end of the lawn, cross the patio and push open the kitchen door.
Rowland leads me down the hallway toward the cellar stairs, where the grandfather clock ticks in the silence like a countdown.
My heart pounds at the prospect of Edward surviving the fire, but I tell myself that there are two of us, and we’re armed.
Rowland pauses at the cellar door. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his breaths are rapid and shallow. Just as he reaches the handle, the doorbell rings.
We turn to each other and freeze.
“Edward?” I mouth.
He shakes his head and points toward the basement.
Then who?
The bell rings again.
“Police! Open the door.”
My pulse kicks up several notches. I grab Rowland’s arm, hoping the cops aren’t here for me.
“It’s Morrison,” says the voice. “I know you’re in there, Rochester. Open the door, now!”
Morrison. The cop who called Edward about Blanche’s death. What the hell is he doing back here?
Neither of us moves.
“Edward Rochester! Open this door right now!”
Morrison’s voice carries through the house with an authority that won’t be ignored. He’s not going away. More pounding echoes from the front door, sharp and insistent.
“I swear to God, Rochester, if you don’t open up, everyone will know the truth about Blanche Ingram!”
My breath stutters. What truth? Morrison knows something about Blanche’s death. Something that could expose Rochester. Which means he could expose us if we’re not careful.
But more importantly, Morrison isn’t leaving. He’ll keep escalating until someone opens that door. If he calls for backup and if more cops show up, it might jeopardize our plan to have Rowland replace his brother.
I place my hands on Rowland’s bicep. “Hide. I’ll answer the door.”
“Absolutely not.” His grip tightens on the knife. “You can’t face a policeman alone.”
“I can handle Morrison. You can’t be seen. God knows what this is really about.”
The pounding intensifies. Morrison’s getting angry, which means he’s getting dangerous.
“Trust me,” I say, already moving toward the front hall. “I’ve been lying to cops my whole life.”
And I’ll lie to Morrison, too. Because it means protecting the only person who’s ever bled for me.