3

 

A ray of light penetrated the shadows. Justain tried to move to it, but something buried him, his face, his legs. He worked a hand free and slid his fingers against his prison. Rough planks pinned him to the ground.

A stream of water snaked through the pile and pelted his forehead. The weight seemed to increase and the pressure caved his chest. He gathered as much air as he could, then shoved with all his might.

He broke free. Flying carriage floorboards crashed with a mighty thud. The motion wrenched a stake from his shoulder. Formed from gilded trim, the shiny stick lacerated more skin than it penetrated. If it left a mark, he’d add the scar to his collection.

The steady rain helped him regain his senses. He took stock of the steep cliff bearing down upon him. The memory of a gunshot echoed in his ear. Mason!

A bullet had assailed his friend, nearly twenty feet up. The man lay injured, dumped on the road. Justain slogged to his feet. He clawed the rock, but his boots couldn’t gain footing. He fell back. Justain couldn’t save him.

Rain filled his eyes. Another life taken. All Justain’s fault.

Horses pounded to the edge of the ridge. He lunged out of sight and hugged the rock.

“All dead!” one shouted.

“No, I seen movement!” The yelp boomed before washing away in the rain. The man must’ve seen Justain.

“Must be sure! Ride this way. The path down is safer.” The bandits’ horses pounded away.

“A hiding place, a plan?” Justain squinted and spied a series of shafts along the Severn Gorge’s floor. He crawled in that direction.

The iron dust of the gorge blended with the downpour, creating an acidic stench. It burned the lining in his nostrils. Focus. Forget the pain.

Breaking from the shadows, he stumbled over a carriage bit. It must’ve separated as they sped down the hill. At least his horse team escaped. “Better for Athena to be captured than lame.” He pushed to stand, but his fingers sank into a book. The rain smeared its ink, but the burnish of the golden pages still shined.

“Bible?” He remembered the frightened prayers of his guests. “The girl and the chaperone?” Justain shook his head. He couldn’t fail them, too.

The dormant soldier within awoke, crystallizing his course of action. He’d get the ladies to safety and defeat the scoundrels. The task seemed impossible without weapons, but his luck had to change. Justain started sifting through the remains of his pretentious Berlin carriage. It littered the terrain.

A kid slipper protruded from a mound of debris. He lunged to it, tearing away roofing and seatbacks, anxious to liberate his passengers. “Mrs. Wilkins, speak to—”

She lay silent, crumbled against a boulder.

Justain placed a palm to her nose. No breath left her body. The dislodged bones along her throat confirmed the worst. “Poor woman.” The mounting death toll gripped him. Mrs. Wilkins, Mason, both killed because he’d parked at a den of thieves. “And what of the girl!” Justain slipped about the battlefield, crawling betwixt crags and smashed travel boxes. He raised his gaze to the ridge. The enemy could descend any second. “Miss St. James!”

Clothing and chunks of wheel flew from Justain’s quaking hands. His crazed actions inflamed his shoulder. He ignored it, for a warrior was only concerned with the mission. “Call out to me so that I may find you!”

The wind howled, sounding of old Wellesley’s deep-throated commands, ‘keep low in the brush.’ Justain dropped to his knees. His field marshal would’ve found her by now.

The rain would douse the sights of the villains’ rifles and yield more time to locate the girl. Justain flipped whisks of wet hair from his face.

The storm spat rain in horizontal clips, but the gusts unfurled a swirl of silver fabric. “Miss St. James!” It had to be her, trapped underneath a section of shattered carriage wall close to the cliff. He ran to the pile, hefting the framing and metal and unearthed the woman’s silent countenance. Grabbing her wrist, he felt for a pulse. Please be alive!

A chaotic rhythm coursed, and Justain released his breath. “Just have to shove this door and you’ll be free.” He strained to move the monstrous thing. With a burst of energy, he pitched the splintered wood to reveal the sea of silk taffeta painted with a red spot. A spreading red spot. “No, lass!” He hoisted her high into his arms but took small comfort in her shallow vitals.

The girl stirred. Her palms slipped beneath his jacket as she swatted at the velvet of his waistcoat. “No, Kent! Release me!”

Justain pressed her hard to his chest. “Miss! It’s Lord Delveaux Devonshire. Let me protect you. Don’t fight me.”

She fainted.

“I’ll aid you.” He turned and marched toward the openings. Mason’s silver flask shined amongst a swell of smashed possessions. He scooped it. “Pity you weren’t a brandy drinker.” The levity he sought couldn’t soothe the ache in his abdomen. Every instinct forced him to acknowledge that his constant ally didn’t survive. He’d still make Mason proud. Justain couldn’t wallow in the sense of loss; he kept moving.

 

****

 

Something pulled on her skirt.

Fabric snapped and ripped. Madeline’s eyelids fluttered open. A haggard beam hung overhead. The smell of iron and damp earth assaulted her nostrils. She gagged; her stomach cramped. Where was she? Did Death make one wait in a cave before judgment?

A groan fled her lips. Everything ached, so she couldn’t be dead. She strained to focus on the timber, studying the flecks of amber and garnet etched in the grains and pretended it was rose marble. She’d dream of what to sculpt. Her lids drooped.

Icy, wet fingers yanked off her stocking.

She couldn’t breathe, as if Mrs. Wilkins had bound her tight in an ill-sized corset.

Ripping of more cloth.

A tremor vibrated through her. “Kent, no. No!” She let out a high-pitched wail to shoo the vermin hunched over her, fumbling with her skirts. “Help! H—”

A hand clamped upon her mouth. She flayed her arms in vain. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.

“Be still now, lass,” the beast admonished. “Miss St. James, it’s not what you think.” He moved his palm from her lips to cup her chin.

A faint hint of recognition bloomed as she examined his troubled countenance. Sky-blue eyes. “Not you, too. Let me be!”

“Miss St. James, you’ve been shot!” He jerked his head toward the opening as if he expected someone to be standing there.

The earl turned back and released a tight breath. “I’ve carried you from the wreckage to an abandoned mineshaft. If you scream, the villains shall set upon us. They’re still close, hunting us even with the storm. You must trust me.”

She rocked her head, “no.” Moving her foot sent a wave of pain.

“Young woman, you’re in no position to refuse my assistance. I’ve taken no liberties. Your leg’s injured.”

His explanation didn’t prevent her flesh from cringing at his touch. She stared at her beam. Perhaps if she concentrated, she could hide in one of its cracks.

“’Pon my honour, I’ve been your servant.” He wrenched off his coat flinging it beyond her head. “I’ve sacrificed my cravat, though it’s not enough. I need more rags to stem the bleeding.” The man peeled off his waistcoat, then undid his shirt, and tore them both into strips.

Madeline pivoted her head from the disrobed man. She decried her limbs for shaking. Her abigail would protect her. “Mrs. Wilkins?”

No answer.

“Mrs. Wilkins? My lord, she went for help? But she’d never leave me.”

“I’m here. You’re not alone.” He applied more weight to the wound.

Madeline attempted to sit. Agony! Everything hurt. “There’s a lump on my crown. What have you done to Mrs. Wilkins?”

His brows flew together. “You’re tensing, Miss St. James. I can’t patch you up if you continue to thrash about.” Lord Devonshire helped her ease to the ground. “What can I do to make you calm?”

“The truth. Where’s my abigail?”

“Mrs. Wilkins.” The folds of her hem muffled his voice. “She and my Mason…”

Dread enveloped her. Her stomach knotted. “Hide naught.”

“Your servant will always be in your heart,” the earl said. “The woman prayed feverishly for you to be preserved. You have to cooperate to honour her last request.”

Madeline sucked in her tears. With the sounds of guns, the impact on the roof, she’d assumed Death took the poor driver, but Mrs. Wilkins? A new wave of loss rippled through her. “Was she shot, too?”

He ripped at his lining. “I can’t upset you further.”

“Tell me the whole of it.” Madeline choked up. “Please.”

The earl elevated his sable mop. “It was a violent crash. My poor Berlin litters the terrain.” He seemed to be stalling, perhaps searching for words. He licked his lips then met her gaze. “Mrs. Wilkins broke her neck. With that kind of injury, she surely knew no pain. I’m sorry.” He continued his ministrations, hiding his eyes.

Her throat tightened, strangling in sobs. Mrs. Wilkins was gone, taken like Mama. “I shouldn’t have made her come.”

“Please, Miss St. James. Self-doubt will add to your misery.” His voice sounded guarded, but peppered with sadness. “Hold still.”

Loss must hurt men, too. She wiped a thousand salted drops from her cheeks. Silent cries were her practice. She took a deep breath. “Where are we?”

“We’ve fallen into a mined tributary of the Severn Gorge. I saw an opening and hid us.”

His words tumbled in her ear. “Villains…still seek us?”

“Yes. Our best chance is to wait out in this—Miss St. James.” Lord Devonshire perched above her, caressing her face to draw her from her faint. His calloused fingers stroked circles around her mouth. “Stay with me, lass. I need you to be awake. Keep talking.”

The man was so close, but his touch so gentle. “You forget your gloves when you ride.”

“My lady thinks I should? Any other recommendations from the duke’s daughter?” The sensitivity in his tone fled, leaving teasing notes. He moved back to her injury.

She balled her fist. “I’m funny?”

“I thought I was more interesting to you as a rake.” His words sparkled with challenge.

“You won’t hurt me, will you?”

“No, but I should be more afraid of your intentions.” The earl shredded more fabric.

She spread her palm flat. “Frightened of me?”

“You shamelessly flirt with me about harlots, and in the middle of chaos, you take the opportunity to caress my ear.”

“What?” She relaxed the muscles in her leg. “I tried to get your attention.”

“Well, you have it, my dear, so full of spirit.”

“Sir, you’re deceived, you, you libertine.”

His head reared up. “Today, the only pleasure this Lothario will have is seeing you live.”

She’d misread the earl again, and became her father, discounting Lord Devonshire’s motives for evil. “I should be more agreeable.”

“You’re doing fine. Keep that fire and stay awake.” He lowered his countenance and continued binding her leg. “This is far from a normal predicament, and I’m not in the habit of baring myself…well, not in mineshafts.”

A streak of dust matted his hair. If she could, she’d brush it away. She wished she had something to offer to show her support.

The earl took another strip and pressed it to the gash. He seemed different from Mr. Kent and Father: neither beast, nor bully. “Your composure is exemplary. Nothing like adventure off the page, my bookworm.”

Thunder clapped, and Madeline convulsed. “The mine, the rain, the makings of a gothic tragedy.”

He whipped his head to the entrance again then peered back at her. His eyes sparkled. “That would make this a romantic interlude. Shall I drink of your beauty?”

“Yes. Tell me my eyes are rare emeralds.” That’s what all the fortune hunters saw.

He peered at her for a second. “Not like emeralds. They’re too included with specks.”

“Sir, my eyes are dirty?”

“No, but like cat’s-eye jade. They too are rare, and the mystics say they have healing powers. I think they’re lovely.”

This young man was different. Maybe he truly saw her.

His gaze darted to the opening for a second. “No one has yet intruded.” He sighed as if relieved then winked at her. “Shall I quote you poetry to complete my seduction?”

She shook her head, ignoring his jest. She wasn’t ready to laugh, not without Mrs. Wilkins. Abba Father, help us. “He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

Lord Devonshire’s voice became thick like caramel, drowning out her Psalm. “If yet I have not all thy love, dear, I shall never have it all.” He shifted his hands, applying more pressure. “I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move.”

Her cheeks warmed from his poem. Lord Devonshire attempted to ease the pain in her heart. God had sent a strange shepherd to lead her from the shadow of death. She recited, “Nor…entreat one other tear to fall. And all my treasure, which should purchase thee.”

“A cultured bookworm who’s partial to Donne’s Lovers’ Infiniteness; you don’t disappoint. I’m glad your reading encompasses more than religious fare.” He returned to her countenance. “Things are well, but I’ve got to get that bullet out before it poisons you.”

The earl winced as if he hadn’t meant to say she could still die. He didn’t know her life.

Lord Devonshire cleared his throat. “In Burgos, I learned that the sooner the bullet’s out, the sooner you’ll be dancing at a ball.” For a few seconds, his sandalwood banished the odours of the mine and the freshness of her injury. “I’ve helped men endure worse,” he said. “Forgive this.” He cut trim from her dress and tied it above her knee.

“You know medicine?” The band constricted with each passing second.

“I learned a few things in the Peninsula, which will serve us well.” He retrieved his jacket and pulled a glass jar and a silver flask from interior pockets then made his jacket into a loaf-shape and propped her neck. He opened the flask and poured a measure on the strike. The liquid felt cold, and yet, it burned.

“Mason loved Scotch. Good man. This will cleanse.” The earl dumped the contents of the jar into the flask and swirled the solution. With his buckskins, he looked like a cat, an Egyptian sphinx moving about its lair. A gash marred his golden shoulder.

“You’re hurt?”

“A minor scratch.” He frowned and drew her gaze to the flask. “We’ll use this concoction of horse tincture and spirits to dull the ache. Drink this.”

Madeline gritted her teeth. Her leg hurt so much, but she turned away from the shiny container. “I can’t. Father wouldn’t—”

“Before we lose all light. Maybe the moon’s glow will help us.” He raised her off the bunched jacket. “Take three large sips.”

Her body felt broken. Her leg throbbed, and she lacked vigour. “Will I sleep?”

He brought the flask to her lips. “No, just ease the ache. I know you’re hiding the pain.”

Madeline didn’t want to hurt anymore. She allowed liquid fire to ignite her throat.

Before she could protest, the earl made her drink more of the foul brew, but nothing would wash away all the torment. The orange circles of her beam seemed to spin and picked up speed as he counted down from a hundred. “You carry…these tinc, these things?” She slurred her words.

“Habits from the war.” The earl closed the bottle. He fished a buckle from his boot. “Some serve better than others. Bite down on this metal as I start. Trust me, my lady.”

Lord Devonshire placed it in her palm, and Madeline laced her fingers with his. She did trust him. “You believe me, not chiv…chival—”

“Chivalrous. It takes practice not to stutter. I’ve used mirrored glass.” He patted her arm.

“Your eyes, like a knight’s or a beautiful marble warrior.” She pulled his hand to her chin, modeling what Mrs. Wilkins always did to encourage her. “God’s made you the vessel to protect me.”

“A vessel? Like a flowery vase?” He scowled for a moment. “Even Providence could employ a chamber pot. I’ll not abandon your trust.”

He slipped back to the bullet wound.

Madeline took the buckle and held it in her mouth. The large loop rested on her tongue. It tasted as hard and as bitter as the iron in the air.

The earl lit a smelly sulfur match. He cleansed his knife in the yellow-orange flame. “I’m starting.”

Sharp, piercing metal now surpassed the ache of the bullet. She covered her mouth and screamed into her hand.

“The slug has dug deep, but I’ll remove it.” He strengthened his grip as the knife struck again.

She yelled, louder than she’d ever done before, then gnawed the metal. Father of Heaven, forgive me. Please, let my life mean more than this.

“I have it! The ball is removed!” He threw the slug against the cavern wall. He poured the last few drops of his elixir onto the gash.

Darkness.

“Stay with me!” Lord Devonshire sounded angry as he squeezed her leg.

Madeline opened her eyes and nodded.

He took fresh pieces of his shirt and tore a strip from her outer silk to form a bandage. “You have to stay awake. The tincture has laudanum, and it has strange effects if you sleep.” He wiped the knife and stashed it and his supplies in his jacket. “Lady Madeline.”

She dislodged the buckle from her teeth. “Y-yes.”

Lord Devonshire paused and studied her ceiling beams as if he searched for clues. “Tell me about your harlot.”

With heavy lids, she peered at him.

“Tell me about the harlot in your Bible.” His mouth seemed wry with humour. “Unless my little bookworm is too shy to recount the details of the tale.”

Her tongue couldn’t form any words.

Lord Devonshire pushed close; his lips almost touched hers. “Obey and fight, Miss St. James. You can’t quit me for one minute. The bandits intended for us to die. We won’t let them win.”

She concentrated on the ant-like scar on his chin. He was a knight, battle-hardened and strong. “Madeline; address me as Madeline.”

He settled behind the bunches of taffeta. “Tell me, Madeline.” A sense of urgency vibrated in his voice.

The intensity touched her. She pushed to counter. “Rahab was a great listener.”

“The piece of fluff had ears?” He tied more material in place; the bands pulled on the wound’s sore flesh.

Fighting the pain, she clenched the buckle within her fist. “Rahab’s not fluff. Her faith made her worthy of redemption.”

“I’ve read that passage before, and I don’t recall anything of what you’re talking about.”

“Sir, you’ve studied the Bible?”

He arose above the tattered fabric, Mama’s poor dress. “Don’t be shocked, miss. I have.” His arms twirled about; he must’ve tied hundreds of knots. “And I’m sure my cousin has preached about it in some sermon.”

She awaited his attention, wanted the reassurance of his warm gaze, but he focused upon his work. “Rahab let the spies lodge at her house, hid them from danger.”

“Done.” He crawled alongside her and steadied her whitening knuckles. He opened Madeline’s hand and retrieved the buckle. The edges had started to prick.

Her chest constricted as if a pile of books or a block of marble sat upon her. She forced air into her nose. “Ever wondered why, why she hid the spies?”

“No.” The earl refastened his boot. “I assumed that was the way it was supposed to be.” He leaned over her and centered Madeline on the makeshift pillow of his jacket.

“You don’t appear the kind to”—she inhaled more comforting sandalwood—“to examine only the surface.”

He twisted his full lips as if to rejoin, but Madeline shook her head. “Rahab used faith as her guide. Risked her life for others.”

Thunder crackled like gunfire. Her muscles contracted of their own volition.

“Just more bad weather.” The earl placed a thumb to her wrist. “Your pulse is strong. Well, the harlot got to live for her trouble, did she not?”

“Her whole family lived, and she married into the royal lineage of Judah. Imagine, one decision changing the lives of gen…generations.” She tried to smile but even her cheeks throbbed. “If you hadn’t decided to help, the wild carriage at Tilford or the bandits—”

“With that reasoning, you wouldn’t have been shot if you hadn’t accompanied me.” Lord Devonshire furrowed his brows. He released her arm and bounced to his feet. “About this Rahab business.” He stretched, almost reaching her creviced beam. “I guess it depends upon the husband, to know if the harlot improved her circumstances.”

Another series of thuds raged even though the rain slowed. The sounds could’ve been the King’s army marching in a parade. Madeline rubbed the lump on her crown. “Such a change in fortune, I’m sure she was delighted.”

He dimpled. “I’m sure the striking harlot delighted her husband.” Lord Devonshire stooped and touched her wound. “The bandages are holding.” He sighed as if he hadn’t been breathing. “You speak your mind with great authority for a bookworm.”

“My lord, this bookworm puts great stock in the Bible.”

 

****

 

Justain sat, propping along the cavern wall. The continuous belting of the storm sounded too familiar, like the routing of an enemy encampment. The fiends had to have given up by now. “Your frankness is refreshing. I guess I’m not used to women speaking this boldly in my presence.”

She closed her eyes for a second. “No more about your harem.”

Justain chuckled again and cleaned his fingers on scraps of his vest. Steeped in bits of cloth, hiding in a mineshaft, tending to wounds. This wasn’t how he pictured his interrogation would end. He gathered up the stained fabric and covered it with soil scuffed by his boot. Madeline didn’t need to see any more of the rags.

At least this girl had fire and brains. Caroline would shriek from the dust, let alone the pain and loss Madeline endured. The marauders would’ve strung him up by now, with Caroline’s yowling leading the way.

He glanced at the bullet. He and his patient would make it out of this mine alive.

The lass tilted her countenance away from him. She must be exhausted, but it was too soon to let her rest. She might never awaken.

“Let’s talk for a while. Tell me a Hampshire secret, Miss St. James. Lady Madeline. Madeline?”

The glow of a lantern rimmed the mouth of the cave.

“Did someone check these two?” The shout came from outside.

Justain scooped up the unresponsive girl and fled deeper into the mineshaft. Justain lunged behind a turn in the cavern’s throat and pressed into a musty corner. The unconscious woman lay bundled in his jacket, tucked in his arms. A lone set of hard steps, boot treads, echoed from the entrance. If only Justain had more time. Mason’s flask? What if he missed a piece of cloth?

Footsteps approached his hiding spot.

How could he save the girl now, let alone himself? Justain crouched lower, drawing deeper into the shadows. The fishy stench of cheap whale oil torches burned his nose. Light circles whipped along the walls.

Madeline still hadn’t moved. Her cold cheek lay plastered against his bare chest. “No more deaths on my watch,” Justain murmured into her curls, and lowered her to the ground. He slipped the blade from his jacket pocket.

The enemy drew close. The man’s scarred hand whipped the lit torch inches from Justain’s.

A hot ore scar. The bandits are miners? Justain heard striking miners in these parts found time for mischief, but this was too much.

Hefting his knife, Justain prepared to thrust it if the man inched closer.

“Over here!” grunted the other vermin.

The heavy footfalls retreated. Another lucky hand for the card player. Justain waited until only the calls of grasshoppers sounded. He dropped the weapon and slid down the cavern wall. “Madeline.” He picked her up, setting her in his lap. Justain stroked her forehead. “All is well, lass. Stir.”

He wove his fingers into her thick raven tresses. “Can you hear me?” The locks were satin, but this wasn’t the time for indulgence. The girl could slip away, never awakening. Justain traced her cheek with his thumb. “Madeline.”

A small patch of air skirted his shoulder.

“Lass, open your eyes.”

Her damp bodice rose slowly, barely filling her lungs. He tugged at her hem to recheck the bandages. His knots held fast; she hadn’t sprung a leak. “All for naught. Not today, lass.” He slipped beneath her jacket and felt for the stays of her corset; undoing it would aid her breathing. He tugged the silk of her dress and loosened the toughened cotton loops, a world of hedonistic knowledge finally put to good use. “Come back to me.”

Only the grasshoppers answered him. He laid her flat on her back and planted his palms upon her stomach to pump air. “Lady Madeline.”

She coughed.

Justain took his cloak and propped up her neck.

Her eyelids fluttered open.

“Whisper that you can hear me, that you understand my words?”

She touched his face, tracing the crevice of his chin. “You well?” she mumbled.

“Yes, but I asked you not to sleep. Do the people of Hampshire keep their word?”

Her gaze flew to the opening as if someone stood behind him. “Kent? I heard his voice.”

“The tincture can jumble things, Madeline.”

She brushed his ear. Her fingers stroked his hair. “Dust.”

“It’s everywhere in a mine.” Justain caught her hand as the buttery-soft skin swept across his collarbone. He moved it aside. No need to complicate his new role as her protector. “How can you sleep and deprive me of conversation?”

Her pale face held much pain.

“What about a parable, Lady Madeline? Every steward of the Good Book can’t miss an opportunity for witness.” Justain put more space between them.

She nodded but closed her eyes again. He must’ve given her too much of the tincture mix.

“A parable for the prof…profl—” He punched at his ribs, to steady himself. This was no time for anxiety to take the reins. “A parable for a profligate. Seems a small sum for saving your life, twice.”

Her jaw tensed. “A parable?” A shallow cough rattled within her throat. “Must be desperate for entertainment.”

“Very desperate.” He picked up Mason’s silver flask and dusted it on his breeches. He was thankful it wasn’t detected. “Let me get you some water.” He crept to the entrance and captured rainwater.

He returned to the girl’s side, putting the silver to her mouth. “Make the tale something to keep my interest.”

She sipped the water. “The courtesan and the prophet.”

He spilt it across her cheek. “Sorry.” Justain raised the container. “That’s a parable?”

“I wouldn’t invent that.” An element of humour laced her choppy voice.

Amazing. The lass was special. He propped against the cavern wall, sitting close to her. “I’m ready to be entertained.”

“Prophet, Hosea and wife, Gomer.” She took great care forming her words. “Gomer went from high Ton, a distinguished family, to being sold as common demimonde.”

“Vanilla milk,” he interjected. “Mother had the cook put vanilla in my buttermilk to make it more palatable. It just made it vanilla buttermilk.”

She turned her head toward the cavern’s ceiling.

“You must do a better job with the descriptions.” He reached for Madeline’s hand and leaned back, half-closing his eyes. “Feed me an image, something to stoke my imagination, not vanilla milk.”

“I’m not Scheherazade, though it’s warm enough for an Arabian night.” Her fingers relaxed in his palm, seeming to welcome his touch. “Gomer means complete. She must’ve been a flawless beauty. Her colouring was red, with hair like the heat of flames.”

 

****

 

The girl coughed again. Her throat must be parched from all her tales. Justain’s timepiece lay in his satchel somewhere in his crashed carriage. He rubbed his sore shoulder. An hour must’ve passed. The vengeance of the laudanum tincture should’ve lessened. “No, more lass. I can’t stomach five loaves and two fishes.” No amount of imagery could make a mess of five thousand starving people sound lurid, especially when the pangs of hunger tapped on his gut. “The pain, Lady Madeline. Can you manage?”

“Tolerable.” She gritted her teeth and vaulted her noble chin. “Go stretch your legs.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

“My lord, please. A moment of privacy.”

“Yes, my lady. I’ll take the first watch. You’re a fighter like me.” He patted her hand, then slipped to the mine’s opening. Justain soaked his forearms in a puddle and removed all evidence of Madeline’s injury. Hours ago, he’d awaited an informant. Now he was in a mineshaft, playing nursemaid.

While he’d love to blame his doe-eyed patient for his dilemma, he couldn’t. She’d attracted his attention as much as she had the thieves. “Tilford’s highwaymen, striking miners?” Did they kill his Mason? The pain in his gut. His friend couldn’t have survived. “A deceased passenger, a duke’s daughter, and the Severn Gorge. Blast it.” He pivoted, hoping he hadn’t disturbed Madeline.

Her bare toes seemed unmoved. The bend in the mineshaft hid the rest of her. Perhaps she’d give him license for frustration. Madeline seemed to possess great understanding.

The rain began again. He dropped low to gain a better view of his new battlefield. The endless sheets obscured everything but a wavering glow in the distance. The bandits were still out there, wielding lanterns like a ravenous mob. Why won’t they give up?

Bandit or not, with the fickle weather, he couldn’t carry his charge out of the mine. Justain slapped his face with water. His stiff posture reflected in the puddle. He could’ve been in Burgos, Spain reporting on his foe’s movements. He missed those days. Lord Wellesley barking out commands. Serving him were Justain’s finest days. He drew no shame then, just praise. And Mason, who acted at times more like a father, that man was proud of him.

Justain rubbed his shoulder and wished to feel the braids of his epaulets. Right and wrong, who lived and who died, were easy to determine in a military uniform.

No more romancing the past. He stood and dusted the knees of his buckskins. With their dedication to finding hides for ransom, the bandits should be in the army.

He sighed. At least, he’d been of service to the Duke of Hampshire. There was no more doubting who she was. Fear of death transformed the biggest liars into paragons of honesty. Even the fiend, Barrow had confessed to his crimes when death held him in its sight. Barrow!

Justain’s heart beat a thousand times. What if this bloodshed wasn’t thievery but revenge? His anger burned. He clenched his fist as he recalled Tom Barrow shaking this hand, agreeing to farm Delveaux land in Dorset. The meeting gave no indications of the man’s dark heart. Justain had no idea of the abuses, the man’s determination to tarnish the Delveaux family.

He wiped his forehead. Justain should’ve shot the man between the eyes, but he’d hesitated when the fiend shielded himself with a child. Now the blackguard was free, and Richard was dead.

Barrow wanted Justain’s blood, too. What if his henchmen had lured Justain to Tilford with false clues and planned to murder him there?

Justain stuck his hands in the downpour. He cupped rainwater and dumped it over his head. His arrogance brought injury to his family. Now the girl’s wounds, the deaths of Mason and Mrs. Wilkins, all weighed on his shoulders, all his fault. He shook his head. Once he delivered Madeline to her aunt, he’d repay these Tilford thieves and find Barrow.

A noise arose over his shoulder. His patient trembled. The temperature seemed to drop with each new gust.

“Mrs. Wilkins!” Madeline tried to lift off the ground. Her arms whipped through the air.

“Please stop.” Justain ran back, dropped to his knees, and captured her fingers. Those lovely jade eyes opened, and she held his gaze with dilated pupils. Her lip quivered as if she swallowed her tears.

“The rain won’t last forever. Then I’ll take you to safety.” He placed her cold hand onto the ground. Lace took forever to dry, even from a simple afternoon shower. This poor maid hadn’t taken a chance stroll with a suitor, but took a bullet and fell off a cliff.

Justain needed to set a fire, but if the smoke drafted towards the entrance, they’d be discovered.

Her body shook with tremors. She could be losing her battle to shock.

He scrounged up a pile of driftwood and timbers scattered about the cave and stacked the sticks to form a loose tent as he did with his regiment. He lit a blaze and hoped locating it close to the wall would let it draft deeper into the cavern.

“No, we’ll be found.” The girl shivered.

He shook his head. “I won’t let you succumb.”

Her cheeks coloured as she stared at him. Madeline pushed his jacket from her head. “Take this and warm yourself. I shan’t be any more trouble.”

“We’ll survive this.” He retrieved his coat and pulled it onto his arms.

Justain carried her close to the fire. He sank in the corner. “We’ll share.” The fire and his body heat should keep Madeline alive.

The kitten seemed shocked but hadn’t the strength to protest. Exhausted, Justain closed his eyes. He needed to rest before the next disaster struck.

 

****

 

Madeline tugged her arms about her. She was both cold and hot. Her leg felt like a huge stone. For one solitary second, she snuggled against the secure chest and welcomed the strong arms surrounding her. Then awareness filtered into her skull, and she tried to slip away.

“Settle down, jittery miss.” The earl straightened his neck against the cave wall.

“I can’t stay like this.” Her palms slipped from the lining of his jacket to the hard sinews of his ribcage. She snapped her wrists away.

“You can’t help flirting with me.” He sealed his lids as if succumbing to the weight of the day. He looked tired with shadows on his countenance. “You’re safe, Madeline.”

“Safe?” She pushed at his shoulder.

“Whatever tormented you in the past, I won’t hurt you.” Though the earl teased her seconds earlier, his voice now possessed a sombre tone. “You could tell me what upset you. Hampshire run out of silk fans?” He smirked at her. The small grin was almost boyish. He leaned his head closer. “Was the duke’s daughter kissed without permission?”

Her mind flashed to the horrid maze on the grounds of Avington Manor. Her elbow had wrenched from its socket as she fought Mr. Kent. She nearly suffocated from the odour of the evil man’s tobacco snuff.

Madeline shuddered and threw her arm about the earl’s neck.

“There, there.” Lord Devonshire tightened his hold. “I’ll protect you with my life.”

“I can’t believe Mrs. Wilkins’s gone.” Madeline choked down a sob.

Lord Devonshire moved a hand and caressed the curve of her back.

Her beloved companion should’ve stayed safe in Hampshire. If she hadn’t flaunted the money as a measure of her independence, Mrs. Wilkins would be alive. Madeline couldn’t contain her storm of emotions anymore. Tears soaked her cheeks. Her face drenched as her soul wrung with remorse.

“Silent tears come from practice. I know.” The earl stroked her hair and whispered. “All will be well again.”

She didn’t want to become maudlin on Lord Devonshire, but a deluge stung her eyes. Madeline stiffened and wiped her face. Everyone she ever depended upon went away. She couldn’t draw strength from the earl. He’d disappoint her, too. She pressed her fingers together and sought true peace. “Thank You, Abba Father, for Your provisions. Your servant has returned to You. Please grant her a shawl for the clouds. Mrs. Wilkins is given to drafts.”

The earl said nothing but repeated his hypnotic massage along her spine. His hands spoke their own language, caressing her, convincing her he understood. Madeline submitted, savouring the light sandalwood fragrance of his jacket. She drifted to sleep, listening to the drumming of the rain and the crackle of the flames.

 

****

 

Dawn spilled into the cavern’s entrance. The dying fire still bore some light. Justain shook his head to clear it of fog. Between his awful memories of reliving Richard’s death and the creaking sounds of the mine, he stayed on full alert.

His eyes warmed to the rays of sunlight. It should be time to arise and get the girl to safety.

Muffled sounds of boots drifted into the shaft. “O’er here!” Shouts arose, ringing down the walls.

Justain kicked dirt onto the embers. He needed surprise to overwhelm the brigands.

“Smell. Smoke.” The surly grunt accompanied the sound of a pistol’s hammer cocking.

Boots advanced, scraping the mine floor, coming closer. The noise stopped in front of him.

Justain breathed gunpowder. A weapon pointed at his skull.