Chapter 30

The sound of distant thunder penetrated Andrew's single-minded concentration.

Frowning, he looked up and out the window, and then at the clock, surprised that so much time had slipped past without his noticing. Stripped down to his shirt, breeches, and a sleeveless waistcoat, he had spent the last two hours setting his laboratory to rights. He felt at peace, his heart happier than it had been in years. How long had it been since he'd been able to bask in the freedom and joy of having his own permanent space? This time, he would be organized. This time, he would stay organized. It was a vow he had often made in the past, but for some strange reason, had never quite been able to honor . . .

"What do you think, Esmerelda?" he asked, going over to the sofa beneath the window where the dog lay watching him. He sat down beside her, rubbing her silky ears and admiring the way his new laboratory was shaping up. "Looking pretty damned impressive, isn't it?"

She thumped her tail, then, pricking her ears, turned to look toward the door.

Andrew had left it open. Though he had always shut and barred the door against Lucien back at Blackheath, there was no need to guard his privacy from Celsie.

And yet it was not Celsie, but Lucien who suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Immediately Andrew's face darkened. "I thought I was well rid of you."

Lucien smiled and bowed. "I beg your pardon. May I come in?"

"You are in, so you might as well come the rest of the way."

The duke entered. Though he was freshly shaved and dressed in his usual understated elegance, he seemed faintly preoccupied. Tired. Distracted.

"You look like hell," Andrew said. "Evil machinations finally catching up with your conscience?"

"On the contrary. I had business in London and decided to call on you and my new sister on my way home."

"Why?"

Lucien just looked at him. "Why, to reassure myself that my decision to . . . shall we say, throw you to each other was a sound one."

"It was. Now, leave."

"Lord Andrew?"

The two men looked up. A servant stood in the door — Andrew could not yet remember his name — his face bleak with worry. He was wringing his hands and chewing his lower lip.

"What is it, man?" asked Andrew, rising to his feet and instantly crossing the room.

"It is my lady — she went riding some thirty minutes ago, and Sheik just returned to the stables without her. Oh, my lord! I fear that something dreadful must have happened to her!"

~~~~

"I can't believe you're dong this," Celsie spat over her shoulder, as Gerald hustled her at pistol-point through the darkening woods bordering Rosebriar's most southern pastures.

She felt as though she were walking a path through her worst nightmare; with Gerald partially inebriated and very desperate, she dared not predict what he might do. She had never seen him like this, and her only thought was of escape, her only fear for Andrew. She must find a way to warn him! She must find a way to disarm Gerald and turn the pistol on him!

But although Gerald had been drinking, his wits were honed by the blistering need for revenge. With a rough slap on the rump, he had sent poor Sheik flying back to Rosebriar, and now here they were, all alone in the gloomy woods, the rain beginning to pelt her nose, and the thunder growing louder, deeper, with its approach.

"Gerald, I beg you to reconsider what you're doing," Celsie said again, when he didn't answer her the first time. She looked at him from over her shoulder, her palms damp with sweat, her heartbeat quickening with every step they took through the darkening woods. "My husband has done nothing to deserve this cold-blooded plotting to end his life, and I swear I'll die before I let you harm him!"

"Don't tempt me, Celsie. You're all that stands between destitution and fortune and trust me, I intend to have that fortune. Now, move."

He shoved her forward. Her toe hit a root hidden amongst the carpet of moss and she fell heavily, scraping her chin on a stone and getting a faceful of wet, decaying leaves. Her heart pounding, her nerves taut with growing panic, she picked herself up and, on shaky limbs, forced herself to continue on, feeling the savage nudge of the pistol against the small of her back, propelling her ever forward.

"Gerald, listen to me," she pleaded, trying to make him see reason. "You haven't thought this through. You can't just go around killing people . . . especially a duke's brother! Don't you realize that if you shoot Andrew, you'll be hanged for murder?"

"Not if I flee the country, and I can assure you, Celsie, that after what your husband has done to me, there's no way in hell I can remain in England. Maybe not even in Europe. Oh, no. It's off to America and its unlimited opportunities for me. Now, hurry up, damn you, we're about to get soaked."

"Then just tell me how much money you need and I'll give it to you! This is not an unsurmountable problem!"

"Will all the money in the world buy back my honor? My standing in Society? Will it undo all the damage your half-witted husband has done to my reputation? Oh, no, Celsie. Your handsome young inventor is going to come looking for you. And I am going to kill him when he does."

"But, Gerald, think of the aphrodisiac!" she cried, grasping at every thought that came to her. "If you kill him, you'll never have it! Only Andrew knows what's in it! Only Andrew is capable of re-creating it! If you kill him, the aphrodisiac dies with him!"

"Your pleas are falling on deaf ears, Celsie. Besides, even if I were to spare your clever husband, I can assure you that Eva, if she has been tricked as I have been, will not."

Eva. Oh, God.

"Now, move."

She moved. The trees were thinning out into a clearing that overlooked the rapidly darkening valley, and above them, the sky was the color of slate — and growing blacker. It was starting to rain in earnest now. Celsie could hear it falling all around her, pattering down on grass and earth, rising in volume as though heralding the oncoming storm. And there, just ahead, stood the deserted ruins of what had once been a sixteenth-century manor house, long since lost to fire and abandonment. Its roof was all but gone, its west wall had fallen into a misshapen hill of loose stone and brick through which grasses, brambles and burdock were thrusting, and great empty holes in the walls marked where windows had once looked out onto the surrounding countryside.

Celsie had often played here as a child, but now, the place was downright eerie.

"You'll be safe enough here," Gerald said, motioning her forward with the gun and pulling a length of hemp from his pocket. "Get under what remains of the roof."

She eyed the rope and stood her ground. "No."

He looked away, clenched his teeth, and then hit her hard enough to send her sprawling to the ground. Her head ringing from the blow, Celsie surged to her feet. She made a mad grab for the pistol, but Gerald was too fast — and too strong for her. Twisting her arm behind her back, he instantly overpowered her and bound her wrists with the length of hemp. Then, hauling her to a young maple springing from the rubble, he tied her to it, gagged her with his stock, and finally stood back, meeting her angry, frightened eyes with a look that was at once sullen and wounded.

"I didn't want to do this," he said defensively. "But you leave me no choice."

He turned and walked away even as Celsie sank to the ground, her fingers groping in the rubble behind her for a sharp stone. A moment later, she saw him leading his horse, previously hidden, from around the other side of the ruins.

And then he galloped away, back in the direction from which they had come.

Toward the woods and pastures beyond.

Toward the house.

Toward her husband.

~~~~

Andrew grabbed his hat, stuffed his arms into his frock coat as he ran and with Lucien on his heels, charged toward the stable, his animosity toward his brother temporarily forgotten in his panic over Celsie's safety. Word had been sent ahead, and already grooms were leading Newton and Lucien's diabolical black stallion, Armageddon, outside.

"Any idea which direction she might have gone?" Lucien asked, swinging up onto Armageddon in a swirl of dark cloak. He glanced up at the darkening sky as the stallion pranced and pawed, eager to be off.

"Damned if I know, it's only the first morning I've spent here. Why don't you head east and I'll head west, and if we don't find anything, double around to the south and north respectively."

"Very well then. Godspeed, my brother."

But Andrew had already turned Newton and kicked him into a gallop. The big Thoroughbred pounded down the drive, his steel-grey mane lashing Andrew's face, the trees whipping past on either side in a blur.

And there — a figure on horseback, galloping toward him.

Bloody hell. Of all people —

"Lord Andrew!" cried the earl of Somerfield, waving his hat frantically. "I say, hold up there!"

Andrew never slowed. "Look, Somerfield, I don't have time to exchange pleasantries right now; Celsie's gone missing and may have suffered a fall —"

"I know that, damn it!" Somerfield had turned his horse and was now thundering alongside Andrew. "I was just coming to get you! That confounded man-hating horse of hers just went flying past me . . . I headed in the direction from which it came and found Celsie!"

"Dear God, man, is she all right?"

"Broke her leg," Gerald yelled breathlessly. "She needs help."

"Where is she?"

"Old ruins — south pasture!"

Andrew swore beneath his breath, torn between sending Gerald back for a carriage and charging headlong to Celsie's rescue. He had no idea where the ruins were, and now the rain was starting to come down harder, the sky off to the west crackling with eerie purple light as lightning split the clouds and forked down into the valley. There was no time to lose.

"Lead me to her," he commanded. "That storm's going to be upon us any minute."

"But —"

"For God's sake, hurry, man!"

Andrew pulled Newton up just enough to let Somerfield take the lead, then let the gray have his head. Newton, who had once made a name for himself at Newmarket, had no trouble keeping up and pulled hard against the bit in his demand for more rein. The wind whistled in Andrew's ears. Rain beat against his face as the horses veered off the drive, plunged down a muddy embankment, and charged headlong across the south pasture, heading toward a copse of trees that bordered fields of newly planted wheat, all going dark now beneath the oncoming storm.

Hurry! Andrew stared out over Newton's ears, cursing Somerfield's mount for its slowness.

Thunder cracked down just ahead. Somerfield's horse shied violently, nearly unseating him. He kicked the animal, hard, yanking on its reins as he sent it charging into the woods. Newton followed, his hooves cutting up the earth and sending clods of mud flying behind him. Lightning flashed, and just ahead through the trees, Andrew saw the cold gray walls of an ancient ruin.

He gave Newton his head, charged past Somerfield, and was leaping off the Thoroughbred's back before the great animal had even slowed to a stop.

And it was at the exact moment that he saw Celsie tied to a tree, her eyes wild with fear and blood running down her wrists, that he heard the click of a pistol from behind.

He whirled.

Somerfield had dismounted and was standing just behind him, a pistol in his hand. "I am sorry," he said, raising the weapon and training it on Andrew's chest. "Sorry, that is, that I'm not going to regret killing you."

Andrew stared at that deadly black hole, his mind, his heartbeat, racing as Gerald walked slowly toward him. "Why, you're mad!"

"Not mad, just desperate" — Somerfield's voice thickened and his eyes became two burning holes of hatred — "as you would be, too, if you found yourself impoverished, robbed of your friends, your reputation, your honor and even the dignity of your own name. You, de Montforte, have robbed me of everything I have — everything, that is, except my ability to exact revenge, and revenge, I tell you, is exactly what I intend to have."

Andrew had moved in a slow circle so that he had his eye on Celsie and Gerald did not. Her back against the tree, he saw that she had chafed steadily away at her bonds with a rock that she must have managed to pick up, and was now in danger of freeing herself. Please, God, don't let this madman see her. Don't let her get free just yet. And if she does, please don't let her do anything foolish.

He determined to keep Somerfield's attention. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he scoffed, truthfully. "You speak of revenge, but I've done nothing to you. If you're so intent on sending me to my death, the least you could do is tell me my crime."

"Destroying my life, that's what!" Somerfield moved closer, viciously kicking aside a brick. His eyes were savage, tears streaked his cheeks, and his breath was tainted by fumes of alcohol. "You stole Celsie's inheritance right out from under me, you miserable blackguard. You switched the aphrodisiacs so that I am ruined forever. And now I have you right where I want you, don't I? Hand over the aphrodisiac, de Montforte. The real aphrodisiac. It won't spare your life, but maybe it will spare Celsie's."

The real aphrodisiac?

A flash of lightning split the sky. Thunder rolled overhead, shaking the ground upon which they stood, but Andrew remained unmoving, determined to stay calm, waiting for Somerfield to drop his guard. "I don't have the aphrodisiac," he said mildly. "Your cousin stole it from me."

"My cousin stole a forgery! A forgery that ruined my life, and probably hers as well!"

Andrew shrugged. "Well then, let that be a lesson to you both, that thievery will get you nowhere. And as for the aphrodisiac, well, I certainly didn't switch it. Did you ever consider, Somerfield, that it might have been unstable to begin with, and merely followed the chemical course that nature intended for it?"

Somerfield stared at him, the rain plastering his hair to his face, his cheeks streaked with what could have been tears, could have been rain, could have been both.

"Besides, even if I did have the aphrodisiac, I can assure you that it is not something I would carry around with me." He smiled patiently and, hands spread innocently before him, moved towards Gerald, whose face was twisted with hatred and bitter anguish. "Now, please, put the gun down, Gerald. You are distraught. Desperate . . ."

But as Andrew slowly reached for the pistol, still pointed at his heart, Somerfield's fragile control broke, and he seemed to explode in a fury of emotion.

"Get away from me, you bastard!"

Everything happened at once. Somerfield brought the pistol to full cock at the same moment that Andrew launched himself forward, his charge catching the earl squarely in the chest and sending him toppling backwards. The gun went flying. Both men went down in wet grass and rubble, Somerfield landing beneath Andrew but immediately twisting out from beneath him.

Celsie, just cutting through the last threads of the hemp, saw it all. Breaking free, she raised bloody wrists, tore off the gag and raced through the rain towards the two figures rolling on the ground, engaged in deadly combat.

Where was the pistol? Oh God, if she could only retrieve it —

Again lightning cracked close overhead, and rain poured down on the two combatants as they each tried to get the other in a fatal throat-hold.

"Stop it! Gerald, stop it!"

She circled them, shouting for reason, for sanity — and there, in the grass near a few wet, scattered bricks, saw the fallen pistol. Crying out, she lunged for it — too late. With an inhuman roar, Gerald threw off Andrew, shoved Celsie sprawling, and grabbing up the pistol, swung it straight into his adversary's face and fired.

"No-o-o-o!" Celsie screamed.

With hideous clarity Celsie saw Andrew's hand jerk up toward the side of his head even as his knees crumpled beneath him, the blood streaming down his face and blinding him. He fell half on his side, supporting himself with one elbow, dazed but not dead, oh thank God, not dead!

"Damn you for what you've done to me, de Montforte!" Gerald cried, hurling aside the spent pistol and grabbing one of the bricks as Andrew gazed dully up at him through streams of blood. "Damn you to the hell where you belong!"

Raising the brick high in both hands, he gave a primal roar of frenzy and began to bring it down on his adversary's bleeding head —

"Andrew!" screamed Celsie —

At that very moment, a shot rang out — and Gerald's body pitched backward, the brick dropping from his lifeless hands as he fell to the earth, shot neatly through the heart.

With a cry, Celsie spun around just as a brilliant burst of lightning exploded around them . . . lighting up the ruins, lighting up the trees . . .

And thirty feet away, lighting up the grim, cloaked figure of the duke of Blackheath astride a mighty black stallion, a smoking pistol still in his hand.