A Brother's Honor (34 page)

They had not gone more than a few steps when Dominic pressed his friend back into the shadows. Two guards stood only a few feet away, talking. They must not have gone in to have dinner yet.

“We need a diversion,” Evan hissed.

“I know just the one.” Gesturing for his friend to follow, Dominic hurried in the other direction and down the stairs that led into the pits. He had come this way only once, but each step of the journey from the pits to the cell above was engraved in his memory.

He heard Evan's muttered curses as the stench swelled up around them. Coughing, he wondered how he had survived down here as long as he had. He wiped his watering eyes and found the key to open the door to the women's cell as Evan ordered everyone to silence so the guards would not be alerted. Throwing open the door, he stepped back, then turned to the door on the other side. He unlocked it and jumped back as the men surged out.

Shouts sounded from behind them. Dominic tossed the keys into the mire on the cell floor and motioned for Evan to follow him.

“What are you going to do now?” Evan asked as they burst out into the prison yard. Fires leaped in one corner. The other prisoners were racing toward the prison gate, which was swinging shut. Guns fired, but no one slowed.

“What I must,” said Dominic.

“That did not answer my question. I—” His voice rose into a shriek of pain as the guns fired a second time.

Dominic ran back to where his friend was sprawled on the ground, unconscious. He bent to lift Evan over his shoulder. Something struck him on the back of the head, and he collapsed, senseless, on top of his friend.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The clouds roiled as if in pain. Heat pressed down as if trying to destroy the earth, but no rain fell. Not even the distant rumble of thunder promised a letup from the discomfort.

Abigail turned her back on the glass which reflected the bride dressed in her elegant gown. She wished she could shred the dress and put an end to this. Going out onto the balcony, she looked at the prison in the valley below.

It was quiet now. It had not been quiet the night before Dominic was to be executed. She had been lying in her bed, not able to sleep, when the guns had fired, and she had jumped out of bed. Her first hope that Dominic had found a way to rescue her vanished when she saw the flames rising from the prison and the screams of those within its walls. Tessie had brought her the news of an attempted escape that had been foiled.

She guessed that Dominic must be involved somehow, but she could not get more information. Sir Harlan refused to let even a whisper about it be repeated in his house. Sending Tessie into the village was impossible, because the maid was now as much a prisoner within these walls as Abigail was. Dominic must still be alive, or Sir Harlan would have wasted no time in telling her every grim detail of his death.

A pang cut through her with the speed of her breaking heart. Within a few hours, it would no longer matter. She would be the wife of Clive Morris. Then, before the night was over, she would be forced to welcome him into her bed. She feared what would happen, for she was certain Fuller would have put Clive in the foulest possible mood.

“It is time, Miss Abigail.”

As she heard Tessie's sad voice, Abigail came back into the room. She closed the shutters on the doors. The darkness matched the shadows in her soul. Staring at the thin stripes of light against the wall, she thought of the bars on Dominic's window in the prison. That hers were not made of iron did not make any difference.

Tessie put her hands on Abigail's shoulders. “Miss Abigail, is there anything I can do to stop this?”

“If you do, you will be killed. Sir Harlan has made that very clear.”

“If you wish—”

“No, Tessie. Do not say that. I will need you after the ceremony more than ever.”

“He may not let me stay here.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes in resignation.

When a knock sounded on the door, Abigail went to answer it herself. Captain Fitzgerald stood on the other side. Although he was dressed in the elegant clothes he had worn during their first call on Sir Harlan, he wove drunkenly on his feet when he stepped forward to offer her his arm. She did not need to smell his thick breath to know that he had started celebrating his good fortune already.

“You look lovely, Abigail.” He laughed and plucked at the sleeve of her pale pink gown. “The same color your mother wore the day we were wed.”

“Mayhap because she expected the same grief that I do from my wedding. Do you think so?”

He flushed with fury at her question. “Watch your tongue, girl.”

“No,
you
watch your back. If you think you are going to be less of a target because Dominic Levesque is not commanding
La Chanson
, you are a fool. His crew will be looking for you in whatever ship you sail.” She smiled and raised her chin. “I suspect the
Torch
is doomed to live up to her name when
La Chanson
finds her at sea. Although you did not have a chance to see the
Republic
meet her end, I am sure Dominic's crew will offer a repetition for you when they sink you and your ship.”

Silence fell on the room like a wool cloak as Captain Fitzgerald's face became a ghostly shade. He could not deny her words, because she was correct.
La Chanson
wanted revenge against Arthur Fitzgerald, and they would not rest until they had it.

Grumbling something, Captain Fitzgerald gave Abigail no chance to add anything else as he grabbed her arm and forced her to walk with him toward the stairs. He almost stumbled more than once, but her hope that he would pass out so she could flee was futile.

None of the servants stood in the foyer. Boothe must be busy in the garden, greeting the few guests invited to the wedding.

When they walked through the parlor door where Abigail had taken Clive into the gardens, Sir Harlan bustled forward. He was carrying a bottle of wine and staggered even more than Captain Fitzgerald did. He shoved a small bouquet of flowers into her hands. “Your daughter makes a beautiful bride, Fitzgerald. Any man would be happy to bed her.” He put his arm around her shoulders and leered at her. “Even Clive will find it hard to resist such a prettily wrapped package.”

Abigail edged away from him.

“Where do you want her?” Captain Fitzgerald asked.

“By the roses. The ceremony will take place there.” Sir Harlan glanced toward the house. “Where are Fuller and Greene? They should have been here by now.”

“Mayhap it is for the best. If he sees her too soon, he may not wish to wait for the ceremony to be completed.”

“I arranged with the minister for the shortest possible one.”

Captain Fitzgerald chuckled drunkenly. “'Tis always an advantage to have the man's living in your pocket.”

“Always an advantage.” Sir Harlan looked across the garden. “This must be done quickly. I want it over before anyone beyond the house knows it has started.”

“Go and see what is keeping them.”

Sir Harlan took a step toward the house, then shuddered with disgust and called for a footman.

Abigail wrapped her arms around herself. It was clear from Sir Harlan's hesitation as well as his words that Clive would be in a truly beastly mood. That had been arranged, so there would be no chance of his heeding anything she might say.

She listened to Sir Harlan and Captain Fitzgerald debate all the details as if she were as witless as Clive. For once, she did not interrupt them. Every minute they argued was another in which she had to hope something would halt this wedding.

“Oh, no!” she whispered when she heard the unmistakable rumble of thunder far off in the distance.

Abigail yanked her arm out of Captain Fitzgerald's grip and turned to flee into the house. She must be inside, far from the rage of the thunder and lightning.

“Where do you think you are going?” demanded Sir Harlan, seizing her arm.

“The storm … I cannot stay.”

Captain Fitzgerald laughed. “Just like her mother. Afraid of a thunderstorm.” His gaze drilled her. “She might not have fallen to her death if she had not panicked at the storm that night.”

“That night,” she whispered. Memory opened, spilling out the truth she had tried to hide for most of her life. She had been a baby, but she could remember Aunt Velma's heart-rending shrieks as thunder boomed overhead. Her screams had risen to hysteria with each flash of lightning that cut through the darkness.

A strange calm flowed over Abigail as she met Captain Fitzgerald's eyes. She had not been foolish to fear the storms. She had had a reason to be frightened, for she had lost her beloved mother in the midst of a storm.

“You might want to learn to fear the lightning, Captain Fitzgerald.
La Chanson
would enjoy watching you sink as the light bounced off the waves.”

He snarled a curse at her, but added nothing else as several people, including the minister, entered the garden.

Sir Harlan tugged on her arm. Abigail pulled away. He caught her by the shoulder, his fingers digging into her skin. When she moaned, he drew her veil over her face. Did he want to keep up the fallacy of tradition, or did he fear that someone would see her despair and come to her rescue?

She walked by his side, but refused to let him touch her again. Gazing at the four guests, who were all male, she guessed they were Sir Harlan's business acquaintances. She was sure they did not want their women here when Clive Morris was released from his captivity.

Abigail stiffened when she heard bets being placed among the guests. Would she even survive the ceremony? The bets were heavy that she would, but not the night.

Sir Harlan growled something at the men, but they just laughed. No one mentioned the oddity of a wedding in which the bride waited at the altar and the bridegroom was brought to her.

As soon as she stood by the minister, who refused to meet her eyes, Sir Harlan signaled for the groom. She did not watch as she scanned the garden from the rose arbor where she stood. The arbor was set to one side of the garden, but was too far from the wall. She could not run away before she would be caught and returned to the wedding.

She noted the odd glitter in Clive's eyes as he was led from another doorway. Fuller had not forgotten his promise to prepare the groom for what followed the vows he would not understand. She fought her instinct to cringe away as Clive halted next to her. Someone lifted her hand and placed it in his.

“Pretty Abig?” he whispered.

She stared at him. He remembered her. Who had told him to be quiet? Or did he realize the import of this ceremony? She was not sure what he knew and what he did not.

When she looked at him through the mesh of her veil, he gave her his lopsided grin. Someone had brushed his hair and trimmed his long beard. For a moment, a swell of hope teased her. Then she knew it was useless. Fuller would convince Clive to rape her.

“Good day, Clive,” she answered. She did not know what he had been told, so she dared not say anything else.

The minister cleared his throat as Sir Harlan flashed him an impatient look. He began the service in a near whisper. The thunder came closer as lightning sliced open the clouds.

Abigail did not listen to the words as Clive's fingers moved along her arm. He tugged on her hand as he had when they had walked in the garden. Planting her feet, she feared what would happen if the groom dragged his bride away in the middle of the ceremony.

“Do you, Miss Abigail Fitzgerald …” The minister's voice became an odd choking sound as he looked past her. His face was as gray as the clouds thickening overhead.

Abigail whirled to see a half-dozen men edging into the garden. They wore masks over their faces, and each one held a cocked pistol in his hand. Not one spoke. The leader, who was dressed in tattered breeches and a simple linen shirt, held out a bag to one of the guests. He needed no words as he gestured with his gun.

Slowly the guest removed his rings and placed them in the bag. The thief leaned forward, saying something too low for Abigail to hear. The guest heard it and flinched. The thief pressed the gun to the man's skull. The guest replied, but his words were no more than a whisper.

Abigail watched in silence as the man approached Sir Harlan. When she saw blond hair falling from beneath the mask, she knew her hopes had again been in vain. Dominic had not come to save her. This was just a group of blackguards who had seen the wedding as an opportunity to profit.

Fingers grabbed her arm. She tried to shake them off. She could not let Clive sense her fear, for it might make him berserk and then the gunmen might fire.

The hand on Abigail's arm refused to be ignored. She glanced backward to see another of the masked men. She drew in a breath to scream, then stared at the slow wink behind the mask. She almost spoke Dominic's name aloud. How had he gotten out of the prison, when Sir Harlan had been told that all the prisoners had been recaptured?

When he tugged on her hand, she understood what he wanted. With the guests' attention on the thieves, no one would notice the bride fleeing.

Only Clive would.

Leaning toward Clive, she turned him to face her. She pushed her flowers into his hands. “Pretty,” she whispered. “Pretty. For Clive.”

Like a child, Clive beamed with happiness. He glanced from the flowers to her. “Pretty? For Clive?”

“For Clive. I told you I would get you pretties. Clive stay here. Abig get more pretties.”

“Abig. Pretty,” he repeated. His big hands stroked the flowers with the gentleness she had seen on their previous visit to these gardens.

Sympathy filled her. When Dominic pulled on her, she knew she had no time for anything but to escape. She would not be given a second chance. The wedding and the consummation would be held immediately under Sir Harlan's observation.

Dominic drew her behind the rose arbor. When he tugged her toward the house, she shook her head. She took his hand and led him through the flower gardens she had explored with Clive. They wrapped around the back of the house and toward the rear wall. If the gate in it was locked, she was sure they could find a way to climb over the wall.