Heartless (44 page)

He stretched his neck, his eyes never leaving D’Arcy’s. Derringer hunched his shoulders the slightest bit, wanting his opponent to think there was extra weakness there. If D’Arcy underestimated the duke’s stamina and threshold for pain, Derringer could prolong the beating until Tiny could subdue the crew, maybe even win.

“What are you waiting for, frog?” Derringer taunted. “Did you learn some honor somewhere?”

The Frenchman growled and made a lunge that the duke easily sidestepped even in his weakened state. Just as Derringer suspected, D’Arcy was laboring under the misapprehension that his victory was guaranteed. His overconfidence was Derringer’s asset.

He continued to taunt the volatile Frenchman as they circled each other like jungle cats. “Are you so much a coward you think you can only best me when I am half starved?”

He lunged again. Derringer nearly missed avoiding a blow that would have killed him. He saw the unmistakable glint of a knife blade in the meager light thrown by the setting sun. A fleeting thought went through his mind that D’Arcy had cheated in every possible way, but it was nothing more than he’d expected.

“You will die this night, Heartless,” growled the angry Frenchman. He lunged again, half expecting the duke to sidestep him as he’d been doing and was unpleasantly surprised when he didn’t.

Derringer shifted just enough to get an arm around D’Arcy’s throat, squeezing until he felt the smaller man gasping for breath. He caught D’Arcy’s flailing arm and wrenched it savagely behind him, the knife D’Arcy clutched falling to the deck. The snap of the bone and the agonized scream of the injured man echoed over the water. Derringer tightened the arm around D’Arcy’s neck until the Frenchman slumped unconscious on the deck.

No one was more surprised than the duke that it was over, that he had won, and so quickly. One never should underestimate an opponent, even one so weakened from abuse that he appeared close to death. Derringer could only imagine how he looked, emaciated, wan, trembling in his bare feet. Anyone would have thought he’d lose, anyone would have expected Derringer’s body to fall to the deck instead of D’Arcy’s. Derringer himself had expected no less.

The deck dipped on a wave, sending Derringer stumbling to his left. His head spun. He tried to look around, tried to see the faces of those surrounding him. Instead his eyes rolled back in his head and he joined D’Arcy on the deck.

Prestwich and his band of intrepid rescuers returned to Portsmouth mere days after their departure. Leandra’s condition was to blame, her stomach unable to endure the constant motion of a ship.

They journeyed straight from Portsmouth to Folkestone, a certain urgency not allowing for a stop in London to apprise Aurora and Bri of new developments.

After several days of uncomfortable travel, they finally drove under the raised portcullis of Derringer Crescent. The front gardens flowered with early spring blooms, two fountains filling the air with the constant splash of water meeting water.

Leandra gazed about her in rapt wonder. Such drastic changes had occurred in the time since she’d taken up residence. Her heart filled with joy at the sight.

The loss of her husband had occupied her mind to the point that she noticed nothing around her. Now, tired, ill with worry and despair, and so close to giving up she could taste it, she saw the changes her servants had made, saw the instructions she’d given carried out. It gladdened her heart even if that gladness was tinged with sorrow.

Her husband should see his estate returned to its former glory. But she doubted he would. Her faith in his return had waned. All that kept her hanging onto the future was the child under her heart, a small piece of the husband she’d learned to love.

Leandra put on her best gown, an ivory silk trimmed with Brussels lace, tiny seed pearls sewn all over the bodice. Such a beautiful gown, she thought, stroking the soft fabric with a shaking hand. She’d never worn it, having taken one look at it and deciding to save it for something special. Liza had taken an hour to let it out a bit, allowing extra room for her pregnancy.

What made her decide to wear it now?

Liza wound her heavy tresses into a loose cluster of curls, pinning them securely and placing a seed pearl and diamond encrusted comb within the dark locks. A matching necklace of diamonds and pearls went around her neck and bracelets of gold around her gloved wrists. Her maid tried to convince her to carry a lorgnette, a beautiful eyeglass boasting diamonds and pearls, but Leandra declined, settling her spectacles firmly on her nose. After looking in the mirror, she had Liza put a dab of rouge on her wan cheeks to give her some much needed color.

Liza stood back, her pretty face a picture of awe. “You are so beautiful,” she whispered.

Leandra laughed. It felt good to laugh. “Hardly that, Liza.” Tears started to her eyes and she pulled her maid into an impulsive embrace. “But thank you.”

She swept from the room but a sharp pain halted her at the door, nearly sending her to her knees. Breathing deep, she gripped the doorpost, fingers whitening, and stifled a groan. It soon passed. She straightened, smoothing her hands over her belly, then continued on down to the family dining room. She told no one of the cramping in her abdomen and as it was not repeated, she soon forgot about it.

After a satisfying meal of no less than four courses with innumerable side courses and a final course of chocolate trifle, the gentlemen decided to forgo their port in favor of joining Leandra in the drawing room. As Leandra left the room, smiling at something Greville said, she caught sight of an arriving party. She paused, curiosity and unease tingling along her skin. Who would drop in on her without warning, well after the dinner hour? Greville and Prestwich halted beside her, their faces mirroring her concern. 

The party shifted, parting to allow someone to fall to the front. Leandra’s smile faded, falling away as this person approached with the help of a very large man.

She dared not believe her eyes as she beheld the beloved countenance of her husband, his cheekbones protruding unnaturally over his sunken cheeks, one side of his face crusted with dried blood. His harsh features wavered, her vision blurring before the onslaught of tears.

He stood before her. She stared up into his battered features, her heart aching at the sight of cuts and bruises, his dark eyes probing hers. Then he spoke. It was a pain-filled whisper that tugged at her heart, her pooled tears overflowing.

“Merri, my angel, goddess of my heart, you are beautiful.”

After everything that had happened, Leandra Derringer could finally take no more. For the first time in her life, she fainted, falling gracefully at the duke’s feet.

33

Derringer knew hell but nothing prepared him for the long, frightful night ahead. Nightmares plagued his sleep, his younger self watching his mother die, then his adult self watching Gabriel die, and finally his future self watching his wife die. He awoke, covered in sweat, heart slamming against his ribs.

A quick glance around the room reassured him. He was safe. His ambitious relatives could no longer harm him. Tiny had assured him they would plague him no more and Tiny was very thorough when it came to taking care of things.

A cold feeling of dread assailed him even as this comforting thought occurred. The clock by his bed, illuminated in a shaft of moonlight, stared back at him, informing him of the time but giving him no reason as to his unease. What woke him? Was it the nightmare alone? Or some other disturbance, something outside his unconscious mind?

A muffled sound caught his ear. Two doors and a sitting room separated him from his wife. He’d gone against his instincts, allowing his wife to sleep alone, in her own bed, convincing himself that she would rest better without his haggard presence at her side.

His eye was drawn to the connecting door, senses alert. He eased to the edge of the high bed, straining his ears for a repeat of the muffled sound. When it came again, it was louder, barely muffled at all.

He streaked across the room, thankful he’d been put to bed in his breeches. Two doors and a sitting room later, he strode into his wife’s bedchamber.

Her scream rent the air just as he reached her side, a keening, agony-filled howl that froze his blood. Her arms pressed into the feather mattress, her back arching with the pain. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, Derringer’s stomach clenching at the scent.

He found himself beside her before he even realized it, sitting on the bed. He gathered her in his arms. Terror clenched at his heart while he cursed his ignorance. He knew what was happening, the dim light of a fire allowing his eyes to see the dark stain spreading over her lower limbs. But he didn’t know how to help her through it, how to ease the pain that threatened to tear her in two.

Would a physician know what to do? Possibly, but Derringer would have to leave her side, venture into the corridor, shout the castle down in an attempt to get help. Would it be too late by then? 

Confused, frightened, and a little angry, he just held her. He held her until she stopped crying, stopped struggling. He held her when she stopped moving at all and the only sound that could be heard was the sound of his own convulsive sobs.