The Countess (31 page)

“Yes, I guessed that he had,” I said. I heard John suck in his breath behind me.

Lawrence said, “I dislike John having to hear these accusations, and that is all they are, base accusations. As to your tawdry
affaire
with my wife, once she told me she was with child, I knew what had happened. It didn't take me long to find out the name of her lover.

“Her attempts at concealment, at perfidy, amused me. Actually, there was never any question at all in my mind. You see, I was unable to impregnate a woman. My seed was lifeless. Thus, it was obvious that Caroline had betrayed me. I did nothing wrong. You are the dishonorable one here, Jameson, not I.”

“No, sir,” John said. “I don't believe they are simply accusations at all.” He sounded so calm, so in control that in the deepest part of me, a bit of hope sprang to life. “I had already come to the conclusion that only you could be behind all the incidents at the Manor—the old woman wearing that marvelous disguise, wielding my Moorish knife, that barbed wire beneath Small Bess's saddle. They were clumsy, yet very effective. You scared both Andy and me witless. There was really no one else to be responsible, but I couldn't bring myself to believe it.

“You are my uncle, after all. You took both Thomas and me into your home after our parents were killed. Despite our differences, I believed I was important to you, to our line. But you changed, didn't you?

“You did kill poor Caroline, didn't you? She was unfaithful to you, and so you killed her.”

“All my surprises,” Lawrence said, and there was petulance in his voice. “I believed that you were fooled, for the most part, John. I saw you take her side, saw the way you looked at her, saw the way she looked at you. I laughed to myself, John. I owned her, she was my life, my chattel, and you would never have her, never. Would you have tried to seduce her? Would you have eventually succeeded? Would she, like Caroline, have tried to foist her bastard off on me?”

He was shaking his head and laughing a little. “Ah, but she is so very afraid of men and what men and women do together. I honestly don't believe it ever would have happened, more's the pity. You would have failed.

“Yes, naturally I murdered the faithless bitch. Caroline was a whore, she betrayed me, she deserved to die. It was simple justice.”

And there it was, all of it, the betrayal, the lies, and Caroline's death. No, I thought, her murder, after she had birthed her child.

“Father,” I said. “You have a daughter. Her name is Judith. I remember now that when I first saw her, I realized there was something familiar about her. It was myself that I was seeing in her. It was you. She is lovely. She is bright and kind. She will become a beautiful fine woman.”

John said from behind me, “I, too, realize that Judith does resemble Andy. I felt a tug of familiarity after you came, Andy, and it is there, of course. All these years, Uncle, you have watched and seen the
father in the child, only it was Jameson here, and not you.”

I saw the rage in Lawrence's eyes, but with John, with his nephew, he controlled himself. He said nothing at all.

John said, “You did well, Andy. My uncle will wear those scars on his face until he dies.”

“She will not be around to see the scars,” Lawrence said. “So, did you know of your daughter, Jameson? Or is this a lovely surprise for you?”

My father said, “Yes, I knew of her, I have always known. Caroline managed to sneak a letter out to me before you murdered her. I came to Devbridge Manor. I tried to save her, but I was too late. The story was that she had jumped to her death from a tower at the Manor. Did I believe that she had killed herself? Perhaps in odd moments I did. But I always wondered, and now I know that you destroyed poor Caroline. As for my daughter, there was nothing I could do save pray that you would not hurt her.”

Lawrence laughed. He was happy now, his face alight with it. “Do you not wonder, my dear, why I let the child live? The fruit of a whore and your dissolute father? Well, I will tell all of you. Every time I looked at the child, I thought of your miserable father, and how I savored thoughts of my revenge. I knew it would probably take me years to have you in my power. But I knew the day would come, and it has. Caroline's death was but half of my vengeance.”

He moved quickly forward and grabbed my arm to pull me from my father. In that second my wounded father, with strength I would have never guessed he still had, lunged toward him and grabbed his throat between his two hands. Freeson and Flynt
were on him in an instant, jerking him back, Flynt striking his face, his wounded shoulder. Now was my chance. I dropped George, jerked the derringer from my belt. I said very precisely, “I will kill the earl if you do not release my father now.”

Lawrence didn't hesitate. I saw the fury on his face as he lunged for me. I jumped back out of his reach. He stood there, panting, staring at that small gun I was aiming at him. I said, my voice low and vicious, “Come at me again, old man, and I will put this bullet right between your eyes.” I waved my hand at him. “Yes, do come on. Do you wonder if I have the guts to shoot you? Do you think that as a female I cannot do it? That I will perhaps whimper and start to weep? Well, come on, take the gamble.”

He didn't move, just stared from my face down to the gun in my hand. “That gun,” he said slowly. “Where did you get that gun?”

“I bought it in the village, from dear Mr. Forrester. I believe he traveled to York to fetch it for me. I am not a complete idiot. I knew I had to protect myself. Father, are you all right?”

He had sagged back down onto the bed, breathing hard. “I am all right, Andrea.”

Lawrence still stared at that gun, disbelieving. “You shouldn't have a gun. It never occurred to me that you would have a gun. You're only a woman.”

I laughed. I actually laughed. “That makes you a fool, then, doesn't it? No, the three of you, don't move, or the old man here is dead. In an instant—that's all it will take. Don't even think about twitching, or he is dead.

“John, come here and let me untie you.” The man who was behind him shifted to the side. “Hold still,
you fool, or I will kill the man who had paid you. I am a good shot. My grandfather taught me well.”

I thought Lawrence would howl. He was flushed nearly scarlet in his rage, in his frustration, but he had no choice. For the first time I had the power and the means to hold him in check. John stepped away from the men and ordered them onto the floor. “Lie on your bellies and put your hands behind your heads.” Once they were down, John moved closer and I began to work at his tied wrists.

“Well-done, sweetheart,” he said, never taking his eyes off those three men. “In war, a man likes to have someone he trusts guard his back. I am very proud of you.”

I think I grew three inches taller at his words. I nearly had the knots unfastened, nearly. I looked away, down at those blasted knots, not longer than a split second—but that was all it took. Lawrence pulled a knife from his cloak, and in a single fluid movement, he hurled it at my father. It struck him cleanly through his wounded shoulder. My father yelled.

The three men jumped to their feet. They looked determined, ready to kill us.

“Stop, damn you all, or I'll shoot the earl.”

They didn't stop.

I pulled the trigger.

I
didn't shoot him between the eyes. My rage, the urgency of the moment, both made my hand jerk. I got him through the thigh. He howled, grabbed his leg, fell to his knees, then toppled to his side.

John was free. The three men were scrambling, but John was faster. He grabbed up two of their guns, and I saw the soldier in action. He was so very calm, so steady, and his voice was deadly. “I have two bullets, gentlemen. One of you will escape death, but which one? Who wants to take the chance? Come on, don't be cowards, do something. Look at the man who paid you to kill innocent people. He isn't going to help you. He will lie there until his leg rots off and he screams his way to Hell. Come on. Don't you want to bring me down?”

The three men looked among themselves, then, very slowly, they lowered themselves back down to the floor.

“Lace your fingers behind your heads.”

They did.

I ran to my father. He was unconscious, the knife
sticking obscenely out of his shoulder. There was so much blood. I closed my eyes an instant, getting a hold on myself. “You will not die on me, damn you,” I said. I jerked off my cloak and tore off my shirt. I ripped it apart, tearing it into wide strips. I made a thick bandage out of the strips. Then I drew a deep breath, and jerked the knife out of his flesh. I nearly retched at the ghastly feel of doing that, the easy slide of the metal through his flesh. I couldn't begin to imagine the pain my father would feel. “I'm sorry,” I whispered. “It's out now. I'm sorry.”

I pressed with all my strength down on the bleeding wound. He moaned, his eyes closed, but his hand came up over mine. I looked down at his hand. It was big and strong, brown. “You will live,” I said. “I swear you will live.”

“Yes,” he said, and his blue eyes blazed up at me. “Yes, I must.” He closed his eyes again, his hand fell away from mine. He was alive, and unconscious. I was grateful for that.

“Keep the pressure up, Andy. You've got to get the bleeding stopped.” Then John was beside me, shoving me out of the way. “Kept both guns on our villains here. I'm stronger, I'll apply the pressure.”

I stood some feet away from them. I looked at my husband, who was just lying on the floor, unconscious now it seemed, his wounded leg drawn up, blood pooling beneath him.

I had shot him. Would he die? I felt strangely dispassionate about it. He was a murderer. However, I did not want to be a murderess. But I made no move to staunch the flow of blood on his wound. I remained standing where I was, watching those three men.

One of the men moved. I walked over to him, bent down, and knocked him on the head with the butt of a gun. At that moment I heard some movement, but I wasn't fast enough. Lawrence had come up on his knees. He had a gun in his hands. Another weapon? Was he a bloody arsenal? I suppose so, dammit.

It was George who saved me. He leapt at Lawrence, growling, his teeth bared. I jerked up one of the villain's guns.

Everything happened so quickly, it was a blur. Flynt grabbed my ankle, George attacked Lawrence, and John, without hesitation, picked up the knife his uncle had hurled at my father, and sent it straight through Lawrence's throat. I never even saw the knife, it flew so fast. There was utter surprise on Lawrence's face. He tried to say something, but could not. He dropped the gun and grabbed that knife, but he didn't try to pull it out. I heard an obscene gurgle. Blood gushed out of his mouth. He looked over at my father, and a terrible anger seemed to freeze his expression. He slumped backward onto the floor, George standing over him, barking his head off. He died with that expression on his face.

Flynt, with a cry of fury, jerked hard on my ankle and managed to pull my legs out from under me. I went down hard, but it didn't matter. I was calm now, focused, and I yelled, “Get away from me, Flynt, now, damn you.”

But he didn't get away. He was stumbling at me, his hands outstretched, his fingers curved to strangle me. Flynt was beside himself, screaming, “You bloody bitch, I'll kill you. You killed my master. I'll wring your skinny neck off.”

I heard John shout something, saw his quick movement, but knew that only I could save myself. I didn't falter. I got hold of myself, knew what I had to do, and I shot Flynt, a clean shot, right in his chest.

There was utter silence in that small room. The two men remained on their faces, glued to the floor. John ran to Flynt and stood looking down at him. “Jesus, I was terrified. You did it, Andy, you did it.”

George looked at John and wuffed. His tail began to wag, then faster until it was a blur. Then he jumped at John, a good foot off the floor. John caught my dog up in his arms. “It's all right now, George, quite all right. No, calm yourself now. You did very well. You saved all of us. No, don't relieve yourself on me in your excitement. Good boy.”

John carried George over to me. He came down on his knees beside me. “Are you all right, love?”

I slowly nodded. I had no words. We were surrounded by carnage. The smell of blood was thick in the air. I heard my father groan. “I'm all right,” I finally managed to whisper.

He kissed me quickly, lightly, on the mouth, patted my cheek, and rose. “Let me bind up your father's shoulder. We need to get to the Manor and have Dr. Boulder fetched as soon as possible. I must also free Boynton from that shed.” He paused and said over his shoulder, “I am very proud of you, Andy. You are brave. However, I don't think it's possible that you can love me more than I love you.”

My father moaned again.

John immediately sat down and began to bind the wound tightly. “Don't worry,” he said, not looking up. “I was a soldier for six years. I have had a lot of practice doing this.”

I rose slowly, and picked up the other gun. There was only one bullet left. It was enough, I thought. Neither of these two men cared what had happened to their master, only Flynt, and he didn't care about anything now.

I took a deep breath. All of us were alive. I heard another groan of pain. No matter what my father had done, I didn't want him to die.

I prayed in those moments, prayed that he would survive, prayed with all my heart.

 

My father did survive.

He now lay between a drugged sleep and unconsciousness, Dr. Boulder remaining at the Manor to take care of him.

Rucker hauled the two men off to the local gaol, and he was none too gentle. I remember John holding me against him, I remember the touch of his mouth against my hair. I remember Boynton wringing John's hand in relief. I remember Thomas and Amelia holding each other, Amelia crying. I remember everyone, their horror at what had happened. And I remember eating in the study, by the fire, John beside me. Then suddenly, without reason really, things just seemed to fade into nothingness. I tried to open my eyes, tried to speak, but I couldn't. What was happening to me?

“It's just been too much,” I heard John say, and I knew he was carrying me. “She's just closed down.”

I knew there were people about, I heard them speaking, very quietly, as one always speaks when around a person who is ill. Was I sick or something? I didn't know. I just knew that I was deep inside myself, and I couldn't escape it.

I slept and I dreamed.

I dreamed I heard Peter's voice, dreamed he was holding my hand, lightly running his fingers over my cheek, telling me to wake up, that it was only four days until Christmas and it was rude of me not to welcome him. Had I even bought him a present?

But I couldn't wake up. I floated on blackness, felt emptiness surround me, cocoon me.

And there was Miss Crislock holding up my head, telling me to drink, and so I did, and then I slept so very deeply. Mrs. Redbreast was feeding me, nice warm chicken broth, and I swallowed it. I heard her say that it was lucky that I would swallow it, otherwise I would just wither away and that would be the end of me. I wanted to tell her that I liked it very much, that it slid right to my stomach, and felt marvelously warm. I wanted to tell her that I didn't want to do any withering.

I heard Judith's voice, and she said good morning to me, in a Virginian accent, she told me. Her “morning” stretched to a good half minute. Miss Gillbank laughed, patted my hand, told me to wake up soon, she missed me. I wanted to tell her that I missed her, too. So many people around me, all of them whispering, all of them lightly touching me, patting me, and I wanted to open my eyes. But I couldn't, and I hated it. I wanted to open my mouth and tell them to do something else besides whisper and creep around. I wanted them to yell, to laugh. Yes, I wanted to hear laughter and perhaps some music. But there wasn't any, just whispers and endless, fathomless, deep silence.

It was in the deep of night. I don't know how I knew this, but I did. I felt warmth, supple warmth,
and it touched me everywhere. And there was George's wuff, right near my ear. I wanted to smile, wanted to tell George not to drive John mad with his naked adoration.

The warmth covered me and seeped inside me, to my very bones. I realized it was John, and he was holding me against him. I felt his big hands rubbing up and down my back. I felt the hard warmth of him against me. I felt his warm breath against my temple. I liked it. I felt comforted and safe.

He was speaking, his voice warm against my temple. I loved the sound of his voice, the feel of it, how it rumbled deep in his chest. I knew he loved me, knew that he was frantic with worry, but there was just nothing I could do. Then he said, his voice impatient, no whispering now, “Listen to me, now, Andy. I have had quite enough of this. I have treated you kindly, gently, but you haven't come back to me. I have decided that you don't deserve my gentle touch anymore. You will obey me, damn you. You will be my wife, and a wife is supposed to obey her husband.

“Why are you refusing to wake up? You have been like this for six days now. The doctor doesn't know what is wrong with you. He babbles on about shock and female nerves and female brainstorms and such, but I told him that your nerves could stretch from here to France without breaking. As for female brainstorms, I told him you would stomp me to the ground if I ever said anything like that to you. He just shook his head, probably appalled.

“Then I told him that you shot a man and there had been so much death, so much pain and fear, that perhaps you had simply been unable to bear it, that
you had retreated to where it was safe, and you would remain there until you could deal with it again. Yes, I suppose I believe that. Perhaps he did, too. He just grunted. I think he liked much more his pronouncement of female brainstorms.

“But it has been six days, damn you, Andy. It is time for you to deal with life again, deal with it, and marry me, and play the pianoforte for me and let me make you laugh. We could wager with Judith on which bush George would select to relieve himself.

“All right, you just listen to me. I love the feel of your breasts, very nice soft breasts you have. I love the feel of your mouth, but your lips are dry. I must remember to rub cream on your mouth. Your father is mending. Dr. Boulder has remained here since the beginning. I think it is because of the excellent meals Cook is preparing. He eats his weight in her thin ham slices.

“It is very cold now, we've had snow for the past three days, and Small Bess is nearly well. She whinnies whenever someone comes to her stall. She misses you.

“All of us are waiting for you to open your beautiful eyes and make some sort of impertinent announcement, like perhaps demanding a glass of brandy with your chicken broth. And that includes Peter. He has been pacing about, sitting here for hours watching you. He is fast losing his grip, Andy. You must come back to everyone and have your brandy. What do you think?

“Open your eyes, Andy, smile at me. I want to kiss you and teach you how to kiss me. I want to make love to you and show you that a man and a woman can be magic together. We will be magic, you
will see. And you will trust me and love me and perhaps even you will leap out at me from behind the occasional door, you will want me so much, and you will kiss me until I am mad with it. And we will be together.

“It's true. You will trust me, Andy. I will be faithful to you until I breathe my very last breath. Then my spirit will be faithful. No insubstantial aura for me. No, I will stick to you until you curse me and wish me to remove myself to the ether. Believe me, Andy. I would never lie to you, ever.”