The Secret Rose (18 page)

“Kill her,” Stafford bellowed. “Kill them both!”

Abigail turned toward the men. She knew she couldn’t stop them all, but she would stop at least one. And that one would be Stafford.

She shifted the gun from the three men standing beside Stafford to Stafford.

His eyes opened wide. “You would shoot an unarmed man?”

Abigail hesitated. Could she?

She kept the gun aimed at the center of Stafford’s chest. Mary Rose’s sweet face flashed before her. She would be lost to her forever. So would Ethan. But with Stafford dead, at least Ethan and Mary Rose would live.

She lifted the gun, ready to shoot.

“Riders coming!” one of the men with him shouted.

The men abandoned Stafford and raced to their horses, but Stafford didn’t move.

“You’d better leave now, Stafford,” one of his men said, holding Stafford’s horse, “or you ain’t going nowhere.”

If she was going to kill him, she had to do it now.

Stafford glared at her with a look that held more hatred than she’d ever seen before. As if he realized she wouldn’t kill an unarmed man, he bellowed to the men turning to leave. “Help me. I’m hurt bad.”

Two men helped him mount his horse.

“We’re not finished,” he growled, before his men led him into the trees.

Abigail heard yelling, and from somewhere, a shot rang out. Men shouted, horses thundered, gunshots went off all around her, but she couldn’t move. She clutched Ethan’s pistol in her hand and kept it pointed to the spot where Stafford had been, as if she expected him to come back.

“Abby,” Ethan whispered, his voice a small echo in her mind. “Abby.”

“He’s gone, Ethan,” she said, still pointing the gun to the empty spot. “I—I shot him, but…he’s—he’s gone now.”

“’Tis all over now, Miss Langdon,” Malcolm MacDonnell said, placing his arm around her shoulder. “’Twas a fine job you did here, but ’tis all over, and you’re safe.”

Abigail looked at the pistol, then handed it to Mac.

She’d just shot a man. She would have killed him if she had to. Just like she’d killed Stephen.

Her stomach recoiled and she thought she might be ill. What kind of person did that make her? What kind of woman brought a rock down on another human being’s head? What kind of woman would shoot another person, even if it were the only way to save the man she loved?

Abigail clutched her hand to her roiling stomach.

“Mac,” Ethan said, his voice soft and ragged. “Help her. She’s not…”

“Save your strength, Ethan. I can see the lass is having trouble. I’ll take care of her.”

Abigail felt Mac’s arm tighten around her. “Come on, lass,” he whispered in her ear. His voice was a soothing lilt that made things seem not quite so bad. “Ethan needs you, lass. He’s hurt. He needs you to take care of him.”

Abigail looked into Malcolm’s dark eyes and saw the concern there. She blinked, and the fog cleared from around her. She turned to Ethan, then took a step toward him.

“That’s a lass,” he said, and followed her to Ethan.

“Abby,” Ethan whispered, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry, Ethan. I didn’t know—”

“Shh. It’s over now.” Ethan leaned his bruised cheek against the side of the carriage. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Galton! Barney!” Malcolm interrupted. “Come help me with the Captain. Each of you, take an arm.”

The men each took one of Ethan’s outstretched arms, while Malcolm took out a knife and cut the ropes that bound him. Ethan’s low moan echoed when they lowered him to his knees.

“Ah, friend,” Malcolm said, supporting him. “’Tis a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

Abigail knelt down with Ethan and let him lean against her. “You’re going to be all right, Ethan. We’ll get you to Fallen Oaks and you’ll be fine. Stella,” she said to the maid, who’d finally crawled out of the carriage. “Tear some strips from your petticoat, then check on Bundy.” She looked at the big Scot. “I need some water. There’s a stream just over there.” She nodded to the side of the road.

“Right away, miss.”

They put Ethan in the carriage and Abigail sat with his head in her lap. She placed wet cloths on his back to help with the pain and to keep the wounds moist until they could be properly tended to.

A wave of guilt washed over her. What had happened to her today had changed her. She’d almost killed another man.

She looked down at the blood-encrusted stripes that had been torn deeply into Ethan’s flesh and swiped away any guilt she felt. She would have killed a dozen men to protect Ethan.

She would have killed a hundred men to save the man she loved.

Abigail sat in a cushioned chair next to Ethan’s bed and watched his restless sleep. It had been three days since Stafford had flayed him raw. Three days when she didn’t know if he’d survive the next day. Or even the next hour.

Stafford’s intention had been to kill Ethan. And he’d almost succeeded. There were places on Ethan’s back where the skin had not only been ripped to jagged shreds, but the flesh beneath lay open and exposed.

And every brutal stripe on his back was her fault. Every deep tear was because she’d fled London and he’d been forced to come after her. She clutched the quilt tighter to her, as if the soft warmth could assuage her guilt. Why hadn’t she listened to him and stayed in London?

She swiped at a tear that spilled from her eye, then pushed the cover from her shoulders and rushed to his bedside when he released an anguished moan and tried to push himself from the bed.

“You’re safe, Ethan. Nothing can hurt you anymore.”

“No!” he groaned. His struggling intensified.

“I’m here, Ethan. You’re all right.”

“Run, Abby! Run!”

His attempts to free himself became more frantic. “I’m safe, Ethan. Lie still.”

“No,” he moaned again. “Run!”

Abby tried to hold him steady while whispering in his ear. She needed to calm him before he tore the stitches that had taken Mac over an hour to sew. Thankfully, strong hands reached in to help her hold him down.

“Lie still, Captain,” Mac’s commanding voice said. “That’s an order.”

Ethan’s movements didn’t calm completely, but at least enough to keep him from doing more damage.

Abigail knelt by his bedside and whispered comforting words in his ear. Eventually, he calmed, then slept.

“Has he rested at all since I left?” Mac asked when Ethan was still, and Abigail had returned to her chair.

“A little.”

“When was the last time you gave him laudanum?”

She looked at the clock on the mantel. “About an hour ago.”

Mac shook his head. “Dammit. It’s too soon to give him more.”

Ethan released a painful sigh, and Abigail rose to place a cool cloth on the back of his neck.

“Tell me what happened between Ethan and Stafford,” she said when she returned to her chair.

Mac watched Ethan’s restless sleep. “I guess you deserve to know,” he said, then leaned back in his chair. “We were delivering a shipment of French wine to Stafford’s plantation. The voyage hadn’t gone well from the start. First, we hit bad weather and lost part of our rigging. Then we ran into a patrol searching for blockade runners and were nearly caught. It was time to go home. The crew looked forward to unloading the cargo and leaving hostile waters.”

Mac rose from his chair and rinsed the cloth in cool water, then placed it back on Ethan’s neck. “We arrived at Stafford’s plantation in the middle of celebration. I’m not sure what Stafford was celebrating, but there must have been thirty to forty friends and neighbors gathered there. Ethan went ahead to tell Stafford we were there, and the crew loaded our cargo into smaller boats and rowed to shore.

“Stafford invited us to join the party, but Ethan told him we were in a hurry to leave to avoid any more run-ins with Northern patrols. He understood and ordered several of his slaves to help unload the cases of wine.”

Mac pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window. “Ethan and I had seen evidence of Stafford’s cruelty before, so we knew what he was capable of. But that day we got a firsthand look at how brutal he could be.

“There was a slave—Henry. He walked with hunched shoulders and a limp. His hair was white and his face wrinkled with age. He should have been sitting in a rocker on the porch of his hut, but Stafford still expected him to carry cases of wine as if he were a man of twenty.”

Mac braced his fist against the window frame and looked out. “As Henry walked past Stafford, he tripped. The case of French wine hit the wooden dock and several of the bottles broke. Within seconds, Stafford snapped back the whip he always wore at his waist and brought it down on Henry’s back.

“I held Ethan back the first three lashes Henry suffered, but he broke away from me on the fourth. When Stafford lowered his arm to whip Henry a fifth time, Ethan grabbed Stafford’s wrist and stopped him.”

“What did Stafford do?”

“He told Ethan that his slaves were his to do with as he saw fit, and that Ethan’s interruption cost Henry ten more lashes.”

Mac pushed himself from the window and returned to his chair. “I knew we were in trouble. The crew knew it, too. No one is more honorable than Ethan, and, to a man, they’d give their lives to protect him. When Ethan pulled out his gun, the crew followed suit.

“Of course, Stafford and his guests weren’t armed, so what happened next went smoothly. Ethan ordered several slaves to pick Henry up and put him in one of the boats. I think Ethan’s plan was only to take Henry, but a female, obviously Henry’s wife, rushed forward. Then two little children, maybe grandchildren ran forward, crying that they wanted to go, too.”

Mac swiped his hand over his face. “One look at Ethan’s face and I knew what he was going to do. I know you heard me tell him how foolish he’d been, but I’ve never been more proud of another human being in my life. He looked at the group of slaves and told them he’d take anyone who wanted to go with him.”

“And they all went,” Abigail answered as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“To a last one. Even a frail old grandmother who had to be carried to the boats.”

“Where did you take them?”

“To New York. Stafford’s slaves weren’t the first slaves we’d taken north. When we reached New York, Ethan contacted a group of sympathizers, and they took them where they’d be safe.”

Mac stood again and rinsed the cloth in cool water, then replaced it on Ethan’s neck. “I knew Stafford wouldn’t stop until Ethan was dead. And it’s not over. As soon as he recovers, Stafford will be back.”

A wave of panic rushed over her. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“That’s not the question, Miss Langdon.” Ethan’s friend locked his gaze with hers. “What are
you
going to do?”

. . .

Abigail rinsed the cloth in the water again and with tender, fleeting touches, washed Ethan’s back, then applied more of the strong-smelling ointment the doctor had given her to ward off infection. More than once in the first week, she was certain he would die. He hadn’t. It had been eight days now, and today he’d stayed awake even longer before falling back to sleep.

Abigail poured some wine into a glass, then added a few drops of laudanum. When she replaced the glass on the table, she rolled her shoulders to ease her aching muscles.

“Why don’t you lie down and get some rest?” he said from behind her. “You look tired.”

Abigail started, then turned around to check on him. “I thought you’d gone back to sleep.”

“I’ve slept enough the last week to last a lifetime.”

She smiled, then placed her hand on his forehead to make sure there was no fever. She sighed in relief when his skin was cool to the touch.

She pulled her hand back and took a step away from the bed. It was more difficult each day to be near him. Her traitorous body reacted in a way she didn’t understand. In a way she knew was dangerous. “You needed to sleep. Your body needs rest to heal.”

He reached for her hand and held it. “What happened wasn’t your fault, Abby.”

She turned her face, unable to look him in the eye. She could still see the end of the whip tearing at his flesh, the rivulets of blood streaming down his back, the pain in his eyes.

“Do you need something to eat or drink?” she said, pulling her hand free. “Cook just took a beef pie out of the oven. It smells delicious.”

“Ignoring what I’m saying won’t make it go away.”

“I know that,” she answered, “but talking about it won’t, either. I know what I did. I know the danger I put you in. I know what almost happened that day.”

“If Stafford hadn’t followed me there, he would have found me somewhere else. And you wouldn’t have been there to save me.”

“Oh, Ethan. If I hadn’t left London—”

“Why did you? Why did you leave?”

“I had to. You know that.”

“No, I don’t. You didn’t have to leave.”

“Can’t you understand? Nothing has changed.”

He breathed a sigh. “You’re right. Nothing has changed. I still need your ships, and you are still intent on having Fallen Oaks.”

Abigail walked to the window and looked down to the cobbled drive leading to the front entrance. She would give the world if things could be different, if she could tell him about Mary Rose. If he wouldn’t hate her when he found out the rest.

“You don’t understand,” she said, turning toward the bed, looking into his eyes.

“Another secret, Abby?” he said, his voice angry.

“Yes.”

“Then share it with me. Whatever it is you’re hiding, we’ll find a solution.”

“There is no solution. Some problems cannot be solved.”

“They can, if a person wants to solve them badly enough.” His voice was surprisingly determined for someone so weak.

She couldn’t answer him. There was no answer.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Abigail turned to see Malcolm MacDonnell standing behind them in the doorway.

“No, Captain MacDonnell,” she said, trying to appear relaxed. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” he said, walking across the room. “I think, Miss Langdon, it’s past time you called me Mac, like the rest of the world does.”