The Stolen Bride (19 page)

Randal came back, almost as white as his brother, as she supposed she must be. They looked at each other and no words were needed. They clasped hands briefly.

“I’ll get help,” said Sophie. She wanted to do or say more but there was nothing to the purpose to say or do. She hitched her skirts up high and sprinted back down the path to where she had left her mare. She didn’t bother with her boots, hat, or jacket but hauled herself into the saddle and took off at a gallop toward the Towers.

Half an hour later she watched as the cart rolled up to the Towers with Chelmly flat out on a mattress in the back and Randal, still in his shirtsleeves, walking beside. The marquess had not regained consciousness but at least he still lived, for Randal was watching his brother as if his very concentration could keep him breathing.

By the time Chelmly was in his bed the doctor had arrived and a large part of the household hovered nearby, whispering anxiously. Sophie wanted to be with Randal but he was in Chelmly’s quarters with the doctor. She felt herself shiver despite the dreadful heat and when Verderan put an arm around her she leaned gratefully against him.

“It must have been a terrible blow to keep him unconscious so long,” she said anxiously.

“I’ve known people lose their wits for hours and still pull through,” Verderan said.

It was kind of him to try to keep her spirits up, but Sophie looked over to where the dowager duchess was sitting in a chair, looking gray and very old, and could not feel hopeful. Chloe Stanforth was beside her, holding her hand. Justin stood nearby. Everyone eyed the door to the marquess’s suite as if they could see through the oak. No one looked optimistic.

“What of the duke?” Sophie asked Verderan.

“This is his rest time,” he replied quietly. “The dowager decided not to wake him until there is some news. The shock ...”

The shock could kill him, Sophie supplied and another kind of horror crept around her. If Chelmly died, Randal would be the heir to the dukedom of Tyne. She looked around wildly and all she could see was the wealth and power and dignity of it all. The weight, the substance of it, seemed to press down on her soul, bringing blackness ...

She came to her senses in a chair. She felt dizzy and slightly nauseated, and hopelessly feeble to be giving way at such a time.

“I’m going to carry you to a bed,” said Verderan.

“Randal ...” protested Sophie faintly.

“You will be more help to him rested, Sophie.”

He swung her up into his arms and carried her away and she didn’t resist. At the moment she would be nothing but a burden to Randal.

Verderan left while a maid stripped off her habit and wiped her face and hands with a cool cloth. Perhaps most of her weakness was just the devilish heat ... but Randal must be as hot and she was deserting him.

Verderan came back and put a glass to her lips.

“I don’t need anything,” she said but he tipped it down her throat, and spluttering, she swallowed it, recognizing the bitter taste of laudanum.

“I can’t sleep now,” she protested.

“Yes, you can,” he said. “I’ll look after him for you but you must be ready to support him soon, Sophie. If the worst happens, you will have to be strong.”

“But I’m not strong,” Sophie said muzzily. “I’m a games player too ...”

“The only way to play games, Sophie, is to win.”

He watched while she drifted into sleep, then took a moment to stand looking out of the window, oblivious to the maid taking a watchful seat near the bed.

Verderan recognized the dimension of the tragedy which could befall the Ashbys, befall Randal and Sophie. He had little thought for Chelmly whom he had always thought of as a dull fellow, aware that the dull fellow disliked him intensely; but Chelmly ran the Duchy of Tyne and he stood between Randal and the dukedom. When they were young this had meant Chelmly had been raised to work and responsibility while Randal was encouraged to play, to do anything he wished as long as he didn’t cast an envious eye on his brother’s expectations.

Verderan looked suddenly at Sophie. Was that what she had meant by being a “games player”? It was either a very perceptive remark or the result of a recent conversation.

Randal hadn’t had to be forced into the role, of course. His volatile temperament was suited to the search for the new, to the accepting of purposeless challenges. Had his antipathy to responsibility been inborn, however, or carefully fostered by his father? The duke’s younger brother, Lord William, had apparently lusted after the title and honors and it had soured the family. The duke had done his best to avoid the same problem in his own family and had, perhaps, succeeded all too well.

If Chelmly died, would Randal be able to change? Would Sophie, another games player by her own admission, be a help or a hindrance? Before this morning’s conversation Verderan would have had little hope but now he thought the young woman on the bed had surprising and untested qualities.

He hoped Randal had too.

S
OPHIE AWOKE in a darkened room, confused as to how she came there. In an instant, however, memory returned. The sick misery came with it but not, thank God, the panic.

She sat up slowly, feeling dizzy. The feeling would pass. It was still suffocatingly hot. A window stood open but no breath of air came in to refresh.

A maid rose to her feet and came forward. “Would you like some lemonade, milady. I have some here, still cool.”

“Yes, please.” Sophie drank gratefully and her mouth began to feel less disgusting.

She was in her chemise. She remembered Verderan. He had been kind and he had said Randal would need her.

She didn’t want to even put the question but forced it out. “Is there any news of the marquess?”

“There’s no change, milady,” said the maid soberly. No news was good news, Sophie told herself, but still she felt reluctant to leave the sanctuary of this room. Demands could be made of her, demands she was not sure she was able to meet. She needed Randal like she needed cool breezes and soft rain but that wasn’t possible. If Chelmly had not recovered, if he was worse, Randal needed her more. But he needed her strong. Better to hide here like a coward than to emerge just to put new burdens upon him.

Resolutely she got out of the bed, stretched, and moved around until she felt more the thing. She drank some more of the lemonade and realized she had eaten no breakfast before dashing off to find Verderan and Randal.

Planning carefully, she sent the maid to fetch quick, simple food, some footwear, and the news.

Sophie dressed in her habit, wondering when she would see her boots, stockings, hat, and jacket again, and what people would think when they were found. She didn’t really care but it brought back memories of that kiss. That wonderful kiss and then his anger. Why had he been angry? What had he said? “What I feel for you ...” What had he been going to say?

All such thoughts seemed irrelevant now with Chelmly in such straits. If the wound proved fatal, Randal’s days of carefree adventuring were numbered, married or not.
If
the wound proved fatal ...

She went to the window. Despite the heat, there was a darkening heaviness to the sky. They were surely building to a storm. She wished it would come, and quickly. Perhaps if it was cooler she could think more clearly.

The smooth croquet lawn was below this window, surrounded by herbaceous borders. Beyond was part of the kitchen garden and she could see one of the orchards. She thought with dread of the succession houses, the fish ponds, the formal gardens and the wilderness ... It was no different than Stenby, she told herself.

But she had never thought to run Stenby. In fact she remembered teasing Jane about having to undertake such a horrible task. She and Randal had planned to live at the small manor of Fairmeadows, and have a neat house in London. They had been going to travel. Even if he couldn’t fight with the army they could travel to Greece, to the Americas, to look for hippopotami in Africa ...

She pulled herself out of the black thoughts. Chelmly was not dead. He would not die. It wasn’t possible. But the picture of the marquess, so still and pale, rose up to argue against her. He could and that would signal a terrible change in all their lives.

When the maid returned, Sophie realized she had tears running down her face and no handkerchief. She wiped them with her fingers.

“It’s all right,” said the maid anxiously. “There’s no change. Lord Chelmly is holding his own.”

The girl laid out a simple meal. Sophie looked at the food with distaste, seeing nothing she could face but then she disciplined herself. If she didn’t eat she’d probably faint again and that wasn’t going to make Randal’s life any easier.

She took up two slices of bread and butter and slapped some chicken between them. She poured herself some tea and managed to wash down about half the food. It was all she could manage.

She stood and put on the slippers the maid had found. They were a little large but once she had tied the laces she knew they would do. In the mirror she thought she looked a wreck but doubted anyone would care today. She also looked pale and almost haggard. She splashed water from the bowl over her face and rubbed at her cheeks. It helped a little, but not much.

At last she ventured out. Was it her imagination that the Towers was ominously silent? It had not been a lively house for years but now the ticking of clocks was the only sound. She walked along deserted corridors and down to the main hall.

A footman was on duty there.

“Do you know where Lord Randal is?” she asked.

“He is in the Adams Room with the doctor, milady,” he replied in a muted voice. Sophie could tell there had been no good report of Chelmly’s state in the last little while.

Dreading the news she might hear, she went to the cool blue and white room. The doctor and Randal stood talking together near the empty grate. Randal had still not found time to dress and was in his open-necked shirt. A smear of dried blood ran down the sleeve. His features were as pale as the bleached linen.

He sensed her and turned. It was not welcome she saw on his face, or even relief that she was all right. She was another, and distracting, strain. Even through her sick misery his strange expression pierced her, and she raised a hand as if to ward off a blow. He had already turned away. Verderan was in the room, standing away from Randal and the doctor, and he came swiftly over to her.

“Chelmly has not recovered consciousness and the doctor fears the worst,” he said softly. “The duke has taken it quite well but his health too is a matter for concern. Everything is falling on Randal’s shoulders. Are you recovered?”

“As much as possible,” said Sophie from an aching throat. “Should I go?” she asked hesitantly.

“No,” he said and took her hand firmly. “Of course not. He is bewildered. Too many things are coming at him at once. Just be here.”

In a few minutes the doctor bowed and took his leave to go back upstairs to the duke. Randal just stood, staring at nothing.

Verderan and Sophie shared a concerned look and then Sophie took matters into her own hands. She walked forward and grasped his arm. “What can we do?” she asked.

He looked down at her with a slight frown, but she saw it was bewilderment, not rejection. After a moment his expression lightened slightly and he slipped an arm around her and pulled her to him with a sigh.

“Did you hear he’s no better?” he asked softly and she nodded.

“Killigrew says he could die at any minute. I can still hardly believe it,” he said. “We spoke to him there only minutes before ...”

“He won’t die, Randal,” said Sophie, trying to sound certain but hearing her own desperation. “He’s always been so strong and healthy. He’ll pull through.”

“I pray to God,” said Randal with a sigh. Without letting go of her he shifted slightly and said, “Ver?” The Dark Angel came over.

“The doctor suspects foul play,” Randal said baldly.

Sophie pulled back. “What? But it was a fall from his horse. We were there.”

Randal released her and moved restlessly about the room. “Not quite. We got there soon after. Dr. Killigrew says such a head wound could only have been caused by a severe blow from a hard object. Did you see any rocks on that path?”

Sophie thought back. It was a dry, sandy bridle path and she had noticed no rocks near Chelmly’s head. She shook her head.

“Nor did I,” said Randal and turned to his friend. “Ver, will you take Justin and go and check? See what there is to be found.”

The Dark Angel left swiftly.

Randal turned to face Sophie with a slight bitter smile. “Well, how do you feel about the prospect of being a marchioness?”

“Not too wonderful,” she admitted, “but I’ll manage, I suppose. Besides, whatever happens I am unlikely to come to that for some time. We can’t have the wedding now.”

He looked at her sharply. “Yes, we can. This business has brought my father’s concern over the succession to fever pitch. The only thing that will hold him together is a grandson.”

“With the best will in the world,” said Sophie, “that’s nine months from now, Randal. A month or so delay will not matter. We can hardly be married with Chelmly at death’s door.”

“Yes, we can,” he said tersely, “though it will have to be a simple affair. I’m sorry you’ll have to do without the celebrations but that way we can get it over with.”

“Get it over with ...” He made it sound like something terrible—a whipping or a tooth-drawing. She couldn’t handle this now. “Randal, I don’t care about the bridesmaids and dancing but—”

“Good,” he said sharply. “Just you and me, Sophie. That’s all that matters.” It could have been a moving declaration except for the tone.

Sophie forced herself not to squabble with him. She went over to take his fidgeting hand but was arrested when she saw the ring on it. It was heavy gold set with a large piece of obsidian carved with the arms of the Ashbys—the ducal seal that Chelmly always wore.