The Suspect's Daughter (37 page)

Jocelyn dropped to her knees and pressed a hand to his back. “Grant?”

A helper lifted off the plaster to reveal the fallen man’s dark hair dusted with white and small rocks. He lay motionless. Dark liquid concealed his features, but she knew the shape of his face.

Jocelyn gently placed both hands on his head, one on his cheek, and bent over, listening for signs of life. “Grant.” It came out half a prayer, half a sob.

Please, please answer.

Grant lay entombed in a silent world of darkness. Unable to move, a weight slowly crushing the life out of him, he fought to stay conscious. Breathe. Look for light. Stay awake. Pain shot through him every time he coughed, and blackness threatened to drag him under. He fought back to consciousness.

Faces passed through his mind—his family, friends long gone, comrades-at-arms. As if it were moments ago, the final taunting words hurled by the liar whom Grant thought he’d loved returned as she’d revealed her cruelest possible vengeance.

He’d loved her—an explosive, passionate love fed by her too-good-to-be-true charm and mysterious allure. But she’d never cared for him. She’d lied to him, used him, betrayed him, cheerfully delivered him to the French butcher and left him to suffer and die. He’d vowed never to let another woman use him again. Better to be alone than allow his heart to be torn out and shredded again. His misused heart had shriveled to a blackened, hardened, stump.

Until he’d met Jocelyn. She offered a pure, unselfish love that had grown so slowly he almost hadn’t detected it. When, exactly, she’d gone from being the annoying daughter of his prime suspect to a lady who occupied his thoughts and a large part of his now-living heart, he couldn’t have said. But she patiently loved him, waiting for him to trust her.

Unconsciousness hovered nearby, offering an escape from pain, from life. If he succumbed, if he let go and left this life, he’d never see her, never hold her close and bask in the wholeness of being with her. Jocelyn had opened him up to a new world. He was a better, braver, nobler man for knowing her.

For too long, he’d allowed anger and bitterness to cut him off from the very people he should have turned to when he’d been so deeply wounded. When Jason died and Grant had blamed Christian for the fatal dare, Grant had shut himself off from his family, failing to give and offer the support and comfort that he should have found with them. He’d closed up even more when he got home from the war. He’d denied himself the healing he would have found from those who truly cared.

The darkness returned, singing like a siren’s song. He fought against it. He wasn’t ready to die. He had denied himself the love of a genuinely giving, loving woman who, for some unexplained reason, seemed to love him—even the darkest part of him. She’d shone her light into all those dark places and chased out the monsters lurking there, leaving him as close to a state of peace as he’d ever known.

If by some miracle he ever saw Jocelyn again, he wouldn’t squander their time together. He’d accept the gift of her love and let her show him how to love her in return. He had a few ideas of his own. The weight on his back pressed down on him, cutting off his breath, and the darkness called again. His body slipped into numb weightlessness.

No. He wasn’t done yet. Jocelyn. He had to get back to her. He had to tell her and show her that he loved her. The truth crept over him like a sunrise. He loved Jocelyn. He loved her—not like the volatile chemistry he’d felt with Isabel. No, his love for Jocelyn came as a warm tenderness and a desire to bring her happiness.

He loved her.

He tried again to move, to breathe, but whatever pinned him, and searing pain, kept him immobilized. He swam in a world of gray where feeling slipped blissfully away, promising a permanent release of all pain, all sorrow.

Light. Voices. Air.

Pain.

“Grant.” From a distance, Jocelyn’s voice called him.

He battled his way toward her. Gentle hands rested on his hair, his face.

“Is he alive?” asked a familiar voice. Christian?

“Grant!” Jared, or maybe Cole.

Did he imagine his brothers’ voices? Where were they? Where was he?

“Grant. Please come back to me.” Jocelyn’s panic-laden tone pulled him into awareness.

He opened his eyes and drew a full breath. Shards cut into his cheek, but he could finally breathe. Sweet breath. Such relief. Of course, breathing hurt like the devil, but the pleasure of filling his lungs overrode discomfort.

Jocelyn let out a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh. Opening his eyes, he reached for her. She enfolded his hands in hers. All the words he longed to say jumbled around in his head, none finding their way out of his mouth. Poorly illuminated by a nearby lantern, her face hovered inches from his. He turned his head as far as he could to get a good look at her. He devoured the sight of her—her face smudged with dirt and soot, her hair mostly falling out of her hairstyle, her torn and filthy clothing, and her blackened and bleeding hands.

Memory returned in a flash. The explosion. He’d been buried. Jocelyn had clearly helped dig him out—because she was loyal and true. All the pretty words he should have said to her left him, and he said the first thing that came to mind.

“Daft woman. When are you going to stay home when I tell you?” He tried to scowl but it came out as a feeble smile.

She laughed and cried and fell over him, trying to embrace him where he lay, unaware how much her weight hurt. Through gritted teeth, he moaned.

She shot upright. “I’m sorry! I should have known you were hurt.”

“It’s not bad but your crushing me isn’t helping.” He squeezed her hand to soften his words.

She leaned in close to his face. A tired, welcoming smile curved her delicious mouth and a decidedly playful light touched her eyes. “What would help?” Did he imagine the provocative tone in her voice?

He had a few ideas what would help.

Someone fell to his knees next to Jocelyn. “You gave us a scare.”

Cole, as dirty and rumpled as Grant hadn’t seen him in, well, ever, eyed Grant, his expression grave. Next to him Jared stood pale-faced. Christian stood a few paces back. All his brothers had the haggard faces and torn and dirty clothing of soldiers on a battlefield. His brothers. They’d come to search for him. To find him. To help him. Just as they always would have if he’d allowed them to be there for him. Just as they always would in the future—not because they owed him but because they were his brothers. He’d been a fool to isolate himself from his family. From love.

Grant pushed himself up on his elbows and tried to breathe through pain. Several hands reached out to help him rise. He sat, gasping and holding his ribs. One of those hands gripped his shoulder.

Cole shook his head. “When I heard what happened, I knew you’d be here. I vow, I nearly died when I heard you were caught in the explosion...”

Jared’s smile shone eerily white in his streaked face. “Naw, the devil doesn’t want Grant in the fiery pit just yet.”

Christian stood apart, clearing his throat quietly. Grant almost smiled. Christian always was a soft-hearted boy. But that he’d become emotional over a dark soul like Grant... a humbling realization, actually. Grant clasped Cole’s hand, then Jared’s. Jared threw his arms around him, careful not to aggravate his sore ribs. Then he clapped him on the shoulder. Grant winced.

Jared’s mouth twisted to a wry grin. “We’re still not even, though.”

As a current of memories tripped through is mind—Jared in prison, his raw back crisscrossed with lash marks, of cutting him down from the gallows, the battle to bring him back from near death—Grant gave him a grim smile. “I’ll hold it over your head for the rest of your life.”

Jared clapped him on the shoulder. Grant groaned.

Christian met his gaze, nodded, and picked his way through the rubble to Barnes who came up to stand behind Cole. “Is anyone else missing?”

“No,” Barnes said. “Everyone is accounted for now.”

Nodding, Christian glanced at Grant and offered a tentative smile before turning away.

Grant lifted his head and offered Richard Barnes a wan smile. “You really ought to stop rescuing me.”

Barnes gestured to Jocelyn. “She beat me to it this time. I’m much obliged to you, miss. I’m Richard Barnes, at your service.”

“Jocelyn Fairley. A pleasure.”

“Fairley? Ah.” He held out a hand to Grant. “A couple of doctors are here. Let’s have one of them check you. Both of you.” His gaze flicked to Jocelyn.

As Grant took his hand and hauled himself to a stand, gritting his teeth in pain, Jocelyn slipped underneath his arm and wrapped one of hers around his waist, carefully avoiding his sore ribs. “Lean on me. I’ll support you.”

He studied her for a long moment, finding only concern and pure, open affection in her face, her eyes. “Yes. I believe you will.”

Her soft smile warmed every cold part of his body, even his heart. Once the doctor examined and treated them, they bade farewell to their friends and family.

Cole hesitated. “Come to the house. Let Stephens examine you.”

Grant put an arm around Jocelyn. “I’ll see her home first and then come.”

Cole hesitated, but after glancing at Jocelyn, he nodded. “Take my coach. I’ll get a ride home with Jared.”

Inside the coach, Grant sat next to Jocelyn. If she considered the possible taint to her reputation caused by riding in a closed coach with a man, unchaperoned, she gave no indication.

Casting an anxious gaze over him as if reassuring himself he were unharmed, she touched his hand. “I can’t tell you how frightened I was….”

She blinked several times. A tremor went through her body but in typical Jocelyn fashion, she pulled herself together. But she didn’t need to do that alone anymore.

He put an arm around her, careful not to aggravate his injuries, and pulled her against his chest. He wrapped both arms around her. “I…” he took a deep breath but cut it short as fiery pain shot through his ribs. “I thought about you when I was trapped. I couldn’t see or hear, could barely breathe. All I kept thinking about was you.”

She rested her head against him. “I am so relieved you are safe.”

“You shouldn’t have come. You might have been hurt.”

Fiercely she said, “Just try to keep me away.”

Smiling at her stern tone, he kissed the top of her head.

She pulled away enough to look him in the eyes. “I know you are reluctant to accept me and I know you find it hard to trust. I promise I can be patient, but I have to tell you now that I have the chance; I love you.”

He brushed her loose hair away from her face. “Curse me for a fool, but I love you too.”

Her eyes shimmered with moisture but she smiled. Then let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Why, Grant, that was a surprisingly flowery sentiment, coming from you.”

“That’s probably all you’ll ever get.”

She smiled as if she knew better. And in reality, such expressions might come more freely now. He lowered his head and kissed her. The unrestrained passion that he poured upon her, and that came from her in reply, took the strength out of his limbs. As he kissed her over and over, her arms encircled him protectively, possessively. Warmth and comfort filled his entire being. They kissed in a world of silent bliss, and all coherent thought fled except the sweet knowledge that he loved her and that she truly, deeply, genuinely loved him. And that was all he ever wanted, all he ever needed.

Jocelyn sat in the morning parlor on a settee next to Grant. In the morning’s harsh light, every cut and bruise on Grant’s face stood out in glaring testament of the horrific events of the previous night. She swallowed, reliving how close she’d come to losing him, and thanked her maker for preserving his life.

Her father sat opposite them next to Mr. Barnes, the Magistrate of Bow Street. The two of them exchanged guarded, uncomfortable looks at each other.

“We tracked down and captured all the leaders of the Freedom Fighters,” Mr. Barnes said. “And we rounded up about a dozen others who were helping them. They were all working class, and a few cutthroats, all claiming they wanted a better England.”

Jocelyn shook her head. A better England by committing treason and murder and leaving the country without leadership sounded like a prelude to another tyrant like Napoleon seizing control. She shivered.

“None were in the upper classes, then?” Papa asked.

“None.” Mr. Barnes gave her father a weary stare. “I wouldn’t have had you investigated without just cause. And I did everything to be discreet, which is why I enlisted Amesbury’s help.”

“I understand.” Papa held out a hand. “I’m sorry about the way things turned out between us.”

“I am, as well.” Barnes took his hand and then arose. “I have a number of criminals to process at Bow Street, so if you’ll excuse me, I bid you all good day.”

After they said good-bye and Mr. Barnes left, Jocelyn gave into temptation and slipped her hand into Grant’s. He curled his fingers around hers. His eyes softened and an affectionate smile curved his lips.

“Well, that rather wraps it all up,” Papa said.

Jocelyn still couldn’t believe the ruthlessness of trying to kill the prime minister and the cabinet, nor the way they’d planned to do it. If Grant hadn’t acted when he did…

She rested her head on Grant’s shoulder, so grateful he’d been spared, and that he sat with her now, that she could hardly speak.

Her father smiled softly at her. His gaze lifted to Grant. “You’re lucky to be alive with only a cracked rib to show for being buried in the wreckage.”

“I am indeed.” Grant kissed the top of Jocelyn’s head. “And I have your daughter to thank for that. I don’t know how much longer I would have lasted.”

He toyed with her bandaged fingers, spreading them out as if to remind himself of what she had sacrificed to search for him.

A mother-bear-type of protectiveness overcame her. “It’s fortunate those criminals are in custody. Every time I think about what they tried to do, including what they tried to do to you both, it makes me want to hunt them down myself.”