The Truth About Love (58 page)

Eleanor was looking, too. Even paler than before, breathing rapidly, she turned to Jordan. “What now? We can’t get out.” Her gaze shifted to Jacqueline. “She’s all we have to bargain with, but I haven’t a knife or anything to threaten her with—have you?”

Jordan patted his pockets, then pulled out a penknife. He flicked it open; the blade was less than two inches long.

“That’s no use!” Incipient hysteria rang in Eleanor’s voice.

Jordan was silent, staring down at the blade, then he drew in a huge breath, lifted his head and looked down the gardens.

Jacqueline had no idea what he saw, but calmness enveloped him.

The wild look in his eyes faded, and he smiled. Coldly. “It’ll do for what we need if combined with something else. Something more dramatic and final. And so very apt.”

He tightened his grip on Jacqueline’s arm, ruthlessly shook her. “Come on. I know just how to make your father and all the rest agree to everything I want.”

Going down the steps, he hauled her after him, then set out, striding rapidly along the path into the Garden of Mars, heading toward the cove.

G
errard swore. Releasing the telescope, he swung around, ducked into the smoke-blackened room and headed for the door. “They’ve taken the path to the cove.”

“The cove?” Barnaby followed. “But there’s no escape that way.”

“No escape,” Gerrard ground out. “But something better. A gun to hold to our heads.”

“Gun?” Barnaby kept pace as Gerrard ran down the corridor, then went quickly down the stairs. “What gun?”

Gerrard strode onto the terrace. “It’s called Cyclops.”

B
y the time Jordan dragged her up the steps of the last viewing platform, Jacqueline had solved his cryptic utterance; she knew where he was going.

She’d slowed them as much as she’d dared; she had a stitch in her side, her breathing was quite genuinely labored, and her legs wobbled alarmingly. She wanted nothing more than to collapse on the seat and recover. Jordan, who walked the gardens so often, appeared unaffected by their race down the valley. Eleanor, however, was flagging badly, as exhausted as she.

Seizing the moment when Jordan paused to note how close their pursuers were, Jacqueline dragged air into her lungs, straightened her shoulders, tried to ease the ache in her bound arms.

Jordan tightened his painful grip on her arm. “Come on.” His tone was tight. “We’ve got to get there ahead of them.”

He thrust her down the steps, following closely, jerking her upright when her ankle threatened to give way. He snarled, “Don’t you
dare
slow us down.” His eyes met hers, flat, cold—deadly.

How had she ever imagined him a friend, even a superior, aloof one? She was nothing to him, just a means to an end. As for Eleanor…Jacqueline looked at the woman whose nails bit into her other arm as she ruthlessly tugged her on. She’d never truly seen her before, but the Eleanor who’d stood beside Jordan in the parlor had dropped all pretense and contemptuously flaunted the truth. Recalling the lascivious details Eleanor had delighted in telling her over the years about her activities with her lover turned Jacqueline’s stomach, but she now knew the truth.

She knew who Eleanor’s lover was.

T
he last section of the path leading to the cove descended sharply through a wide curve. There were steps along the way, interrupting their headlong dash, forcing Jordan and Eleanor, despite their growing urgency, to slow.

Lungs burning, arms aching, Jacqueline stumbled on between them, searching for some means of delay. She could hear voices drawing nearer, lots of them. It was no part of Jordan’s plan for her to die—not yet, at any rate—yet as she grappled with the enormity of all he’d done so far in his quest to own Hellebore Hall…she had no faith that if thwarted, he wouldn’t sacrifice her out of revenge.

He couldn’t be entirely sane.

She glanced sideways. On her right, Eleanor was nearing the end of her resources. Unlike Jordan, she looked frightened, increasingly panicky.

Jacqueline looked ahead; her gaze fell on the plantings bordering the path. They reached the next bend; three steps led down. Eleanor started down, her fingers locked about Jacqueline’s arm, tugging her down, too. Jordan released Jacqueline to glance back up the path.

She let herself fall, dropping her shoulder, breaking Eleanor’s grip, butting hard into Eleanor’s side. Stepping down, already off balance, Eleanor lost her footing. She shrieked, flailed, then fell backward off the step into the bed alongside.

It was filled with large cacti.

Eyes wide, her mouth open, Eleanor froze, then she hauled in a breath and
screamed
. She thrashed; the cactus spines dug in, caught her skirts, caught everywhere.

Jordan stared, horrified—helpless to help her.

Then he rounded on Jacqueline.

She’d stumbled, but kept her feet. “She pulled me—I tripped.”

His face contorted. She saw the blow coming, but couldn’t duck in time; the back of his hand cracked across her cheek. She reeled, then fell to her knees, gasping, struggling to catch her breath.

Behind her, Jordan tried to calm Eleanor, tried to stop her from becoming more entangled. He grasped her hands and tried to pull her loose; Eleanor shrieked. The cacti had speared her in too many places, trapping her and her clothes securely.

“It’s all right.” Jordan let go. “It doesn’t matter if you stay here—they won’t hurt you. I have to get to Cyclops and make them agree to all we want. Once they’ve put it in writing, we’ll be the victors here—we can have and do whatever we want.”

Jacqueline staggered to her feet. She was too exhausted to run.

Jordan cast her a vicious, vindictive glance. “Later,” he said quickly to Eleanor, “you can have your revenge on her—take a whip to her, do whatever you like. You can make her pay, again and again—tie her up and make her watch us. She’ll be your slave. We’ll be together and no one will be able to stop us. But I have to get her to Cyclops to win.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened; she reached out, grasping his hands. “No—don’t leave me!”

Jordan’s contemptuous exasperation returned. “I’ll come back!” Glancing up the path, he shook off her hands. “I have to go—now!”

Eleanor howled. Jordan ignored her. He moved swiftly, ducking his shoulder, hefting Jacqueline up. Locking his arm about her legs, he headed as fast as he could for the cove. And Cyclops.

Jacqueline bounced on his shoulder. Unconsciousness threatened; she fought it off, managed to raise her arms and brace them against Jordan’s back.

He was swearing continuously. As he bounded down the last section of path, she glimpsed figures above, some stopping by Eleanor, others streaming on. There were two paths that led to Cyclops, but the other, along the southern ridge, was longer.

Gauging the distance, Jacqueline accepted that Jordan, even carrying her, would reach Cyclops before any rescuers could reach them.

She’d done her best. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, smelled the salty tang of the sea—thought of Gerrard; she knew he’d come for her. Reaching deep, she marshaled her reserves. Whatever came next, she was going to need them.

G
errard and Barnaby came to a precipitous halt on the path above the cove. Behind them, a group of gardeners was untangling a sobbing Eleanor Fritham from a bed of cacti.

Before them, high on top of Cyclops, Jordan Fritham stood, holding Jacqueline teetering on the edge of the blowhole.

Everyone else had gathered on the path, staying off the rock itself. In the center of the group, his neighbors supporting him, Lord Tregonning stood, leaning heavily on his cane; even from this distance his face was ashen.

Lord Fritham’s pallor was even worse.

The bend in the path screened Gerrard and Barnaby from Jordan’s sight. Through breaks in the foliage, they watched as he bargained with Jacqueline’s life.

Higher up the garden, Mitchel Cunningham had passed them, racing back to the house for pen and paper. Sent back by Lord Tregonning in response to Jordan’s demand, Mitchel had rapidly filled them in.

Jordan had threatened to disfigure Jacqueline, to put out her eyes then and there if they didn’t meet his demands. If any rushed him, he’d drop her into Cyclops.

He’d asked for a deed to be written and signed by Lord Tregonning, and witnessed by everyone there, ceding Hellebore Hall and the estate to him outright, giving Jacqueline to him in marriage, and absolving him of all and any crimes they might think to lay at his door.

Gerrard was beyond swearing; Barnaby wasn’t.

“Shush,” Gerrard said. “Listen.”

Lord Fritham was pleading with his son. “There’s no need for any of this.”

“Need?” Jordan’s contempt-laden sneer reached them, carried on the sea breeze. “This can all be laid at your feet, old man—thanks to you, all I have is
need
. You and Mama have squandered what little inheritance I might have had, what with your entertainments, always trying to pretend you were as wealthy as your neighbors. The Manor is mortgaged to the hilt—don’t you think I know? So what’s left for me? I had to take steps to find myself a future. With Jacqueline’s money, Eleanor and I will live in London—where we always should have stayed. No more being buried in the country. We’ll live like kings in the capital, and leave you
damned
down here.”

The last words rang with furious resentment.

Gulls wheeled; the swoosh of the waves on the rocky shore of the cove lent an eerie backdrop to the fraught scene.

The tide was coming in; Cyclops had yet to start gushing in earnest, but the hem of Jacqueline’s gown was wet. The blowhole chamber emitted a low, steadily building grumble, more definite with every set of waves that rolled in.

“I wonder how much time we have before Cyclops really blows,” Barnaby whispered.

“In about half an hour it’ll start to gush.”

It was Matthew who’d spoken; Gerrard turned as he and Sir Vincent joined them. The older man was panting heavily.

Matthew’s eyes had locked on the unfolding drama. “It’ll be an hour before Cyclops reaches full strength. Regardless, if he drops her in now, there’s no way she’ll escape. She’ll either drown, or be battered to death.”

On Cyclops, Jordan was speaking again. “As soon as that fool Cunningham brings paper and pen, all you have to do is write what I tell you, and sign it.” A smile curved his lips. “I know you all—you’re ‘men of their word.’ You’ll do exactly as I ask so I won’t be forced to let go.” Jordan eased the arm about Jacqueline’s waist—her feet immediately started to slip inward on the sloping side of Cyclop’s funnel-like hole.

Everyone gasped, started forward, then stopped as Jordan laughed and hoisted her up again. “Just so.” He brandished the knife close to her cheek. “Don’t forget—stay back. I’m sure Cunningham will be here soon.”

No one moved. No one said anything.

“Is Jordan insane?” Barnaby asked. “No one’s going to feel obliged to honor a promise given under such duress.”

“He’s not insane.” Sir Vincent looked grim. “Just think of the scandal fighting a written and fully witnessed deed will cause—for everyone.”

“Oh, God!” Matthew grabbed Gerrard’s arm; he pointed out to sea. “Look!”

A summer squall was sweeping in. A stormy, churning dark gray curtain, it steadily advanced, eating up the previously blue sky, the waves changing to slate before it, white crests rising, kicked up by the winds running before the front.

“It’s coming this way.” Matthew’s voice was rising. “It’ll drive the waves before it.” He looked at the two figures on Cyclops, their backs to the approaching danger. “Jordan doesn’t know. Cyclops will blow much sooner than he expects, and much harder. What if he loses his grip?”

Sir Vincent swore. “We’ll have to tell him—”

“No.” Barnaby was staring at Jordan. “If you force him to move away from Cyclops…It’s his weapon. Without it, with just that little knife and a threat, he’ll be vulnerable. He’s liable to panic.”

“He’ll panic anyway,” Matthew said. “I know what happens in storms. Cyclops erupts suddenly, without any gradual build—”

Gerrard clamped a hand on Matthew’s arm, enjoining silence while his mind raced. “While Jordan holds Jacqueline over Cyclops, we can’t do anything, so we’re going to do something to change that—something Jordan won’t expect.”

“What?” Barnaby asked.

Gerrard met his eyes. “I need you and Sir Vincent to go out there and support Lord Tregonning, but not in silence. Jordan is vain—he thinks he’s the victor here. Ask him about the previous deaths, get him to tell you how clever he’s been—you know how to lead men like him to fill the time.” Gerrard glanced at Sir Vincent. “Most importantly, between you, I need you to keep Jordan’s eyes on
you
—on your faces. Don’t let him look at the others.”

Barnaby frowned. “Why?” Suspicion laced his tone.

Gerrard held up a hand. He looked back up the path, beckoned to one of the men surrounding Eleanor.