Wicked at Heart (43 page)

Gwyneth reached
it first, and, as Rhiannon grabbed the dog's collar to restrain him, yanked it
open.

Her heart
flipped over.  Two men stood there, one a naval lieutenant, young but well seasoned
by duty, the other a scarlet-clad marine.  Gwyneth took one look at their grim,
emotionless faces, and suddenly couldn't breathe.

"Lady
Morninghall?"

She swallowed
hard against the rising sense of dread.  "I am Lady Morninghall," she
whispered, nearly cracking the doorknob with the force with which she gripped
it.  "Has something befallen my husband?"

"May we
come in?"

"Yes — yes,
by all means."

The two men
entered, though neither made any move to make himself comfortable, standing
just inside the small foyer and looking vaguely ill at ease.  The
blue-and-white clad officer introduced himself as Lieutenant Whymark.  "I
come on behalf of Admiral Edmund Bolton, commander in chief of His Majesty's
forces in the port of Portsmouth," he said, his voice coldly official and
lacking any vestige of human emotion.  He produced a sheet of paper from his
pocket and, holding it out before him, proceeded to read it, head high, his
words droning on and on as the three women stared at him in horror.

"In short,
Lady Morninghall," he said flatly, "your husband is being held under
close arrest and faces charges of espionage, treason, neglect of his duties,
and holding communication with an enemy —"

"
Treason!
"
Rhiannon cried angrily, staring from Whymark to her benumbed sister. 
"This cannot be so!"

"— which
are all severe crimes as defined by the Articles of War, specifically those articles
pertaining to offenses against the executive power of the king and his
government," Whymark continued, as though Rhiannon had never spoken. 
"There will be a court-martial, of course, which shall convene
immediately."  He rolled up the paper and returned it to his pocket, his
trained, emotionless gaze meeting Gwyneth's.  "I should prepare you, my
lady, for the inevitable fact that these are all crimes deserving and
punishable by nothing less than the death penalty."

Treason . . .
espionage . . . holding communication with the enemy . . .

The death
penalty.

The color
drained from Gwyneth's face and she staggered back. 
I will not faint
,
she thought, taking deep breaths to calm herself as she met the officer's
steady, pitiless gaze.  She felt Rhiannon's hand supporting her elbow. 
This
is not happening!

Very calmly, she
said, "And where is my husband being held?"

"Aboard the
port admiral's flagship.  Lord Morninghall has sent word that he wishes to see
you —"

"I shall go
to him now."

"We will
wait outside, then, until you sort yourself out."

He turned
abruptly, the marine following just behind, and began to walk down the steps.

"Wait!"

He paused, and
looked back at her patiently.

"What has
my husband done to have such terrible charges brought upon him?"

Whymark looked
at her in disbelief — a disbelief that quickly turned to pity as he realized
that she truly
was
ignorant of her husband's treasonous doings. 
"Did you not know?" he murmured, his eyes softening in sudden
understanding.  "Your husband was caught last night, engaged in the very
act for which he has been charged.  I am sorry to inform you, my lady, but the
Marquess of Morninghall is the elusive Black Wolf."

~~~~

"Impossible!"
Gwyneth said coldly, as Admiral Bolton met her at the entryport of his massive,
beautifully turned out flagship.  He looked down at her angry, militant face
and flashing eyes with unshakable aplomb.  "Utterly impossible!  You have
the wrong man, I tell you — my husband cannot be the Black Wolf!"

Bolton allowed a
cold, patient smile.  He took the marchioness' elbow and, nodding to a brace of
Royal Marines to follow them, slowly led her aft.  "My dear Lady
Morninghall," he murmured cavalierly, "Your husband is indeed that
notorious criminal, and 'twas one of his own officers who apprehended him.  There
were many witnesses.  I am sorry, but our proof is irrefutable."

"I told you
before, and
I shall tell you again
," Her Ladyship returned in a
hard, forceful voice that a lesser man might have found intimidating, "my
husband is not the man you seek.  He
cannot
be, as he has been with me
at our home in the Cotswolds for the better part of the last
month
and I
happen to know that in his absence, the Black Wolf struck the prison ship
Surrey
and tried to take off a young American.  Even the Black Wolf cannot be in two
places at once.  My husband was with
me
, and I am
not
sorry, but
I too have
irrefutable proof
!"

"I'm sure
you do," Bolton allowed condescendingly, "but be that as it may, I
can only tell you that the man who surrendered himself to us last night — while
engaged in trying to rescue that very same lad, I might add — is the Marquess
of Morninghall."

"I will go
straight to the top about this, I swear it!"

"My dear
lady, I
am
the top."

She flushed and
tried to jerk her elbow free of his hand, impaling him with a look that
could've melted glass.  They stood there, the slight young woman facing down
the glittering, all-powerful admiral who ruled over every officer and seaman
who served in Portsmouth.  "You will not murder my husband," she
vowed.  "I will stop at nothing, do you hear me,
nothing
in order
to save him!  The Marquess of Morninghall is innocent!"

"I do
believe the court-martial will decide that.  In fact, it shall convene tomorrow
with my flag captain presiding over a panel of twelve other officers of highest
rank, including captains and admirals.  It will be a fair trial, Lady
Morninghall, but I advise you not to hold out for any hope for a
reprieve."

"You cannot
do this."

"I
will
do it.  And I will see the sentence carried out, quickly and efficiently."

"I will not
let you hang my husband!"

"Lady
Morninghall, your husband is an officer.  We do not hang our officers; we give
them the dignity of a firing squad.  Now if you'll please follow me . . ."

Seething, she
glared at him, her pulse pounding angrily against her temples.

"Come,"
he was saying, "I have had your husband taken from the wardroom and placed
in solitary confinement so that your visit with him might be more private.  Let
it not be said that Admiral Bolton does not have a heart, hmmm?"

With an arrogant
sweep of his hand, he directed her down another ladder, and there, on the deck below,
were cabins set in dim, long rows built into either side of the flagship's
massive hull.  Lanterns were hung from the beams above, but they did little to
penetrate the oppressive gloom, which was even thicker within each of those
tiny compartments.  Bolton, bent nearly double to move beneath the deck above,
led her forward, the two marines following at a discreet distance.

There, standing
at attention just outside the last, most forward cabin, was another Royal
Marine.  His stance was ramrod straight, his musket poised at his side, his
eyes staring straight ahead.

"Lady
Morninghall has come to visit the accused," Bolton murmured, directing her
forward.  "See that she does not get into any
trouble
."

"Aye,
sir."

One of the other
marines moved ahead to unlock the door, then stood back so Gwyneth could
enter.  She shot Bolton a look of promised battle, but he was already moving
back down the corridor, the remaining marine in his wake.

Gwyneth turned
and looked into the shadowy depths of the cabin.

"Damon. 
Oh, my —"

He was sitting
on a wooden bench, looking as contrite as a schoolboy caught in some devilish
prank, an endearing half-guilty, half-hopeful little smile touching his lips. 
He rose at sight of her, every inch a nobleman despite the fact that they had
confined him like an animal, despite the fact that he'd most likely die like
one as well.  But Bolton had not lied; he was an officer, and they had allowed
him every courtesy.  His hair was combed, his face shaved, his clothing a clean,
snowy shirt tucked into snug white naval breeches.  Gwyneth looked at him and
thought him too magnificent to die.  Too beautiful, too vital, too full of
unused years.  Her teeth sank into her trembling lower lip, and then with a
little cry, she went into his outstretched arms.

"I am
sorry, Gwyneth.  Indeed, I am."

She felt his
strong, warm embrace closing about her shoulders, the comforting thump of his
heart beneath her ear.  "This cannot be happening, Damon.  Someone,
somewhere, made a mistake, you cannot be the Black Wolf!"

"Gwyneth." 
His hand was stroking her hair, calming her as he might a frightened young
child.  "Dear, loyal Gwyneth.  Do you not remember what creatures guard
the Marquesses of Morninghall as they sleep?  Do you not remember what
creatures stand watch from the very gates of Morninghall Abbey?"  His
voice was patient, resolute, resigned.  "Think, dearest wife — and then
think upon my surname."

"Wolves,"
she whispered brokenly.  "Oh, dear God . . ."  But even as the truth
stood starkly before her, she refused to believe this.  To believe it meant to
believe in his mortality, his guilt, and that they could, and would, put him to
death no matter how strongly the heart beneath her ear beat, no matter how
valiantly she fought for his life.  "No!  I cannot believe it!"

"Believe
it, my love, for it is true.  The wrong man was not apprehended and arrested
last night.  I
am
the Black Wolf, and I have no regrets, except that you
must learn of it in such a cruel and shocking way."

"But
why
?"
she asked, pulling back to touch his cheek, to gaze beseechingly into his
strangely beautiful eyes.  "
Why
, Damon?"

He gave a sad,
faraway smile.  "Revenge mostly," he finally admitted with a guilty
little shrug.  He pulled her to the bench, made her sit down.  And as she gazed
up at him, her eyes misty with confusion and denial, he told her the truth,
starting with how the Black Wolf originally had been Connor Merrick, who, upon
his escape from the prison hulk, had adopted the alias as a direct way to mock
Damon deWolfe, its apathetic captain.  So apathetic was that captain, so full
of twisted fury and self-pity and hatred, that he'd knowingly allowed the
rescues to go on right beneath his nose.

"But
why?" Gwyneth asked, shaking her head and not understanding any of this.

"It gave me
great pleasure to see Bolton getting his just desserts.  I loved seeing someone
make a laughingstock of him and the navy, and as I had no respect for myself,
and was so far gone in despair and anger, I didn't care that I too was being
humiliated."

"But if
Connor's really the Black Wolf . . ."

"Connor is
not the Black Wolf.  I am.  He started it, but after you forced me to see how
terrible things were belowdecks, I became ashamed of my apathy and desperate
for a way to atone for it.  I needed to prove something to myself.  That I too
could do something brave and good for someone else.  You'd done so much for
those prisoners that I felt I could do no less."

Gwyneth pursed
her lips.  "And I suppose that, because it was also a way of gaining your
own personal revenge against Bolton, it made playing the Black Wolf all the more
sweeter, am I right?"

Damon smiled,
sheepishly.  "Well, yes . . ."

"Oh. . .
."  She stamped her foot hard.  "Damn it, Damon!"

He gathered her
close, pressing her cheek against his heart and laying his jaw against the top
of her head.  "I have no regrets, Gwyneth.  I would do it all over again. 
Bolton aside, had I been able to save only
one
of those wretched,
suffering souls, all that I have braved, all that I shall face in the days
ahead would be worth it."

"Five more
minutes," the marine called flatly from just outside the door.

"You should
have told me," Gwyneth spat mutinously.  "Damn it, Damon, you should
have told me!"

"I could
not.  I could not take the chance that, if I were caught, you would be brought
down with me."  He gently grasped her shoulders and set her back, looking
deeply into her angry eyes.  "Especially as you were so keen on doing
things to help the prisoners yourself.  You were safer not knowing.  Forgive
me, Gwyneth, but I love you too much to allow you into the alliance of the
Black Wolf."

"I don't
know if I
can
forgive you," she said sharply.  Her tears had dried,
and she was almost glaring at him.  His heart filled with admiration for her
spirit, her courage.  Already she was rallying, his little tigress, refusing to
sit helplessly by — though of course, there was nothing she could do for him.

She raised her
chin, brave and determined.  "So tell me, what will happen now?"

"There will
be a court-martial, of course, to be held here aboard Bolton's flagship and
continuing every forenoon until a verdict is reached and a sentence
passed."  He paused and looked at her solemnly.  "It will be the
penalty of death, Gwyneth."

The marine
outside called, "Three more minutes!"

"I will
write to Admiral Falconer!  I will write to my former brother-in-law, Lord
Simms!  I will petition the Regent.  I will not stop until you are freed, damn
it.  
I will not let you die!
"

He shook his
head.  "Dearest heart," he murmured, looking down into her face. 
"Admiral Falconer is on his way to the West Indies; by the time a message
could be brought to him, it would be too late.  Besides, there is nothing he
can do, even if he
wished
to help me."  He looked deeply into her
angry eyes, his own gaze pleading.  "I beg of you, Gwyneth, do not torture
yourself so.  There is nothing you can do.  Absolutely nothing."