Ask For It(35)
Author: Sylvia Day

Marcus stilled, his thoughts quickly catching up to the reality he faced. He turned, searching for Eldridge, and found him nowhere. He did, however, note Talbot again, and came to the only conceivable conclusion. Nothing was as it seemed.

Snorting, St. John said, “So now you see the truth. I would have told you. However, you would not have believed me.”

A man fell at their feet, and they both leapt quickly out of the way.

“Allow my men to handle this, Westfield. We must bind your wound, ere you bleed to death, and find Lady Westfield.”

It was galling, the thought of working with St. John, and Marcus spit out the bile that coated his tongue. All this time, all these years …

Gradually the lane grew quiet, but Marcus’s blood raged, drowning his hearing in roaring sound. He shrugged out of his coat, discarding the ruined garment in the blood-spattered dirt. St. John worked quickly and efficiently at binding his damaged shoulder while Marcus watched the pirate’s lackeys drag the proliferation of bodies away with frightening nonchalance.

“How long have you been aware of this?” he asked gruffly.

“Years.”

“And the journal?”

Tightening the binding until Marcus winced, St. John nodded at his handiwork and stepped back. “Can you seat a horse?”

“I have been shot, I’m not an invalid.”

“Right. Let’s go. I can explain on the way.”

“Where is the journal, my lady?” Avery asked.

Elizabeth kept her gaze trained on the knife. “Safe.”

“None of us are safe.”

“What are you talking about?”

He came toward her quickly, and she recoiled. “Now is not the time to be skittish. I need you to think quickly and trust me implicitly, or you will not survive.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know that I do either. I watched several men approach from the rear garden and fan around the manse.”

“A siege?” she cried in horror. “There are servants here, Lord and Lady Barclay … Oh God. The baby.”

Avery gripped her elbow and led her toward the door. “Lord Langston is gone, as is Westfield and Eldridge. If there are enough of the brigands, they could take you with little effort. They’ve ransacked your room before, they know the way in.”

“Who would be so daring?”

A trusted bewigged figure filled the doorway, blocking their egress.

Avery paused, his jaw tightening grimly. He jerked his chin toward door. “He would.”

Marcus peered through the cover of bushes, and cursed under his breath. His heart raced in a panicked rhythm as he thought of his wife. In all of his near death encounters, had he ever been so afraid?

He counted four men at the front and three at the rear. If he were well, it would be a simple matter, but he had only one arm. Weakened by both blood loss and near crippling fear for Elizabeth, he knew he would be unable to fight them all. So he watched in frustrated helplessness as St. John’s men tended to the distasteful matter, creeping stealthily along the perimeter, waiting for an opening to strike.

“Eldridge knew almost from the first moment,” St. John said quietly, drawing Marcus’s attention. “He noted the resemblance between Hawthorne and me immediately. He confirmed his suspicions and confronted Hawthorne, threatening to reveal his treasonous intent for joining the agency.”

“Unless … ?”

“Unless we worked with him. He would provide the information, we would make use of it, and he would collect half the proceeds.”

“Jesus.” Marcus returned his gaze to Chesterfield Hall, barely registering the brick exterior with its climbing vines. Four years of his life had been dedicated to a lie. “I trusted him,” he said grimly.

“Hawthorne didn’t. Hence the creation of the journal.”

“Which contains … ?”

“Nothing.” St. John shrugged at his glare. “Hawthorne knew we were expendable, so he bartered with the journal, which was said to be an account of witnesses to Eldridge’s guilt and locations of booty we’d hidden from him. In truth, we had nothing, but the book ensured our safety. If something befell us, Eldridge’s perfidy would be revealed and he would lose what he thinks to be a fortune.”

“You saved yourself, but risked my wife?” Marcus growled. “Look at all she has suffered, what she is suffering now.”

“I am responsible for the search of her rooms. The attacks, however, were not my doing. They were a warning to me. I would have killed Eldridge long ago, but he swore Lady Westfield would pay with her life if his death came by my hand. He also threatened to reveal Hawthorne’s treason. I could not allow that to happen. So we have waited, he and I, for the day when the balance would tip and free one of us to kill the other.”

Standing from his low crouch, Marcus watched as the last of Eldridge’s men were eliminated, their throats slit so that no sound was made. With the same precision they’d shown on the lane, St. John’s lackeys quietly dragged the bodies away from the manse and into the nearby coppice. “Why not kill you when the journal surfaced? Once it was in his grasp, what use did he have for you?”

“He fears I am the only man alive who can decipher Hawthorne’s code.” St. John gave a mirthless laugh. “He has allowed you to try. I imagine if you had succeeded, he would have killed you and laid blame on me. He cannot simply do away with me, the people would riot.”

They left the cover of the bushes, and ran toward the manse. “It’s too quiet,” Marcus muttered as they entered through the front door. Chills coursed down his spine, along with the sweat that dampened his skin and clothing. They moved cautiously, unsure of what traps awaited them.

“Westfield.”

Both men paused midstep. Turning their heads, they met the intense aqua gaze of Viscount Barclay who stood frozen in a nearby doorway.

“Is there something you wish to tell me?” he asked, but his casual words could not hide the tension that stiffened his frame or the pure hatred he directed at St. John with a scathing glance.

Swiveling to face his brother-in-law, Marcus revealed his injury.

“Good God. What happened to you?”

“Eldridge.”

William’s eyes widened, and he took the news with a visible shudder. “What? I cannot … Eldridge?”

Marcus moved not at all, but William knew him well enough to be answered. He released a deep breath, composing himself, setting aside questions that could wait in deference to matters that couldn’t. “You cannot continue. You need a surgeon.”

“I need my wife. Eldridge is here, Barclay. In this house.”

“No!” William shot a horrified glance up the stairs, then he pointed at St. John. “And you think him worthy of your trust?”

“I don’t know whom to trust, but he just spared my life. That will have to suffice for the time being.”

Pale and obviously confused, William took a moment to collect his thoughts, but for Marcus it was a moment too long. Too much time had passed. Eldridge was ahead of them by some lead. Elizabeth was endangered, and he was nearly mad with the agony of it. Leaving the others behind, he threw caution to the wind and raced up the stairs.

“Lord Eldridge?” Elizabeth frowned in confusion as she looked past him. “Where is Westfield?”

“Lord Westfield is otherwise occupied. If you wish to be reunited, you will retrieve the journal and come with me.”

She stared, attempting to make sense of what he was about. Then she noted the tiny dark spatters on the gray velvet of his coat. The sick sense of foreboding intensified. Her hands clenched into fists, and she stepped forward. “What—have—you—done?”

Eldridge shifted, startled, and Avery took that slight advantage to launch himself the short distance and tackle him to the ground.

The two men hit the floor with a sickening thud and rolled out to the hallway, crashing into the opposite wall. Her mind dazed and her chest tight, Elizabeth wondered briefly if the noise would wake the baby. It was that thought which galvanized her.

She searched the room desperately with her eyes, seeking something, anything that could be used as a weapon.

“Run!” Avery grunted, his hands occupied with holding at bay the knife Eldridge wielded.

That single word forced her to move. Lifting her skirts, Elizabeth ran past the men locked in deadly combat and fled down the hall toward Margaret’s rooms. She rounded the corner and rammed headfirst into a unyielding barrier. With a scream of terror, she fell, clutching desperately at the hard body that fell with her.

“Elizabeth.”

The breath left her lungs as they hit floor.

Sprawled atop her husband, she lifted her head and caught sight of William’s shoes as he ran to his rooms.

“Leave Eldridge to me,” St. John rasped softly, as he stepped past them.

Elizabeth returned her gaze to her husband, but had trouble seeing him with the tears that streamed from her eyes. With gentle hands, Marcus rolled her from him. He was frighteningly pale, his mouth drawn, but the warmth and relief in his gaze was undeniable.

“He said you were captured!” she cried.

“I was very nearly killed.”

She noted the blood-soaked bandage that wrapped his torso and shoulder. “Oh dear God, you’ve been hurt!”

“Are you well?” he asked gruffly, rising to his feet and then pulling her to hers.

She nodded, the tears flowing unchecked. “Mr. James saved my life by holding off Eldridge until I could escape, but I found him searching my room. He wanted the journal, Marcus. He had a knife …”

Marcus pulled her closer, absorbing her trembling with a one-armed embrace. “Hush. Go to your brother, love. Do not leave his side until I come for you. Do you understand?”

“Where are you going?” She gripped the waistband of his breeches in nerveless fists. “You need help. You’re bleeding.” Elizabeth straightened her spine. “Let me see you to William, then I can consider—”

His mouth took hers in a hard, quick kiss. “I do adore you, my fearless bride. But indulge me, if you will. Allow me to finish this. My masculine pride begs it of you.”

“Don’t be arrogant now! You are in no condition to chase criminals, and I can aim a pistol better than most men.”

“I will not disagree.” His voice firmed. “However, in this instance I’m afraid I must exert my husbandly right of command, despite the row I know that will cause. Go, my love. Do as I say. I will return to you shortly, and then you may both harangue and fuss over me to your heart’s content.”

“I do not harangue.”

Steel clashed in the nearby hallway, and the look in his eyes hardened enough to make her shiver. Following the urging of the gentle shove he gave her, Elizabeth moved with shaky legs down the hall.

“Be careful,” she admonished. But when she looked behind her, he was already gone.

Marcus watched Elizabeth retreat, and thanked God for her. Everything he’d believed in, everyone he’d thought solid and immutable had shattered in one fell blow. Except for her. Wanting desperately to take shelter in her, but needing to end this first, he turned about, running toward the sounds of conflict.

He rounded the corner, his jaw locked with grim resignation and discovered St. John, his body moving with loose-limbed grace, his sword arm thrusting so quickly it was difficult to track it. Eldridge opposed him, his wig lost, his hair wild, his face reddened from exertion. It was a losing battle he fought, but the agency leader was not Marcus’s concern. Certainly Marcus had his grievances, but his wife was alive, and St. John’s brother was not.

His attention was instead on Avery, who stood to the side with dagger in hand. Marcus waited, unobserved, wanting to give Avery the opportunity to do what was right. They had worked together for years, and Marcus had, up until an hour ago, thought of the agent as a friend. He couldn’t prevent the tiny hope that his trust had not been completely misplaced.

St. John feinted, and then lunged forward on his right foot. A winded Eldridge could not move swiftly enough to deflect the hit, and Marcus watched as the blade sank home in his thigh and he fell to his knees.

The pirate loomed over the vanquished Eldridge with teeth clenched, his hand fisted around the other man’s throat.

“You cannot kill me,” Eldridge croaked. “You need me.”

It was then that Avery made his move, approaching the distracted St. John from behind with his arm raised and knife ready to fall.

“Avery,” Marcus growled.

Avery spun about and threw himself forward, forcing Marcus to return. Parrying the flashing dagger with his small sword, Marcus leapt back a step. “Don’t do this,” he grunted. But Avery would not desist.

“I have no choice.”

Marcus attempted to draw out the confrontation, praying Avery would break through his panic and cease. He aimed his blade at less vulnerable areas, striking to wound and not to kill. Finally, however, exhausted by his own injury and depleted of options, he made a fatal thrust.

Panting, Avery sank to the floor, his back to the wall, blood drizzling from the corner of his lips. His hands were stained crimson, pressing against the spot on his chest where Marcus had impaled him. Eldridge lay at his feet, St. John’s sword sunk so deep into his heart it gouged into the wood floor beneath.

Sighing, Marcus dropped into a crouch. “Ah, Avery. Why?”

“My lord,” Avery gasped, sweat dripping from his brow. “You know the answer to that. Prison is not for the likes of me.”

“You spared my wife, I might have helped you.”

A translucent red bubble formed between Avery’s lips and burst as he spoke. “I grew … I grew quite fond of her.”

“And she of you.” Marcus withdrew a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from Avery’s brow. The agent’s eyes closed at the touch of the cloth.