Surrender Becomes Her Part 18

For several minutes Marcus let black scalding despair wash over him at the terrible choice before him, but then he straightened suddenly and his gaze narrowed as he looked at the memorandum before him. He studied the doc.u.ment intently for several minutes, his fingers rubbing the edges of the paper. A desperate idea occurred to him and, swiftly rerolling the memorandum and placing it once more in its waterproofing oilskin, he stuffed it back into Whitley's greatcoat.

Blowing out the candles, with Whitley's greatcoat slung carelessly over his shoulder, he strode from his office in the stable toward the house. He didn't have a lot of time. The meeting was set for midnight and he had a great deal of tedious work to do before then.

I'm going to beat the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at their own game, he thought fiercely, and I am going to get my wife back!

Intent upon his own thoughts, Marcus was oblivious to his surroundings, and the notion that he might be watched never crossed his mind. Even if it had, it is unlikely he'd have spotted the watcher hidden amongst the shrubs and trees that were scattered charmingly throughout the area, but the watcher had him firmly in his sights. As Marcus walked swiftly down the broad avenue that led to the main house, the watcher kept pace with him, gliding invisibly through the glorious gardens and parklands tended so a.s.siduously by the head gardener and his staff. Once Marcus entered the big double doors at the front of the house, the watcher slipped around the side of the house, determined not to lose track of Whitley's greatcoat. He'd considered attacking Marcus and taking the greatcoat from him right then, but after eyeing the strong build of the man walking toward the house, decided in favor of prudence.

Inside the house, Marcus went directly to his office, locking the door behind him. Thompson had already seen to it that the bra.s.s candelabra on either side of the fireplace had been lit and a small fire glowed on the hearth so the room was not in darkness, but Marcus lit a few more candles on his desk. Putting down the greatcoat and taking the memorandum from its hiding place once more, he carefully unrolled and considered it again at length. He was pleased to see that his first impression had been right. The paper the memorandum had been written on was nothing out of the ordinary and he'd wager a sack full of gold guineas that he had paper of a similar nature right in his desk drawer.

The paper had been his main obstacle and, convinced his rash plan would work, he sat down behind his desk and, after rummaging around his desk drawers, found precisely what he was looking for: several pages of paper. Paper that was nearly identical to those that the plans for Wellesley's invasion of Portugal had been written on. Checking his quill and ink bottle, he began the laborious task of copying the memorandum word for word, except for the locations and dates and the number of s.h.i.+ps and troops-those he changed to whatever whim took him.

There was one fatal flaw in his plan and he was chillingly aware of it. If the ransom had come from Whitley and it was Whitley he was meeting to exchange the memorandum for Isabel, Whitley had to know the contents of the memorandum and would know the one Marcus handed him was a fake. But Marcus was taking the desperate gamble that Whitley had nothing to do with Isabel's abduction and that her captor had no idea what was in the real doc.u.ment.

The ransom note had given him no clue as to its author. Again, he didn't believe that it was Whitley. Whitley was a coward-look at his fumbling attempts to regain his greatcoat-and while abducting an unarmed woman wasn't the act of a brave man, it did entail a certain amount of verve and boldness, traits that Whitley had never displayed. And then there was Whitley's disappearance. It was possible the disappearance was all smoke to hide Whitley's real actions, but Marcus rather thought not. The most likely reason for Whitley's sudden and inexplicable disappearance was because he was dead. Whether by accident, and the body not yet discovered, or murdered by an as-yet-unknown party, remained to be seen. Instinct told Marcus that whoever had engineered Isabel's abduction was new on the scene and was behind Whitley's disappearance. He was, he admitted brutally, gambling on a new set of players. Players that would never realize that they had been duped until it was too late.

The simplest explanation for this latest development was that this newcomer, or newcomers, had captured Whitley and, by ways he didn't care to think about, compelled him to tell them about the memorandum. Whitley was certainly dead; Marcus could not imagine him giving up the information about the memorandum easily. He paused for a moment, remembering that Whitley had given up the gold locket.... He shook his head. But the locket had not been the sure thing the memorandum was. Whitley's threats to Isabel had been nearly all bluff and he had little to lose by giving it up. But the memorandum...

His gaze dropped to the papers in front of him. The French would pay a king's ransom to get their hands on this information and Whitley knew it: he would not have given it up. Marcus was convinced that Whitley had to be dead and that he had died at the hands of whoever now held Isabel. That Isabel was in the hands of someone ruthless enough to torture and murder filled him with dread and rage. Unconsciously, his hand clenched into a fist and he was aware that where his wife and her safety was concerned, he was quite capable of murder himself.

Reminding himself harshly that before he could take vengeance there was work to be done, he returned once more to copying the memorandum. Some time later, the chiming of the clock on the mantel jerked him from his task and he stared down, surprised at the duplicate doc.u.ment he had created. To the untrained eye it looked real enough; thank G.o.d he hadn't had to deal with seals or engravings. It had been the fact that the paper itself was of a common type and had not been altered in any way that had allowed him to take this desperate gamble. As for the contents themselves, some nameless clerk in the offices of the Horse Guards had written the original and, beyond a set of initials at the bottom of the last page, there weren't even signatures to worry over. Which was just as well, Marcus thought, since until this moment he'd never had reason to try his hand at forgery. But critically comparing the two sets of papers, he decided that his first attempt at forgery, and pray G.o.d his last, would do-provided Whitley hadn't given Isabel's abductors some idea what was in the doc.u.ment and that Whitley wasn't still alive and able to denounce the false memorandum. There were many things that could go wrong, but Marcus had his mind firmly closed against anything but success. He had to get Isabel back. Anything else was unthinkable.

Cloaked by the darkness outside, the watcher s.h.i.+fted slightly in his position behind an impressive clump of lilacs. He had a clear view of the interior of Marcus's office and, as night had deepened, the illumination from the candles had lit up the room like a stage. With great interest he had watched Marcus's actions and had smiled to himself when he realized what Marcus was about.

Inside the house, the doc.u.ment complete, Marcus carefully creased and folded it into the shape and size of the original. He undid it and refolded it several times so that the creases lost their sharp, crisp look and more resembled that of the true memorandum. When he was satisfied with his work, he fitted the forged doc.u.ment with all its false information back into the oilcloth and then the oilcloth into the seam in Whitley's greatcoat.

Rising from his chair, the original memorandum in his hand, he walked across the room to the far wall and moved a large gilt framed picture of Tempest that he'd commissioned from George Stubbs more than a decade ago when he had first bought the horse. Behind the portrait of the stallion was a safe and, after opening it, Marcus placed the real memorandum in it.

Unaware that his every movement had been observed, Marcus wearily sat back down behind his desk. Even though he had created a pa.s.sable forgery, the slas.h.i.+ng claws of the demon in his chest had not abated and he could not even find solace in the knowledge that at least he had a plan to save his wife and foil the enemies who sought to harm England. His iron control cracked and he buried his head in his hands, doubt strangling him. There was so much that could go wrong and he had no reason to believe that he could actually trust the person who had sent him the ransom demand.

Isabel, he realized bleakly, could already be dead. A low, primitive moan of anguish rose up from deep inside him. He could not bear to even think such thoughts. I never even told her I love her.... She had to be alive. She had to be.

Isabel was very much alive and she had spent the intervening hours swinging between pure fury and frank terror. She fought stubbornly against the despair and fear that battered her, but it was no easy battle and occasionally her defenses were breached and wretched despair won-but only for a while. Anger kept some of the fear at bay, but she couldn't entirely squelch the occasional flash of panic at the thought of what would happen to her when her captors came back. Equally terrifying was the possibility that her captors would never return to free her and that, for some unknown reason, she had been left here to die.

Despite her fears and terror, she was not idle and, once she was convinced that she was well and truly alone, she struggled to free herself. She wasted time and energy fighting against the bonds that held her before admitting bitterly that she was unlikely to escape from the ropes that held her fast; her captors had tied her well. Undaunted, she tried another tack and, sliding off the chair onto the floor, she tried rubbing the gag and the blindfold against the rough, wooden surface of the chair, hoping to loosen or remove one of them, but to no avail. Forcing back tears of frustration and anger, panting from her efforts, she finally lay on the floor and considered her next move. Her hands were tied behind her back with a length of rope running from them down to her ankles where her feet had been tied together. She couldn't walk and she couldn't get her hands in front of her where she could remove the gag and the blindfold. For a moment despair claimed her.

Exhausted from struggling, she lay there on the floor and fought the bleak emotions that crowded through her. She could not escape, at least not at the moment, and having swallowed that unpalatable fact, she cast about for a reason for her predicament. Understanding why she had been captured might give her something to fight with-if her captors returned.

Abductions, highwaymen, and footpads were uncommon, almost unheard of in this area, yet in broad daylight two men had brazenly abducted her in the middle of Lord Manning's lands. There had been nothing about either man that gave her a clue to their ident.i.ty, although from his speech she had concluded that one of them spoke like a gentleman. The other man had clearly been of a rougher sort, but beyond that she could not describe either man.

But why, she wondered, why did they abduct me? Her abduction was like something one would read in a novel from the Minerva Press: things like this didn't happen to women like her. She was a respectable woman, a member of the gentry, her life mundane and predictable...until Whitley had appeared. Behind the blindfold her eyes narrowed. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

Impatiently, she struggled into a sitting position and half leaned against the wall of the hut. It wasn't comfortable, but she felt less helpless than simply lying like a trussed hen on the ground.

Frowning, she reasoned that Whitley had to be behind her abduction. Could this all be tied somehow to her days in India? Was it connected to Edmund? Panic flooded through her. She took a deep breath, fighting back a flood of fright. No. It could have nothing to do with India or Edmund. Marcus had seen to that. All evidence had been destroyed. And Whitley, she reminded herself uneasily, had disappeared, and while she could not identify her captors, she knew that neither one of them had been Whitley. She bit her lip. He might not have been one of the men who abducted her, but Whitley was involved somehow-of that she was convinced.

She wasted several minutes in wild speculation, before coming back to the one thing she was convinced was true: this went back to Whitley. And if it was not connected to India and Edmund, then what? It had to have been something that occurred here in England. Something recent...

Her brow furrowed, she considered the problem. Whitley had retired from the military. That was recent, but she could make no connection with his retirement and her situation. Something occurred to her and she sat up a little straighter. Whitley wasn't the only newcomer to the neighborhood who had recently retired from the military. Jack Landrey, Lord Thorne, Marcus's cousin, had also retired from the military not too long ago.... Her breath caught. And then there was the mysterious meeting the other night between Marcus, Jack, and Garrett-a meeting whose purpose Marcus would not tell her. Could that meeting have had something to do with Whitley? Was that the common denominator? She nodded slowly. It had to be. Nothing else made any sense. There was something that tied Whitley to her abduction...and whatever Marcus would not tell her about his meeting with Jack and Garrett.

It was thin, she admitted wryly, but she didn't dismiss it as she had several of her other more outrageous ideas. But even if she was right in her deductions, and she wasn't entirely convinced that she was, it didn't change her circ.u.mstances: she was still bound, gagged, blindfolded, and held captive and she knew not why.

Like a viper unwinding from behind a rock, it occurred to her that she could be in grave danger and that her life could be at stake. If she was being held simply for ransom, what if something went wrong? What if her captors had never had any intention of exchanging her for whatever it was they wanted so desperately? Again the ugly question crossed her mind: what if she had been left here to die? Stonily, she considered the knowledge that she might not survive this ordeal, that she might never see her husband or her son again.

Isabel flinched, recoiling from the very notion of never seeing Marcus or Edmund again. Choking terror reigned for a moment, but once again she fought it back and forced herself to believe that all would end well. She would not allow fear and hopelessness to beat her. She would survive this. She must! She had too much to live for, and she thought of those gray-eyed, black-haired little boys and girls she'd been dreaming of before her abduction, and Edmund, and most of all Marcus.... Yes. She had every reason to live.

Stiffening her resolve, she tried to calculate how many hours had pa.s.sed since she had first been taken captive. It seemed like an eternity since she had been dumped here and her captors had left, and while an eternity might not have pa.s.sed, she knew it had been a very long time. Blindfolded, she had no sense of the pa.s.sing time, but she'd been aware for some time that the air felt cooler and she was certain that darkness had fallen. Someone would have realized hours ago that something had happened to her. If her captors had turned her horse loose, and she suspected that they had, eventually the mare would have ambled home. The alarm would have been raised. People, Marcus, would be looking for her.

A warm glow spread through her body at the thought of her husband and his rage at her abduction, his determination to find her. Yes, Marcus would be looking for her and she knew he would not easily give up. The image of his beloved face floated before her and, despite her best efforts to hold gloomy thoughts at bay, she wondered bleakly if she would ever see him again. Or her son? What of Edmund? If she were to die, he would well and truly be orphaned and her heart ached for him and what might be. Edmund would mourn her loss, but he would survive. He had a loving grandfather and she knew that Marcus would care for him and see to his future.

And what of Marcus? How would he react to her death? Oh, she knew he would suffer; he could not have made love to her the way he had without having some depth of feeling for her. A soft smile curved her mouth. Few men would have reacted as he had when he had discovered the truth about Edmund. If she had not already loved him, that moment alone would have won her heart. She never doubted that he held her in high affection and she had enough sense to realize that it was more than just honor, more than just a shared history or propinquity that bound them together.

There was no question about her feelings. She loved him. It seemed she always had. A small sob rose up within her. But I never told him, she thought miserably. I never once let him see what was in my heart. I was too busy hiding my secrets, too busy pretending that he meant nothing to me...when he means everything to me!

She sat there sunk in bitter remorse, cursing herself for all the opportunities she had squandered to tell her husband how much she loved him and swearing that if she lived, she'd not be so foolish in the future.

Her stomach emitted a very ungenteel growl, telling her better than anything else that the hour was very late. How much longer would she be held captive?

That thought had hardly crossed her mind when she heard the sounds of hoofbeats. In a mixture of relief and terror, she listened intently. One horse or two? One, she decided quickly. The gentleman or the other? Or someone else entirely? Whitley? She s.h.i.+vered. Please not Whitley.

The new arrival approached the hut and the door opened. "I see that you have been busy trying to escape," said the one she had dubbed the gentleman and she sighed with relief. She had hoped it would be him. She had no reason to trust either one of her captors, but intuition led her to believe that the gentleman was the lesser of two evils.

"And if you are uncomfortable," he said without a hint of compa.s.sion, "you have only yourself to blame."

Isabel muttered furiously from behind her gag.

He laughed. "Yes, yes, I know you would like to put a dagger in my liver, but since I am rather fond of it, I'm sure you'll understand if I don't oblige you."

She hurled another garbled insult at him, but he only laughed again and easily plucked her upright. "Come along," he said in a kinder tone. "Your ordeal is almost over."

With that he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her away from her place of captivity. Reaching his horse, he laid her carefully across the pommel of his saddle and mounted behind her. Making certain he had her securely in front of him, he kicked the horse into a brisk trot.

Isabel s.h.i.+fted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and again received a sharp smack on her bottom for her efforts. "If you want to fall off, just keep that up," said her captor. "So far nothing has gone as I'd planned and the last thing I need is for you to get your neck broken falling off my horse. Behave yourself and I promise this will all end happily." He chuckled. "Well, not for everybody, but in the main."

Despite his outward confidence, the gentleman was worried. It had been a number of years since he and Collard had worked together, and Collard's killing of Whitley disturbed him. When he'd had to leave to fetch Mrs. Sherbrook, he'd been uneasy about leaving Collard behind tonight. He no longer trusted him to follow orders and he'd had to choose between having Collard watch Sherbrook or having him go get Mrs. Sherbrook. He grimaced. He didn't like either choice, but in the end, he had not been willing to risk Isabel Sherbrook's life to Collard's less-than-tender mercies. If Collard would stick to the plan, all would be well, but he suspected that Collard had a different scenario than the one they'd discussed. He sighed. Christ. He supposed he would have to kill Collard, after all.

Uneasy about what Collard might or might not do, he urged his horse into a gallop. The horse surged forward and Isabel gasped. "Yes, yes, I know it's uncomfortable, poppet," he murmured, bending low against the horse's neck, "and I apologize, but it's necessary, so hang on."

The ride was very rough and she lost all sense of direction. Fortunately, it was not a long journey and, just when Isabel thought her head would become disconnected from her neck from the constant jarring motion of the horse's gait, the gentleman slowed his mount. The horse walked quietly for several minutes before the gentleman halted the animal. After sliding from the animal and tying it, he unloaded Isabel and once again slung her over his shoulder.

He was moving very carefully and silently and Isabel had the impression that he was sneaking up on someone or something. He stopped for a second and then she heard the opening of a door and he stepped inside a building. Walking swiftly, he hurried toward some destination. As she was carried along she heard the restive movement of animals, the smell of grain and hay, the distinctive scent of horses. Was she in a stable? He paused, opening another door. The next instant she was laid on the ground-ground that was heavily bedded in straw.

A stall? she wondered. It was obvious she was in a stable somewhere; even if she hadn't recognized the common smells, the blowing and snorting of the nearby horses would have alerted her, but where was she?

"This wasn't part of the plan," her captor said softly, "but I think you'll be safe here."

He moved and the next instant, she felt the rope that had linked her hands to her feet fall free. He patted her slightly on the cheek and whispered, "You're a smart little baggage. I'm sure that you'll manage to free yourself." He laughed low. "Eventually."

And then he was gone.

When she was certain he really was gone, Isabel wiggled around in the straw, struggling to get her hands from behind her back. She was agile, but it was not easy, the skirts of her riding habit thwarting her efforts to get her hands over her feet. After several fruitless attempts, she paused in her efforts. Breathless, she lay there listening, wondering where she was and what was happening with Marcus.

Isabel and her fate were foremost in Marcus's thoughts as he prepared to meet her abductor. The place for the exchange was not far, less than two miles away. The site was a well-known landmark: a huge, lightning-blasted oak tree in a small clearing adjacent to the trail that led to Manning Court.

Even though he had the forged memorandum, Marcus had still considered many different plans to free his wife in the intervening hours. Isabel's safe return was his main goal, but it galled him to just tamely hand over Whitley's greatcoat. He had no way of knowing if Isabel's abductors would keep their word, no way of knowing whether she was alive or not, no way of knowing whether he was riding into a trap....

The idea of setting his own trap had crossed his mind, and more than once he'd reached for paper to write Jack and ask his help. But each time, fear for Isabel's safety stopped him. What if, through his actions, he caused the very thing he feared: Isabel's death?

Through the long hours, he'd desperately tried to conceive of a way to thwart the enemy and regain his wife-alive. In the end, concern for Isabel's safety defeated him. He dare not risk her life in pursuit of revenge. The forgery was risky enough and he would take no further chances with Isabel's life.

His spirit in turmoil, Marcus stared blindly into s.p.a.ce. His cousins Julian or Charles would have known precisely how to handle something like this, and they would have, he was convinced, come up with some daring plan. He cursed himself for having preferred the quiet, the mundane life. If I had been more adventuresome, he berated himself, I would have been able to free Isabel in one clever move and confound her captors. His gaze dropped to Whitley's greatcoat and disgust roiled through him. And what do I do? Instead of riding with sword drawn to save the woman I love, I forge a b.l.o.o.d.y memorandum!

Another glance at the clock on the mantel told him that he had run out of time, that within the next several minutes he would either have his wife back or...He furiously shook his head, unable to complete the thought. Hopeful, angry, eager, and anxious, Marcus rose to his feet and picked up Whitley's greatcoat. With the greatcoat hung over his arm, his jaw set, he walked from his office toward the front of the house, where his saddled horse awaited him.

Having safely deposited Isabel in the stables, the gentleman swiftly exited the building. If all was going as planned, Collard should already be waiting for Sherbrook near the lightning-blasted oak and Sherbrook was either on his way or would be leaving the house within the next few minutes to meet him. He stopped and rubbed his jaw. Collard wouldn't be happy when he didn't arrive with Isabel, but he wasn't particularly worried about it. Collard could think on his feet and he would, most likely, fob Sherbrook off with some excuse for her absence. He sighed. There was no avoiding it: Sherbrook was going to have several nasty moments before he arrived home and discovered that all was not lost. The gentleman smiled. Once Sherbrook arrived home, he would find his wife safe and sound waiting for him.

The sudden jabbing of a pistol in the middle of his back wiped the smile from his face and he stiffened. In a low voice from behind him, Collard said, "Now, fancy meeting you here. Lucky I spied you sneaking around the stable and waited for you to come back out. Since she ain't with you anymore, you must have dumped her inside. I don't remember this being part of yer plan."

"It wasn't," the gentleman said levelly. "But leaving her here doesn't change anything. Sherbrook still gets her back, just not when and where he thought he would." A feeling of helpless rage swept over him. Collard was going to ruin everything. "And you?" he asked coldly. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be waiting for Sherbrook?"

Collard laughed nastily. "Why should I have to follow the plan? You haven't."

"Very well, I didn't follow the original plan, but shouldn't one of us be meeting Sherbrook?" he asked sarcastically.

Jabbing the pistol deeper into the gentleman's back, Collard said, "Oh, I'll meet with Sherbrook, all right, but I did some thinking while you was gone and I was left to watch Sherbrook, and I've made my own plan." Greed and excitement coloring his words, Collard added, "Everybody knows that Sherbrook's a warm 'un; he'll pay her weight in gold to get her back. Dealing with the frogs don't suit me. I'm taking the woman from you and getting good English gold for her return. What you do is your business."

"You fool!" the gentleman burst out angrily and started to turn and face Collard, but the pistol stopped him.

"Don't move," hissed Collard, poking him harder. "I ain't made up my mind about whether to kill you or not, but you give me trouble and I'll shoot you where you stand."

"Yes, that would be smart," the gentleman drawled. "By all means shoot me and rouse the entire household. The moment you fire that pistol, how long do you think it would be before this place is swarming with men? Enough time, do you think, for you to retrieve her from the stall where I put her? It's a big stable. Do you really think you'll find her and reach your horse and simply ride away before they catch you?" He laughed without humor. "Somehow I think not."

"Shut yer bone box!"

A woman's voice rang pure and clean through the still night air and the gentleman knew that Isabel had finally managed to get her hands in front of her and remove the gag. In moments, the stable yard would be filled with sleepy servants, with Sherbrook at the fore. If all was not to be lost, the gentleman knew he had to end this. Now.

Startled by the sound, Collard half turned to glance in the direction of the voice and the gentleman used the distraction to pivot on his heel and attack him. They grappled together, both fighting to gain control of the pistol. It was a deadly battle, their bodies locked against each other as the pistol wavered between them, their breathing labored, their muscles straining to overpower the other, each aware of the pa.s.sing seconds-seconds that could not be spared if they were to escape.

The pistol exploded between them and a form slumped to the ground. With a curse, the survivor threw the pistol to the ground and fled into the night.

In the act of mounting his horse, as the sound of the shot shattered the air, Marcus jerked around to stare in the direction of the stables. Fear such as he had never known bloomed in his chest and he kicked his horse into a mad gallop, swiftly covering the scant quarter mile between the house and stables.

Jerking the horse to a sliding stop, he leaped from the saddle, his heart jumping like a wild thing when he heard Isabel's raised, frantic voice coming from the stable. Lanterns were already lit in the sleeping quarters of the stables and sleepy-eyed stable boys were tumbling outside. Heedless of the body lying inches from his snorting horse's hooves, heedless of anything but Isabel, he raced past the first of the servants and charged down the aisle, following the siren song of his wife's voice.

Finding the stall where she lay still bound, he flung open the door and in one long stride was by her side. Kneeling beside her, he pulled her into his arms and rained kisses across her face.

"Oh, my little love," he cried brokenly. "I feared never to hold you again."

It took him but a moment to cut her bonds and, with strands of rope dangling from her wrists and ankles, Isabel looped her arms around his neck and melted into his big, warm body. She was safe at last. Marcus had her. Her cheek resting against his shoulder, the fear and terrors of the day vanished. She was home. And Marcus loved her!

Cradling her next to him, Marcus rose to his feet, and oblivious to the gasps and startled glances of the curious servants he pa.s.sed in the aisle, like a conquering hero he strode from the barn, his most precious treasure held securely in his arms.

Chapter 18.

Walking outside into the cool night air, Marcus and Isabel were met with a barrage of astonished gasps. Worley, with young Ellard at his heels, came rus.h.i.+ng up.

"Sir! What is going on?" Worley demanded anxiously. In the light of the lantern he held, his anxious gaze took in Isabel's smudged, exhausted features, her creased and dirty riding habit, the pieces of rope dangling from her ankles and wrists, and the bits of straw clinging to the fine material and her hair, and he exclaimed, "Madame! Are you all right? What has happened to you?"

Nestled in her husband's arms, Isabel smiled wanly and said, "I am fine, Worley. It has been an exciting day, but it ended well. Do not worry."

Not convinced but knowing he would get no more than that, Worley turned his eyes to Marcus. "Sir," he said with commendable aplomb, "there is a dead man lying over there."

Unable to keep quiet a moment longer, forgetting both his place and his manners, Ellard said excitedly, "It's the smuggler Collard, sir! He's been shot dead."

Marcus said nothing for a moment, then glancing down at Isabel he asked softly, "Could you identify him as one of your abductors?"

She shook her head. "No. I know that there were two men, but they attacked so swiftly, enveloping me in a blanket or something, that I never saw either one of them. Before they removed the covering, one of them knocked me out, and when I awoke, I was blindfolded." She sighed. "I could recognize their voices, but other than their voices and my impressions of them, I can tell you nothing."

Every word hit Marcus like a blow and he fought to contain his rage against the two men that had laid rough hands on his wife, had dared to touch her at all. Dying had been too easy for Collard, he thought savagely. He hugged Isabel tighter to him. She was safe, he reminded himself. She was safe and that was all that mattered.

Pus.h.i.+ng aside thoughts of vengeance, Marcus said to Worley, "Wrap the body in a blanket and get it out of sight. At first light send someone to notify the constable and the squire." Looking at Ellard, he added, "I have a horse somewhere around here. Will you fetch it?"

"Yes, sir!"

A second later, Ellard returned with Marcus's horse from where it had been contentedly cropping gra.s.s near one of the paddocks. Reluctantly, Marcus set Isabel down, just long enough to mount his horse. She came up easily into his arms and with her sitting in front of him, her arms once more looped around his neck, her cheek against his shoulder, they rode slowly home.

By now Sherbrook Hall was brilliantly lit and Thompson and a half dozen servants were anxiously milling around the front of the house, peering intently in the direction of the stables. As Marcus and Isabel appeared out of the darkness, almost as one they surged toward them.

"Master!" cried Thompson. "What has happened? We heard the sound of gunfire. Is everything all right?"

Similar sounds and questions came from the others around him. Peggy, her blue eyes worried, pushed herself to the front of the crowd. "Oh, my sweet mistress! What has been done to you?" she demanded, taking in Isabel's bedraggled state.

Isabel forced a smile. "I have had a most exciting day, Peggy, an adventure, but it ended well and now I simply long for a bath, and perhaps Cook or someone else could find me a few morsels to eat?"

It was precisely the right thing to say: Peggy drew herself up like a general preparing for battle and said briskly, "I shall see to it immediately." Turning away, she pointed a finger at a couple of the younger maids. "Come with me, madame's bath water must be heated."

Thompson looked at George, the footman, and said, "Go this instant and wake Cook. Tell her that madame has come home unexpectedly and has not eaten. She is to prepare a tray for her immediately."