The Bride's Necklace (21 page)

I never betrayed you with Julian! I don’t want an annulment! I’ve never loved anyone but you!

But she didn’t say the words. She might love her husband, but he didn’t love her. He had been unhappy in their marriage, had spent as little time with her as he could. In the end, he had made her unhappy, too. Perhaps this way, they could both find a measure of contentment.

The wind blew outside the cabin, washing great sprays of water against the hull, splashing up onto the porthole, but the storm didn’t strengthen. The
Nightingale
fought her way through the night and the turbulent seas, and Tory’s eyes drooped closed as fatigue settled over her.

She must have fallen asleep. When she awakened, faint gray light seeped through the porthole. It was cold
in the cabin, but her body was infused with a radiant heat and she realized she was curled up next to Cord, his long frame wrapped around her. He was naked, the way he usually slept at home, his chest pressing into her back and his hips cradling her bottom.

Her eyes widened as she felt the swollen length of his sex pressing hard against her, hot through the folds of her cotton night rail, rucked up to the tops of her thighs. In the night, she had shifted toward him. She relaxed as she heard his even breathing and realized that he was asleep.

Tory tried to ease away, but a muscled arm draped over her shoulders and a long leg pinned her to the bed. It occurred to her that perhaps she could simply enjoy this moment of closeness, the sort that would disappear from her life once they got back home.

Her eyes drifted closed and she imagined the night that they had made love in this very cabin. He had wanted her so desperately then. And she had wanted him.

She still did.

Desire slipped through her at the memory of his hands on her breasts, the feel of his mouth moving hotly over hers. Heat drifted out through her limbs and dampness slid into her core. She shifted restlessly and his shaft stirred, grew thicker and harder.

“If you move…even a fraction of an inch…I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

Tory’s breathing quickened. There was nothing she wanted more than for Cord to make love to her. It couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t be fair to either one of them.

Still, her hips moved of their own accord. Her body seemed unable to resist.

Cord swore softly, shoved her nightgown up to her waist, gripped her hips and impaled her. She was wet and ready, he discovered, and she heard him groan. Tory gave herself over to him as she always did, reveling in his need of her, the sweetness of having him inside her.

Cord moved deeply and his voice whispered softly against her ear. “Can he make you feel this way?” He eased out and drove into her again. “Can he, Victoria?”

Her eyes stung. “No,” she answered truthfully. “No one but you, Cord.”

He filled her and filled her, increasing the rhythm, driving into her until they both reached a shattering release.

Tory drifted contentedly, but Cord didn’t linger. He rose from the bed, leaving an empty space where his warm presence had been. A weak light filtered in through the porthole, outlining his magnificent body. His chest expanded and lean muscle tightened as he reached down to pick up his clothes.

“I knew this was a bad idea.” His face looked drawn and filled with regret, and she felt a stab of pain.

“Was it?”

His lion eyes pinned her to the bed. “You don’t think so?”

“I think in this we have always been a perfect match.”

Cord said nothing for several long moments, but his eyes looked dark and troubled. Turning away, he busied himself with the task of pulling on his shirt, breeches and boots.

“You had better get dressed. Cook will have breakfast prepared and you need to have something to eat.”

The storm had delayed the ship and it was late in the afternoon by the time they reached their destination—
the quiet waters of the well-hidden cove near Cap Gris-Nez that had provided the ship protection before. At dawn on the morrow, Captain Ethan Sharpe was scheduled to stand before a firing squad, guilty of having spied for England, which in fact, he had.

They had only tonight to make their way inland, manage the captain’s rescue and return to the ship. Since both previous missions had failed—each of them better prepared than this one—it seemed a Herculean task.

Still, they were determined. Just before dark, Tory donned her frayed dove-gray gown and joined Cord at the rail. She watched as he checked the load in his pistol and Sheffield did the same.

“Are we ready?” Rafe asked.

Cord cast her a glance. “It’s not too late to change your mind. We can still find another way.”

“I am not changing my mind.”

Cord set his jaw and Rafe nodded, then cocked his head toward the rail. They descended a shaky rope ladder into the small dinghy bobbing next to the hull of the ship. A young blond sailor manned the oars, his muscled arms pulling rhythmically, making the task look easy. He rowed them ashore, beached the craft on the sand, and Cord helped her out of the boat.

They found Max Bradley waiting in the shadows not far away, his harsh features recognizable from the time she had seen him before.

“Thank God you got my message,” Bradley said in French. “I was afraid something had happened and you wouldn’t get here in time.” Now that they were ashore, it was too dangerous to speak English. Both Cord and Rafe spoke French passably well. Max, who had lived
in the country for years, and Tory, who had always had a knack for languages, could pass for French citizens.

“How long will it take to reach the prison?” Cord asked.

“I’ve got a wagon waiting. The cove is an hour southeast. We need to get under way.” Max flicked Victoria a glance.

“My wife,” Cord said, by way of introduction, a firm hand at her waist. “She’s volunteered to distract the guards long enough for us to get in.” But he planned to remain just inside the front door to keep watch if anything went wrong while she spoke to the guards.

Cord helped her up on the seat of the wagon next to Max, then he and Rafe climbed under a heavy canvas tarp that covered the flat bed of the wagon. Max flicked the reins and two big-boned gray horses lurched into motion. As the vehicle pulled out onto the rutted dirt road, Tory’s fingers curled over the edge of the hard wooden seat.

When she had offered to help, she hadn’t been afraid. But with every mile the wagon rolled closer to the prison, her fear edged up and her heart beat a little faster.

The hour-long journey seemed to take forever, but going any faster might draw unwanted attention. They couldn’t afford to make the smallest mistake. This was Captain Sharpe’s last chance and all of them knew it.

And the captain was no longer the only one in danger.

A sliver of moon rode high in the black night sky by the time they reached the hill outside the prison, and Bradley pulled the wagon to a halt beneath the concealing branches of an ancient tree.

The tarp folded back and Rafe and Cord climbed out of the wagon bed, their attention fixed on Max.

“The prison lies just over that rise.” Bradley pointed east. “If your wife can manage the team, she can drive up to the gate and pretend she has just arrived from the country.”

Her heart jolted sideways. Since they weren’t sure what arrangements Max might have made, their plans hadn’t included her means of arriving at the prison. She had driven a single-horse gig when she was younger, but never anything remotely similar to a two-horse team and wagon.

She kept her eyes on Bradley. “I think it would be better if I walked to the gate. I can say that I hitched a ride from my home to an inn down the road and walked from there. That way the wagon can stay hidden, ready to haul us all to safety.”

Cord cast her a look that said she wasn’t fooling him for a moment. “That sounds good to me. All right with you, Bradley?”

“I think it’s a good idea. We’ll leave the wagon where it is. That way no one will see it.” He turned to Tory. “The closest inn is the Lion d’Or, if the guards should happen to ask.”

And so they set off. A biting wind swept over the rough terrain, buffeting her cloak and seeping through her gown and chemise. She had left the hood down and her hair loose around her shoulders as an enticement to the guards at the prison gate. Dark curls whipped around her face and stuck to the corners of her mouth. She shook her head and the wind tore the strands away.

They paused at the edge of the trees. Cord caught her shoulders and turned her to face him.

“Get them talking. While you keep them busy, we’ll slip round to the other side of the courtyard.”

Max had bribed the guard who stood watch outside a small wooden door some distance from the main gate leading into the prison. But once inside, the men would have to cross the open courtyard to reach the main access to the corridors lined with cells.

That was where Tory came in. Her job was to keep the guards busy while the men crossed the dangerous open space.

“Once we get in,” Cord said, “I’ll keep watch from just inside the front door. If anything goes wrong, you know what to do.” She was supposed to faint dead away. That always threw a man off track, Cord said.

She remembered exactly the plan, knew that while Cord stood watch, Rafe and Max would make their way down to Ethan’s cell in the bowels of the prison. She knew Cord would rather go in after his cousin, but he was worried about her safety. He had always been protective of those he cared about.

Apparently, in some way, he still cared for her.

She reached out and touched his cheek. “Be careful.” Then she turned and hurried away, her cloak billowing out behind her.

T
he prison sat at the bottom of a gently sloping hill, a three-story building fashioned of rough gray stone. A row of tarnished brass lanterns hung from the heavy iron fence surrounding the courtyard, but much of the open area was dark.

Two guards stood at the entrance, one tall and thin, the other older and heavier. They straightened, their casual posture disappearing the moment they spotted her heading for the gate.

Tory pasted on a smile and kept walking, praying they couldn’t tell how fast her heart was beating, how slick her palms had grown. As she drew near, she could see their faces, see their suspicion building.

“You there! Stop where you are.”

Her heart was racing, trying to pound its way through her ribs. The pudgy, older guard left his post and walked over to where she stood. He was carrying a pistol and he pointed it in her direction.

“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“Please,
m’sieur,
I am only here to discover what has happened to my brother.”

He motioned with the pistol and she walked over to the entrance where the second guard, younger, thinner, with a missing front tooth stood stiffly at his post.

“My brother’s name is Gaspard Latour. He has been in prison for nearly six months.” Tory told them how she had come all the way from Saint Omer hoping to see him, explained how worried she and her family were about him.

Finally they seemed to relax, and a few moments later, she actually had them smiling. She didn’t see Cord, Rafe or Max, but she knew that unless something had gone wrong, by now they were inside the prison. She focused her attention on the guards, kept smiling, and kept them talking, determined they wouldn’t notice any movement in the courtyard behind them.

The pudgy guard cast her a faintly suggestive glance. “Are you sure it is your brother you have come to see and not your lover?”

Tory looked away, pretending to be embarrassed. She shifted a little and slowly shook her head. “It is my brother, truly,
m’sieurs.
”

The thinner man shrugged. “If he is your brother, or if he is not, you will have to come back tomorrow. There is no way to know which cell he is in until the clerk arrives in the morning.”

Thank God.
She wasn’t sure what she would have done if they had offered to let her inside.

Over the skinny guard’s shoulder, she caught a flicker of movement. While the guards laughed and she pretended shyness, she saw the men emerge from the prison and start running across the shadowy courtyard.
One man had his arm draped over another. The injured man had to be Captain Sharpe, who limped along, barely managing to walk as they made their way toward the side door leading out of the prison. She only caught a glimpse of the third man, but a fourth man followed, his pistol pulled as protection for the other three.

She forced herself to stay calm. They had retrieved Captain Sharpe. Now if they could just get out of the prison and safely back to the wagon.

One of the guards started to turn toward the courtyard, but Tory caught his arm, capturing his attention once more.

“Thank you,
m’sieur.
I shall return to the inn and wait until morning, as you suggest. I am so grateful for your help.”

The plump guard moved closer, his blunt fingers circling her wrist. “I think the lady should stay here with us. What do you think?”

The skinny guard gave her a missing-tooth grin. “I think she should stay…at least for a while.” They started pulling her farther inside the gate and Tory’s fear kicked up. She tried not to let it show.

“I must go,” she said. “I have family waiting at the inn. They will come here looking for me if I do not return.”

The fat guard spat in the dirt. “What kind of fool would let a beauty like you go off on her own? No, I think there is no one.”

“Please let me go.” She could pretend to faint, but Cord would undoubtedly rush to her aid and all of them might be captured. “I am telling you the truth. One of them is my husband. He forbade me to come, but the prison was very near and I wanted to see my brother. I must get back before he comes looking for me.”

“I’m afraid he is already here.” At the sound of Max Bradley’s voice, relief washed over her. The guard let go of her wrist and stepped warily away. There was something about Max Bradley, a hardness that warned of danger.

Tory caught Max’s arm and gave him a beseeching look. “These men have been very kind. They say if we come back in the morning, someone will check on Gaspard. Perhaps we might even be able to see him.”

Max’s features grew even harder. “Your brother is not worth the trouble.” He shoved her a little ahead of him. “And you had better not disobey me again.”

Looking properly contrite, Tory kept walking. She could hear Max’s boots crunching on the ground behind her. They topped the hill, dropped down out of sight, then she spotted the wagon. The seat was empty, the tarp over the back tightly drawn.

“Come. The men are already in the wagon.” Max helped her up on the seat, climbed up and released the brake, then set the horses into motion.

For the first time she wondered why Max had come to her rescue instead of Cord, who had been so determined to protect her. Probably because he spoke better French. Still… “Everything…everything went as planned?”

“For the most part.”

“Then Captain Sharpe is all right?”

“The captain is in very bad condition. He is lucky to be alive.” He turned the horses onto the road, jolting the seat of the wagon. “And there was one mishap.”

A trickle of fear went through her. “What sort of mishap?”

“There was a guard posted at the end of the row of
cells where the captain was being held. He must have been standing in the shadows and we slipped right past him. He took off to sound the alarm. Your husband stopped him before he could reach the front door.”

She forced herself to breathe. Cord was all right. Four men had left the prison. “What happened?”

“There was a struggle. Lord Brant knew he would bring a dozen men running should he fire his pistol. The guard pulled a knife, and in the fighting, your husband was wounded. He took the blade in his chest.”

She made a strangled sound in her throat and whirled toward the back of the wagon. Max caught her arm and jerked her back around in the seat.

“Stay calm. We can’t afford to draw attention. We’ve got to get back to the ship.”

“But we have to help him! He must be bleeding. We have to get it stopped!”

“We’ve done that. He’ll be all right till we reach the
Nightingale.
The surgeon will take care of him once we get there.”

She glanced toward the back of the wagon. “The road is bumpy. What if he starts bleeding again? Let me look at him. Maybe there is something I can do.”

“The best thing you can do is keep your eyes on the road and pretend there is nothing whatsoever wrong. We aren’t out of this yet. If we get stopped before we reach the ship, it might be better if his lordship took that blade in the heart.”

Tory gripped the wagon seat and sat there shaking. Cord was injured, perhaps very gravely. And there was nothing she could do!

“What about the guard who attacked him? Won’t he sound the alarm?”

Max’s lips went thin. “You needn’t worry on that score. He won’t be making any sound at all.”

Tory said nothing more, but a shiver went through her. All she could think of was Cord and how badly he might be hurt.

The ride back to the ship stretched on interminably, accompanied by the frantic, sluggish beating of her heart. No one stirred in the back of the wagon and no one appeared on the little-traveled road in search of them.

Finally, she heard the crash of waves against sand, and relief, mingled with her terrible fear, threatened to swamp her.

“Easy now,” Max said, eyeing the pale hue of her face. “We’re almost there.”

But they couldn’t get there fast enough for Tory.

Her throat closed up to think that beneath the tarp, her husband might be dying.

Cord was unconscious when they carried him aboard. His eyes were closed, his face deathly pale. Each breath seemed an effort, and as Tory looked at him, her heart squeezed so hard it hurt. The doctor stripped away his bloody shirt, exposing a deep wound in his chest that continued oozing blood.

Don’t let him die,
Tory silently prayed.
Please don’t let him die.
She had told him she loved him, but she knew he didn’t believe her. Now he might never know.

“The blade went in deep, but straight,” the surgeon said as she hovered next to where Cord lay in the cabin they had shared. “That is good news, but he has lost a lot of blood—which is not.”

The surgeon, a man named Neil McCauley, was short and slightly built, not more than five-and-thirty,
with dark hair and a mustache. He shifted a little with the roll of the ship, whose sails had been unfurled, the anchor weighed. The
Nightingale
was heading into deep water, away from French shores, back home to England.

Tory prayed that Cord would survive the journey.

He stirred on the bunk and groaned as the doctor poured sulphur powder into the wound, along with a mixture of herbs and a thick substance McCauley said was made with axle grease.

Cord groaned and her hand shook as she reached out to touch him. Starkly pale, his skin icy cold, he still exuded the magnetic, vibrantly powerful presence that drew her as no other man ever had.

And yet he could die, just like any other man.

“We’ll have to keep a close eye out for putrefaction,” the surgeon said as he threaded his needle with catgut and began the lengthy process of stitching his patient back together.

Tory frowned at the haphazard way the man drew the needle through Cord’s torn flesh. She had always loved his smooth, hard-muscled chest. She didn’t like to think of the scars the surgeon’s coarse work would leave.

“Perhaps I could do that, Dr. McCauley. I’ve never sewn a man’s skin back together, but I have done a good bit of needlework over the years.”

“Be my guest.” The inside stitching was already done. McCauley handed over the threaded needle and she took a steadying breath.

She could do this, do it for Cord. She would do whatever she could to help him, as he had once helped her.

Her hand trembled for an instant, then steadied as
she determinedly set to work, taking small, delicate stitches that would mostly disappear once the wound had healed. Cord’s body stiffened a little with the pain of the needle sliding into his flesh and his eyes slowly opened. She could read the pain in his face and a lump rose in her throat.

“I know this hurts,” she said. “I’ll try to do it as quickly as I can.”

“I’ll get him some laudanum,” the doctor said. “It will help ease his discomfort.”

As Tory continued to work, the surgeon poured the bitter liquid into a cup, added a bit of water, then lifted Cord’s head and trickled the mixture between his lips. Cord swallowed the substance and lay back down, and his eyes came to rest on her face. For an instant, his golden gaze softened. Seeing her there beside him, he seemed to relax and breathe a little easier.

“The doctor is taking good care of you,” Tory said, smoothing back his hair. “You’re going to be all right.”

He must have seen the fear and worry in her face for he tried to smile. Instead, his eyes slid closed and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Tears welled in her eyes. She clamped down on an urge to weep and continued her stitching, pulling the thread taut, taking another small stitch and pulling it taut again. When the wound was completely closed, she tied off the thread they had used and clipped it neatly. The moment she was finished, she burst into tears.

“It’s all right, my lady,” the surgeon said gently. “The knife didn’t hit any vital organs. It is losing so much blood that makes him so weak.”

She nodded, but the tears kept rolling down her cheeks.

“He’ll need plenty of rest and care, but with luck, there is a good chance he’ll recover.”

He would, she told herself. Cord was young and strong. He would survive this and soon be back on his feet.

Tory stayed with him that night, sitting in the chair next to his bed. Both Rafe and Max Bradley came to check on him, but he didn’t wake up while they were there.

It wasn’t until just before dawn that he stirred.

When his dull, pain-glazed eyes slowly opened and fixed on her face, Tory almost started crying again. Instead, she swallowed against the thick lump in her throat and busied herself tucking the covers around him.

“You need to lie still,” she said briskly. “You will open my very handy stitches.”

The edge of his mouth barely curved. “I never thought your…needlework…would come in so… handy.”

She brushed the hair back from his face, just so she could touch him. “Yes, well, I suppose it did.”

The doctor knocked just then and came in to check on his patient. “So you are awake.”

“Only just a moment ago,” Tory told him.

McCauley drew back the covers and looked down at the bandage. “The bleeding wasn’t excessive during the night. I believe we have got it mostly stopped.”

As the doctor stripped off the bandage and replaced it with a clean one, Cord’s gaze fixed on the surgeon’s face.

“What of Ethan?” he asked. “Is he…all right?”

McCauley frowned, debating how much to say to a man so gravely injured. “He is doing as well as can be expected.”

Cord didn’t look satisfied with the answer, but his eyelids drifted down and, seconds later, he was once again asleep.

The sun was up and Cord was awake when the doctor returned to check on him a second time. His color was better, Tory thought, and his gaze more alert.

“I insist on knowing Captain Sharpe’s condition,” he said with authority.

The doctor straightened, mildly irritated by his tone. “You want the truth? The captain is near starved to death. He’s so weak he can barely stand. He was infested with lice and beaten within an inch of his life. What can be done for him has been. He is bathed and shorn of his beard and filthy mane of hair. Right now he needs to eat and sleep and try to recover his strength. Is that what you wished to know?”