Enchanted in Regency Society: Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress / The Gamekeeper's Lady. Ann Lethbridge

of them. Bile rose in her throat.

      ‘In here, Sarg.’

      She might be able to deal with one, but two? Dear God, what did they want? Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. ‘There is money in the chest under the bed,’ she croaked.

      ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ bulbous nose said. ‘Later.’

      The chill down her back turned to ice. She launched the candlestick at his head.

      He knocked it aside with his arm. ‘Ouch,’ he bellowed. ‘You little bitch!’

      He lunged at her. She ducked under his arm. He caught a handful of her hair. Pain shot through her scalp. Eyes blurring, she twisted in his grip. Lashed at his groin with her bare foot and hit his thigh. She stumbled. He yanked her back by her hair. More pain. Her eyes streamed. She flailed at his face with her nails.

      Arms grabbed her from behind, around her throat and waist. A belt buckle jammed into her back. The second man. Panic chilled her to the bone.

      ‘I told you to wait.’ His voice in her ear was low and angry. ‘Where’s the bottle, Caleb?’

      ‘’Ere, Sarg.’

      A grinning Caleb held the small brown bottle to her lips. She recognised the smell. Laudanum. She clamped her mouth shut. The man behind pinched her nostrils. Hard. Painfully hard, while Caleb pressed the bottle against her lips. The fingers around her throat tightened. Arms crushed her ribs. Her lungs burned. Her head swam. Air. She needed air.

      One quick breath. Turning her face, she opened her mouth. A bitter-tasting liquid flooded in. She swallowed. Managed a breath.

      ‘More,’ Sarg said.

      More liquid. She struggled blindly. Her movements became weaker. Dizzy, she felt her limbs loosen. The triumphant leer of the man Caleb faded.

      

      The cottage had an air of desolation. An emptiness. Garrick sensed it the moment he entered and still he called out, ‘Ellie?’ Silence.

      He placed her sword and scabbard gently on the pine table. He’d thought she might want to keep it. He wandered into the bedroom, just to be sure. The bed was stripped, the clothes’ press empty. She’d taken everything.

      A hollow, sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach. Knowing how unhappy she was, he’d planned to send her home, rehearsed what he would say over and over, all the while hoping she might want to stay.

      It was better this way. She’d gone of her own accord. Less painful. Then why did his chest ache? A small scrap of white poked out from under the bed and he picked it up. A minute square of lawn edged in fine lace. He pressed it to his nose. It smelled clean, fresh with traces of vanilla. Ellie. It was the only thing left. No note. Nothing to show she had ever lived here. He stuffed the handkerchief into his coat pocket and went back to the kitchen.

      Barely conscious of his actions, he pulled a bottle of brandy and a tumbler from the dresser and set them on the table. He fought his bitter disappointment. Why not say goodbye? Had she found him so lacking?

      He pulled out the plain ladder-back chair, turned its back against the scrubbed table and sat astride. Chin resting on his sleeve, he glared at the honey-coloured table top, as if it could provide an answer. Had she somehow seen the evil in him? She didn’t lack for courage, but it was enough to send anyone running off into the night.

      Bloody hell. Why couldn’t he accept she loved Castlefield instead of trying to place the blame elsewhere? An urgent need to drink one glass after another and dull the pain tightened his gut. He reached for the bottle, astonished at the way his hand shook as he splashed liquid oblivion into the glass and on to the table. The pungent aroma stung the back of his throat, brought tears to his eyes. Oh, yes. Fool yourself about this, too. He smiled wryly. Tomorrow reality would stare him in the face, the way it did every day. He ought to be glad she’d gone, glad she’d never look at him in horror.

      He buried his head in the crook of his arm. Rage, despair, roiling emotions he couldn’t name, made his skin feel too tight, as if he might burst like an over-filled water-skin. With a muffled roar, he rose and lobbed the glass into the fireplace. It shattered with the sound of hail on a tile roof. Then silence. Brandy fumes hung in the air like the stink of an inn on a Saturday night.

      What the hell good had that done, except waste perfectly good brandy? He picked up the bottle to put it away. The front door slammed back against the wall. Ellie?

      Garrick turned, his heart beating hopefully against his ribs. Without warning, a blond, red-coated soldier lurched across the room and grabbed at his throat. Choking, he tore at the man’s fingers.

      ‘Where is she, you goddamned thrice-misbegotten whoreson?’ the man yelled.

      Even as his vision blackened around the edges, Garrick knew this man. ‘Hadley?’ His enemy.

      A red wash coated his vision, rage running like liquid fire through his veins. He embraced it. Used its strength. He brought his arms up and around. Broke the other man’s hold, shoved him backwards and raised his fists, longing to beat the furious face to a pulp.

      ‘Not so fast, my lord.’ The muzzle of a rifle pressed coldly against the back of Garrick’s neck.

      With his back to the door, Garrick had not seen the man enter, but he recognised the deep rumbling voice. He released his breath in a long, shuddering sigh, gaining control, clearing the red mists from his sight, tamping down the killing rage. ‘Well, if it isn’t Ben.’

      ‘No, my lord. Martin Brown, at your service. Put up your weapons.’

      Martin Brown, the relative she’d spoken of, was also Ben the highwayman? Merde. How many more lies had she told him?

      Garrick lowered his fists.

      Martin Brown withdrew his rifle and held it ready across his chest.

      Hadley fixed his hard grey gaze on Garrick and repeated his question. ‘Where is she?’

      What the hell was going on? What did this man have to do with Ellie? No. This must be about some other woman. He racked his brain for possible contenders, women he’d forgotten, while he kept his face a blank slate. ‘What are you doing here?’

      Anger boiled up again, at Ellie, at himself, at this man from his past. He curled his lip and glanced down at the man’s twisted right leg. ‘Come for another beating, Hadley?’ He shouldn’t have said that. Hell, he’d always denied being Hadley’s night-time attacker.

      The other man reddened. ‘Castlefield now.’

      Garrick reeled. The breath left his body as if he’d been struck in the kidneys. This was Castlefield? ‘But—’

      ‘Haven’t you done enough, you bastard? Did you have to take your revenge out on my sister?’

      For a long moment Garrick’s mind stuck on the word revenge, the old issue between them, the fight over a woman and the accusations hanging over him at school. The reason for Castlefield’s halting gait. The second occasion he’d lost control and couldn’t remember.

      Finally, the word ‘sister’ forced its way to the surface. The floor beneath his feet seemed to tilt. ‘Ellie is your sister?’

      ‘Lady Eleanor Hadley, to you. My twin.’

      His twin sister? He could only stare in stunned silence. Finally he found a shred of voice. ‘She left.’ His mind scrambled to make sense of what his ears were hearing. ‘She must have gone home.’

      Martin Brown shook his head. ‘The bailiffs are gone, but no sign of her ladyship.’

      A sense of dread filled his stomach. ‘Then she went to her sister.’ He refused to think about where else she might have gone.

      ‘Damn you, Beauworth!’ Castlefield choked out. ‘If I find that one hair of her head has been harmed, I shall hold you fully responsible.’ He drew his sword.