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There was a predatory grace evident in the way her husband waited for whoever should open the carriage door. The dangerous aura about him made her reflect on the kind of life he had led for the past few years. She could not imagine how much courage it must have taken to keep fighting for those enslaved when it threatened his own life. Daphne braced her emotions as the door was opened by one of the dastardly men who had been in the scuffle with Sylvester. She gripped the hatpin firmly, ready to defend their lives if necessary. Not if, when it proved necessary, for if these men had been like those who’d attacked her husband in the past, they were in a frightful bind.
A cold knot of fear sat heavy in her stomach, and it took an incredible amount of effort to present a serene mien, like kidnappings and villains pointing a pistol at her were an everyday occurrence.
“We’re here, get out,” the man with the pistol commanded, waving it in a decidedly discomfiting broad arc.
Her earl dismounted, and as she made to push from her seat, he sent her a warning glance. She remained seated, her heartbeat steadily increasing.
“You, too,” the man snapped, his beady eyes whipping back and forth from Sylvester to her.
“My countess will remain inside while I meet with your employer,” Sylvester said with icy firmness.
The man hesitated. “I’ll leave one of my men with her, in the carriage.”
Her husband stiffened and, without speaking, held his hand out to her. Daphne eagerly escaped the confines of the carriage, preferring to stand by his side as they faced whatever danger lay ahead and not in the coach with that leering blackguard.
They were in a secluded section of a park. There was barely any visibility and from the small moonbeam peeking through the overhead branches, she discerned they were in an area surrounded by chestnut and sycamore trees. The manner in which they had been isolated sent a fresh wave of fear pounding through her heart. Though she wanted to cling to Sylvester, she didn’t. Instead, she stood with her spine stiff, her hatpin hidden in the folds of her dress, waiting for the opportune moment. Daphne prayed she would be able to recognize it.
The three men positioned themselves at their front, seemingly unconcerned that she and her husband might turn and dash through the underbrush.
“Why have you brought us here?” she asked, feeling thoroughly vexed with the ominous silence. How could Sylvester seem so unperturbed?
Soft footfalls had her turning to face whoever approached. The figure halted, and then a savage curse rode the air. Daphne’s hand flew to her mouth as she recognized the familiar tone. “Lord Redgrave?”
“Why have you brought her here?” he demanded.
The leader of his band of villains stepped forward. “We’ve been following him for days, and she seems to be with him at all times. We saw the opportunity tonight and took it.”
Her husband stepped to the left and turned slightly, and she realized it was so he could keep each person in his line of sight. Daphne hurriedly did the same, and a peculiar warmth shifted through her when his lips twitched.
“What is going on, Lord Redgrave?”
Surely, he had not brought her husband here out of some misguided notion of jealous love? They hadn’t had an opportunity to converse since Sylvester’s return, and guilt darted through her, for she had forgotten the viscount and all his declared affections.
He stepped closer, and it was then she saw the pistol in his hand, and it was pointed at her husband. Her mouth went impossibly dry. “Why are you pointing a gun at my husband?” How she hated that her voice trembled, but she moved again, so very slightly, and prayed the lack of light hid her movements.
“How concerned you seem, my darling,” Redgrave murmured. “It was only last month you told me you wanted a divorce from him and damnation to the consequences.”
Sylvester went so still it scared her.
“Making you a widow would give you the freedom you desire and serve my purposes rather well.”
She glared at him. “Are you afflicted?” She moved another two steps away from the men, and no one seemed to notice.
And create as much distance as you can. Then when the time is right, you will flee. How would she determine what was far away, and how could she leave him alone with men—no, not men, beasts—who wished him harm? Perhaps even his death? “Why would you do this?”
Sylvester answered, “Because he is the worst sort of a human being, raping women who are helpless against him and his power, women who would never see justice for they are property, whipping their children and hanging their men in the name of profit…and sport. And because I have helped liberate over one hundred slaves from his plantations. In fact, his plantations are no longer his, and he hates me for it.”
Bile rose in Daphne’s throat. She could not believe the man who had appeared so sweet and good-natured could be so despicable. “That is why you wanted Papa’s letters.” Of course he’d needed leverage on her husband. “You have no notion of my earl’s honor if you thought those letters would have forced him to abandon those who need him.”
“Those letters forced him to marry you,” Redgrave said. “Please spare me your modest outrage.”
She managed to take another several steps away from them and toward a pocket of darkness.
Redgrave lifted his weapon. “All that is moot now. The only reason I had them bring you here, Carrington, is because I wanted to see your face when I put a bullet in your heart. I won’t kill Daphne. What I will do instead is marry her.”
“You are a disgusting excuse for a man,” she snarled. “Nothing would persuade me to marry you, not even the threat of death.”
She made another step and was swallowed by the darkness. Sylvester exploded into motion, a flash of silver in the dark alerting to the fact he had a knife. His movements were too fluid and quick for her to make out what was happening. But she heard the grunts, the shouts, and the screams. The report of the pistol echoed, and she screamed his name.
Strong arms grabbed her, and she recognized the viscount’s scent.
“Stop, or I swear to God I will shoot her,” he yelled.
She was dragged from the shadows and from the faint moonlight she saw that the three men were on the ground. One was unmoving, and the other two were groaning but seemingly unable to get up. Daphne lifted shocked eyes to her husband, who was barely winded. The knife held at his side dripped. She sucked in a breath. It was blood. Dear God. The sudden lightheaded feeling left her sharply disoriented.
“Drop your dagger,” Redgrave growled. “And go to your knees, or I swear by all that is holy, I will shoot her.”
Sylvester didn’t hesitate, simply opened his palm and allowed the knife to fall. Daphne took a steadying breath, trying not to think where Redgrave had the gun pointed, and stabbed him in the thigh with the hatpin with all the strength she had.
His scream of pain echoed in the park, and she wrenched away as her husband lunged at the viscount. There was the slightest of a scuffle, a gurgling sound, and Daphne faltered when she realized Sylvester had the viscount’s head in a merciless grip at the oddest angle.
Sylvester’s expression appeared stark and dangerous in the moonlight. She knew at that moment that he was wholly capable of killing. The knowledge shocked and distressed her in equal measure. How little she still knew of her husband.
“Please,” she said, taking even breaths. “Release him.”
Her earl expression did not shift, yet the menace palpably increased. “You plead for your lover.”
“Do not be absurd, Sylvester. I do not care about him! I beg for your soul, and you know he was never my lover.”
Redgrave made another choking sound, and for a terrifying moment, she thought Sylves
ter would snap his neck. Then he released him, and the viscount slid soundlessly to the ground, gasping harshly for air.
“You will leave England, permanently.”
Sylvester needn’t make any threats—the consequences of the viscount staying were quite evident, even to her.
“And take your trash with you,” he said, not sparing a glance at the men on the ground.
Then he took her hand and led her toward the parked carriage. He assisted her into the equipage, and before he closed the door, he stared at her. His face was shuttered, his eyes devoid of all emotions.
“Do you have them?”
The letters. “No, I do not.”
He watched her with impenetrable eyes, and it was then she sensed the terrible tension in his powerful frame. His gaze roamed her face, searching and probing. Her heart lurched. “You do not believe me,” she whispered faintly.
He made no answer, simply closing the door. She settled against the squabs, the carriage rocking gently as he evidently seated himself in the driver’s position. It was as they rumbled off she realized her hands were shaking quite violently. How she would have been comforted if he had hugged her or offered soothing words. A lump formed in her throat that he had done neither, and she was suddenly glad she hadn’t confessed earlier that she was once again falling hopelessly and irrevocably in love with her husband.
Chapter Twelve
That night, for the first time since he’d planned to seduce his wife into giving their marriage a chance, Sylvester decided to sleep alone. Pushing away from the connected door, he made his way over to his bed and lowered himself, lying back and staring at the canopy overhead. He could not identify the why of it, but he was unable to open that door and sleep with his countess tonight. He was too on edge. He would probably damn the consequences, mercilessly seduce her to his bed, and slake the tempest rising inside him within her body. It had taken a couple hours to settle, for he had written a detailed account of what transpired tonight, which he would see delivered to the proper authorities. Redgrave was a coward and would perhaps flee to the continent, but Sylvester was taking no chances.
