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“Your son will agree to ransom you, Aunt,” Henri said. “I will have the diamond.”
John, Charlotte thought. He meant John. What did John have to do with diamonds?
“And this little plum, I will take back to France with me.” Charlotte felt his abhorrent hands on her as he lifted her to her feet. “A fitting revenge on both Keegain and my coward cousin,” Henri said. His putrid breath on Charlotte’s face was disgusting, as was his person. She struggled, but he pressed her to his side.
Charlotte blinked hard trying to get her wits about her. It was imperative that she resist. At Henri’s orders, the men who had first captured Charlotte, took hold of her and lifted her bodily. The cool air outside of the cottage roused her somewhat. She could hear Collette still berating the man. Charlotte tried to resist, but it was much too late.
* * *
31
Sir John finally turned the corner of the road that led to his mother’s cottage. His feeling was equal parts gratitude at being able to assure himself that his mother was safe from Henri, and fear that by going to his mother first, Toussaint would bring harm to Lady Charlotte. He wanted to cut himself in two, or perhaps three. He had ridden through the night. His thoughts were still rampant with horrible scenarios: his love used and murdered and his mother dying either from some villainy or from apoplexy. He hoped that Toussaint would not really harm his mother, at least not purposefully. She was a Frenchwoman, and she was family, but John could not be certain of Henri’s restraint. He pushed his horse a bit harder.
John wondered at how he had gotten tangled in this mess. He was sure that when this was all over, Keegain would be glad to see the last of him. There was no telling what Charlotte would feel. But even if Lady Charlotte did not marry him, which was most unlikely at this point, John would know that she was safe from villains such as Henri Toussaint. That was what was most important.
John’s turbulent thoughts were cut short upon turning the final bend in the lane. There was no light from the small stable as there should have been if they were to be keeping watch. An ominous feeling curled around John’s heart as he approached. No one came to meet him as he rode up. He called for Gerry and then Carlton, but received no reply.
Fear gripped him. He vaulted from his mount, and dashed for the house, calling for his mother. He was met with silence. Sir John’s breath caught in his throat. He was filled with rage and terror in equal measure. He forced himself to move methodically through the rooms of the small cottage, searching, willing his mother to be here and be unharmed.
He found Madeleine hiding in the pantry. The old woman still had some spunk in her. She swung a kitchen pan at him when he opened the door, narrowly missing his head as he ducked. Her eyes were wild. John put up a hand to stop her, and pulled the pan from her grasp, easily stopping her attack.
“Madeline! Madeline! Stop!” Sir John exclaimed, grasping her by the shoulders. “What has happened here? Are you all right? Where is my mother?”
“Oh, Sir John, it was that wicked cousin of yours,” Madeleine cried in a shaky voice. “He came after you left. He forced his way into the cottage. He killed Gerry. Indeed, I never saw someone look so fierce. I was sure that he would kill us all! Forgive me, I…I ran.”
John felt numb. He let his mother’s companion sob into his shirt. He could not think. He could not feel. It was impossible that he had lost his mother now when she had survived the Terror in France. Hot rage began to fill him. He let it come, because if he did not rage, grief would destroy him.
“I am sorry, I hid. Sir John, he took your mother with him,” Madeline said tearfully.
“He took her,” John repeated. “She is alive?” Relief in equal measure with frustration filled him. His mind was spinning.
“Yes, he took her.”
John forced himself to calm. “Where was Carlton?” he demanded, when some semblance of thought returned to him. If Madeline did not know which way the culprits had gone, perhaps Carlton would.
Madeline only shook her head, weeping into her skirts. John expected the worst. He left Madeline by the kitchen door and went to the stable to see if any of the stable hands had seen which direction Toussaint had taken his mother. If they were still alive.
Despair and fear roiled within him warring with anger and a desire for violence that was surprisingly potent. He had always considered himself a peaceable, civilized gentleman, but now he knew with certainty that he could gladly destroy Henri for endangering someone he loved. He wanted to tear the man limb from limb.
John shoved open the door of the stable hoping to find a fresh mount, and found Carlton instead. His man was lying face down between the stalls, his fair hair caked with dried blood. He rushed to the man’s side, praying that he still lived. An immense relief filled his soul when he felt the steady beat of the man’s heart beneath his hand. “Carlton,” he said. “Carlton?”
The man did not answer. He was out cold.
Sir John looked about for a cloth. He rushed to the tack room where he found two more groomsmen who did not fair as well as Carlton. Dread filled him as he wet a cloth at the pump and applied it to his man’s face.
Carlton stirred slightly, and murmured something. “Madeline,” he said.
“She’s safe,” Sir John assured him. “She hid in the pantry.”
“No.” Carlton wheezed. He took a painful breath, and opened his eyes to slits. “She let them in,” Carlton said. “She is with the traitors.”
The words hit Sir John like a blow. “Madeline?” he repeated. The woman had been with his mother for years. He felt like he had been harboring a Judas. John knew his mother considered her more than a paid companion. Madeline was a friend; someone who knew how it had been in France, at the end.How could the woman have done such a thing?
“Madeline is with the traitors?” John repeated, just to be sure that he had not misheard Carlton, or perhaps the poor man was delirious.
“Yes.” Carlton breathed, and then he closed his eyes as if simply speaking was an effort.
For a moment, Sir John wondered why Madeline was left behind, and then he realized no matter how helpful she was, the traitors would not want another woman to slow them down. Or perhaps they thought, in time, she would be sympathetic to his mother. How could she not be? Madeleine had been his mother’s companion for years. No matter how she had helped the culprits, they could not trust her.But why would she help them?“Why?” John wondered aloud.
