Andrews Brothers 02 - The Rescue Read online

  If he didn’t fear discovery, he would have peeked through the first floor windows. Instead, he led the horse to the stable only to find the groomsmen decidedly absent. Blowing out a breath, Devlin escorted his burden into a stall and stroked the animal’s shiny coat.

  How long must he degrade himself with these tedious tasks? The title he’d stolen afforded him the right to live like the peerage, not like a common servant!

  Devlin stroked the beast in a forceful, annoyed manner. Just a little while longer he would suffer these indignities then he would take his rightful place. He would own Lord Norhaven’s, lands and be lord not in name only, but in true fashion as he was born to be.

  ****

  Andrew shivered beneath the ratty gaol-provided blanket. Lucidity came in painful spurts brought about by unexpected noises.

  Keys rattled, and a wooden door creaked. “Here’s the prisoner.”

  “What’s he accused of?” The questioning voice held a melodic quality and he batted his crusted lashes hoping to get a better look at the individual who spoke.

  “My lady, I don’t know—”

  A woman, no more than five feet tall with graying hair and pale blue eyes, struck her cane against the floor. “You will answer me this instant!”

  The gaoler shuffled his feet against the stone pavers and piddled with his hands like a child caught in mischief. “Well, my lady, the truth is he has been accused of stealing a carriage. If there’s more, then the offended party failed to file charges.”

  “Balderdash! Why would my son need to do such a thing?”

  The harsh reply and the statement of ownership shocked Andrew.

  “My lady?” said the gaoler.

  “You will release my son, Andrew, into my custody at once.”

  “But—”

  “At once!” The repeated words were followed by a slamming door.

  The gaoler’s shoulders slumped and he whispered, “Yes, my lady.”

  The door opened and closed again, but much gentler. Andrew wanted to wipe sleep from his eyes, but his hands failed to cooperate. Every time they passed through his line of vision they fell short of the mark. He slapped his cheek, his shoulder, and his chin but never quite made it to his planned destination.

  Giving up, he rolled onto his side and focused on moss attached to the stone wall. Chilled, he pulled the thin, hole-filled blanket to his chin. Shivers wracked his body and he bit his lip until he tasted copper. This time his body cooperated and he found his mouth and touched a sticky dollop of blood.

  What had happened? What was he doing in gaol? Why had it taken so long for his mother to find him?

  The questions continued as he drifted back to sleep. The feeling of weightlessness woke him. Someone spoke above him.

  “That lady’s crazy.”

  “Maybe, but if she wants to take this man off our hands…”

  “But she doesn’t have a son!”

  “Guess that ain’t our problem.”

  Andrew tried to pry his eyelids open farther, but the throbbing in his skull escalated and he moaned and clamped them shut again.

  “Shh! Do you want us to lose our heads? We’re being as gentle with you as we can.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be this fellow.”

  “So you’d rather stay in your current position as a two bit gaoler than to be claimed as a son to a rich widow?”

  “Maybe I ought to reconsider that.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  Cool afternoon air circled under his sagging frame and sunlight burned his eye sockets. The handlers deposited him in a carriage and draped a thick wool cover across him. He lay on his side. A pillow was thrust beneath his head.

  Instant warmth assailed him and he snuggled deeper underneath the itchy blanket. The carriage lurched and bile rose in his throat. He squeezed his lids tight and prayed the vehicle would soon level.

  When the ride smoothed, Andrew cracked his eyelid and lifted his hand. He studied it warily. Not even the appendage appeared familiar. He drew in a deep breath. The only memory he’d maintained was the word Andrew. The gaoler had used the name harshly when they referenced him. The elderly woman, claiming to be his mother, had used it lovingly when calling him her son.

  If his mother had retrieved him then everything must be all right, even if the gaoler thought her unstable. She would no doubt chastise him for his erroneous behavior, but he would apologize and all would be made well. Parents loved their children no matter what their faults. Right?

  Weary from the morning’s events, Andrew allowed sleep to overtake him once more.

  ****

  Three weeks had passed since Farrah’s ill fated meeting with her father. She paced her room. Angus’ letter lay unfurled on her desk. The fool had rushed home from their forest meeting, composed a note, and took off for his uncle’s sea vessel without even checking on her. He didn’t even know she was set to marry the crotchety Lord Norhaven!

  “Lass, it’s time to leave.”

  Farrah ignored her father as she glanced around her childhood room one last time. Creamy paper-hangings embellished with golden scrolls covered the walls. The bed cover, hand-stitched by her mother, contained matching embellishments. Farrah stroked the smooth fabric.

  The footman had arrived earlier that morning with copies of the special marriage license. The banns had been read and the paperwork secured. Everything was in place. Nothing would stop her wedding to the ancient lord. Unless she decided to defy her father and refuse to wed. But what would happen then?

  She looked through her lashes. Her father tapped his foot in an impatient manner. Did he really believe that she was ruined? Did rumors circulate through Rochdale of her unmarriageable status? What if Angus never returned? Sure her father could will the property to her with special permission, but would he? He seemed determine to have a male family member take control of their lands, even if it meant giving her away to Clovis. Suddenly his having to wait on her didn’t bother her. Why should she care? Her entire life was set to be ruined at his hand. His feelings meant little to her at the moment.

  She drew her hand from the bed and glided to the wall. Two bookcases surrounded the portrait of her and her mother. It had been painted when she was ten years old. They had favored. Father said Farrah resembled a miniature version of her mother. If only she were here. Her mother would have ensured none of this occurred.

  Her father cleared his throat. Releasing a hefty sigh, she twirled on her toe and drew her shoulders back. Chin held aloft with a regal air, she approached the door. Her father moved from his stiff position against the wall and she made a rash decision. She bolted.

  Two steps into the hallway Garrett’s arms wrapped around her middle and he hefted her against his broad chest. She kicked and fidgeted, but too little avail.

  Her father’s voice, deep and irritated, came from behind them. “You might as well calm down. If Garrett has to hold a sword to your throat, you will marry Flannigan.”

  The clergy would never allow such an action, as her father well knew. So why would he make such a suggestion? Was he in such dire straits? Perhaps more occurred here than she knew.

  Resigned, she relaxed. Garrett released her and she strolled downstairs toward the front door as if she faced execution.

  Outside, she lifted her face to the harsh sun. Wind lifted the hem of her gown and a cool breeze struck her ankles. Lowering her gaze, a malicious smile tinged her lips. The barouche waited. The four passenger vehicle was better suited for a summer ride, since only two people would be covered and the open top allowed the weather in, but Farrah didn’t care. If she was being forced to her doom then all would be uncomfortable and the devil to her father’s predicament.

  Garrett opened the barouche’s door and Farrah clutched his hand and drew him onto the seat beside her. Her father climbed in last, a frown settled upon his aged features as he was forced to sit in the seat exposed to the elements. With false innocence, she clasped her hands in her lap and waited for he
r father to complain. As soon as he opened his mouth to voice his minor discomforts she planned to share a lengthy list of her own.

  Garrett fidgeted beside her and she twisted to face him. “Don’t you think it is a beautiful day for a ride?”

  “If you say so, my lady.”

  “Oh, I do. The chill wind will strike my cheeks as harshly as wedding Clovis will be to my future.”

  Her father shifted, but didn’t respond to her sharp words. He snapped his fingers and a footman stepped forward with several blankets.

  Farrah grabbed all that came through the door, flashing an apologetic smile at Garrett. “We wouldn’t want me to catch my death of cold before the wedding.”

  Her father guffawed and folded his arms over his chest.

  Before the barouche moved, he climbed out. She reached out for him, but he didn’t take her offered hand.

  She swallowed and lowered her voice. “Father, is something wrong? Is there a reason I must wed, Lord Norhaven?”

  Sadness filled his eyes, but he ignored her question as he leaned in and said to Garrett, “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Farrah’s mouth gaped and closed like a dying fish as her father stepped back and the barouche lurched from the driveway.

  Fortunately for Garrett, he didn’t comment on her failed plot to aggravate her father. The cold ride to Norhaven increased her foul mood and by the time they arrived, the only thing keeping her warm was her anger.

  The rectangular unadorned building paled in comparison to the servants standing before it. A plethora of liveried footmen and uniformed servants greeted them at the door. She’d never seen a more ostentatious group. Arrayed in bright greens, blues, and maroon, they resembled a cluster of peacocks. Farrah fought hard not to laugh as Garrett escorted her through the throng.

  Double doors squeaked open into a wide foyer. The glossy shine of the floor was ignored as she harbored her resentment. The butler held out his hand and directed them into a narrow room on their right. He bowed. “My lady, my name is Bennington. I’ve been instructed to have you wait here.”

  Garrett moved off to her side and Farrah folded her hands before her. The draperies parted and a short, balding man with a triple chin waddled forward. Farrah remained statuesque as Clovis Flannigan, Second Earl of Norhaven, approached. He stopped before her and tsked under his breath. He lifted a strand of her hair and dropped it.

  “You are not what I expected.”

  She parted her lips to say, Neither are you, but Garrett’s fierce expression detoured her.

  Farrah needed a focus before she expressed her true feelings. To distract herself she studied her surroundings.

  The room was long, with tables shoved together and extending its full length. At one end of the room a raised dais held a wooden chair intricately carved with angels and halos. Two average sized males, or one Clovis’ size, could fit inside it perfectly.

  Clovis climbed the stairs and plopped into the kingly chair. He palmed his triple chin. “Lord Mountjoy must think me foolish.”

  Garrett touched the hilt of his sword and Farrah felt a small measure of relief that he was on her side.

  “I see I’ve angered your footman, however, not even you can deny this lass is unworthy.”

  The air echoed with unsheathed metal as Farrah drew Garrett’s sword, held it before her, and braced her legs firmly apart. “An insult to my family will not be tolerated.” Her arms burned with effort.

  Clovis roared with laughter and her anger increased.

  “Spirited, I like.” His laughter died and Clovis leaned forward, bracing his elbow on his knee. “I’ve buried seven wives who attempted to bare my children. I must marry a hardy lass.”

  The sword wavered in her grasp and Garrett rescued it from her trembling fingers.

  Clovis ignored the exchange and continued, “You will remain here while I ponder this newest development. If I find you worthy then we will wed. Garrett may return home.”

  Farrah prepared to protest, but Garrett squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Lord Norhaven.” He bowed and escorted her into the foyer.

  “You can’t really be going to leave me,” she whispered hoarsely, her palms sweating with fear.

  “Aye, I must.”

  She held tight to his hands. “Please Garrett, speak with Father. Find out what he hides from me. Why he insists on this union. I can’t wed Clovis. You heard him. He has killed seven wives already. I won’t survive.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek and Garrett wiped it with his knuckle. “Your mother was a kind soul. She felt me suited to your care, and I have protected you since you were a wee lass. But your father has no sons and this union, after your frolicking with the farm boy, is the best he could arrange.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll run away. I’ll travel to the coast and find Angus and father will never see me again.”

  Garrett patted her head like a wayward child. “Regardless of what Clovis would have me do, I will remain close.”

  She opened her mouth to thank him, but he interrupted.

  “Not here but close by, at least until the wedding. I promise, no harm will befall you.”

  Garrett turned on his heel and quit the house. Farrah blinked back tears as the door clicked closed. Under her breath, she whispered, “It already has.”

  Chapter Three

  The carriage swayed to a halt. The door opened and Andrew grew lightheaded as men laid him on a canvas frame and hauled him inside a moderate-sized townhouse. Blurred vision kept him from recognizing the details of his surroundings, so he focused on the voices swirling around him.

  “Kingsley, you will instruct a footman to leave on the morrow for Ravenwood. I would have the country estate prepared for our arrival. Also please have him inquire as to our neighbors. Rumor has it Clovis Flannigan is in the throes of planning another wedding.”

  A gasp rent the air. “Another, my lady?”

  “Yes, another. The poor dear has no idea what she’s in for.”

  Multiple candles lit the foyer and Andrew used his arm to shield his eyes from the light. Someone clapped.

  “Staff, assemble.” Footsteps pattered. “Andrew is home!”

  Silence swept the room. The only noise was his heavy breathing. The woman repeated, “I said, Andrew is home. Do you not think this is a happy occasion?”

  The first sound of joyful chattering circulated the room, escalating into a fever pitch until a cane struck the floor. The noise ceased and the face of an elderly woman rose above him. A smile tilted her painted lips as she smoothed a stray hair from his forehead. To the men holding the canvas framework, she said, “Place him in the room at the top of the stairs.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The men grunted as they took their initial step.

  Voices echoed along the staircase, but Andrew couldn’t decipher the words. The handlers struggled until they reached the upper platform. To keep from growing dizzy, he focused on the ceiling. They entered a room, lowered the frame to the bed, and rolled him off onto a thick down filled cover.

  Comforted by the lushness, Andrew released a breath. The men exhaled loud puffs of air. They left and the warmth of the room spread around him causing his eyelids to grow heavy.

  Wind and rain whipped past his face. Tree limbs snagged at his clothes. Heated voices drifted behind him. His pulse raced and his chest burned. He needed to get away from them…

  “He should wake any moment.”

  A cool rag covered his forehead and he parted his lids a fraction.

  “See, my lady.”

  “Yes.” There was a brief pause before the elderly woman from before leaned over and patted his cheek. “Do not worry, Andrew, Mother will take good care of you.”

  He attempted to rise but his head pained and he fell back against a mountain of pillows.

  “The poor dear. Is there nothing more you can do, Harold?”

  “I’m afraid not, my lady. Your, um, son, has suffered a nasty bump to the head. The he
aling will take time.”

  “Yes, of course.” She ran her aged hand along his stubble covered cheek. Quickly, she withdrew and rose to her full height. “You will stay with us until he is well.” The voice was commanding and brooked no argument.

  “B-but—”

  “Harold, I will have no excuses. You have been the family physician for years. I refuse to place my son’s care in the hands of a stranger.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but what of my practice, my other patients?”

  She waved her hand. “They can find another physician.” The doctor stammered again with no intelligible words spoken and the lady continued, “We leave next week for Ravenwood so you may bring your trunks by in two days time. Do not be late. The maid likes to pack early.”

  She flinted from the room and a younger woman entered.

  The doctor collapsed in a nearby chair and cradled his head.

  “Doctor Pennyworth, what’s the matter?”

  “Juliet, I mean Miss Lewis, it’s horrible, just horrible.”

  She stoked the fire. “It can’t possibly be so grim.”

  “I assure you my straits are dire.”

  She left the fireplace and strode closer, her hands planted on her slim hips. “Please do enlighten me with your tale. I can’t have you fretting and not sharing the details.”

  The doctor rushed to stand, and the chair threatened to topple. He caught it before it struck the floor. “Your ladyship wishes for me to travel north!”

  “Why that doesn’t sound so awful. I would think you would quite enjoy the holiday.”

  “I would if not for your ladyship’s diminishing condition. I’ll be cooped up in the house playing nursemaid to Rowena’s, I mean Lady Ravenwood’s, madness and some — some stranger, while Doctor Tidwell steals my patients!”

  “Nay, you won’t be tending a stranger, doctor. You’ll be tending your ladyship’s son.”

  The maid’s inflection caused a measure of concern, but Andrew was so wrapped up in the ensuing conversation he forgot about it instantly.

  “And that’s another thing—”

  Juliet laid a finger over the doctor’s lips and pointed in Andrew’s direction. The doctor frowned and smashed his lips together. She moved toward Andrew and arranged his spread and plumped his unused pillows. “And how is your lordship this fine evening?”