Chapter Thirty-Two
The church was quiet. Rather than risk spooking Wade, Adam, Gideon and Michael arrived the morning of the wedding on horseback and stopped beyond the trees surrounding it. The horses were tied back where they couldn’t be seen, and the three men moved quietly until the small building was in view.
“No one has arrived yet,” Gideon said. “There would be guards.”
Adam nodded his agreement. “We all know what to do. Gideon, you’re around back. We’ll wait for the carriages to get inside, wait for Wade and Aria to get indoors, away from any guards, and then we’ll attack.”
Attack. Damn right they would attack, and Adam didn’t care who he had to kill in order to save her. With a nod, Gideon disappeared back into the trees. Adam turned to Ravensdale. “Now we wait.”
* * *
Aria shifted in her seat, her hand running softly over the pin she had stabbed in the cushion as they’d gotten in. She glanced through the open window behind them at the carriage that followed. Emily was there. Patrick had brought her along as insurance, he said, to force Aria’s willingness.
He was never going to let Emily go.
No matter what Patrick said, Aria had unwittingly given him the key to making her obey. In her quest to keep anyone else from getting hurt, she’d handed him the leverage he needed to make her come to heel. Obey him, or Emily would die. Dance like a bloody trained dog if he wanted, or the baby would die.
He wasn’t about to give that up.
Which meant that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she fought, Emily and her child would be in danger as long as Patrick was alive.
Her fear had turned to a cold resolve. She had no other choice.
“I thought you might like to know,” Patrick interrupted her thoughts. “Lord Merewood is alive.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “What?”
“Henry returned this morning, injured. He woke up and found the others dead, but Merewood was nowhere to be found. It appears Merewood wasn’t alone.”
Tears of relief pressed against her eyes, and she fought to shove them back.
Adam was alive
. But the relief was as painful as it was joyous. She loved him. The knowledge of that was a clear, unfettered light that shot through her. All he’d done for her, the way he’d fought for her. Given his name. His home. She had thought he’d given his life, as well.
And she knew he deserved better. But at least he was alive.
“It won’t mean a damn thing to you,” Patrick sneered. “You’ll be married before you see the man again. And trust me, Aria, what happened to the good doctor shall pale in comparison to what your dear stepmother and her child would face should you even think of speaking to him. You already ruined my plans once and forced me to move our wedding up.” His lip curled.
The hatred that marred his face mirrored the ugly emotions that consumed her. By becoming involved with Adam, she had tapped into Patrick’s insane jealousy, his need to prove himself better than his father or anyone of his world.
She had to use that.
Her nail pushed at the head of the pin, lifting it slightly. She couldn’t overpower him. He’d throw her across the carriage before she ever got close enough to cause any damage.
No, she had to get him to come to her.
“Why do you hate the beau monde, Patrick?” she asked to distract him, pleased to see the tick in his cheek jump at her question.
“They disgust me.”
“So it is personal.”
“They are weak. There’s no place for weak in the world I live in, nor the one I grew up in. Soft meant weak. Weak meant dead.”
“What world did you grow up in?” She flattened her hand on the cushion, lifting her palm just slightly to cup the pin.
“For all your talk of a living a different life than the upper society, you are the same. You have never understood hunger. You’ve never had to dig for your food in the alley, all the while knowing the man whose seed you sprung from dined with a silver spoon. My mother was a rich man’s whore. Once she grew pregnant, he tossed her aside like trash without a care for her life or her child’s. We lived on the streets, begging for scraps. And by the time I was seven, she’d disappeared.”
The image of a seven-year-old boy left alone on the streets was appalling.
It didn’t excuse all the atrocious acts he’d committed, and it did nothing to diminish the hatred she felt. But it explained how life had twisted anything decent inside of Wade. It had permanently darkened the way he looked at the world.
“What of your father?” Her fingers curled around the short length of the pin and she pulled it up a little more.
“I ate garbage off the ground, while that man grew fatter on clotted cream and chocolates. He had his perfect wife, his perfect heir, plus a few perfect spares. He never gave a damn about me.”
“Maybe he didn’t know you existed. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault.”
“He flipped a few coins at me the day I dared to stand outside his home. He told me to leave.” Patrick’s gaze flicked back to hers, irritation sparking in his eyes.
“Who was he?”
“The Earl of Brandywine.”
She couldn’t stop the gasp. That conversation at the Gardens, when she’d asked Lady Beasley about Brandywine. Patrick’s expression had darkened so fiercely, and she’d blown it off as him feeling slighted.
Another sign she had missed.
“Brandywine was on my list. He’s invested in Papa’s work. He’s your father?”
Patrick tsked. “I so hoped you would turn to me with your father’s disappearance. I gave you every opportunity, every chance to do so. I was so patient.”
“Was that why you...killed him?” she forced herself to ask. “To gain an edge upon my grief?”
“It was supposed to be beautiful. I would have been there to help you through his death. But instead, you betrothed yourself to a goddamn title.”
“I didn’t want you,” she said cruelly, looking for the tic in his jaw that indicated his temper was rising. “I never wanted you. I knew from the beginning that I’d never marry you.”
With each word, his scowl grew blacker. But it wasn’t enough. She needed him unthinking, lunging toward her.
“I lied to you.”
“About?” The word was clipped, angry.
“My innocence.” She flipped the pin into her hand, sharp point up.
“That bastard didn’t touch you,” he spat. He sucked in air like a fuming bull, his presence growing, filling more space.
“He had his hands on me. Everywhere. I had my hands on him.”
“You lie!” He bent at the knees, crouched toward her, loomed above her until his face was inches from hers.
It was all she needed.
In one fluid motion, she shot her arm straight up and aimed at Wade’s face.
The blow sent a slice of pain up her arm and his scream told her she’d hit something. She brought her other hand up, tightened into a fist, and aimed at the side of his head, his throat, wherever her blow could do the most damage.
Shards of pain sliced up her arm as he clutched her wrist. He fell back, yanking her with him. With a brutal fist to the side of her head, he shoved her down to the ground. His hand twisted in her hair. A nauseating pain clenched her gut.
She dug her fingernails into the hand that held her, struck out with her other hand. Lifted her skirts to free her legs, and kicked, pleased at the loud grunt he made when her foot landed at his knee. The hit jarred her back, so she barely saw the hand that landed a punch against her cheek, felt her head snap back, the hot rush of pain. She tasted blood.
Fighting what seemed like a dozen fists, she reached up, grasped his head with her hands and dug her thumbs into his eyes, feeling the head of the pin sticking out.
His hand wrapped around her throat, and he squeezed until her body jerked, struggling for air. Her lungs burned.
“Enough!” His hot breath burned her cheek. “You bitch, you will pay for this.”
His hand at her throat held her in place, and she couldn’t move, could barely pull in air. With his free hand, he reached up and with a cry of pain and rage, pulled the pin from his eye and tossed it aside. Blood streamed in rivulets down his face. His other eye was wild.
“I will kill her, do you hear me? I will kill your stepmother, and you’ll watch her die, knowing her child will die, as well. You make me do these awful things when you defy me. But you will learn, even if it means I must kill every member of your family.”
“You will never be able to sleep at night,” she spat, her voice thin and raspy. She gulped for breath. “If you hurt any of them, I will not rest until I see you dead.”
The bumping underneath her jerked to a stop, and he finally lifted his hand from her throat. She gulped in air that filled her throat with a fiery burn.
“We’re here.” He wiped casually at his face, as if he’d gotten a speck of dust in his eye and not a needle.
The man couldn’t be human. “You are mad. I am not marrying you.”
“The minute you do not follow my orders, I will slit her throat and you will watch. But either way, we will be married today. They will not win.”
The carriage stopped. Patrick opened the door and moved out, then turned back to put a hand in. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“Bloody everlasting hell,” Adam cursed as the occupants of the two carriages walked toward the church. “He has Mrs. Whitney.”
“How did he get to her?” Ravensdale asked. “She is supposed to be at her mother’s.”
“Obviously a lie.” Adam craned his head to look in the direction Whitney had gone. He should be around the backside of the church, ready to enter the rear door they’d discovered. That would mean he had no idea his wife was here. Adam debated his next move, and then the group moved closer to the church—and directly into their view.
“Bastard,” Adam heard Ravensdale say. He turned slightly.
“The thug holding Mrs. Whitney—that’s one of the men who attacked us.”
Adam’s fingers curled into tight balls. It was confirmation that Wade had ordered the attack, not that they’d doubted it. And the fact that the same man was manhandling a woman near to bursting with child added fuel to his already raging need for justice. Adam surveyed the group from their distance: Wade, the women and two guards. They could take the guards one on one. Far better ratio than what they’d faced on the docks. “It doesn’t change our plans,” he said. “Our only option is to take out the guards first. We wait until Aria and Wade enter the church.”
“Agreed,” Ravensdale replied.
They watched the group as if it was a scene in a play. As they moved forward, Wade had a hand firmly on Aria’s arm, and walked her closer to the church.
A cry heralded through the trees, and they saw Mrs. Whitney falter. Adam started to stand, but Michael slapped a hand to his chest.
“Not yet. If we go now, we lose our leverage and it could hurt them both.”
Every muscle shaking with the need to move, Adam watched for the right moment.
* * *
Aria wrenched free from Wade and knelt at Emily’s side. Emily cried out again and doubled over in pain. “The babe,” she managed. “I think it’s coming.”
Aria turned her face up to Wade. “She needs the midwife! She’s going into labor.” Aria ran her hands over Emily’s belly, feeling the tense solidness under her fingers. “Let her go, Patrick. She needs to be home.”
“And she’ll get one,” Patrick replied. He took a strong hold of her arm, and Aria struggled to free herself. A gun appeared in his other hand.
“After we’re married,” he told her. “If you want to save her life, you’ll move into that church. This should only take a moment.”
Fear was stamped in Emily’s wide eyes, and Aria’s mind whirled. She could barely walk, and Emily could barely move. They couldn’t run. She couldn’t fight a gun. And Emily needed help. As soon as possible.
The truth settled like a blanket of thorns, and Aria’s thoughts of running fled. She couldn’t risk Emily, and she wouldn’t leave her. If she had to marry the bastard, she would. And she would never stop looking for a way to kill him.
* * *
“He’s got a gun,” Adam said grimly.
Wade drew Aria toward the church, leaving Mrs. Whitney behind on the ground. One of Wade’s men picked Mrs. Whitney up as if she weighed nothing and strode back toward the carriage with her.
Ravensdale didn’t wait. “I’ll get her.” He crashed through the trees toward the carriages.
Wade and Aria went up the stairs of the church. He swung the door open and shoved her inside. Immediately, the doors closed. Adam’s heart slammed against his ribs, and his hands twitched.
The remaining guard, the one who’d attempted to kill them, took up post at the base of the stairs. Adam searched out weapons. Spotted a gun. He couldn’t take the man from the front. He’d have to move around the back, get him from behind.
The guard was huge, with muscles bulging from what should have been a neck. And Adam was already at half his best. He wouldn’t stand a chance matching strength to strength. His only advantage would be in surprise.
He moved around the line of the trees until he was parallel with the front of the church. Faint cries came from the direction the other guard and Mrs. Whitney had gone, and it was enough to catch the guard’s attention.
Adam took advantage and charged. He hit the man square in the back with a grunt, the jar sending ricochets of pain through his own body. They fell to the ground in a heap. Instantly, Adam scrambled up, leveraged a blow to the side of the man’s head.
His opponent writhed, reaching around for his gun. Adam brought a leg up and kicked at his hand. The gun went flying, but the thug grabbed his leg and shoved with a wrenching twist, knocking Adam off his feet.
He landed on dirt and grass that did nothing to soften the painful thud that shoved air out of his lungs.
Gasping for a breath, Adam rolled away as the other man’s foot jabbed at his head. It missed. With a grunt of pain, Adam flipped up to his feet and squared off opposite the thug. Immediately, the world shrunk to the three feet between them.
No words. Adam understood the game. If he lost, he’d be dead.
No-Neck lunged at him, and Adam sidestepped, finally realizing his advantage. The other guy might be bigger, but even injured, Adam was faster. He twisted around, aimed another blow at the side of the man’s head. Pain exploded in his hand. He heard a snapping sound, knew from the sudden lack of control in his fingers that he’d broken one or two. He leapt back a few steps, as the other man spun around and made another lunge.