Surrender Becomes Her Part 17

After a brief hug and a kiss on Clara's sweetly rose-scented cheek, Isabel took a chair beside the pair of them.

"Would you like some tea, my dear?" Clara asked. "I can ring for Deering. I'm afraid what is on the table is cold by now."

Isabel shook her head. "No. I'm fine." She looked from one smiling face to the other and said, "And it would appear that the pair of you are doing just fine, too."

Lord Manning laid his hand over Clara's soft, plump one and said, "Indeed we are. We have decided that my illness was actually fortunate. Without it, you'd still be dithering on a wedding date and Clara and I would still be pining for each other." He beetled his brows at her. "Forgiven me yet for rus.h.i.+ng you to the altar?"

"There was never anything to forgive," Isabel said truthfully. "But next time you wish me to do something, could you choose a less dramatic way to accomplish it?"

Lord Manning guffawed. "I've missed that tart tongue of yours, and Edmund's spirited presence." He flashed Clara an apologetic look and added hastily, "Not that Clara and I aren't content in each other's company."

"That's very true," Clara said, with a fond smile at him, "but it will be most enjoyable when Edmund is back and stirring things up a bit for the two of us." She looked at Isabel, an impish gleam in her eyes. "Too much peace and quiet will turn us into a pair of doddering old crotchets. Edmund will keep our step lively...and then, of course, I'm sure that you and Marcus will present us with some honorary grandchildren, won't you, my dear?"

For a moment, Isabel's mind went blank. With everything that had gone on recently, she'd not yet given any thought to a child. Why, this time next year, she realized excitedly, she could be holding her own child, her and Marcus's baby in her arms. Joy blossomed through her and she exclaimed, "Oh, I do, indeed, hope so!"

It was mid afternoon when Isabel eventually rode away from Manning Court and toward Sherbrook Hall, taking the path by which she had come. She had not meant to stay so long, but the older couple had pressed her to join them for an alfresco luncheon and she could not deny them. Relaxed and smiling, she was in no hurry to reach home, content simply to enjoy the warm afternoon and dwell on the miraculous path her life had taken.

The secret surrounding Edmund's birth was safe, and if she had not loved Marcus before, she would have adored him for the way he immediately became her ally in securing Edmund's future. The burden she had carried for so long had been lifted from her shoulders and, she thought with a faint smile, her pesky virginity had been taken care of, too. Marcus was...oh, very good at solving problems.

Clara's mention of possible children flitted through her mind and, dreaming of the children she might someday bear, she was oblivious to the world around her. Her mare gave her the first hint, stopping and snorting in the middle of the narrow path.

Jerked from her daydreams of gray-eyed, black-haired little boys and girls, her reaction was slow, and before she knew it, the hors.e.m.e.n were upon her. She barely glimpsed the pair of them, the lower halves of their faces hidden by handkerchiefs as they rushed out of the woods on either side of her, before a heavy dark blanket was thrown over her and she was lifted easily off her horse by one of them.

More outraged than frightened, she struggled to escape. "Unhand me, you blackguard!" she ordered. Her position, slung over the horse in front of the rider, made escape nearly impossible. Her arms were tangled in the blanket, and with her head dangling over one side of the horse and her feet the other, she could gain no purchase.

Her captor gave her b.u.t.tocks a sharp slap and said, "Be still! You keep wiggling like that and you're going to end up falling on your head."

Enraged that he had taken such liberties, Isabel turned her head and bit him on the thigh.

"Jesus Christ!" the man gasped. "You bit me!"

"And I'll do more, if you don't release me at once!"

To her astonishment a soft chuckle met her ear. "Unfortunately, madame, that is beyond my power. Now, be a good little wench and this will soon be over with nothing hurt but your pride."

Isabel frowned. Her captor's voice was that of an educated man, his tone and words not that of a common footpad. What the devil was happening? Her breath caught, and she demanded, "Is Whitley behind this? Did he hire you to abduct me?"

"I think," said the stranger, "that I should be the one asking questions. Now hang on, we have some ground to travel." And he kicked his horse into a fast gallop that made talk impossible.

As the horse swiftly bore her away from the place of her abduction, the possibility that she might be in real danger occurred to Isabel. She wasn't frightened, exactly, but as her first burst of anger dissipated, neither was she sanguine about her position. The fact that both men had worn handkerchiefs over their faces made it impossible to identify them, and instinct told her that they were strangers to her. Or rather, she amended, she couldn't imagine someone she knew abducting her in this bold, insolent fas.h.i.+on. Which raised the question, why had she been taken in the first place?

The ride, considering her uncomfortable position, was not overly long, but they traveled at speed and had crossed, by her count, three streams. Crisscrossing? Covering their tracks? When the horses stopped a short while later, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had no idea where she was, but she knew that they couldn't be too far away from either Manning Court or Sherbrook Hall.

Her captor swung out of the saddle. A second later, he lifted her down and, like a sack of potatoes, threw her over his shoulder.

A hint of laughter in his voice, he said, "I apologize for the rough treatment, madame, but this is the easiest way to transport you to your, er, abode."

With her firmly anch.o.r.ed across his shoulder, he scrambled across the ground, climbing slightly, and as they climbed, Isabel heard the heavy breathing and the occasional vicious curse made by the other man as he followed. Her captor may have some polish, but his companion, if his speech was anything to go by, was as common as dirt.

Upon reaching their destination, the man carrying her pushed open a door-one not used often, she thought, if the creak and the sc.r.a.pe it made across the floor was anything to go by. Inside, she was set on her feet, her captor's hands on her shoulders holding her steady until she could stand by herself.

The instant his hands left her shoulders, Isabel grabbed the blanket and tugged at it, suddenly needing to be free of the smothering folds.

The companion saw what she was doing and yelled, "d.a.m.n her eyes! Grab her! She'll be free of that blanket in a moment."

Two hard hands caught her, stifling her movements and, in frustration, Isabel kicked out wildly. By luck, her foot connected with someone's s.h.i.+n and she was pleased by the sound of his painful yelp.

"Dash it all! Will you be still? I don't want to hurt you, but if you keep this up, you'll force me to do something you won't like."

"Well, I don't have no trouble at all putting her glimms out," snarled the companion.

Isabel sensed a movement behind her the second before something hard connected to the back of her head. Pain exploded through her brain and all went dark as she slumped senseless to the floor.

Cursing under his breath, the stranger leaped across her fallen body to grab both lapels of Collard's jacket. Shaking him savagely, he said, "By G.o.d, if you've harmed her..."

"You'll what, kill me?" Collard taunted. He tried to push the other man away, but was unable to break the iron grip. His face red, Collard demanded, "Who found this place for you? Who told you about Whitley in the first place? If I hadn't looked you up, you'd have no notion of what was in the wind."

"You're wrong," the stranger snapped. "I already knew about the memorandum, you fool, and the reason you found me in Cherbourg was because it was the logical place for it to surface."

"But I told you where to find him, didn't I?" Collard whined. "I've been useful to you, you can't deny that."

The stranger's hands fell to his sides and he said grimly, "I would remind you that even the best tool sometimes outlives its usefulness. Disregard my wishes one more time and we'll have an unpleasant parting of the ways."

Collard grimaced. "You're still angry about Whitley, ain't you?" When the stranger said nothing, just stared at him coldly, Collard muttered, "All right, maybe I made a mistake. But I didn't think it was smart to leave him around to wag his tongue."

"He wouldn't have. Besides, what could he have said that wouldn't have been self-incriminating? Whitley was a coward, but not a fool, and he'd have put as much distance between us as he could."

"Maybe that's so, but I still think..."

Ignoring him, the other man turned away and knelt beside Isabel's still form. Gently he removed the blanket from around her and carefully explored the back of her head. His mouth thinned when his fingers came away sticky with blood, but the steady rise and fall of her bosom told him that she was alive.

She was small enough for him to handle easily and he picked her up and set her on the one piece of furniture in the old wooden hut, a rickety chair probably as old as the ramshackle building. He glanced over his shoulder at Collard. "The rope. And the blindfold and gag, if you please."

Collard quickly retrieved the items, and a few minutes later, Isabel was tied to the chair. A black blindfold had been placed around her eyes and a gag had been put in her mouth. Sitting back on his heels, the stranger surveyed his handiwork.

Rising to his feet, he said, "That should keep her still and quiet long enough for us to accomplish what needs to be done."

"We're just going to leave her here?" Collard asked, frowning.

"Yes. As you said when you suggested this place, it's unlikely anyone would stumble across it, and with her tied, gagged, and blindfolded..."

Collard hesitated and, moving like lightning, the next instant the stranger had him pushed up against the wall of the hut, his hands around his throat. "Touch her," the stranger threatened softly, "harm her in any way, and it will be the last thing you ever do. I will not have an innocent's death on my conscience. Understand me?"

Eyes bulging from the pressure of those hands, his fingers clawing at the steel grip around his throat, Collard nodded.

The stranger let him go and said coolly, "Since we now understand each other, let us now conclude our business with Mr. Sherbrook."

Marcus returned home hours later than he had planned. Even though he had rushed his steward and he was quite certain that several of his tenants thought him somewhat brusque in his manner during his visit to their farms, it had still taken much longer than he had a.s.sumed it would. At every place they stopped, there seemed to be some matter of utmost importance to the farmer that ate away the hours, but finally it was over and he was riding home.

His thoughts were on Isabel and he was smiling as he turned his horse down the long driveway that led to Sherbrook Hall. Approaching the stables, his smile faded as he noted the crowd of servants milling around the small chestnut mare he knew Isabel favored. An ugly knot clamped in his belly and his face was set in hard lines as he approached the group.

At the sound of his horse's approach, the crowd turned as one and rushed toward him. The knot in his belly clamped even tighter when he saw that Thompson and the housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, were amongst them.

Dismounting, he looked at Thompson and demanded, "What is it?"

Thompson took a deep breath and said, "It is madame, sir. Her horse returned without her a while ago. Immediately, the alarm was raised and searchers were sent out to look for her, but so far no one has found any sign of her anywhere."

"Do you know where she was going when she left on her ride?" Marcus asked, astonished at how calm his voice sounded when inside he was a gibbering idiot.

Thompson nodded. "Yes, sir. As she left the house this morning she mentioned that she intended to ride over to visit Lord and Lady Manning." He cleared his throat. "I took the liberty, sir, of sending George to Manning Court with a note to Deering. I know that you would not want to alarm the old lord and his lady, and Deering knows how to keep his mouth shut. George brought back a reply from Deering: Mrs. Sherbrook rode away from Manning Court sometime around two o'clock this afternoon."

Marcus glanced at his pocket watch. It was coming on six o'clock. "When was her horse discovered?"

"Just a little over an hour ago, sir. Everyone has been searching for her since then. Several of the stable boys have combed every trail between here and Manning Court. The lake was even checked, but there is no sign of her. Only her horse."

Which told him b.l.o.o.d.y little, Marcus thought savagely. Whatever happened to Isabel could have happened as little as an hour ago or within minutes of her leaving sight of Manning Court this afternoon. Tamping down the sheer terror that raked up through his chest, he said, "Where are they? I wish to speak to them."

Within minutes Marcus was surrounded by about a dozen men, half of them barely into their teens. Whatever the age, however, every face wore the same anxious look. Keeping his own expression calm wasn't easy but Marcus managed it. The last thing his people needed was for him to panic.

His questioning of the stable staff gained him little and, hiding his own fears, he eventually sent them on their way. One young man lingered and Marcus glanced at him. "Ellard, isn't it?" he asked. When the boy nodded shyly, he questioned, "You have something you want to add?"

The boy, for he was little more than that, bobbed his head and mumbled, "Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a spot on the main trail where it looked to me like the missus was waylaid. The tracks are fresh, not more than a few hours old."

"Show me."

A moment later, Marcus and Ellard, the stable boy, were astride their horses and galloping away from the stables. Several minutes later, Ellard pulled his horse to a stop and, motioning for Marcus to follow him, urged his mount off to the side of the trail. They traveled in silence except for the soft thud of their horses' hooves on the dirt for another few minutes before Ellard said excitedly, "There, sir. See! The one track leads off toward home, which is most likely that of madame's mare, but the other two cut through the forest."

Marcus didn't claim to be a great tracker, but he'd hunted his share of game and it only took him a second to find the tracks, amongst the others on the trail that Ellard was pointing to. He dismounted and carefully studied the ground. Widening the area, further search revealed signs where two horses had waited, each one hidden on either side of the trail. The tracks weren't more than a few hours old and it did look as if Ellard was right. A pair of riders had waited for Isabel's return and had captured her.

That blasted Whitley, Marcus thought as he stared at the hoofprints in front of him. He didn't know what was going on, but he was convinced that it was somehow connected to Whitley.

His face implacable, wordlessly, Marcus remounted and he and Ellard began to track the path taken by the other two horses. It was agonizingly slow work, the forest floor hiding the pa.s.sage of the two animals, but here and there, a hoofprint was spied and they traveled deeper into the woods. After the second stream crossing they lost all sign of their quarry. They wasted another hour trying to pick it up again, but they found nothing.

By the time they returned to Sherbrook Hall, dusk was falling and, weary and more frightened than he had ever been in his life, Marcus dismounted and gave the reins of his equally weary horse to his stable master, Worley.

Worry in his eyes, Worley asked, "Anything?"

Marcus shook his head. "Nothing. But young Ellard proved to have a good eye. Reward him." Marcus hesitated, then added, "Calm your staff as best you can. Keep the speculation down. Tell them that, oh, that Mrs. Sherbrook forgot to tell me that she was visiting friends and that her horse accidentally wandered away."

Worley looked like he wanted to object, but something in Marcus's eyes made him shut his mouth with a snap.

The sound of an approaching vehicle jerked Marcus's head around, but the wild hope that had flared in his chest died when he saw that it was only one of his tenant farmers, Bartlett. The heavy farm wagon creaked and groaned as it rolled up. Bartlett pulled his horse to a stop and said, "Good evening to you, Master Sherbrook! I have something for you." He reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. Handing it to Marcus, he said, "Fellow gave me a queer start when he stopped me on the road. Gave me a whole guinea, though, to deliver it. Said I was to put it in no one's hands but yours."

Hoping no one had seen the way his fingers had shaken when he had taken the envelope from Bartlett's hand, Marcus nodded and murmured, "Thank you." He glanced down at the envelope, already having a fair idea what was in it, and asked, "Could you describe the man who gave this to you?"

Puzzled, Bartlett replied, "Fellow acted as if he was a friend of yours. Wasn't he?"

Marcus shook his head. "No. Not a friend. What can you tell me about him?"

Bartlett pulled on his ear. "I'll be truthful, sir, I didn't pay him no mind, but as I recall he had the look of a gentleman, spoke like one, too. He was a well set-up fellow, rode a blood horse, but now that I think of it, he kept his hat pulled down over his face, so I'm not likely to recognize him again." Worried, Bartlett added, "I didn't do wrong, did I, sir?"

"No. You didn't do wrong. Thank you for your troubles," Marcus said, forcing a smile.

Bartlett grinned at him. "Wasn't no trouble, sir. Not for a whole guinea!"

Marcus waved him off and headed for the house. Entering the wide foyer, he was greeted by an anxious Thompson. "Any word, sir?"

"I suspect that what is in this envelope will tell me what I want to know," Marcus answered, waving it in front of Thompson. He sent Thompson an unflinching look and said, "As far as anyone is concerned, my wife neglected to tell me that she decided unexpectedly to visit with friends and will be gone for a few days. See that you inform the staff."

Thompson swallowed. "And her horse, sir? Is there a reason why it came home without her?"

"Probably because it became untied from the carriage in which she was riding." Giving Thompson another look, he held the envelope up and said, "It's all in here. Even her apology for upsetting everyone. Make sure that you spread the word around that it was all a mistake and that everything is fine." His voice hard, he repeated, "Everything is fine. Just fine."

Thompson bowed. "Very well, sir. I shall see to it."

Alone in his office, Marcus shrugged out of his jacket and tore off his cravat, his eyes on the envelope lying in the middle of his big desk. He didn't have to read the contents to know what was inside. From the moment he'd learned of the return of Isabel's riderless mare he'd been half braced for some sort of ransom note. Accidents did happen, but his wife was an exemplary rider, the mare not known for being particularly fractious. From the beginning he'd been aware that it was unlikely that Isabel had been thrown from her horse and, when a search turned up no trace of her, he'd fought to contain the panic that threatened to consume him. Finding the tracks with young Ellard had only confirmed his suspicions that there had been nothing accidental about Isabel's disappearance and the arrival of the note.

He splashed some brandy in a snifter and, with the snifter in his hand, sat down behind his desk. He studied the envelope in front of him like it was a deadly viper. All I have to do, he told himself, is open it and have my worst fears confirmed.

For a second longer, he sipped his brandy, staring at the slim envelope on the desk before him, trying to get his thoughts in order, considering all the angles. The temptation, however, to put an end to all his wild speculations was too overpowering, and with a curse he set down his snifter and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the envelope. In one violent motion he tore it open.

There was only one sheet of paper inside and as he read the scant words written there, a chill blew through him. Dear G.o.d, no!

His face set and rigid, he crumpled the note in his hand and, starting to his feet, charged from the room. Heedless of anything in his path, he raced to the stables, nearly knocking down Worley as he sped by.

Reaching the door to his office in the stable, he flung open the door and gazed around wildly. There, on a hook against one wall, hanging neatly where one of the stable boys had put it, was the object of his search. In four swift strides, he was across the room and yanked down Whitley's greatcoat from the hook.

I should have known, he raged, as he laid the garment on his desk. We knew the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had to have brought the memorandum with him. I knew he had to have it nearby but I never gave his b.l.o.o.d.y greatcoat a second's thought. I was a fool, he thought furiously, not to have paid more attention when I learned of the break-in and the other events.

Darkness was falling and, needing light, Marcus lit a pair of candles and set them on the desk on either side of the garment. Forcing himself to act calmly, in the dancing light he slowly examined the fine woolen garment. It took him several minutes, but eventually his fingers touched a section of the coat that didn't feel right. There was no way that Whitley's hiding place would have been accidentally discovered and Marcus gave him credit for being clever. If he hadn't known the coat had to hide the memorandum, he'd never have found it. Only by carefully running his fingers over the welting in the lapels and noticing that one side was a trifle thicker and a bit more rigid than the other did he find the memorandum.

With a knife, he carefully slit the expertly sewn seam and his breathing quickened when his fingers touched a narrow cylinder of oilcloth. Getting it free of the coat, he brought it closer to one of the candles and almost reverently unrolled it. Inside were several tightly rolled sheets of paper, and as he read them, he realized how damaging to the British troops it would be if this information fell into the hands of the French.

His expression bleak, his jaw rigid, he stared at the memorandum in his hands. The ransom note had made no mention of the missing memorandum, but the moment his eyes had fallen upon the demand for Whitley's greatcoat in exchange for Isabel, Marcus had known precisely what Isabel's captors had been after. He cursed himself roundly for not realizing days ago that the very thing they searched for had been hanging in his barn office all the time.

His gaze fixed on the papers he held in his hand, he slumped down in a chair behind his desk, terror and despair tearing through him like cannon fire. How can I, he wondered dully, not save the woman I love more than life? But how many lives may be lost if I hand this over to them? Am I not a traitor if I give them what they demand? His heart twisted in searing anguish. He could not imagine a life without Isabel at his side, could not imagine allowing her to die when he had the ability to save her, yet how could he live knowing he may have gained her safety at the cost of how many lives of good, loyal Englishmen?

He took a deep breath. The possibility of changing Wellesley's plans had already been mentioned; didn't that make the memorandum before him useless to the French? Couldn't he with a clear conscience hand the memorandum over to Isabel's abductors and get his wife safely back in his arms? For a brief moment he considered it, but he knew it wasn't that simple.

Marcus wasn't a military tactician, but he understood how vital the landing in Portugal would be for Britain and her allies. Yes, other ports, other sites could be used, but Portugal might be the key to unlocking Napoleon's throttle hold on the continent and he held in his hands the doc.u.ment that could allow those plans-plans that had been in the works for weeks, months-to go forward. If those plans were changed, there was no telling how much more difficult, how many more lives would be lost because of it.

Marcus groaned and buried his head in his hands. His choice was simple. Save his wife. Or betray his country.

Chapter 17.