She envisioned him standing over her and addressing his precious family ring. She was “that nasty bit of rubbish.” How could she have ever thought he cared for her? She should have known her bridal settlement was the only thing that attracted his suit. And perhaps she had known that, but she thought he at least liked her. Enough to keep her around. Enough not to kill her.
His arms came around her again. He hefted her up with a grunt. “Little cow, I’m thinking you’ll sink straight to the bottom. Farewell, wife.” The last word was uttered with such scathing scorn she marveled that he had stomached marrying her at all. The entire ceremony must have revolted him.
And then she was falling through air.
Plunging deep into the abyss. Water rushed up all around her, enveloping her. She gasped at the sudden cold, swallowing a mouthful of briny water for the effort.
She swam to the surface, breaking free with a ragged gasp. Dragging a deep breath into her aching lungs, she tossed her head left and right against the swiftly moving waters, trying to clear the tangle of hair from her eyes.
The view had been deceptive from her window. The river had looked calm. Peaceful. But now a captive of its freezing depths, the current sucked at her, carrying her away from her wedding barge.
She squinted against the dark night, marking the dark looming shape of the barge, a hulking beast hunched over the waters that crept slowly away from her.
She detected Bloodsworth’s dark figure at the railing, his face a shadowy smudge on the night. She watched as he turned and disappeared back into the bowels of the barge, free of a wife. Free of her.
Swallowing back her terror, she kicked, grateful at least that she could swim. The shore didn’t look too far. Struggling to ignore the incessant ache in her ribs where Bloodsworth had struck her, she worked her arms and legs, only to discover that the shore was much farther than it looked, and the current was determined to keep her from it.
Choking, she strained to keep her head above the slapping waves. Her strong leg worked three times as hard and yet it wasn’t enough. Her exhaustion grew, dragging her down. The current slapped at her face, continuing to pull at her, tugging her along. She went under again and again, popping back up only to suck in a wet breath.
Jagged shapes emerged in the water, first only a few and then more, increasing in frequency. Rocks. She jerked to avoid them, but there were too many. Her foot scraped something sharp and jagged. She cried out and choked on water.
Suddenly pain slammed into her lame leg, spinning her. She quickly became confused, no longer sure what direction was up. Lancing pain shot up her limb, settling deep into her bone, reverberating to every nerve in her body.
She tried to kick her way to the surface, but one strong leg wasn’t enough to help her. Agony screamed through her lame leg, telling her something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. She couldn’t force it to move.
Gray edged at her vision, closing in. She couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t fight. Bloodsworth had succeeded after all.
She wasn’t going to make it out of this river alive.
Owen squinted against the afternoon’s gray sky, swaying loosely in his saddle as his mount meandered along the road. Never mind that it was overcast. The day was too bright for him. The consequences of last night’s binge with a bottle of brandy still bore its effects. Thousands of tiny hammers beat inside his head.
He scratched at his bristly jaw, unable to recall the last time he had shaved. Perhaps a week ago. He hadn’t cared enough even when he had arrived home into the loving embrace of his family. Not that he had stayed longer than a day. It took him all of five minutes in the company of Jamie and Paget to realize he couldn’t stomach either one of them.
His brother and bride were nauseatingly happy, and he was not fit company for happy people. It had nothing to do with the fact that his older brother had wed his own childhood sweetheart. Discovering Jamie and Paget happily wed had not overly concerned him. Not as it would have four years ago when he was besotted with Paget. When he possessed a heart. When he was more than the shell of a man he was now.
He felt only relief to know that Paget had moved on—that she wasn’t waiting for him. There was no disappointing her. Because what he was, who he had become . . . there was no coming back from that.
The Owen they once knew was dead. Lost halfway around the world.
His mount quickened its pace, and he knew he was approaching the river. Reaching its banks, he dismounted and led the horse to water, holding the reins loosely in his hand as it drank.
He scanned his surroundings, his gaze missing nothing on land or water. He might be in the land of his birth, a mere day’s ride from London, but a part of him would always be back in India scouting for rebels. Ready to kill. A talent he had perfected these past few years. It turned out he was extraordinarily good at killing.
His gaze stopped, arresting on something several yards downriver. Everything inside him tightened with familiar alertness, his time as a soldier rushing to the surface.
Ever wary, he moved closer. At first he thought it nothing more than a mound of fabric, discarded and washed ashore. Even soiled, the material was startling white alongside the muddy bank. But then he detected the shape of a body beneath the sopping wet fabric.
A female body.
She lay facedown, a limp arm stretched above her head. One leg stretched out, the pale foot and calf disappearing into the ink of water. He took a slow look around, well aware that a trap could wait anywhere. She could be the bait some nefarious brigands left to lure unsuspecting travelers to a foul end.
The still and silent woods met his sweeping stare, the gentle slap of water the only sound. He pushed the ghosts from his head, burying the cries of dead men deep as he turned his attention back to the woman. He cautiously approached. Crouching, he carefully touched her shoulder and rolled her onto her back.
She was young. Her face ashen. Eyes closed, her lashes fanned out against her cheeks in dark crescents that looked almost obscene against her waxy, colorless skin.
He pressed his fingertips to her throat. Icy cold to the touch, her pulse hiccupped, the smallest, barely-there flutter. Soft as a moth’s wings. Not good.
He leaned closer, listening for her breath. The air escaped her bloodless lips in tiny, hard-fought rasps. He compressed his lips.
His gaze skimmed her, assessing. Scratches, cuts, and bruises marred her pale skin. The hem of her gown was streaked in faint pink tinges of blood. He tugged the gown up, checking for injuries, wincing at the sight of her leg. From the odd shape, it was clearly broken. A deep gash on her foot probably needed stitching as well. Owen glanced to the river and back at her, marveling that she was alive. Given her injuries, he couldn’t quite fathom how she had not drowned.
Staring at her for a long moment, he brushed some of the brown hair from her forehead. “How’d you get in that river, hmm?”
His mind quickly worked, plotting the best way to find her help. He had spent the last five years attacking sepoys, assassinating them at the behest of his commanders. He was about taking lives, not saving.
They were a day’s ride from his family home—not that he wanted to return there again. The next village was a half day ride south. He’d planned on spending the night there before continuing on to London.
Sighing, he glanced around them again, suddenly wishing someone else would happen upon them. Someone better equipped to care for a female who didn’t look as though she would live out the day.
“Come, little one,” he murmured, slipping his arms beneath her, one beneath her legs and the other at her back, taking care not to jostle her leg more than necessary.
Contrary to his words, she was no fragile bit of crystal. She was generously curved in his arms, and yet his six-foot-plus frame ate up the distance toward his horse as if she weighed nothing at all. After grueling conditions in India, she was only a slight burden.
Remounting with her in his arms was a tricky task, but he managed it, laying her carefully across his lap. With her legs dangled off to one side, he grasped the reins and prodded his mount to move. Her head lolled against his chest, her face settling against his well-worn jacket. Almost trustingly, it seemed. Absurd, of course. She was unconscious.
Disconcerted, he blinked down at her. It was impossible to recall the last time a woman had fallen asleep in his arms. There’d been women in his life, in his bed, but no one that he actually slept with. No one he had held in his arms once he satisfied his body’s need for them.
Looking up again, he urged his mount into a faster clip, eager to reach the next town and rid himself of this newfound burden. So that he could be on his way. Just him and the demons of his past.
The female in his arms stiffened with a sharp gasp.
Startled, he looked down to find himself staring into a pair of brown eyes. Framed in lush lashes, the eyes were no ordinary brown. They were velvety . . . brown rimmed in the darkest black. They shined, as if lit from within. She stared directly at him, the fear there unmistakable.
His hand reached down to cup her face, trying to offer some comfort. “Don’t be frightened. I mean you no harm.”
Nothing in her wild, searching gaze indicated she understood or even heard him. Those eyes looked right through him, as though she were somewhere else entirely, caught up in a living nightmare. Her breath fell faster in sharp little pants.
“Easy,” he soothed, not really knowing what sort of words he should say. He wasn’t accustomed to doling out comfort or reassurances. He pressed a hand awkwardly over her forehead and made a hushing sound. The kind his old nanny used to make whenever he’d hurt himself as a child.
Perhaps it worked. Or perhaps she was just out of her head with pain.
Her eyelids drifted shut. After a long moment he looked back up at the road and urged his mount faster, suddenly determined that she would live out the day.
Chapter Four
An hour into the trek, and he knew the damsel in distress he’d rescued from the banks of the river was in the gravest danger. She burned with fever. Heat radiated off her and roasted him through his clothes. He rode his mount hard now. Digging in his heels, he gave Jasper his lead, less concerned for her comfort. Jostling the woman’s leg was now secondary to getting her into the hands of someone who could ease her fever.
He doubted they would reach the village in time. He glanced around, debating stopping somewhere. But then he was plagued with what it was he himself could do. What could he offer her? He wasn’t equipped to care for her along a roadside.
He wondered if he should take one of the more obscure paths leading off the main road in search of a farm or cottage. He cursed beneath his breath and spared her a quick glance. Her face was even more colorless, if possible—the shadows beneath her eyes twin bruises. He’d seen men look this badly before. Moments before they took their last breath. Comrades, men he fought alongside. And sometimes, naturally, they had been enemies. Men whose lives he’d been charged with ending.
He shook off the memories. She was not them. Nor would she become one of them either. Not if he had any control over the matter.
You’ve never had any control over the matter, a dark, insidious little voice whispered inside his head. He dismissed the voice. Saving this girl’s life had somehow become important to him. Something he had to do. Maybe this once he could help. Maybe this one could live. And perhaps he could be the reason. It was hardly his area of expertise, but he was determined to try.
Ahead, he spied a rider. Several, in fact. At least four horsemen emerged, followed by two slow-moving wagons. Trailing the wagons were another three riders. He eyed their colorful attire. Females drove the wagons, their dark hair loose down their backs, their heads covered by bright kerchiefs.
Gypsies. He’s seen his share here and abroad. Realizing they might be his best hope, he spurred his mount. Holding up a hand, he called out a greeting.
The horsemen riding in front quickly formed a wall, shielding the wagons. “Move aside,” one of the men quickly demanded in a thick accent.