Page 101 of The Defiant One
Andrew grabbed his hat, stuffed his arms into his frock coat as he ran and with Lucien on his heels, charged toward the stable, his animosity toward his brother temporarily forgotten in his panic over Celsie's safety. Word had been sent ahead, and already grooms were leading Newton and Lucien's diabolical black stallion, Armageddon, outside.
"Any idea which direction she might have gone?" Lucien asked, swinging up onto Armageddon in a swirl of dark cloak. He glanced up at the darkening sky as the stallion pranced and pawed, eager to be off.
"Damned if I know, it's only the first morning I've spent here. Why don't you head east and I'll head west, and if we don't find anything, double around to the south and north respectively."
"Very well then. Godspeed, my brother."
But Andrew had already turned Newton and kicked him into a gallop. The big Thoroughbred pounded down the drive, his steel-grey mane lashing Andrew's face, the trees whipping past on either side in a blur.
And there — a figure on horseback, galloping toward him.
Bloody hell. Of all people —
"Lord Andrew!" cried the earl of Somerfield, waving his hat frantically. "I say, hold up there!"
Andrew never slowed. "Look, Somerfield, I don't have time to exchange pleasantries right now; Celsie's gone missing and may have suffered a fall —"
"I know that, damn it!" Somerfield had turned his horse and was now thundering alongside Andrew. "I was just coming to get you! That confounded man-hating horse of hers just went flying past me . . . I headed in the direction from which it came and found Celsie!"
"Dear God, man, is she all right?"
"Broke her leg," Gerald yelled breathlessly. "She needs help."
"Where is she?"
"Old ruins — south pasture!"
Andrew swore beneath his breath, torn between sending Gerald back for a carriage and charging headlong to Celsie's rescue. He had no idea where the ruins were, and now the rain was starting to come down harder, the sky off to the west crackling with eerie purple light as lightning split the clouds and forked down into the valley. There was no time to lose.
"Lead me to her," he commanded. "That storm's going to be upon us any minute."
"But —"
"For God's sake, hurry, man!"
Andrew pulled Newton up just enough to let Somerfield take the lead, then let the gray have his head. Newton, who had once made a name for himself at Newmarket, had no trouble keeping up and pulled hard against the bit in his demand for more rein. The wind whistled in Andrew's ears. Rain beat against his face as the horses veered off the drive, plunged down a muddy embankment, and charged headlong across the south pasture, heading toward a copse of trees that bordered fields of newly planted wheat, all going dark now beneath the oncoming storm.
Hurry! Andrew stared out over Newton's ears, cursing Somerfield's mount for its slowness.
Thunder cracked down just ahead. Somerfield's horse shied violently, nearly unseating him. He kicked the animal, hard, yanking on its reins as he sent it charging into the woods. Newton followed, his hooves cutting up the earth and sending clods of mud flying behind him. Lightning flashed, and just ahead through the trees, Andrew saw the cold gray walls of an ancient ruin.
He gave Newton his head, charged past Somerfield, and was leaping off the Thoroughbred's back before the great animal had even slowed to a stop.
And it was at the exact moment that he saw Celsie tied to a tree, her eyes wild with fear and blood running down her wrists, that he heard the click of a pistol from behind.
He whirled.
Somerfield had dismounted and was standing just behind him, a pistol in his hand. "I am sorry," he said, raising the weapon and training it on Andrew's chest. "Sorry, that is, that I'm not going to regret killing you."
Andrew stared at that deadly black hole, his mind, his heartbeat, racing as Gerald walked slowly toward him. "Why, you're mad!"
"Not mad, just desperate" — Somerfield's voice thickened and his eyes became two burning holes of hatred — "as you would be, too, if you found yourself impoverished, robbed of your friends, your reputation, your honor and even the dignity of your own name. You, de Montforte, have robbed me of everything I have — everything, that is, except my ability to exact revenge, and revenge, I tell you, is exactly what I intend to have."
Andrew had moved in a slow circle so that he had his eye on Celsie and Gerald did not. Her back against the tree, he saw that she had chafed steadily away at her bonds with a rock that she must have managed to pick up, and was now in danger of freeing herself. Please, God, don't let this madman see her. Don't let her get free just yet. And if she does, please don't let her do anything foolish.
He determined to keep Somerfield's attention. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he scoffed, truthfully. "You speak of revenge, but I've done nothing to you. If you're so intent on sending me to my death, the least you could do is tell me my crime."
"Destroying my life, that's what!" Somerfield moved closer, viciously kicking aside a brick. His eyes were savage, tears streaked his cheeks, and his breath was tainted by fumes of alcohol. "You stole Celsie's inheritance right out from under me, you miserable blackguard. You switched the aphrodisiacs so that I am ruined forever. And now I have you right where I want you, don't I? Hand over the aphrodisiac, de Montforte. The real aphrodisiac. It won't spare your life, but maybe it will spare Celsie's."
