“You’re mad,” she breathed. With a sickening finality she realized his mind was truly warped and had possibly always been twisted, though she had never known the extent. And he hated her, blamed her for everything wrong in his life.
His icy blue gaze was on her, making her shiver. “But I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye, Cesca.” He caressed the butt of the pistol protruding from his waistcoat. “This marriage of yours has caused me a great deal of trouble and inconvenience.” He took a step forward, standing directly over her. “I couldn’t leave without taking what I was owed. And youoweme.”
Francesca stared at him. He would really do it—rape her and kill her. “Oh my God.” She scrambled away from him, feeling the prison of the jagged keep wall behind her.
“Even God won’t help you this time,” Roxbury said and loosened the fall on his trousers.
Thirty-five
Ethan scanned the familiarcream façade of Winterbourne Hall and urged his mount the last half mile of their journey. Since arriving in England, he had kept up a frantic pace, and now the sight of his home—warm light spilling from the windows and smoke drifting lazily from the chimneys—tempted him to relax.
It would feel good to rest after the frenzied journey from Paris to Calais, across the stormy Channel, and then the grueling ride from Dover to Yorkshire. But he would not let his guard down until he saw Francesca, until she was in his arms, and he cradled her, safe and warm, in front of a blazing fire.
A blast of wind, thick with the smell of snow, cut through his heavy greatcoat and, increasingly anxious to see his wife, he spurred the horse toward the stable complex. She’d obviously been busy, he thought as he neared the stables. A new building in the final stages of construction stood off to the side, similar in design to her hospital at Tanglewilde. She was making Winterbourne Hall her home, and in a moment he’d see her, tell her how he felt, and they could begin to make it a home together.
But when he reached the stables, a groom informed him Francesca was not at home. The grooms had readied a coach and four for the traditional delivery of presents to the poor, but it had been over an hour and their mistress had not arrived.
“Where is she now?” Ethan asked his groom. In the menacing sky, the clouds were low and ominous, and a light sleet had begun to fall. With a storm coming, it was now too late and too dangerous for her to deliver the presents. Such negligence was not like Francesca.
“I don’t know, my lord. She and Daniel left some time ago, and should have been back by now.”
Fear, cold and biting, gripped Ethan, sending rivulets of ice down his back. “Where did they go?” He kept his voice controlled, but the urge to run, to seek her out, was almost overwhelming. He resisted. Years of training had taught him that blind actions, motivated by panic, were wasted. He needed information.
The groom shook his head. “I don’t know, my lord.”
The tree limbs danced in the wind again, taunting him.
Ethan grabbed the groom by the lapels of his coat. “Damn it! Where did she go?” At the end of his patience, he shook the man, but the groom kept repeating that he didn’t know.
Another of the grooms ran forward. “Iknow, my lord!”
Feeling like a desperate animal, Ethan released the man and turned on the other groom.
The boy took a step back. “The Ingletons’ farm, my lord. A messenger—”
Ethan didn’t hear the rest of the answer. He turned and mounted again, spurring the horse toward the Ingletons’ farm.
