Shame about Pippin… God knew what her father was about, allowing that old witch to pick on poor Jane the way she did.
Alex pushed away from the tree and shrugged out of his jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. Warm, dry days had been few and far between this summer—although it was still an improvement on last—but today was one of them: the sun high in a cloudless sky and insects humming. Alex wandered through the trees, his jacket hooked over his shoulder, absorbing the peace, disturbed only by the occasional burst of laughter from the garden party, taking little notice of where he was going. It was only when the sun reflecting off the surface of the lake dazzled him that he realised where he was. He stopped, his guts churning in that old familiar way.
He’d had no intention of coming here, to the place where it had happened. His mother’s favourite place. And yet his feet had led him there. Unerringly. As they always did. The summer house overlooking the lake was no more—destroyed by his father after his mother died, a weeping willow planted in its place, in her memory.
The willow had grown in the years since he had last seen it, its fronds now sweeping the ground, and the surrounding trees and shrubs—also planted after her death—had matured, isolating the willow in a clearing bounded by woodland and water.
He stood, just looking, the dark memories close, clawing their way slowly, inexorably, out of the chasm of the past. His heart drummed in his chest, nausea rising to crowd his throat as he shoved those chilling memories of his childhood—of that day—back into the depths and slammed a mental lid on them. He’d had enough practice at keeping them at bay. Eighteen years of practice—he’d only been seven when his mother died…when she was killed.
He shoved harder, feeling sweat bead his forehead. He shouldn’t have come here, should’ve stayed with the others, endured their chatter and their laughter, but it was the same every time he returned to his childhood home. No matter his best intentions, this spot drew him like a lodestone.
The sound of a scuffle and a scream, quickly cut off, grabbed his attention. He scanned his surroundings, still shaken by the past that lurked, ready to catch him unawares. He saw no one, but a muffled cry and a grunted oath sounded from beyond a clump of rhododendrons. His heart thudded. Those sounds… The memories swirled, trying to form. He swore and strode into the copse, rounding the bushes. Whatever he saw would be preferable to the images hovering at the edge of his mind.
‘No! Please! Stop!’
Breathless. Pleading. Scared.
No…terrified. Alex broke into a run, deeper into the trees, even as the sound of a slap rang out. He rounded another thicket.
Rage exploded through him—a starburst of fury that electrified every single nerve ending and muscle. He hauled the man off the woman beneath him and jerked him around, vaguely registering the stink of alcohol. His fist flew and he relished the satisfaction of the crunch of bone and the bright claret spurt of blood. He cast the man aside.
She was curled into a defensive ball, her back convulsing with silent sobs. Alex knew that feeling…he shoved again at the memory that threatened to burst free. The past needed to stay in the past. He fell to his knees and gathered the woman into his arms.
‘Shh…shh. You’re safe. He’s gone.’
He’d recognised him. Sir Denzil Pikeford, a local landowner, who’d been well into his cups when Alex spoke to him earlier and now stumbled away through the trees, hands cupping his bloody nose. Pikeford would suffer the consequences for this, but he could wait.
He held the woman’s head to his chest as he stroked down her back, soothing her, registering the bare skin, the ripped clothing. Her shuddering sobs gradually subsided. Her breathing hitched. Slowed. Hitched again.
‘There now. You’re safe.’
Alex looked down. And realised for the first time she was a lady…one of his father’s guests then, not a maid, or an unwary farm girl caught off guard.
‘Alex?’
A quiet, halting enquiry. She looked up, face blotchy with tears, one cheek stark red, eyes puffy, ringed by spiky wet eyelashes. Recognition thumped Alex square in the chest. He recalled the slap and another surge of fury rolled through him. How could anyone single out a girl as kind and inoffensive as Jane?
She pulled away from him with a gasp, frantic hands scrabbling to gather the tattered remnants of her gown to cover her exposed breasts. Then her eyes rounded with horror as voices called out. The sound of feet trampling the undergrowth came closer. Swiftly, Alex reached for his jacket—fallen nearby—and slung it around Jane before, still on his knees, twisting his torso to face her parents.
‘By God, sir! What is this?’
Lord Stowford, Jane’s father, was mottled with rage. Alex stood to face him, but before he could speak Jane’s stepmother reached her husband’s side.
‘Oh! You wicked, deceitful girl! You are ruined!’ She turned to her husband. ‘Stowford! Do something!’
‘Beauchamp! You shall answer—’
‘Papa! No! Alex saved me. It was Sir D-Denzil.’ Jane scrambled to her feet.
‘I knew it!’ Lady Stowford pressed one hand to her bosom and plied her fan vigorously with the other. ‘As soon as I saw you sneaking off with him!’
Alex frowned, glancing down at Jane. Surely she knew better than to be so careless? But…he took in Lady Stowford’s expression. The smug smile in her eyes. If she’d seen Jane and Pikeford, why not follow them straight away, and intervene?
Jane swayed and Alex moved closer, cupped her elbow, supporting her. Shivers racked her body and tears rolled down her face. Alex stared in disgust at Jane’s stepmother. Cold-hearted witch! What kind of a female…a mother…was she? Where was her concern for another female in distress, let alone one she had raised from a baby? But, then…she had always resented Jane.
‘I didn’t.’ Jane was shaking her head in frantic denial. ‘I s-s-swear it, Papa! I had the headache and hoped a walk by the water would help. He followed me. He grabbed me.’
‘It matters not! You are ruined!’ Lady Stowford’s words rang with triumph. ‘Stowford! Go and find Sir Denzil at once. He must make an honest woman of Jane. Then all will be well.’ She eyed Jane with pitiless disdain. ‘I will not allow your disgrace to taint your sisters.’
‘Noooo!’ Jane sagged against Alex as she uttered a low moan of despair.
‘Have you no compassion?’ Alex glared at Lady Stowford. A memory surfaced…of Her Ladyship trying hard to promote a match between Pikeford and Jane during last Season. And Jane’s disgust at the idea. ‘That foul drunkard attacked your daughter! He was forcing himself on her and you would have her marry him?’
Her haughty gaze raked Alex. ‘I would, as would any responsible parent. At least she will have a husband at long last! She should be grateful.’ She turned to her husband, his expression that of a man wishing he was a thousand miles away. ‘Well, Stowford? Do not just stand there. Go and find Sir Denzil. You must see Jane has to be wed now she is no longer pure.’
‘No! He didn’t… I am still… Alex stopped him in time, Papa! Please, Papa!’
‘Stowford!
