She was about to turn back to the gaoler and ask for some water, when a foul smell assaulted her nostrils. It was so cloyingly sweet that she immediately felt sick, and her head began to swim alarmingly. Fighting the wave of dizziness, she sucked in a deep breath. Turning, she tried to peer through the gloom for the source of the stench.
She didn’t even have time to cry out before the world went black.
CHAPTER ONE
“God, you bastards,” Peter spat. “I’ll never forgive you for this.” He rubbed the fresh drops of blood off his nose and glared balefully at Dominic. In that moment he could have pounded his best friend to within an inch of his life, without regret. If only he could stand without being sick.
“Where is she now?” Peter’s stomach clenched as a look of bitter regret settled over his friend’s face, and knew without hearing the words that it was already too late.
He quickly glanced out of the window at the brilliant golden sunshine streaming through the window, and felt the heavy weight of grief settle over him that was so strong that he wanted to cry aloud in denial. He knew in that moment that she was gone; snatched from him in the cruellest way possible.
He stared blankly down at his hands, hanging uselessly between his knees. He had lost. Failed. He had made promises he hadn’t been able to keep and, as a result, Jemima, the only woman he had ever loved, had died. She had died trying to protect him, and Eliza.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Dominic offered, wondering if their friendship would ever be the same again. He couldn’t be perturbed by Peter’s anger at him. After all, being knocked out had rendered him useless to do anything to help Jemima. Even though they had already been too late by the time they had arrived at the gaol, it was inevitable that there would be recriminations and accusations when they had to leave empty-handed. If being angry at Dominic helped Peter to deal with his grief, then Dominic was more than willing to take whatever Peter threw at him, fists and all.
It was the desolate calmness about his friend that disturbed him most. Instead of the wild shouting and pleading they had all witnessed in the Mr Simpson’s office, his calm defeat was almost worse.
Throughout their friendship, Peter had always been a warrior, willing to go into skirmishes with a recklessness that at the time had made him one of the best soldiers in the British army. It was disturbing to see him so defeated. It was as though something inside him had simply given up, and it disturbed Dominic greatly.
Peter glared at the man he had considered his friend. He knew it wasn’t Dominic’s fault. The man had, after all, eschewed the warmth of his bed and breakfast in order to accompany him in his desperate quest to save Jemima, but it didn’t ease the thick fog of anger and grief that burned in his veins.
“I won’t say it’s all right,” he growled, his voice as cold and emotionless as the green eyes that glared across the small tavern table at Dominic. “God, I hate you,” Peter snarled, snatching the brandy from the table and downing it in one huge gulp. He gestured to a serving wench, demanding the bottle, as he slammed his goblet down on the table.
“Don’t drink too much, Peter,” Dominic ordered, sitting back and watching as Peter refilled his goblet, downing the contents just as swiftly as the first. “We have to go back to Havistock.”
“Go to hell,” Peter snarled, defiantly refilling his glass and downing that too. He was about to refill his glass for a fourth time when Dominic’s hand on his stopped him. Rage began to build in his chest and he snatched his hand away from Dominic’s.
“We have Jemima’s body to take back to Havistock.” Dominic watched as Peter froze and stared blankly at him as the significance of his words sank in. “Edward and Sebastian have remained at the gaol, to ensure her body is kept separate and returned to us. He is returning to Havistock with her as we speak. She deserves to be buried in consecrated ground, Peter, rather than in that cesspit.”
Peter’s blood chilled at the thought of Jemima’s body, cold and lifeless. A wave of physical pain blossomed from his chest, spreading outwards in a misery that numbed his senses. He glared absently at the bottle before him, and was about to take another drink when a pale and visibly shaken Sebastian appeared beside them.
“Let’s go,” Sebastian suggested, snatching the bottle from under Peter’s nose and taking a fortifying swig directly from it. He hoped that it would wash away some of the horrors he had just witnessed, but knew it would take far, far more than a few swigs of watered-down brandy.
“You have her?” Peter asked softly, eyeing his friend’s haggard features.
Clearly Sebastian was shaken by the morning’s events. His usually handsome face was drawn, his blue eyes troubled and turbulent. Deep grooves now sat on either side of his mouth, matching the wrinkles that marred his high brow.
Peter suddenly realised just how traumatic the morning must have been for everyone, not just himself. He felt some of his anger diminish, only to be replaced with soul-deep sorrow. However deeply the brothers had been affected by the last few hours, they didn’t have the connection to Jemima that he had. He had been the one who had slept with her. He had been the one who had made promises to help her. He had been the one who had failed to keep his promises.
The sudden memory of Dominic’s ordeal when Isobel faced death came to, and he had a better understanding of just what Dominic had gone through. Only this time was different, because Dominic had been given a second chance. Isobel had been alive and, although ill, had found her way back to him to seek the help he had readily offered her.
For Jemima, there had been no second ch
ances. He had blundered, and fumbled, and been useless in offering her any assistance at all, leaving her to a humiliatingly public death. God knows what horrors she had experienced in her final moments.
Anger and self disgust swept through him as he pushed to his feet, moving through the doorway of the tavern in a dark haze of grief. The morning sunlight hurt his eyes as he approached the crude wooden cart sitting directly outside the door.
His eyes met and held Edward’s solemn gaze briefly before he moved to the back of the cart and climbed aboard. His gaze locked on the outline of the body clearly visible beneath the thick blankets.
With shaking hands he slowly drew the blanket down, away from her face, and swallowed the cry of denial that threatened to choke him. Although he had known he was fighting for her life in Simpson’s office, the stark reality of seeing her lifeless face for himself scarred his soul.
Oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the busy thoroughfare, tenderly he trailed a blunt finger down her cold, alabaster face. She was like cold marble. It pained him to feel her so cold. So lifeless. He wished he could see her amber gaze smiling at him just once more.
“God, Jemima, I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, his heart a heavy lump in his chest. “I failed you, and I am so sorry.”
Swiping at the moisture on his cheeks, he sucked in a deep breath, aware that, as he jumped down, Edward leaned backward in his seat and covered her face again; something Peter couldn’t bring himself to do. To cover her in such a way meant admitting she had gone beyond his reach, and he simply couldn’t do it. He didn’t need to pull the thick blanket down further to see the markings on her neck. She seemed so peaceful, almost ethereal; almost as though she was waiting for something, or someone to come along so she could open her eyes. He willed her to do so, but knew it was futile. She was gone. Dead.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Dominic muttered, aware that they were drawing the interest of curious eyes.