The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“Very well, I’ve no intention of abusing my daughter-in-law before she deserves it.”

The morning was beautiful, the sky a radiant blue. It had stopped raining during the night, and the air was fresher and warmer than her husband’s mouth when he’d kissed her with alarming thoroughness at the breakfast table before anyone else had arrived.

She looked over at him riding easily on Stanley, looking into the distance, and she knew he was looking for that oak tree perhaps or the dell with the Janus-faced nines, the well and the lurking monster. Come to think of it, it all did sound like complete and utter nonsense.

They hadn’t spoken of the Wyndham legacy for a full three days now. It was a relief. She grinned suddenly, remembering the look on her mother-in-law’s face when she’d walked into the morning room while Marcus was kissing her, his hand cupping her breast.

“Are there kippers this morning, my dear son?”

Marcus’s mouth had gone utterly still on hers. His hand slithered away from her breast. “I don’t know,” he said, very slowly rising from where he’d had her pinned against her chair. “I didn’t think you liked kippers, Mama. I thought you detested kippers.”

“I do, my dear. I just thought it a good way to gain your attention without surprising you unduly. Good morning, my dear daughter. I see my son is providing you an example of his passion.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How odd that it would take such a carnal form. I believed you meant that he was passionate about causes, politics, world matters, that sort of thing.”

Marcus snorted. “You thought no such thing, Mama. Now, come and sit down. I will serve you. Porridge?”

The Duchess said now to her husband beside her as she breathed in a deep breath of the wondrous fresh air, “I quite like your mama. Perhaps you gained your passion for causes, politics, and world matters from her? She certainly has deep fondness for Mary, Queen of Scots. Goodness, if she hadn’t fallen asleep, I believe we would have heard every intrigue in the French court that revolved around the seven-year-old Mary. Oh goodness, Marcus, look at those black clouds. I fear we’re in for a soaking.”

In the next instant there was a sudden clap of thunder. Just as suddenly, the warmth of the day dissipated. Dark clouds billowed and roiled overhead, turning the afternoon into dusk. There was a streak of lightning.

Marcus cursed. “Damnation! Until three minutes ago there was no hint of a storm, no glimmer of a cloud, no—”

The Duchess giggled. “At least it’s warm enough so that we won’t take a chill. Shall we return to the Park?”

At that instant, there was a streak of lightning just beyond Birdie, cracking the branch from a maple tree, sending sizzling smoke upward. The branch fell in the center of the road. Birdie, terrified, reared onto her hind legs.

“Duchess!”

“It’s all right. I’ve got her.” She was leaning forward stroking the bit in Birdie’s mouth as she’d been taught, no abrupt movements, when there was a sharp sound and Birdie flinched, then maddened, reared up again, tearing the reins from her hands.

Marcus wheeled Stanley against Birdie and grabbed the Duchess around her waist, ready to jerk her off Birdie’s back. There was a soft pinging sound, then another. To his shock, he felt a sharp pain in his head. He raised his hand, realizing blankly that someone was shooting at them and that a bullet had just grazed his head above his left temple. For a split instant, he was in Toulouse again, bullets flying around him, hearing the screams of his men, urging them forward, then into a quick break around the center of the French line to sweep in behind them. So many bullets, and the blood, like a red weeping cloud covering everything.

She yelled his name, realizing what was happening.

There was another loud popping sound. The Duchess saw a huge chunk of bark go flying off a maple tree some ten feet beyond him. Without thought, she leapt toward him. There was another loud report.

She felt a sharp jab in her left side, even as she grabbed Marcus’s shoulders, pressing herself against his chest, protecting him as best she could. Stanley reared, twisting madly beneath them. Birdie, terrified, galloped forward, leaving his rider dangling from her husband’s arms.

“Duchess! Oh God—”

There came another shot and another. Marcus kicked his booted feet into Stanley’s sides. “Quickly, you damned brute! Go!”

Stanley went as if shot from a cannon. Marcus held her tightly against him. She wasn’t unconscious, but he knew she’d been hit, just as he had, but where, and how badly?

He wheeled Stanley about when the road curved and headed back to the Park through the fields. They would have made it if it hadn’t been for the flock of starlings bursting from the protection of a huge thick-branched oak tree. The thunder cracked, the lightning sliced through the black sky, and the birds took mad flight. Stanley reared, twisting and snorting, tossing his great head. Marcus knew in that last instant that he’d lost his hold. He tried as best he could to protect her as they landed on a slight incline, rolling over and over until he landed on his back in a shallow mud puddle, the Duchess sprawled on his chest. He heard her moan softly, then she went utterly limp against him.

He managed to get them to the top of the incline, the Duchess unconscious over his shoulder, his hand beneath her hips, holding her steady even as the blood from the wound in his scalp bled over his eye, blurring his vision.

Stanley stood trembling, his eyes rolling, but he’d stayed, thank God, he’d not run back to the stables. It took some doing, but Marcus got them back into the saddle. She was unconscious, thus it didn’t matter for Stanley ran like the wind. Marcus kept urging him forward, holding him loosely, allowing him to jump those fences he chose to. The last one was a high boundary fence and Stanley took it with a good foot to spare.

His arm was tight around her. His hand, he saw numbly, was wet with her blood and with his as well, for he’d also been shot in his left hand, something he’d just realized. Odd that he felt nothing, nothing at all except the deep corroding fear. It was the longest ride of his life. When he pulled Stanley up in front of the massive front steps of Chase Park, he was already yelling at the top of his lungs, “North! Spears! Badger! Get out here, quickly, quickly!”

He dismounted, pulling her easily up into his arms. Her head fell back over his forearm. Oh dear God.

North roared through the doors, Badger on his heels.