Page 146 of While You Were Spying

Roxbury. Somehow he knew Roxbury was behind this.

Ethan rode like a madman, so intent on his mission that at first he passed the riderless sorrel gelding shivering near the castle ruins. Then, with a curse, he turned his mount sharply and doubled back. He recognized the animal as one from his stables, but it was not a horse Francesca rode. She would have taken Thunder or one of the mares.

He squinted against the driving wind and sleet, searching the area until his gaze settled on the castle towers. The low clouds shrouded the ruins in darkness. As he watched the clouds swirling across the sky, he could almost feel the temperature drop another notch. He turned his horse toward the old castle.

Except for the hollow rush of the growing wind, the ruins were eerily silent, and the tenseness in his taut shoulders grew painful. Ethan left his horse tethered in the brush a few yards from the castle and approached cautiously, his hand gripping his pistol. He searched for Thunder but saw no sign of the animal. A few steps closer to the ruins, he found the footman lying near a tree and paused to turn him over. The servant had been grazed in the shoulder by a bullet, no more than a flesh wound, but the man was unconscious.

When Ethan turned the servant over, the man mumbled, “Over there.”

And then Ethan heard the laughter, low and sinister, echo from within the ruins. He forced himself to walk, not run, toward the sound of laughter, ducking behind what little shelter the fallen stones provided, until he reached the crumbling walls of the keep. The laughter stopped suddenly, replaced by shuffling and a moan. Ethan inched along the wall, the rough, uneven stones biting into his back. He reached a gap in the structure, easing forward to peer inside.

On the ground across from him was his wife with her legs parted and a man between them. As he watched, she threw her head back and gasped. He heard the man murmur and saw him hike her skirts higher.

Ethan flattened himself against the wall again, hands bunched into fists. White hot rage coursed through him, and he began to sweat despite the dropping temperatures.

Had he come all the way from France to see his wife with her legs spread for another man? Had he been so much the fool to think she would never betray him, to think she was nothing like Victoria?

He heard her gasp again and closed his eyes. His fingers tightened on the pistol as the image of George Leigh, shot and bleeding, flashed across his mind.

Ethan relaxed his grip. No, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He tucked the pistol in his waistcoat, and drawing his hand away, saw the blood on his fingers. The footman’s blood. He stared at his hand for a long moment.

No, hewouldn’tmake the same mistake twice. Francesca wasnotVictoria.

Ethan stuck his head through the opening in the wall again and saw Francesca—saw clearly this time. She was not embracing the man he now recognized as Roxbury, but fighting him. The gasps and moans were sounds of her struggle. As he watched the two, her eyes met his.

She ceased her struggles and stared at him. In her face he saw the quick flash of hope, replaced by the dawning realization of how she must appear. She blinked and met his gaze directly, willing him to think and do as he would.

Ethan stepped forward. “Get your hands off my wife, Roxbury.” He lifted the pistol and pointed it at the earl.

Roxbury turned, his lips curled in a snarl. Francesca took advantage of Roxbury’s momentary lack of attention and scrambled out from under him.

Ethan saw the earl reach for her. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He waved the pistol, and Roxbury let her go, smiling.

Before Ethan knew what was happening, Francesca dove for the earl and knocked his hand away. The pistol Roxbury had pulled from his waistcoat tumbled across the ground, making a thunk as it collided with a rock.

“Francesca, get back!” Ethan ordered.

Roxbury lunged for the fallen weapon and Ethan rushed him, knocking the earl over and sending him sprawling. Unfortunately, Ethan lost his grip on his own pistol, and it fell out of his hand. With a growl, Roxbury kicked it away then caught Ethan’s leg, tripping him. Ethan went down and rolled, taking Roxbury with him.

Ethan’s punch went wild, and Roxbury shoved him off, rolling on top. He grabbed Ethan’s head and smashed it against one of the stones, and for a moment Ethan saw only black. When his vision cleared, the earl had his fist drawn back. Ethan closed his eyes, instinctively preparing for impact.

The blow never came. There was crack and Roxbury fell, groaning, on top of him.

Ethan blinked, then Francesca was kneeling beside him, pushing Roxbury off his chest. She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in his ears. Her features swam before him, and he closed his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

He opened them again when he felt her hands on the side of his cheek. Looking up, he focused on her cocoa eyes. They were filled with concern.

“Ethan, say something.”

“You shot him.”

She sighed, closing her eyes in relief.

“You shot him!” Ethan repeated in disbelief.

“I know.” Opening her eyes, she glanced at Roxbury, almost apologetic. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

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