How had she ever imagined him a friend, even a superior, aloof one? She was nothing to him, just a means to an end. As for Eleanor…Jacqueline looked at the woman whose nails bit into her other arm as she ruthlessly tugged her on. She’d never truly seen her before, but the Eleanor who’d stood beside Jordan in the parlor had dropped all pretense and contemptuously flaunted the truth. Recalling the lascivious details Eleanor had delighted in telling her over the years about her activities with her lover turned Jacqueline’s stomach, but she now knew the truth.
She knew who Eleanor’s lover was.
22
The last section of the path leading to the cove descended sharply through a wide curve. There were steps along the way, interrupting their headlong dash, forcing Jordan and Eleanor, despite their growing urgency, to slow.
Lungs burning, arms aching, Jacqueline stumbled on between them, searching for some means of delay. She could hear voices drawing nearer, lots of them. It was no part of Jordan’s plan for her to die-not yet, at any rate-yet as she grappled with the enormity of all he’d done so far in his quest to own Hellebore Hall…she had no faith that if thwarted, he wouldn’t sacrifice her out of revenge.
He couldn’t be entirely sane.
She glanced sideways. On her right, Eleanor was nearing the end of her resources. Unlike Jordan, she looked frightened, increasingly panicky.
Jacqueline looked ahead; her gaze fell on the plantings bordering the path. They reached the next bend; three steps led down. Eleanor started down, her fingers locked about Jacqueline’s arm, tugging her down, too. Jordan released Jacqueline to glance back up the path.
She let herself fall, dropping her shoulder, breaking Eleanor’s grip, butting hard into Eleanor’s side. Stepping down, already off balance, Eleanor lost her footing. She shrieked, flailed, then fell backward off the step into the bed alongside.
It was filled with large cacti.
Eyes wide, her mouth open, Eleanor froze, then she hauled in a breath and
Jordan stared, horrified-helpless to help her.
Then he rounded on Jacqueline.
She’d stumbled, but kept her feet. “She pulled me-I tripped.”
His face contorted. She saw the blow coming, but couldn’t duck in time; the back of his hand cracked across her cheek. She reeled, then fell to her knees, gasping, struggling to catch her breath.
Behind her, Jordan tried to calm Eleanor, tried to stop her from becoming more entangled. He grasped her hands and tried to pull her loose; Eleanor shrieked. The cacti had speared her in too many places, trapping her and her clothes securely.
“It’s all right.” Jordan let go. “It doesn’t matter if you stay here-they won’t hurt you. I have to get to Cyclops and make them agree to all we want. Once they’ve put it in writing, we’ll be the victors here-we can have and do whatever we want.”
Jacqueline staggered to her feet. She was too exhausted to run.
Jordan cast her a vicious, vindictive glance. “Later,” he said quickly to Eleanor, “you can have your revenge on her-take a whip to her, do whatever you like. You can make her pay, again and again-tie her up and make her watch us. She’ll be your slave. We’ll be together and no one will be able to stop us. But I have to get her to Cyclops to win.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened; she reached out, grasping his hands. “No-don’t leave me!”
Jordan’s contemptuous exasperation returned. “I’ll come back!” Glancing up the path, he shook off her hands. “I have to go-now!”
Eleanor howled. Jordan ignored her. He moved swiftly, ducking his shoulder, hefting Jacqueline up. Locking his arm about her legs, he headed as fast as he could for the cove. And Cyclops.
Jacqueline bounced on his shoulder. Unconsciousness threatened; she fought it off, managed to raise her arms and brace them against Jordan’s back.
He was swearing continuously. As he bounded down the last section of path, she glimpsed figures above, some stopping by Eleanor, others streaming on. There were two paths that led to Cyclops, but the other, along the southern ridge, was longer.
Gauging the distance, Jacqueline accepted that Jordan, even carrying her, would reach Cyclops before any rescuers could reach them.
She’d done her best. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, smelled the salty tang of the sea-thought of Gerrard; she knew he’d come for her. Reaching deep, she marshaled her reserves. Whatever came next, she was going to need them.
Gerrard and Barnaby came to a precipitous halt on the path above the cove. Behind them, a group of gardeners was untangling a sobbing Eleanor Fritham from a bed of cacti.
Before them, high on top of Cyclops, Jordan Fritham stood, holding Jacqueline teetering on the edge of the blowhole.
Everyone else had gathered on the path, staying off the rock itself. In the center of the group, his neighbors supporting him, Lord Tregonning stood, leaning heavily on his cane; even from this distance his face was ashen.
Lord Fritham’s pallor was even worse.
The bend in the path screened Gerrard and Barnaby from Jordan’s sight. Through breaks in the foliage, they watched as he bargained with Jacqueline’s life.
Higher up the garden, Mitchel Cunningham had passed them, racing back to the house for pen and paper. Sent back by Lord Tregonning in response to Jordan’s demand, Mitchel had rapidly filled them in.
Jordan had threatened to disfigure Jacqueline, to put out her eyes then and there if they didn’t meet his demands. If any rushed him, he’d drop her into Cyclops.
He’d asked for a deed to be written and signed by Lord Tregonning, and witnessed by everyone there, ceding Hellebore Hall and the estate to him outright, giving Jacqueline to him in marriage, and absolving him of all and any crimes they might think to lay at his door.
Gerrard was beyond swearing; Barnaby wasn’t.
“Shush,” Gerrard said. “Listen.”
Lord Fritham was pleading with his son. “There’s no need for any of this.”
“Need?” Jordan’s contempt-laden sneer reached them, carried on the sea breeze. “This can all be laid at your feet, old man-thanks to you, all I have is
The last words rang with furious resentment.
Gulls wheeled; the swoosh of the waves on the rocky shore of the cove lent an eerie backdrop to the fraught scene.
The tide was coming in; Cyclops had yet to start gushing in earnest, but the hem of Jacqueline’s gown was wet. The blowhole chamber emitted a low, steadily building grumble, more definite with every set of waves that rolled in.
“I wonder how much time we have before Cyclops really blows,” Barnaby whispered.
“In about half an hour it’ll start to gush.”
It was Matthew who’d spoken; Gerrard turned as he and Sir Vincent joined them. The older man was panting
