Chapter 19

Guided by the flickering light of the candle's flame, Fallon descended the curving stone steps and moved as quickly as she dared along the narrow underground corridor.

By now the dank smell, the rumble and groan of the earth and the trickle of stone were all familiar, and did not strike the same chord of fear in her breast as they had the first time she'd ventured there alone.

Indeed, the things she had always feared—the darkness, rats and bats, and the looming unknown—seemed paltry at that moment. They were the bugbears of childhood, all of which paled in comparison to the weighty concerns she now had to face.

Draegan's revelations had blown her world to bits, yet oddly enough, in the midst of the dust and the rubble that had once been her life, a single spark of hope continued to burn brightly. It was the hope that somehow a mistake had been made, that some logical explanation would be found that would clear Lucien's name and restore their shattered lives; and though the chance was exceedingly slim, Fallon was reluctant to let it go.

Lifting the candle high, she peered into the stygian darkness. The crates that held the Brown Bess muskets were just ahead. Muskets smuggled into the Catskills by Lucien.

Ten paces ahead, bits and pieces of splintered wood littered the floor. The muskets were gone, the crates now destroyed. Fallon picked her way cautiously through the debris and continued on. She passed the last overhead beam and was nearing the wedge-shaped stone, when the sound of movement and the distant murmur of voices drifted in from the adjoining cavern.

"You said there have been complications." It was the voice of a British gentleman, decidedly lazy, bored, almost; a voice she didn't recognize.

Fallon pressed closer to listen, but her heart raced at the sound of the answering voice.

"A minor inconvenience. Nothing to merit your notice, my lord. A certain Draegan Youngblood has been sniffing around our operation. Fine-looking young fellow, but devilishly hard to kill. Like a cat with nine lives, the uncooperative bastard keeps coming back."

"Indeed, my lord. By now Quill will have done for the major quite nicely. This time he's to bring me his lifeless body as proof that the task has been properly seen to, or forfeit his own in the bargain."

There was a general laughter, but Lucien didn't join in. When the laughter quieted, the Englishman spoke again. "Schuyler, that gout-ridden old he-goat. I haven't seen him in years. Are you certain this Youngblood has had no communication with him concerning your activities?"

Lucien chuckled again, dryly. "As certain as I can be. Youngblood has had little contact with anyone, aside from the sodden old caretaker who lives near the church, and my niece, Fallon. Deeter isn't bright enough to fathom what's been happening here, and I have gone to great lengths to assure that Fallon is unaware of it. I should like very much to keep it that way."

"You may do as you wish, of course, but if she were my niece, I'd tell her the truth. It will save you a deal of explaining when she discovers you're for Niagara."

In that instant, the last bit of hope Fallon had harbored flickered and died. She put a hand to her mouth in an attempt to smother the sob that came welling up and out of her throat but was not completely successful.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Lucien hastened to reassure him. "The settling of the roof above the beams, or the scurrying of a rodent. These catacombs are old, and rife with the creaks and groans that inevitably come with the advancing years."

The answer did not seem to satisfy Lucien's companion. "Joseph, you and Wears-A-Hat make certain that we haven't been overheard."

Fallon didn't stay to hear more. She turned and fled. She had to find her way back to the church. She had to warn Draegan. He had escaped death twice at Randall's hands. If he was fortunate enough to triumph again and return to the church, only to find her gone, this was the first place he would look.

Torchlight flared to the rear. Her breath sobbing in her throat, Fallon gathered her skirts in her hands and ran. But before she reached the crates, a hand from behind seized her elbow and jerked her around hard.

Her captor grasped her other arm and shook her, hard. He was an Indian, slightly taller than Fallon and stockily built. Sharp features and fierce black eyes peered from beneath the brim of a battered black tricorn edged in tarnished silver lace. Ingeniously, he'd cut a hole in the crown, and from the ragged hole, a scalp-lock and a decorative silver brooch protruded. "Stone says you come," he said, giving her arm a subtle squeeze. "Joseph, take her other arm so she don't make to run again."

Lucien, who had come to stand in the entrance to the cavern, watched impassively as the two Indians brought her forward.

"Come, now, Fallon," Lucien said. "Don't make a scene. In case you haven't noticed, we have guests."

Lucien took her from Joseph and Wears-A-Hat and steered her into the cavern. "My dear, may I present Lord Lovewell Artemis Stone, Earl of Blakeney Downs, Surrey. My lord, this is my niece, Miss Fallon Margaret Deane."

Stone was a tall, spare man in his middle forties, with keen blue eyes and a long hooked nose. His clothing was dark and nondescript, his brown hair thinning, and except for the circumstances of their meeting, Fallon might have mistaken him for any American country gentleman. "Charmed, dear lady," he said, out of habit reaching for her hand, which Fallon pointedly withheld.

"You will understand if I fail to return your sentiment," Fallon acidly replied. "It is not every day that I encounter an officer in His Majesty's service so near to home." She turned her icy stare on Lucien. "Or in the company of my uncle."

Stone chuckled. "Thought of everything, did you, old man? It seems, after all, that you will need to explain. She is not as amenable as you seemed to think she would be." He nodded deferentially at Fallon and crisply turned his back upon them, strolling to the far side of the cave, where he struck up a discourse with Wears-A-Hat.

"Plotting and instigating murder," Fallon accused. “Using these catacombs to smuggle muskets and house the enemy beneath our very noses while they seek to destroy the lives of honest, hardworking folk!"

"Disappointed? I am shocked and appalled and bereaved—for the Lucien Deane I thought I knew, my beloved uncle, that model of fairness and forethought after whom I patterned my life, is dead."

"Do not patronize me!" Fallon snapped. "I am not a child, and in the light of all you have done, I will not stand for it!"

"No," came Lucien's soft reply. "No, my dear, you are a child no longer. You have grown into an exquisite young woman, one who deserves something more than to be tucked away in these mountains with an ailing uncle and a hardheaded Dutchwoman and her daughter for company. You deserve the world, Fallon, as did your dear mother, Sabina. Have I told you how very much you resemble her?"

He gave her a dark look, full of hidden meaning. "I should like to oblige, but I am afraid that Sabina is an intricate part of this quaint little puzzle. I was in love with her once, you see, long, long ago, and for a time it seemed that she returned my affections."

Lucien gave her a crooked smile. "Do you find that so incredible, my dear?" He laughed, low and humorlessly. "Yes, I suppose that you do. Well, 'tis true enough. My entire world revolved around Sabina, whose sparkling presence made all things seem possible. What spirit she had! She could brighten the darkest room, the darkest life, just by entering it.... I was about to ask for her hand, when your father announced their engagement."

He gave another sigh, genuine, this time, and continued. "I do believe that was the day that my heart began to wither. I settled on your Aunt Edith shortly thereafter, a gentle ghost of a woman, who, not unlike me, paled in comparison to her shining sibling. It seemed the only course left to me, and we made a fine match, she and I, both ill-suited to society, cerebral, reserved. I even came to care for her, after a fashion, during the short time I knew her."

"Aunt Edith's death was tragic, and I am sure you were lonely in your grief, but it cannot excuse what you have done, Uncle."

Lucien went on, seeming not to have heard. "The loss of my bride and my son seemed unreal to me. She had touched my life so briefly and had so quickly departed it. It was almost as if she had never been...." He paused and shook his head. "And then there was Osgood, the fortunate son, the one upon whom the gods always seemed to smile. Osgood had everything—looks, wealth, a lovely bride so full of life ... and you."

"And you resented him for his good fortune?" Fallon prompted, uncertain just where this conversation was leading.

"I resented him deeply, though he was never aware of it. I was the eldest son, and as such the yoke of the inheritance fell onto my sloping shoulders. The weight, at times, was crushing. When Father died, I took control of the estate, and along with the rents and taxes, repairs and endless responsibilities, I cared for your father. His debts became my debts, his failures my failures. He played at life, while I worked endlessly. When his shipping interests failed, he came to live beneath my roof. And when Sabina died, you were left to me. I daresay it was the only good turn my brother ever did me, even though it was done selfishly. You see, you looked so like her that he could barely abide the sight of you. You forced him to remember how much he still missed Sabina. That’s why he stayed away so much of the time."

"Why are you telling me this, Uncle?" Fallon asked. "If you are trying to hurt me by dredging up the past, then you are succeeding."

"Hurt you? My dear, I would never seek to hurt you. Not purposely. No. You asked me to explain; I'm but trying to comply. Indulgent, yes, that's me, to the bitter end." He laughed low again, his peculiar, rusty laugh. "Being the good and dutiful brother never got me anywhere. Your father played at life, and he won. I worked without ceasing, and all I got for my pains was a kick in the teeth. At every turn, it never failed. Even after his death.

"And then in '73 I met Stone, and he offered me the recognition I had longed for, a chance to make a name for myself in the work I so loved, a chance to leave the shadows of my past in this wretched mountain hollow far behind me. And you, Fallon, I imagined how you would shine in London! Everything was arranged, but in the space of an instant my dreams of success were crushed, along with my wretched spine. For a time after, I still had hopes that once I recovered—" He broke off and shook his head.

"And then this blasted war came on, and it seemed that all was lost. At my lowest point, Stone contacted me, this time with a proposal of a different sort, and because I was desperate, I accepted." He chuckled darkly. "Somehow I expected it to be yet another dismal failure. I was pleasantly surprised. This little game of wits and intrigue was one at which I excelled, and my success— my infamy—was heady indeed."

"You think this a game?" Fallon was appalled. "There are lives at stake—women's and children's! After all that you have lost—Aunt Edith, Mother, Father—how can you treat life, any life, so cavalierly?"

"My dear Fallon, it was war. And those poor unfortunates caught in its path are casualties of war, nothing more."

Lucien's smile turned sly. "It would appear that you are intent upon dragging all of my skeletons out into the light."

"He was a man of God, Uncle, who to the best of my knowledge never hurt anyone!"

"That's a matter of opinion," Lucien said harshly. "He came poking his ecclesiastical nose into places it didn't belong! He threatened the whole operation, my last chance at success! And as a result, he got precisely what he deserved."

"Which brings us to Draegan," Fallon said softly. "When you found him asleep in the church that night a year ago and planted those papers in his belongings—then left him to face the noose that

"The whole unfortunate incident was an accident of fate, pure happenstance. The major was in the wrong place at the proper time, and I had to escape, don't you see? Randall and his dogs were hot on my trail. Youngblood served a purpose, and at first I looked upon him as a gift from God, a peace offering for the Hell He had made of my life. I did not mean for him to die—not back then.

"If not for Randall's insane temper, the major would have been questioned and perhaps held for a time before he was released. But Youngblood provoked the lad's temper, and in a fit of rage he decided to hang him. Not because he was suspect, mind you, but strictly out of spite. Randall knew full well when he laid hands on that cloak and found my lathered mount that I'd been to the chapel. He knew whom he'd been chasing. It was

"Oh, yes. He thirsts for glory too. It's the one thing we have in common. It might all have come off smoothly, too, had it not been for our persistent friend the major. Randall thought he'd seen the last of him when he left him swinging in the storm wind. And indeed I must concur that any decent, obliging fellow would have succumbed, and put an end to the whole sordid affair. But not Youngblood. No, he would prove uncooperative to the last. I should have taken better aim when I fired upon him weeks ago, but I believed him to be the Reverend Mattais late upon the road, and killing two of God's disciples would have been pushing the bounds just a bit, don't you think?"

Fallon felt suddenly ill. How could he have persisted in this madness without her knowing? How could she not have seen? "What I think," she said, "is that the fall you suffered affected you more deeply than we know."

"Ah, yes, madness. I rather thought that would be forthcoming, but your conclusion, my dear child, is incorrect. I have never been more lucid, for in aiding Stone on behalf of King George, I have secured our future. A glorious future in London, far away from this place and all of its less than pleasant memories. Stone will see to everything— a London house, my patronage, and a husband for you—some right and proper English country gentleman who can give you all the things in life you so richly deserve."

"It's your dream, not mine," Fallon said. "And it's a dream that's built upon a foundation of lies and deceit, upon the blood and bones of innocents. I cannot share it with you, feeling as I do. And I could never live in England, don't you see? What I want is here."

Lucien wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Merciful God, not again! It's Youngblood, isn't it? That pestilent young bastard has used you to get to me, and he's stolen your heart in the bargain."

"He did not need to steal it, Uncle. I gave it to him." Fallon sniffed back tears. "He is my life, my heart, and in conspiring against him, you have conspired against me."

"You were bound to take this hard, that much I can see. But I know no way around it. By now, Randall will have properly seen to Major Youngblood, and this time there can be no going back. It's over, Fallon, all of it—our life here in the Catskills, your infatuation with this man. It's time to start anew."

"No!" Her shout drew the frowning attention of Stone and his two companions, but Fallon was beyond caring. "It's not over! It will never be over! Randall failed twice, and he will fail again. Draegan will best him, and when he does, he'll come for me."

"He is dead, Fallon!" Lucien said mercilessly. "Bait for the wolves and the carrion crow. And you and I are going to Niagara with Lord Stone."

It was nearing ten o'clock on that same moonless evening when Draegan walked his white stallion through the village of Abundance and drew rein outside Sike's Tavern. The village itself was silent and dark. Most citizens, weary after the long day's labors, had long since sought their beds. But the lights still burned bright at Sike's, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter drifted out into the street.

The man Draegan sought did not take part in the revelry; he was slumped at a corner table, his back to the wall, staring morosely into the dregs of his whiskey. But as Draegan's shadow crept across the table, Quill raised red-rimmed eyes and swallowed hard. "Satan's liege in the guise of a religious," he said, his voice slightly slurred. "No mortal man can survive the noose, no matter what Lucien says. And then last week—my shot was true—I saw the blood—" He broke off and shook his head. "Who are you, really?"

Draegan's answering smile was chilling. "Vengeance is my name, and I've come to claim you. Will you come with me peaceably, or must I spill your blood on Samuel's puncheon floor?"

Randall seemed to be waging some inward struggle. "Come with you now? To Hell, sir?"

Draegan chuckled low. "Hell comes later, Captain. First we must needs go to Albany." Reaching inside his coat, he drew forth a pistol, which he trained upon Randall. "You've had too much to drink," he said silkily. "Your mind is playing tricks upon you. Why not come along with me? I'll find you a nice, safe place where you can sleep it off. By the time you awaken, I'll have taken care of Lucien, and we can begin our trek to Albany."

"Not all," Draegan countered. Softly, he drew the hammer of the pistol into full cock, its click underscoring his words. "That first night, it was your choice, your decision alone, to end my life."

"An honest mistake," Randall said, his face growing red with fury and drink. "The papers, the cloak, and our man lying dead in the road—dear God, man! I thought that you were Sparrowhawk! How was I to know you were telling the truth? How was I to know that it had been Lucien all along?"

"I seem to recall telling you that I was innocent," Draegan said. "But you were in no mood to listen."

"By the time I found out that Lucien had left the lathered horse and sent yours off into the night, it was too late to go back. The worst was done. I had no choice, don't you see? You were not his only victim. I had no choice except to join him, in the hopes that I could begin again. He said that we would go to London—that he and I and Fallon would start anew."

Draegan reached out and seized Quill's deerskin coat in an iron fist, hauling him half across the table and pressing the muzzle of the pistol to the hollow beneath his ear. "You could have turned him in," he snarled.

"They would have hanged me!" Randall cried, his face crumpling. "Lucien would have told them I'd killed you. And Lucien had gotten me into this mess. He owed me something, dammit! He owed me!"

"It was not all Lucien," Draegan ground out. "Who cried for the rope? Who stood in the teeth of that howling gale and kicked my legs from under me, without the benefit of a hearing?"

Randall began to snivel, and Draegan leaned down into his face, snarling. "You cannot imagine how I have dreamed of this moment, Captain. How I've savored the thought of putting a ball through your brain, of hearing you whine for your worthless life before I took it from you, just as you took mine from me!"

For a long moment Draegan leaned over Quill, the cold steel of the pistol pressed to his quivering flesh, while those watching held their breath. The tension reached a soaring peak. Draegan's finger tightened on the trigger. He was fully prepared to send the ball into Randall's brain and send Randall to the devil. Then, into the black fury that swirled all around him, came the voice of caution. "Not this way, Reverend. If you take his life like this, he'll haunt you the rest o' your natural days."

His mouth taut, his eyes burning, Draegan looked up at Jacob "Let it go," Jacob said. "It's plagued you long enough. 'Tis a fitting end, don't you think, to give the hangman his due?"

"Why are you here?" Draegan said, easing the hammer back into place. "Why aren't you with Fallon?"

"She’s gone, sir," Jacob said hesitantly. "That's why I've come. She asked to use the chamber pot, and when I turned my back, she slipped away."

"Aye, sir. First thing. And after that, the manor. Nobody's seen her, and Master Deane's gone too."

Randall laughed, giddy with whiskey and the knowledge that the crisis had passed. "You see now, Youngblood? Lucien. It's always Lucien."

"I know that he's left me to pay for his crimes and he's stolen Fallon from you. If he has his way, and likely he will, you'll never see her again."

"Where has he gone?" His voice was soft, but the threat was clear. "Where has he taken her?"

"That's the beauty of it," Randall said, dissolving into peals of drunken laughter. "He's taken her to London."

Draegan turned the pistol in his hand and brought the butt down hard on Randall's head. Then he thrust the fallen man away and stood. "Samuel, is there a room here where you can secure the captain until my return?"

"Then get him from my sight," Draegan said. "And post a guard. If he's not here waiting for me upon my return, there will be hell to pay. Do you take my meaning?"

Samuel gave a vigorous nod. "Aye, sir. Don't trouble yourself about it. I'll watch him myself, if need be."

"Now I find them," Draegan said quietly. "If I must dog his every step to Hell, I'll find Lucien Deane. I swear by all that's sacred, he will not keep Fallon from me."