“Are you threatening me, Talbot?”
“Not exactly, Mackinnon. I intend to kill you.”
“Dare I ask the reason?” Fletcher said smoothly, as he let his reins fall and stealthily slid his hand toward the bow.
“Because you’re no longer of use to me. In fact, you are a threat to all my plans. Since I see you are unarmed, I will take time to enlighten you.” His voice lifted arrogantly.
“Then send me to my grave enlightened,” suggested Fletcher, his fingers finding the arrow.
“You’ve been on a fool’s errand, searching for your father’s killer. The man was a drunkard. We had made a bargain the night of his death. He celebrated by marching up to his balcony and promptly plunging to the pavement below. A pure accident. Unfortunate because I needed him for a special mission, and he had agreed to it. Since I couldn’t have the father, I cleverly found a way to entice the son. You, Mackinnon—and you fell for it like a hound after a rabbit.”
“Then you planted the dagger—and my father was already dead. You wrote the note accusing the queen.”
“I did. I expected your misguided sense of honor to bring you to London to find the killer. You were doing beautifully, until you changed your mind and left for Scotland.”
“You bastard,” Fletcher snarled, fitting the arrow to the bowstring shielded by Spirit Dog’s full, flowing mane.
“I hoped you would kill Caroline. A certain man promised to pay me well for that service, and I would rise to power among the peers.”
“And when I didn’t? Are you telling me Elizabeth did my dirty work for me? Killed the queen, then was taken to the Tower?”
Percy guffawed while keeping the pistol steady. “I really didn’t need you after all, Mackinnon. I only needed a scapegoat—and my independent niece will serve nicely in your place. She’ll hang—or go to the block if the judge is feeling merciful. But you will die here and now. It will be plain to everyone that you attacked me on my own property and I had to defend myself—from a man who’d plotted with Elizabeth to murder the rightful queen.”
Fletcher knew Percy had finished his speech. He saw the gun raised, and at that instant he kneed Spirit hard in the ribs. The stallion reared and whinnied and began a pivot to his right, as Fletcher dropped along his side and aimed his weapon underneath the broad cream colored neck. Indian style. Lakota style. As White Arrow had done so often with such skill and success.
He heard the pistol shot at the same moment he released the shaft. Pain burned across his cheek, but more important, he saw his arrow hit home and Percy Talbot jerk backward over his horse’s rump with his hands in the air and without making a sound.
Fletcher regained his saddle and rode Spirit Dog to grasp the bridle of Talbot’s nervous bay horse. The man’s feet remained in his stirrups, but he was sprawled across the animal’s back, his arms spread wide, his eyes gaping upward, the arrow protruding above his heart. Never had Fletcher made a more perfect shot.
Without remorse, he extracted the arrow and led the animal with its dead baggage to the front railing of the house. He tossed the reins around the post and left it standing quietly in the purple twilight. As far as he was concerned, any man who would send a lovely and innocent young woman to her death deserved to die without mercy.
In the growing darkness, Fletcher cantered back down the drive lined by ancient oaks and turned toward London. He had the answer he sought. But who would ever believe him?
* * * *
The following morning, at the first light of dawn, Fletcher bathed the cut on his face and put on a clean change of clothing to prepare for his visit to the Tower.
Last night, he had stabled Spirit Dog down the lane and let himself inside Cobbett’s flat. If it hadn’t been so late, he would have ridden to the Tower immediately after he arrived in London, but he doubted if he would accomplish anything by pounding on the doors in the middle of the night.
During his restless tossing on Cobbett’s leather sofa, he had tried to fit together all the pieces of the puzzle. He had no doubt that Percy Talbot was the primary villain in the tragic events of the past few months, but Talbot had mentioned another man—someone high up and powerful, no doubt. It wasn’t hard to guess who that someone might be. Trowbridge, the earl of Croydon, had been much too generous to him and to Talbot to not have something to gain in the end. But now that Talbot was dead, the chances of connecting Trowbridge to any plot were extremely unlikely.
Percy Talbot had planned well. Although he hadn’t lived to see his success, the plot he had put in motion would reach its unfortunate conclusion. Whether he had murdered the queen himself or had no part in it was irrelevant now. The woman was dead, and all indications of guilt pointed to a half-breed Scot and his sweetheart.
It seemed to Fletcher he had solved one mystery—that of his father’s death—only to be caught up in a worse tangle. Talbot had spoken the truth for once, expecting Fletcher to take the knowledge of Red’s demise and Talbot’s ambitious plotting to his grave.
Free at last of his obligation to seek revenge for his father’s death, Fletcher knew he must now make the ultimate sacrifice to save Beth and their child. Artifice and scheming were hardly his forte, but he must be the equal of a Shakespearean actor today. He could probably fool a stranger, and perhaps Cobbett and even King George. But could he deceive Beth, who knew him so well? And then there was Trowbridge, who would certainly know he was lying. But then Trowbridge would have everything to gain and nothing to lose by Fletcher’s charade.
He looked in the mirror above Cobbett’s bureau. With his deep coloring, his long hair, and the raw red wound across his right cheekbone, he looked more like a Lakota returning from battle than a Scotsman headed for the hangman’s noose. Hell, why not? He unbuttoned the top button of his chambray shirt and exposed the thong with the bear claw. Aye, why the hell not? He would die as he was born, an outcast Lakota Sioux.
* * * *
The brightness and warmth of the August day taunted Fletcher as he walked up to the Tower gates. Guards with scarlet-and-gold medieval style uniforms and pikes stood at attention at either side. After considering the matter, Fletcher had left Spirit Dog at Cobbett’s stable. Cobbett had been a friend to both Beth and him; let the man have the horse as a gift.
“I’m here to see a prisoner,” Fletcher began.
The guard cocked his eyes at him as if he were daft.
“I’d like admittance to the Tower at once. My business is urgent.”
“Who says so?” queried the guard.
“His Majesty, the king.”
“Is that a fact?” said the guard with a sneer. “Show me George’s signature and I’ll give it some thought.”
“I don’t have his signature, but I do have a confession.”
“What do you confess, sir? That ye’re a bloody Indian from America who wants to see the inside of the Tower? I’ve seen your likes before at the circus. Now on your way.”
“Then may I ask a question of you?” Fletcher said politely.
“You may ask; I may not answer.”
“You’re aware of the murder of the king’s wife?”
“O’ course. Who ain’t?”
“And one of the suspects is now in the Tower? A young woman?”
The guard eyed him suspiciously. “How’d ye know that?”
“And there is a second suspect, a man who is being sought on the highway to Scotland?”
The guard squinted at him. “You know more than most, I’d say.”
“Do you recall that man’s description?”
“We’ve been given it. Dark, long hair, probably... Indian... Well, God’s teeth!”
“There you have it, sir. This is your lucky day. I’m the man, and you can make the arrest. Should earn you a promotion, more than likely.” Fletcher held out his hands, his wrists touching. “You can bind me, but I won’t struggle. All I ask is five minutes with the woman, Elizabeth Talbot.” The guard dropped his pike and took a rope from the wall behind him. He began binding Fletcher’s wrists. “Bloody Christ, I don’t believe it. And what if I don’t grant your five minutes?”
“You will. I could have picked your friend over there, but I saw fairness in your eyes. Besides, I’ve secured a pouch of coins whose hiding place I’ll reveal once my five minutes is up. There’s no danger. You can stand there with a pistol to my head if you like.”
The guard expertly wound the hemp around Fletcher’s waist and up to encircle his throat. Holding the end of it, he gave it a tug. “If you’re lying, I’ll throttle you meself.” Fletcher coughed against the tightness, but then said, “Permission granted. Now let’s be off. Once I’ve spoken with the lass, you can turn me in to the authorities. Then I can make my confession and get this over with.”
The massive gate was hauled up and he walked into the immense courtyard at the center of the old fortress. He was tugged along corridors and past thick wooden doors, then up stone steps until they reached one of the upper floors.
Here a second guard was stationed, but he acknowledged the authority of Fletcher’s captor. “Who you got there, Pierce?” he inquired.
“Never you mind, Egan. I’ll take him to the captain in five minutes. He’s to see the woman—orders of His Majesty. Open the door.”
Fletcher entered the chamber and was surprised at how pleasant it was. He had had visions of dark dungeons and torture chambers. Although sparse and lit with only one torch, the prison looked somewhat better than most of the rooms at Strathmor.
Through a second open doorway, he saw a spacious room with thick oriental rugs on the floor and dated but comfortable furnishings. Sitting in the window seat along the far wall, gazing out in a splash of morning sun, was Elizabeth. She wore the feminine pink frock he remembered from Scotland, and her hair fell loose and glimmering down her back.
“I don’t suppose you could leave us,” he whispered, “even for a moment?”
“Not bloody likely, mister. I’ll keep my pistol on you from here while you chat with the wench. One false move and ye’re dead, understand? And don’t forget the coins when ye’re done.”
The man’s voice caused Elizabeth to turn.
“Oh!” Her hand touched her throat. “They found you.”
* * * *
Elizabeth thought she might be hallucinating. For the past four days she had expected someone to come to her aid. Through endless daylight hours and miserable nights, she had stared at her prison door—hoping, praying, struggling with her doubts and fears. She had thought Will Cobbett would come, but he had not. Then she looked for help from her Uncle Percy, but there was no word from him either. Her guards, male and female, had been kind enough, and when she was allowed to send for personal belongings, Aggie had brought them and voluntarily taken up residence in the adjoining room of the Tower apartment. This morning Aggie had gone to Berkshire to await developments.
Pacing the floor, Beth had wondered if this was where other women had waited for their deaths, anguishing over the unfairness and cruelty of their fate: Mary Queen of Scots, Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard. What was happening? Would she be put on trial? And what about Fletcher? This question haunted her every thought, whether awake or asleep. Had Fletcher murdered Caroline? She hated to believe he could do such a thing, but he had been so different that afternoon, so distant and cold. Had she completely misjudged him? Was he even now aboard some ship, safely away, while she languished here in this damp enclosure? She was enormously glad she hadn’t told him about her pregnancy. If he was such a scoundrel, she wanted no part of him.
And suddenly he stood before her.
He walked toward her, and she saw he was bound and helpless. Dressed as he was in open shirt and leather breeches, his hair loose, his eyes bleary and a slash across his face, he looked like a common criminal brought to justice. Nothing in his manner or gaze was reassuring.
She dropped the book she had been trying to read and rose to face him. “Fletcher. I thought you were in Scotland.”
He halted a few feet away and gazed down at her. In the light flooding through the narrow window, she saw how haggard he was, and despite her suspicions, she felt her heart contract at the sight.
“I was apprehended, as you can see. I asked for five minutes to speak with you. That fair-minded officer has granted us that.”
“Five minutes. That should be more than enough.” She kept her voice steady and noncommittal. Surely he would give her some indication of his guilt or innocence, of what he was feeling, of what was to happen to him or to her.
“I’m sorry you’re here, Beth. But it shouldn’t be for long, now that they have the real culprit.”
Her breath stopped. “Then—then you did—”
“Aye. I said I would, didn’t I? A Lakota or a Mackinnon will never fail to keep his pledge.”
“But—you said—I thought...” She couldn’t believe it, even though he spoke the words of guilt.
“My dear, sweet, naive little Beth. You always believed everything I said, did you not? Even that I loved you.”
She stared at him as pain exploded within her. Finding her voice at last, she murmured, “Yes. Even that.”
“You were generous with me, Mistress Talbot, in every way. For that reason I wanted to see you—to assure you that you would soon be free. And I have two suggestions before they take me to my own prison cell.”
Lifting her chin, forcing her eyes to stay dry, she asked, “Suggestions? You expect me to do as you recommend after what you’ve just told me?”
“Perhaps not, but I’ll advise you anyway. But first I do have more news for you. I wanted to tell you face to face that I have also murdered your uncle, Percy Talbot.”
“What?” she gasped. “But when? How?”
“I was trying to escape the city, and I figured he was the only one—besides you—who knew of my vow to kill the queen. For you to testify against me, if I were captured, might not prove my guilt. You are a woman with little sense, after all—and a rejected lover who might lie to take revenge. But if your story was matched by Percy Talbot, I could be convicted. So I shot him as he rode down his drive, probably on his way here to help you. Unfortunately, I was caught before I could escape. I’ll hang for that killing, so I might as well confess to the other and claim my place in the history books.”
She sank weakly to the seat behind her. Percy dead. Fletcher a cold blooded killer—of not only an innocent woman but Percy too. And she had given this man her heart and her body—she carried his child in her womb.
“My suggestions are these—my offer to you since you were once my friend.”
“Friend?” she whispered inanely.
“Aye. For the good times we shared. Go to Skye if you like when you’re free. Claim Strathmor—as my legal wife. You may recall, everyone there believes we’re wed. Maybe you can slip the magistrate a bribe and sign the papers—for yourself and forge my name. I won’t be there to deny it. As a Mackinnon widow, you’ll have protection and care from my clan at the least.”
“You must be insane,” she choked.
“Or maybe you can claim Berkshire. It is indeed a fine place.”
“You—you heartless fiend!” Her voice was heavy with disgust.
“Time’s about up,” called the guard from the anteroom. “One more thing, Elizabeth—and you would be wise to remember this. I pray you will do so, whatever you think of me.” He stepped closer.
She shrank against the wall. His eyes engulfed her. She saw the bear claw beneath the rope around his bronze flesh. That primitive symbol must truly suit his nature. “Leave me alone,” she pleaded, from deep in her throat.
“I will. Forever. But take heed, Elizabeth. I believe there’s another villain in all this. Trowbridge. When you see Will Cobbett, tell him what I said. And tell Cobbett we talked. Tell him everything I said—exactly. I beg you to do this, for the sake of the rare times we had together.”
His arrogance was unbelievable. She rose again and stiffened her spine. “Cobbett will help me,” she said. “The hearing is tomorrow, and I’m sure I’ll be set free. He knows I’m innocent and he will convince the judges, I’m sure of that. Especially—”
“—now that I’ve confessed.”
“Your confession is no favor to me, Fletcher. Your guilt would have come out sooner or later, and my innocence proved.”
“Of course.”
The guard marched over and picked up the dangling end of Fletcher’s rope. “’Tis on our way to the cap’n, my Indian friend.”
“Aye,” Fletcher answered, keeping his eyes on Beth. “Just one more thing.” In a swift movement, he placed his bound hands on either side of Beth’s cheeks, trapping her like a wild dove.
She was too shocked, too frozen to move, to offer any resistance. She knew he would bend down to kiss her—and she would let it happen. When his warm lips touched her cold ones, she didn’t move but kept her eyes open and her hands at her sides.
He stepped back and gave her a half smile of regret. “Sweet Beth. Have a fine life. And think of me now and then.”
“I’ll think of you, Fletcher Mackinnon. When Hell turns to ice. Now get out of my sight.”