Perspiration lined his brow and soaked his armpits, his breath came in harsh gasps, and his heart banged against his rib cage with his efforts, but Justin stuck the pitchfork into the hay for the hundredth time in an hour and flung the heap into the loft. He was trying to sweat the self-loathing out of his system but could not get past the odor of manure and rotten fruit wafting around him.
He did not know which was worse, the idea of Evelyn hating him forever, or the thought of her living with the smooth, princely Spaniard. The man probably had a harem in every capital, and…Justin tossed away the idiotic musings, even more disgusted with himself.
He had more important things to consider, like the health of his great nation and the likelihood of a traitor in their midst. If Sir Phillip Amherst was not a turncoat, then who was? The mighty Sullivan? Conjecture was useless without more information, something Wheaton was ensuring he went without. He wanted to scream in frustration but instead heaved another load of hay and tossed it onto the pile.
The eerie glow of lamplight cast ghoulish shadows up in the loft, and he wished they would rise up and materialize so he could have something to slaughter besides his sense of self-worth.
He paused to wipe his clammy brow with the sleeve of his shirt. The only sounds in the darkened stables were his rasping breath and the nighttime rousing of the slumbering animals. His soft hands pinched and burned with blisters as his station decried the manual labor he was relishing so piercingly tonight.
He deserved the pain. It was nothing compared to what Sullivan must be facing. Justin only hoped that the man’s actions warranted it. It would be the only saving grace for this chaos; otherwise, he was the un-bidden tool of a traitor within his own ranks. He was beginning to question the existence of a targeted French threat to the monetary system. The facts were not adding up to anything remotely equal to menace. Nothing, so far, justified what he’d done to Evelyn.
He stuck the fork in a pile to resume his penance when he heard boot steps pounding past the front of the stables. People rarely traversed the alley this time of night. Heaving the tool, he jumped down and silently strode to the door, leaning against the rough wooden slats to listen.
“The Spaniard’s outside with two men. She’s inside the little house.” A scratchy voice sniggered menacingly. “Alone.”
The sweat froze on Justin’s face like a film of ice. He counted at least six, no, seven sets of boots clomping past, heading toward his brother’s sanctuary nearby.
His heart pounded while he waited until they had passed, and then he lunged for his coat. He dug in the pocket, pulling out his only weapon. One pistol, one shot. It would have to do. He hoped that Arolas and his men were well armed. Rushing out the door, he grabbed a small whip coiled on a notch on his way and prayed he was not too late.
He heard the grunts and scuffle of boot steps before he could discern the shapes of fighting men. He rushed forward, barely making out the skirmishing bodies. In their wisdom, the authorities had not bothered to waste good light on the back alleyway. He easily spotted the gracefully catlike Arolas as he whipped his sword back and forth, keeping three of his attackers at bay.
Justin did not recognize any of the other men. He squared his stance and uncoiled the whip, snapping it tautly against one of Arolas’s assailant’s hands, lashing the knife right from the man’s grasp.
“Goddam!” he railed, and turned. Square jaw, big hands, black-painted face. So Mr. Sullivan had not been his attacker the other night in the stables. The burly man roared and launched himself at Justin. Justin spun on his booted heels and, using the pistol butt, whacked the man on the back of his shoulder. The brute screamed with agony. Before Justin could congratulate himself for his deductive reasoning, Arolas shouted as he held off two knife-wielding attackers, “Two men got past—Evelyn’s inside!”
Justin raced past clusters of combatants and through the threshold door to his brother’s sanctuary. The flickering glow of lamplight lit a scene out of his worst nightmare. His blood chilled in his veins.
Through the corner of his eye he took in the ashen-faced man lying slumped against the bookshelves, a knife protruding from his belly. But Justin’s gaze was glued to the bastard pressing Evelyn into the couch with his beastly body while he tugged open his breeches. A meaty fist clamped around her neck while she screamed and fought wildly, her arms and legs flailing ineffectively against his greater bulk.
Justin jumped on the bull and grabbed his shoulders, ripping him off her. The man whipped around, backhanding Justin into the wall, jarring him so hard that his teeth rattled. The bastard lumbered over to Justin, terrorizingly near. Justin whipped up the pistol and fired. The blast was so deafening that his head spun. Blood splattered everywhere and the man fell backwards, a circle of red gore where his chest had been. The room shook with the shock of the bull’s slow crash to the floor. Smoke billowed from the spent pistol, and the acrid scent of gunpowder filled Justin’s nostrils.
He swallowed, trying to clear his head. He looked over at Evelyn. She was staring at him like he had grown two heads. Well, one could argue that he had. She tugged together her tattered clothing and heaved herself off the green couch, heading for the door.
“Evelyn! Don’t go out there!” he screamed, and it sounded like an echoing whisper in his ears. He pushed himself up to follow, but she charged back inside in a thrice. Her chest was heaving, and her eyes were wide and frightened.
She ran past him and ripped open the door to the back storage room, peering frantically inside. He knew there was nothing useful in there, just some bizarre sketching and watercolors. He grabbed the whip off the floor where it had fallen and was about to go out to help Arolas when he saw the gun in the other fiend’s hand.
Despite the knife in his chest and the deathly hue to his skin, the man’s hand barely shook as he aimed it at Evelyn’s back from his perch on the floor. She turned, and her eyes widened even more.
“No!” Justin screamed, and threw himself forward. A thundering crack resounded for the second time in the small room. Pain seared his chest worse than the fire of God’s wrath. He crashed headfirst into the far bookcase, ramming his skull with a hammering jolt. The shelving tumbled down on top of him, and his last thought as the heavy bookcase crashed onto his body was, It’s not fair, I still had so much left to do.