“Something is gods-be-damned wrong at that inn,” Danny told Jack when he found him at the inn in Belvedere Glenn.
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
Outside it was raining so hard he could not see out the window. The gusty wind was howling like a banshee around the eaves as Danny began telling him what had transpired at the Hound and Stag.
“I recognized him as soon as I entered the room,” Danny said.
“Who?”
“That cocksucker Royce Penry,” Danny said with a sneer. “Pretending he was the landlord. Even if I hadn’t known who he was, I’d have known he wasn’t a publican. His hands are lily-white and his speech far more refined than any tavern keeper I’ve ever met. Not to mention he kept turning his eyes up to the ceiling like he expected someone to come running down the stairs.”
“You think Declan is there?”
“No,” Danny replied. “I sensed more men lurking about though I didn’t see them. I wanted to go into the stable, but had no good reason to do so. I think I saw a man with a musket jump back when I looked that way. I believe Penry has set a trap for our friend.”
“One he’ll be riding right into,” Jack said. He pushed up from the table. “We need to get there to stop him.”
* * * * *
The deluge had soaked him to the skin. Wet velvet—clammy and cold wet velvet—was not pleasant sticking to the flesh of his arms. He wished he had his own saddlebags for at least there was an oilskin in them.
Rain ran down the back of his collar and he shivered. The only time he’d been more miserable had been in the prison at Gilhaven. He nudged Spirit under a tree to block some of the rain. Sitting there atop the beast he was more than a little apprehensive. He had lost his trackers but he feared there would be more lurking about the hills around Wixenstead.
Though there was forest around him, there were no abandoned cabins, no caves, nowhere for him to get in out of the downpour. Nowhere to hide. The sun was almost below the horizon and he was still miles from the Hound and Stag. He knew Bess would be worried about him for he was over twelve hours late in returning to her. Jack would be worried, as well, for he should have been back to Arlington by now to fetch Warlock.
With every breath he took he cursed Royce Penry. He’d never had the urge to commit murder, but for Penry he could make an exception. The man had been the bane of his existence in Diabolusia and was even more of a problem now. Penry wanted to catch him as badly as he wanted Penry to fail.
At anything and everything the gods-be-damned bastard did.
But especially at catching the Gypsy.
* * * * *
Lightning was cracking almost continuously above the inn. The fiery stitching seemed to be getting closer and closer to the stable. Jonas and Belk had been forced to shut the window for the rain was streaming in, blinding them. Their inability to see the road had Penry hissing and cursing like a madman as he paced the dark room, tugging at his hair.
“Should pass over soon now, Cap’n,” Jonas made the mistake of saying and was rewarded by a backhand blow from Penry that split the guard’s lip and broke his nose.
Bess was to the point of exhaustion as she slumped against the bonds holding her. She had lost count of how many long hours she’d been lashed to the bedpost. Her day-long ordeal had weakened her to the point her legs were giving out under her. At least her father was stretched out upon his bed—wrists and ankles tied—but she didn’t think he was faring any better than her. No one had gone in to check on him since Belk had insisted on letting the poor man up to relieve himself. That had been at least five hours ago.
Groaning as she flexed her fingers to keep them from going numb, she tried not to notice the way Penry was staring at her with each pass across the room. The fury on his face, the utter evil in his eyes alarmed her.
“He is going to die this night,” he had told her over and over again until she wanted to scream.
Two thoughts were warring inside her head. One was the agonizing fear that Declan had been caught. The second—even more unbearable—was that he was lying dead on the coach road.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, the rain ceased.
“Open the window,” Penry snapped. “Now! Open the windows.”
Jonas was trying to stop the blood from oozing from his nose so it was Belk who opened the latch and pulled the glass panels inside.
Bess was watching him and saw him stiffen.
And she knew. She knew.
She craned her neck to look around Jonas. At that moment, the moon came out from behind the sodden clouds. Her heart skipped a beat for a rider was coming over the brow of the hill.
It was him. There was no doubt in her mind that it was and her heart broke. With every last ounce of strength she had left, she hooked her fingertip firmly on the trigger and kept her eyes locked on the horse and rider galloping down the road.
* * * * *
Timothy Saur had been waiting all day. None of the soldiers had come to the stable to see if he was alive or dead. He knew they had forgotten about him. They did not know he was watching from the open stable door or that he had a musket of his own.
Or that he knew how to use it and use it well.
The world thought Tim Saur was simple-minded but that was not the case. Circumstances had made him what he was now. He had been to war and when he returned, he was not the same green lad who had been taken prisoner by the Diabolusians—tortured so badly he lost contact with the world around him.
He rarely spoke. When he did, it was generally only one or two words at a time. The reason for that was obvious to anyone who could look him in the face—though few could or did. His features had been horribly mangled by his captors—scarred, ravaged. One eye drooped—as did that side of his face, twisting his mouth to one side. His body had fared no better for it had been whipped and torn and burned until there was nothing left save madness in his pale blue eyes. What had once been a thick crop of dark blond hair now more closely resembled moldy hay. Timothy Saur had been all but destroyed.
So he kept to himself—mostly because of the way he looked, but also because he was wary of those he did not know. He slept in the barn to be near the horses he loved for they accepted him as he was. He moved about the inn yard as stealthily and silent as a ghost—sometimes appearing out of nowhere to frighten the guests. Actions that only solidified people’s opinions of his mental capabilities.
When he came to the inn as Patrick Arbra and his daughter were renovating it, he had mumbled a request for a job. “Need work,” he’d stated.
The man he asked did not hesitate.
“How are you with horses?”
“Good,” Tim replied. “Horses love Tim.”
Arbra named a wage, told him they would provide him with three meals a day.
“Do you have a place to stay?” Bess had asked.
Tim had pointed to the stable. “There,” he said. “Stay there.”
“You sure?” her father had inquired.
Tim had nodded. “Stay with horses.”
Though he had not been long at the Hound and Stag he had come to have great respect for Patrick Arbra and had developed a strong affection for the man’s lovely daughter. He followed her with his eyes everywhere she went. Not in a lewd way, he thought, but in a protective way. He knew his smile made her uneasy—and perhaps it was a touch menacing—but that could not be helped. The muscles of his face had been so badly damaged during the hours he had been in the trained hands of the Diabolusian interrogators.
When the handsome man on the ebony stallion had ridden into the inn, Tim thought he bore a strong resemblance to a young lieutenant he had known in the hellish high desert of Diabolusia. He’d stared hard at the visitor—trying to discover if they were one and the same. That young man—only a year or so older than Tim—had been kind, a joy to be around and the men had respected him.
Not their commanding officer who was a sadistic bastard with a wife whose legs parted for any man who gave her the time of day.
Tim included.
Once he had been a young man the ladies had chased. He’d had no trouble finding bed partners. The captain’s lady had been the last woman Tim had tupped. He knew with the way he looked now, she would be the last ever.
Lightning flared, but the rain seemed to have moved on. That was good, he thought, as he braced the musket on his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. One shot was all he had in the weapon. One shot was all it would take. With one eye squeezed shut he tracked the rider coming toward the inn. Above and behind him he knew the two guards at the casement window were doing the same.
He had no idea how good they were but he knew how good he was. He’d been the best sharpshooter in his company. He never missed what he aimed at and he intended to fire his weapon before they could. He began to gently squeeze the trigger.
* * * * *
Declan had one thought only as he neared the inn. It was barely ten of the clock but there wasn’t a light showing in any of the windows. The rain had stopped and he could see the establishment clearly. He smiled when he saw Bess’s window was open. She was waiting for him.
* * * * *
The pounding of the hooves coming toward the inn was faint at first but Bess heard it. She could see the rider in the moonlight and her heart ached for him. He was almost within range of the muskets aimed at him. Only a few yards more, she thought. Once he passed under the stone archway that led to the short path up to the paved cobblestone courtyard of the inn, it would be too late for him to turn back.
Now, she thought and with one final whisper of his name, she pulled the trigger.
* * * * *
He was almost to the stone archway when he heard the bark of a firing musket and sawed on the reins. The horse’s back hooves dug into the mud to slow it down. When the second shot came—hitting the left side of the archway near his head—he wheeled Spirit around and kicked him into motion, riding as though the devil were on heels back the way he had come as two more shots rang out in the darkness.
* * * * *
Tim lowered the musket and slowly turned his head toward the casement window and smiled the terrible grin he knew frightened those who saw it. The bastards had missed their target but he hadn’t. He’d clipped the stone archway at the exact point and at the exact moment he had intended. He’d intended the shot to warn away the handsome visitor and it had achieved its purpose.
It was the first shot—coming a scant second before his own—that puzzled him.
* * * * *
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Musket smoking in his hands, Belk slowly lowered his weapon. He doubted the man kneeling beside him at the window even realized another shot had been fired in the bedchamber where they were hiding. Instead, Jonas was cursing vilely at having missed his target.
Three shots from the bedchamber and one from the stable—all coming within seconds of one another. Two hitting their targets and two missing.
Already knowing what he was going to find, Belk turned away from the window to look behind him.
Her chin was resting on her chest. The long black braid hanging over her left shoulder was glistening from the blood that was pulsing from the side of her breast.
“After him!” his captain shouted. “Catch him!”
Jonas jumped up, turned and staggered back when he saw the blood cascading down the young woman’s skirt.
“Go after him, Belk!” Penry bellowed. “Jonas, stay. I have need of you.”
Belk knew there was nothing he could do for the young woman. She had given her life to save the man she loved and he could not fault her for that. The blame lay entirely on his captain. He knew when he mounted his horse, neither Penry nor anyone else in the Royal Marines would ever see him again.
Downstairs the other soldiers had heard Penry’s command and were running from the inn. The sound of galloping horses thundering up the road to the hill told Belk the men hiding behind the inn were already riding after the Gypsy.
He took one last look at the woman slumped over the musket, shook his head and followed Jonas from the room—cursing Royce Penry for the craven bastard he was.
* * * * *
“What do you need me to do, sir?” Jonas asked, avoiding looking at the girl.
“We will need a grave,” Penry said. “Out behind the inn.”
Jonas knew the kind of man he was. He’d never had illusions about himself. He was a womanizer, a thief, a murderer—a lot of things—but for a reason he couldn’t explain, what the captain was asking him to do was shameful.
“Without a funeral, sir?” he inquired. “That don’t seem right.”
Penry pulled the pistol from his holster and leveled it at him. “Dig the fucking grave, soldier,” he bellowed.
There was madness in the captain’s eyes. He had no doubt the man would shoot him.
“Aye, sir,” Jonas agreed and hurried to carry out the order.
* * * * *
After the solider left the room, Royce sat down on the chair by the window and started to shake. His attention was riveted on the red droplets falling from the hem of Bess’ skirt. He could not seem to pull himself free from the abyss into which he had fallen. Hands curled palms up in his lap, sweat gathering under his armpits, he felt the gorge rising in his throat. He knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that he would be held accountable for the young woman’s death. A civilian. He would be stripped of his command, quite possibly demoted. At the very least he would suffer a severe reprimand that would insure he never rose any higher in rank.
An absolute catastrophe for a man of his position and ambitions.
He tore his gaze from the blood to look down at his trembling hands.
“Calamity,” he whispered. “Sheer calamity.”
And all because of Declan Farrell.
When he heard the soft moan, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
* * * * *
Bess was in so much pain she could barely draw breath. Sheer agony was burning through the left side of her body—along her ribcage and up her breast. Every beat of her heart seemed to pulse right where the pain was located.
“Wench?” she heard someone whisper and tried to raise her head.
She couldn’t. She was too weak, dizzy, and she couldn’t raise her arms. It felt as though she was hanging from a peg on the wall with her legs of no use to her.
“Wench?” the voice asked again—closer this time.
A hand touched her right shoulder and she flinched. When she did, the hand was snatched back and a low whimper filled the room.
“You’re not dead?”
A booted foot appeared in the periphery of her vision then a cool palm was placed to her forehead.
“By the gods, you’re alive. Thank the gods, you are alive.”
There seemed to be great relief in the voice.
A hand slid down her face to cup her chin gently. Slowly her head was lifted until she could look into the eyes of the person standing beside her.
Penry, she thought and recoiled at his touch.
“Milady, let me,” he said and removed his hand.
She had no idea what he wanted her to allow but as soon as he let go of her chin, it sank to her chest. She groaned.
“Merciful Alel,” he said as he untied the gag that was wedged between her lips, tugging too forcefully so that he pulled her hair in the bargain.
Mouth free, she ran her dry tongue over the seams of her lips and tasted blood.
“W…water,” she pleaded, her voice nothing more than a rasp.
“Of course,” he agreed and the boot disappeared from her vision. She heard him running down the stairs and wondered why he just didn’t send one of his men.
The men kneeling at the casement to murder Declan.
As that thought shifted through her mind, she sucked in a rough breath for memory came back to her in a flash of muzzle fire. Swinging her eyes to the left, she saw the blood coating her bodice. The shot had not killed her but she was hurt badly. She could feel the cold wetness of the blood sticking to her flesh and caught a glimpse of the pool beside her foot.
Had she succeeded in warning him? Had the shot made him turn away from the inn?
Or was he—even now—lying down in the mud beyond the inn?
Penry came rushing into the room and up to her. With infinite care he lifted her head with one hand and placed a tumbler to her lips.
“Drink, milady,” he said.
The water was cool and tasted so sweet. She was parched—her mouth as dry as tinder—and the liquid flowed wonderfully down her throat.
“Not too much,” he said.
A gallon would not be enough, she thought as she swallowed greedily. When he took away the tumbler she wanted to hiss at him and would have had she the energy.
“I must get you to our physician,” he said, putting aside the tumbler.
She felt his hands fumbling with the knots that bound her hands and when the robe loosened and blood began to flow into her numb fingers, she cried out.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He was being too accommodating by half, she thought and wondered why. Even as he caught her sagging body into his arms and tenderly lifted her to lie on the bed, she feared he would revert to kind and hurt her more.
She could do nothing to prevent him from ripping her gown down the side to inspect her wound.
“Good,” he said and she wished with all her being she could slit his throat. “Good, it’s no longer bleeding.” His fingers slid over her naked side and chest.
“Don’t,” she groaned.
“The ball singed a nasty path up your side then pierced your breast. Went through this fleshy part here.” He looked up at the ceiling and pointed. “And landed up there.” He smiled cheerfully. “You will need stitching but I don’t believe you will lose any more blood. Not a physician, of course, but that’s what I believe.”
“Leave me,” she begged.
“Wagon,” he said. He leaned over her. “Is there a wagon in the stable?”
“Aye,” she whispered, not really catching his meaning.
“I shall fetch it.”
“My father?” she managed to mumble, but he had already turned away and was thundering down the stairs.
She lay there unable to move because of the agony pulsing in her side. The minutes dragged by. With every breath she felt herself growing weaker. It seemed like hours since he had left her. Hours in which to worry about the fate of the man she loved.
“Declan,” she said, tears filling her eyes.
Had he gotten away? Was he safe? Did he know she had been hurt? Would he come after her if Penry took her to the garrison at Gilhaven?
She was fearful that he would and if so, he would be arrested on sight.
Struggling to get up, she realized it was useless and closed her eyes. Either she’d lost too much blood or the muscles on that side of her body had been damaged beyond repair. Mayhap she was dying and that was why movement was beyond her.
A sound at the door made her open her eyes. She was surprised to see Tim, the hostler standing in the doorway.
“Hurt?” he asked, his lax face filled with concern.
“Declan,” she said on a sigh.
“Got away,” Tim said. He came into the room and she realized he was carrying a musket. He propped it against the wall, came to the bed. There were tears falling down his cheek.
“My father?” she asked and watched his eyes narrow. “In his room.”
He nodded and turned to leave. As he did, Penry hit him in the side of the head with his pistol. Tim fell against the bed then slid down it.
“Bastard,” she whispered.
“You’ll think differently when I get you to the garrison,” he said. Stepping over Tim, he thrust his pistol into his holster, scooped her into his arms and lifted her from the bed.
“He’ll kill you,” she said as he carried her through the doorway.
“Not if I get him first,” Penry said.
It was agony being carried down the stairs. Unable to thwart him in any way she had no choice but to lie in his despicable arms and be taken to the wagon he had brought to the front of the inn. To give him his due, he had padded the bed with straw and blankets and laid her down as gently as he could.
“Captain?”
He turned, drew his pistol and fired.
“No,” she gasped, thinking it was Tim he had shot. It took all her waning strength to turn her head to see who had been shot. When she saw one of the men who had been kneeling at her casement standing in the doorway of the inn with a hand to his chest, she was relieved it wasn’t Tim.
“I just wanted to tell you…” the man began then dropped to the ground. She knew he was dead.
Penry stood there for a moment then nodded. He leaned down, hoisted the dead man to his shoulder.
“I’ll be right back,” he told her in a conversational tone.
She watched him carry the soldier around the corner of the inn and disappear.
He was gone again for what felt like forever. By then she was fading in and out of consciousness and wasn’t altogether sure she understood him when he climbed into the wagon seat and took up the reins.
“He’ll never know,” he said, clucking his tongue and snapping the reins. “He’ll believe ’tis you in the grave.”
He looked around at her and smiled and she realized he was now wearing the coat of the man he’d killed instead of his own.
“Can’t take you to the garrison, but there is bound to be a healer somewhere between here and Norus. I’ll find him and we’ll get you patched up.”
His words made no sense to her and her exhaustion would not hold; she closed her eyes and slipped into the darkness.
* * * * *
Jack and Daniel arrive at the Hound and Stag around one in the morning. It had been an arduous journey for them. Because of the deluge, riverbanks had overflowed and many of the roads had become impassable. Twice it had been necessary for them to backtrack rather than risk being caught in swiftly moving waters the depths of which they could not judge in the darkness. It had been a frustrating trip but as soon as they saw the glow of lights at the inn, they hastened their mounts. Warlock knew precisely where he was going and sped up—leaving Daniel and his roan behind.
Mud sucked brutally at the hooves of the mount until it cleared the archway then left the road to clatter over the cobblestones. Jack noticed two twin ruts leading away from the point where mud met stone but paid scant attention to it. He returned his attention to the inn and the lack of any horse tied to the hitching post. One glance at the stable and he wondered why the door was standing open.
“Something’s not right,” he told Daniel when his friend caught up with him.
“Too quiet,” Daniel agreed.
They reached the hitching post and both men dismounted quickly. The door to the inn was also standing open and on the threshold was a dull puddle of congealing blood. A quick exchange of worried looks and the men bolted through the door and into the inn.
“Declan?” Jack shouted. He rushed into the taproom, found it empty then spun around and raced for the stairs.
“It feels empty,” Daniel said as he sprinted up the stairs behind him.
Jack entered the first door he came to and knew the room must belong to the landlord. It had the feel of a masculine presence.
“The bed,” Daniel said from behind him.
When Jack saw the ropes laying upon rumpled covers, his heart skipped a beat. He spun around and shoved Daniel out of his way.
“Declan,” he yelled again.
The next two rooms—one that Declan had occupied when he was ill—were empty, clean and neat but the fourth room he stumbled into bore the overpowering stench of spent blood. He came up short when he saw the pool of crimson staining the floorboards at the foot of the bed and the musket lying in the blood.
“Someone was tied there,” Daniel said softly. He bent over to retrieve a handkerchief. “Gagged as well.”
Jack knew who that must have been. He turned his gaze from the blood to the window where the mullioned panels lay open to the night air.
“They tied her to the bed, gagged her to keep her from crying out to him. Tied a musket besides her thinking it would scare her into not trying to escape.” He walked to the window. “They were waiting for him,” he said.
Daniel removed his hat and ran a hand through his thick black hair. He was staring at the blood on the floor. “Do you think they got him?”
“No.”
Both men twisted around—their hands going to their pistols—but thankfully Jack recognized the landlord. He put his free hand on Daniel’s arm and told him who the man was.
“She warned him in time,” the landlord said. “They galloped after him but I doubt they caught him.”
“They?” Jack queried. “You mean Penry?”
The landlord nodded. His face was gray, his eyes haunted. “And he’d better pray to the gods Declan Farrell gets to him before I do.”
Jack swallowed, hating to ask. “Bess?”
The landlord’s lips quivered and a single tear slid slowly down his ashen cheek. “They buried her behind the inn. Like garbage. Without benefit of words or a coffin.” He whimpered then reached up to swipe at his face as more tears fell. “We are Chalean. She’ll spend eternity in…” He broke down, his shoulders shaking.
Jack looked to Daniel.
“We Chales cannot exhume a body once it has been laid in the soil,” Daniel explained. “That is one of our religious tenets.”
The thought of Declan’s love denied a casket, lying beneath the mud filled Jack with an anger so intense it tinged the periphery of his vision red. “We should ride to Wixenstead. Get the priest…”
Daniel exhaled loudly—cutting off his friend—then walked over to the older man. He put a hand on the landlord’s shoulder. “I am an ordained priest,” he said. “I can say the words over her.”
Jack stared at his friend but kept his mouth shut.
“Would you, milord?” the landlord asked.
“It would be my honor, sir,” Daniel replied. “Declan is an old friend and to send his lady to make peace with the Wind would be a blessing for me.”
Jack and Daniel followed the grieving man down the stairs and out the side door of the inn. He led them back among the trees. There was a dark silhouette sitting hunched by a fresh mound of dirt.
“Who is that?” Daniel asked, hand going to his pistol once more.
“Tim, my hostler,” the landlord said. “He was the last to speak to her.” He looked around at Jack. “She asked after him.”
Jack did not need to ask whom he meant.
Daniel stopped walking, put out a hand to stop Jack. “We need to find him before he hears what’s happened.”
“He’ll go insane when he finds out,” Jack said under his breath. “He’s lost yet another person dear to him.”
“I would, too, if I were him.”
“He’ll be too distraught to think rationally, Danny. They’ll kill him.”
“If they haven’t already.”
“Not him,” the man huddled by the grave said. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, his arms wrapped around him. “Not our lieutenant.”
Jack walked to the grave so he could get a look at the man squatting there. “Do we know you?” he asked.
The man nodded without looking up. “Used to.”
Jack glanced around at Daniel, who shrugged.
“Tim was a soldier,” the landlord said.
Jack hunkered down across the grave from the rocking man. He craned his head to look up into the man’s face but the shadows hid the features.
“He was your lieutenant, too?” Daniel asked as he came to stand behind Jack.
“Knew him,” the man said. He raised his head to look at Jack. “Knew you.”
“Mother of the gods,” Daniel whispered. “It’s Corporal Saur.”
Jack was so astonished he fell back, plopping his ass in the mud. His mouth had popped open the moment he recognized the tortured face of the man across from him and he couldn’t make it work to speak.
“You know Tim?” the landlord inquired.
“Know me,” Tim agreed, nodding.
Danny squatted down beside Jack then put out his hand. “Good to see you, corporal,” he said.
Tim wiped his palm on his pants then took Daniel’s hand. “Father Daniel,” he greeted then looked away—his eyes going to the mound of dirt.
Jack still couldn’t find his voice. He knew he must look like a catfish with his lips opening and closing without any sound issuing from his throat, but he was too astounded.
Timothy Saur had barely been alive when last he’d seen him, not expected to last the night after two weeks of brutal torture at the hands of their enemies. The boy’s face had been destroyed, his body crippled by the horrible things that had been done to him. Shell-shocked, mute and as skinny as a rail, it was a miracle he had survived.
“Loved her,” Tim said.
Daniel squeezed Tim’s hand. “I’m sure you did, son.”
“Hurts bad.”
“I know,” Daniel said.
Jack scrambled to his feet and walked quickly from the grave. There was too much sadness there, too many memories rearing their ugly heads to prod him. He heard someone coming behind him and knew it was Daniel.
“We’ve got to find him,” Jack said, his voice breaking. “Before it’s too late.”