Chapter Twenty-Eight
L ogan huddled around a table in the tavern office with Murray, mapping out strategies to protect Amelia from further threats. The assailant who’d come after him with a knife was behind bars, but he’d refused to cooperate with the investigators. The bastard made no secret that he would take whatever fate awaited him at a judge’s hands over the retribution Hawk would mete out if he talked. At this point, the only thing Logan could be sure of was that the man had not acted on his own. Someone had sent the oaf on his foul task, someone who wanted to see Logan dead and Amelia at their mercy.
“Ye’ve been making yer way around town,” he said as Finn joined them. “Have ye turned up anything on the bastard who calls himself Hawk?”
“He might as well be a phantom.” Finn shoved a hand through his hair. “No one will speak of him. But I did hear something ye’re not going to like.”
“And what might that be?”
“There’s talk of a smug bloke looking to buy the building where Amelia has her library.”
“So I’ve heard,” Logan said. “An art dealer named Mansfield.”
Finn rocked back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “That’s not all he deals in.”
Murray leaned closer. “What are ye saying?”
“The cur pretends he’s a bloody aristocrat, but he’s worse than a common thief,” Finn said. “For years, Mansfield has honed his talent for deceit. He peddles forgeries to gullible collectors. But he’s moved on to more lucrative and violent ventures. Word on the street is that he deals in stolen gems, jewels taken from the people he’s swindled.”
A dire suspicion kindled in Logan’s brain. “Stolen gems, eh?”
“It’s said he leads a gang of thieves. In bloody Paris, if ye can believe it,” Finn went on. “Diamonds, rubies, a king’s ransom in gems has been taken.”
An unseen fist plowed into Logan’s gut. Paul’s mistress had claimed a robbery had gone wrong. She’d spoken of a murdered man. And a bribe intended to buy Paul’s silence.
A king’s ransom in gems.
The intruder in Amelia’s library had been hunting a diamond, a stone he thought she possessed.
Bloody hell.
The door creaked open. Tilly stood in the entryway, her features pale and drawn. “I don’t mean to interrupt ye, but I’m afraid this cannot wait.”
The worry on the barmaid’s features drove the fist deeper into his stomach. “What is it, Tilly?”
“I left the boarding house early today. Mrs. Langford had asked if I might stop by the library on my way to the pub to lend a hand. But when I arrived, the door would not open. I knocked, but no one answered. Then, I heard Amelia’s voice. And a cry.”
Good God.
A fear unlike any Logan had ever felt coursed through him.
Amelia was in danger.
He couldn’t lose her.
When he bolted to the door, Finn followed close behind.
“Stay here with Tilly,” he called back to Murray.
Lord, let me get to Amelia in time.
*
Fighting terror that threatened to paralyze her, Amelia met Cecil Mansfield’s cold gaze. The bastard pressed his pistol to Mrs. Langford’s jaw, relishing their fear. One wrong move, and the dear woman would die.
A terrible understanding filled her. “You’re the one they call Hawk.”
“A fitting name, indeed.” Icy pride glimmered in his eyes. “Now, give me what I want, and that will be the end of it.”
A chill grazed Amelia’s nape. The end of me.
“I’ve no patience for further delays,” he went on. “I know the Caravelli sketch is here. If you lie to me, I will kill the lot of you and tear this place apart until I find it.”
You will kill us in any case. The predatory glint in his gaze betrayed the truth. He had no intention of letting them live. Her mind raced. If she could get to her gun, she could disable the cur.
But first, she would have to convince him to release his hostage.
“I will give you the drawing,” she choked out the words. “But only after you’ve let her go.”
“Setting terms? Rather bold, I’d say.” He eyed her with contempt. “I must say, you’ve shown more backbone than your brother did.”
Bastard. Amelia bit back the ugly retort. She couldn’t take the bait. She would not give him an excuse to hurt Mrs. Langford. “You’re the one—the one who murdered Paul.”
“I did not send him to his grave. But I am the one who ordered him dead. He knew too much. And the fool had a conscience. Quite a troublesome combination.”
Amelia’s knees threatened to go weak. “And Helen... you had her killed?”
“I took care of that troublesome loose end with my own hands.” Mansfield’s half-smile chilled her blood. “I could have eliminated her some time ago, but I suspected she could lead me to the Caravelli sketch. Mr. Smith gained her trust. Rather ironic, really. The fortune teller could not foresee that her benefactor meant only to betray her.”
The Lovers. Suddenly, the tarot card made sense. Amelia’s pulse thundered in her ears. “You had no reason to kill her.”
“She left me no choice. I couldn’t chance her carrying tales.”
Amelia gulped a breath, bracing herself against the horror of Mansfield’s cold-blooded confession. But she could not give in to her shock and her fear. “If I give you the drawing, how can I be certain we will not share her fate?”
“Life offers no guarantees,” he said. “But if you make me wait much longer, I will put a bullet in this woman’s brain. Won’t that be a pretty sight?”
Amelia’s stomach knotted. “Very well,” she said. “But please, lower the gun.”
“Get me the bloody sketch.”
“I’ll give you the drawing. It’s here.” She went to the cabinet, angling her body to conceal her actions. “I have it... it’s in here.” Slowly, she opened the drawer. Her derringer lay beneath the pouch that contained the sketch. Her heart hammered wildly. She was a good shot, but with Mrs. Langford in such a vulnerable position, she could not take the chance. Not yet. Not until she’d convinced him to free her.
Careful to conceal her weapon with the pouch, she lifted both from the drawer. With one subtle motion, she slipped the small gun inside the pocket of her jacket.
Holding the bag close to cover any telltale lump in the coat, she turned back to him.
“Let her go. And it will be yours.”
“Show me the blasted thing. Before I lose patience.” He ground out the words.
Summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, she edged toward the fireplace. “I propose a bargain.”
“Bargain?” Mansfield’s voice was raw with scorn. “The time for that has passed.”
“A simple negotiation.” She stood close by the hearth now, near enough to feel the heat of the crackling flames. “Something you need, in exchange for something I need.”
“What in hell’s name would that be?”
“Release Mrs. Langford. Empty the chambers of your weapon. Then, and only then, will I give you the sketch.”
“And if I refuse?”
“If you will not honor this simple request, I’ll know your intentions. In that case, there will be nothing to lose if I toss this drawing—I presume you know its worth—into the fire.”
“You are playing a risky game.” His voice was low, his anger tightly controlled.
“Am I, now?” She fought to hold her voice steady. “The way I see it, the moment I give you what you want, you will have no reason to let us live. But if you let her go, we may be able to come to an agreement.”
He regarded her with cold, impassive eyes. “I was right. You do have far more backbone than Paul ever did.”
She swallowed hard against a sudden surge of fury. He was trying to goad her. If she lost control of her emotions, he would win.
“Do you really think it wise to taunt me?” She dangled the parchment closer to the hearth. “We both know what will happen the moment these flames touch this old, dry paper.”
He scowled. “Very well. We will play the game your way. For now.”
He lowered his weapon and gave Mrs. Langford a vicious shove. Stumbling over her skirts, she rushed to Mrs. Johnstone’s side and knelt beside her friend.
A silent prayer for strength whispered in Amelia’s thoughts. Never had she imagined she would be forced into such a dangerous standoff.
Her heart raced, but she held her focus on Mansfield. “Remove the bullets. Toss the gun away. Now.”
“I think not,” Mansfield said with a chilling absence of emotion. “I’ve come up with a better plan.”
A shiver washed over Amelia despite the heat of the fire. “Do as I say. Or I will destroy the sketch.”
An ugly smile pulled his mouth taut. “Perhaps I should thank you. It occurs to me that if you destroy that little drawing, you will eliminate the evidence which ties me to several crimes.”
“You’re bluffing.” Amelia met his cold-eyed smirk. “It is worth a fortune.”
“In any venture, one must be prepared to make sacrifices.” Mansfield raised the gun and leveled it at Amelia. “I have no intention of going to prison. Or worse.”
Fear and shock crashed over her. Her desperate gambit had not succeeded.
And now, the women would join her in paying the horrible price.
A sudden sound—a violent splintering of wood—tore Amelia from her terror. My God, what was happening?
The door crashed open.
Mansfield whipped around. He leveled his weapon at the man who’d charged through the door.
At Logan.
“No!” Amelia screamed.
Desperation surged through her. No time to think. No time to reason. Driven by instinctive fury, she grabbed her gun. Took aim. Pulled the trigger.
Too late. As she shuddered against the gun’s recoil, Mansfield’s shot roared against her ears.
Logan jerked against the violent impact. He staggered back. A look of shock filled his eyes. Amelia heard herself cry out. It felt as though she were a witness to her own terror.
The pain of Mansfield’s fingers digging into her arm shattered her horrified daze. “You little witch.” Gritting out the words between his teeth, he shoved her to the floor.
She landed hard on the wood planks. Shockwaves rippled through her body, even as her gaze darted to Logan, desperate to reassure herself that he’d survived.
Mansfield stood over her, a crimson stain spreading over his upper chest. He stared down at her, his actions deliberate. Cruel. His finger rested on the trigger of the gun aimed at her heart.
Her pulse pounding wildly, she searched for Logan. He was on his feet. Still alive. Thank heaven! Mansfield’s shot had not taken him down. If she was going to die, she would take comfort in this final image of him.
But now, she had hope.
His hand closed around the revolver holstered at his hip. Cold fury flashed in his gaze.
He drew. With a sure aim, he fired.
Mansfield’s body shuddered violently. His gaze shot to Logan. Fixed on the gun he held in a steady grip.
Struggling to stand, Mansfield took a step back. Then another. He stared wild-eyed at Logan. The man he’d thought he had killed was still very much alive. And still very dangerous.
“Bloody hell.” The cur’s voice was like a low growl.
“Throw down your weapon.” Logan’s command was softly spoken but clad in iron.
His features contorted in pain, Mansfield dropped his gaze to the crimson stain seeping onto his coat. He lifted his pistol in quivering hands. “You will not win, MacLain.”
“Put down the gun,” Logan commanded. “You don’t have to die. Not this way.”
Mansfield slowly shook his head. He leveled his weapon at Logan. “I will destroy—”
Logan fired.
His aim was true.
Mansfield clutched at his chest, his expression strangely calm. And then, his gaze went blank as his mouth moved in a soundless cry.
The man who’d ordered Paul’s murder crumpled to the floor, lifeless as a discarded puppet.
Kicking Mansfield’s weapon aside, Logan cut a straight path to Amelia. He cupped her cheeks between his hands and gazed down at her. He searched her face. “Did the bastard hurt you, love?”
“No.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Thank God.” His voice sounded rough, tinged with feelings he did not disguise. “Ah, mo chridhe .”
My heart.
Amelia rose on her toes to kiss him, a fleeting brush of her lips against his. If only she could savor this moment. But the sight of blood slowly spreading over his upper arm was a far more pressing matter. “You need a doctor.”
Logan glanced at the spread of blood over his upper arm. “In due time,” he agreed. “Believe me, I’ll survive this. I’ve had far worse.”
“I tried to stop him,” she murmured.
“Ye threw off his aim.” He brushed a kiss to her forehead. “Ye saved my life, love.”
“Thank God,” she whispered, a simple prayer of the heart.
Amelia glanced toward Mrs. Langford. The sight of the old woman on the floor cradling Mrs. Johnstone’s head tore at Amelia’s heart.
The thud of footsteps outside the entry drifted to her ears. Finn strode through what remained of the door, brandishing a long gun. “What in thunder—”
“Mrs. Johnstone—she needs help,” Amelia cried out.
Finn cut a straight path to her side. Mrs. Johnstone’s eyes fluttered open.
Groaning softly, she struggled to sit up as Logan rushed to kneel at his aunt’s side. “Lay still,” he urged.
“Do not worry yer head over me,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong.
Amelia turned to Finn. “She’s suffered a blow to the head.”
“I’ll fetch Doc Stevenson.” Finn bolted to the door. “He’ll know what to do.”
Mrs. Johnstone set her gaze on Logan. “Ye killed the bastard?”
His expression was grim. “I had no choice.”
“Ye saved the lass.” Mrs. Johnstone reached out, pressing her hands over his. “I knew ye would.”
“Thank God.” Logan turned to Amelia, raw emotion darkening his irises to the color of midnight. “I made it in time.”