Chapter Sixteen
By the dim light of a crescent moon, Millie and Asquith trailed Dixon down a pathway through a thick wood. She could see very little, but at least the clouds had thinned while they’d been discussing matters. She’d have some light to do whatever must be done.
When they reached the clearing, they went over their positions one more time.
Millie fixed her gaze on “the barn”—a ramshackle hut that looked as if it hadn’t been properly tended in years.
If, as Dixon was certain, Neville could not be in the house, he had to be in there.
She fancied she could feel his presence in the way her heart was slamming against her ribs.
Her intention honed; every muscle tensed in readiness.
Dixon and Asquith took up their places, then she made her way to the barn’s rear door.
Unlocked, just as Dixon had predicted. Silently she slipped inside and made her way along the wall toward the dim light streaming from a window.
“Willard!”
A flood of cool relief went through Millie at the sound of her husband’s voice.
“I can’t stand another second of your rambling. I told you to either kill me or leave me alone.”
“Neville!” Millie gasped. “You didn’t!”
“Millie! For God’s sake! Get out. Now!”
“I am not leaving without you.” She inched ever closer toward the sound of Neville’s voice. She couldn’t see him clearly. She couldn’t see anything clearly. “I swore to myself I would protect you with my life, and that’s what I intend to do.”
“You swore to protect me?” Neville sounded incredulous.
Men. She rounded a cart still piled high with hay. She spotted her husband huddled up against the wall. Even now, with his hands bound behind his back, Neville couldn’t imagine that he might need her protection.
“Don’t worry about me,” she changed the subject. “Asquith is watching one door. And Dixon, the—”
An odd rumbling interrupted her. She plastered herself against the wall at the same moment part of the floor lifted from the ground. The moonlight picked up Willard’s mop of light hair.
“Boys, me boys…” he chanted the same children’s rhyme Millie had heard him chant the day he’d “accidentally” met her in the square.
She placed a hand inside her pocket and wrapped her finger around the barrel of the flintlock she carried, wishing she had more than a single firearm. She’d one bullet. One. She could not misuse the advantage of surprise; she had to make that single ball count.
Willard emerged from the tunnel in the floor. Lamplight created a tableau in the darkness. Catching her first glimpse of Neville’s worn features, Millie bit her lip. Even haggard, she found him handsome.
He was dear to her—so very dear—why hadn’t she been able to tell him before?
“Come out, Asquith. I know you’re here. One of my lovelies spotted you making your way toward the barn. A rescue, she called out. A rescue.” He snorted. “As if there was some place where she could escape to where the rules of order do not apply.”
Millie held her breath. And the gun.
“Simple Simon…” Willard swung the lamp. “Lily livered—” Willard stopped. “I guess in this case, it really is boys and girls come out to play.” An awful smile broke over his face. He inclined his head. “I’m so glad you could join us, Miss Millicent.”
“Lady Neville,” she replied. She wanted him to know. She wanted him to realize she wasn’t someone he could harm. Not anymore. “Neville and I married by special license. And our marriage was witnessed by the Duke of Harbury, too.”
His gaze moved to Neville. “Haven’t you read your Pope? ‘To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.’”
“You didn’t react as if you found me vulgar at the theater,” Millie answered for her husband.
Willard’s head snapped back. “Ah, well. At the theater one must act.” A look of disgust passed over his features.
“‘This portico is just like the Acropolis’ Of course, I found you vulgar. Anyone of taste and discernment could see that portico was nothing but the product of a garish, unoriginal mind.”
“Well, I did some very fine acting myself.” Millie knit her brows as if thinking. “Do you really believe I would have simply followed you down the path to ruin? That I would stand idly by while you destroyed me, not for money, not for gain, but for revenge? Amusement?”
“You not only followed me”—he took a threatening step—“you practically skipped.”
By her side and, she hoped, out of his sight, she leveled her gun.
She didn’t want to shoot him, but she would if necessary.
And if she wished to be acquitted, her only hope was to prove he attacked first. She’d have to keep taunting him as she led him outside the barn, where he’d be in full view of Dixon and Asquith.
“You’re such a Delilah,” she improvised. “Isn’t he, beloved?”
Neville didn’t answer, but she could hear him breathe.
“Pardon?” Willard’s eyes narrowed. “If anyone here is a Delilah—it is you.”
“No,” she countered. “It’s you. I am loyal. You are incapable of love. You betray the very things you claim to value.”
“You aren’t making any sense at all,” Willard snapped.
“Actually, she is,” Neville cut in.
“Thank you,” she said, without taking her gaze off Willard.
“Loyal?” Willard chuckled. “You used your wiles on me.”
“Acting, as I explained.” She backed further away, causing Willard to step in front of the window. “You turn my stomach.”
“Did you tell Nev how you agreed to be obedient to me? How you willingly offered yourself?”
“I swore obedience, but only to myself.” She mimicked his look of disgust. “You, on the other hand, were most certainly, disgustingly aroused.”
Just as in the theater’s corridor, his handsome face went ugly. “I am going to enjoy making both of you suffer.”
“Very well.” She lifted the flintlock. Timing, not accuracy was where she placed her concentration. All she had to do was wait for him to lunge. “Delilah.”
The shot rang out like thunder. At the same time, shattered glass tinkled down sounding like a rush of rain.
*
Neville watched in horror as Willard’s lifeless body dropped, hitting the ground with a reverberating thud. There Willard lay, crumpled, unmoving, just beyond the reach of lamplight. Neville fixed an urgent gaze on his beloved.
“Untie me! Quickly. And then give me the flintlock.” He would do anything he needed to do to save her from the rope, including take the blame.
Millie tore her gaze away from Willard’s body. Her wide eyes held an unmistakable ‘seen a ghost’ expression. She was shocked. Dazed. Bewildered.
He wouldn’t let anyone harm her. He would not. He couldn’t lose her now. Not when he could save her with a simple sacrifice.
“We’ll say I fired the shot.”
“But that’s absurd.” She frowned. “How could you have shot him?”
How could she? “Better I take the blame than you.”
“Neville,” her gaze softened. “My flintlock isn’t primed.” She dangled the firearm. “See? Besides, for the shot to break the window and scatter glass inside the barn, the ball had to come from outside.”
Even through the chaotic beating of his heart, her words rang true. Neville took in what he could see of his surrounds.
She was right—the glass had shattered inward. There were pieces of glass clinging to her greatcoat and scattered over his trousers. And Willard had fallen toward him, not away.
“Then who?” he demanded. “How?”
“I don’t know.” She squinted out the window. “I can’t see well enough—but there are more men out there than Dixon and Asquith.”
“Could have been Dixon.”
Millie shook her head. “I don’t think Dixon would have been so hasty.”
Hasty? He’d thought the timing spot on.
“There is a carriage between here and the house. One that wasn’t there when I came in.”
“Beloved,” Neville spoke gently. “Do you think you could assist with my binds?”
“Oh!” She swiveled. “Oh, heavens. I’m so sorry.” One by one, she pulled off her gloves—her man’s gloves. “Yes!” She hastened to his side. “Yes, of course.”
As she crouched by his side, he realized she was not wearing a dress beneath her greatcoat. Scandalous. His eyes stung. Scandalous and dear.
Her disguise was good. She even held herself like a man. But she hadn’t taken the time to completely purge her feminine scent, and, even in this putrid place, he caught a whiff that was pure Millie. For a blissful, calming moment, he took in the aroma, profoundly glad to be alive.
The second she freed his hands, he had her in his arms. He pulled her off her feet, and she landed with an oof in his lap. He couldn’t even feel his fingers yet, so he was hardly aware of the pain. All he knew was he held his wife close. His wife, who was now safe, not to mention alive.
He didn’t give a damn about anything else.
A throat-clearing sound from the doorway brought him back to his senses. Millie drew back and glanced over her shoulder.
“My lord,” Millie gasped.
Lord Eltenham entered the chamber, his gaze fixed, not on the reuniting couple, but on the body of his son. Neville couldn’t quite read his expression, but one thing was clear—Eltenham wasn’t surprised.
After giving Millie one last squeeze, he released her. She braced herself against the wall and stood. Then, she turned and helped him to his feet as well. He brushed off his trousers and straightened his muddied coat.
Eltenham continued to stare down at his son with a face so blank and eyes so bland, Neville’s chill deepened.
“Eltenham,” Neville greeted.
“Neville.” Eltenham gave Neville a formal nod, as if they were greeting one another across a London parlor. “And Mr—” He stopped. Again, he cleared his throat. “That is, Miss—”
“Lady,” Neville clarified. “Last night, Lady Neville and I were married at Harbury House.”
“Special license.” Eltenham’s eyes moved over Millie, lingering on the Harbury crest stitched into the livery. “I see.”
Neville’s mention of the duke had been deliberate.