Chapter 10 #2
The bastard’s other hand held a pistol, pointed at Barbara’s side.
She was staring at him, those blue eyes wide and fear-filled, and Kenneth felt a part of him die.
“Barbie,” he choked.
“I love you,” she blurted, her tone almost frantic. “I should have told you, Kenneth, I am sorry—I love you, and even if this has just been a wager for you—”
“Ye were never just a wager,” he croaked, taking a stumbling step toward her. “I—Christ, woman, I love ye, how can ye doubt—”
“That’s far enough,” the ringleader barked, digging the pistol into Barbara’s side and causing Kenneth to halt his mindless, instinctual attempts to reach her. “This whole thing has gone far enough.”
Kenneth froze, eyeing the man, considering his next move. But Barbara’s reaction was strange—she gasped, then stiffened, trying to twist in the man’s hold.
The bastard seemed to pierce Kenneth with his glare, although it was difficult to tell under that cloth bag he wore.
“This declaration of love is touching, and I would say I’m pleased to be present for it, but you are an added complication, Sir Kenneth.
” He began to pull Barbara backward around the desk.
“Miss Fokette and I are going to walk out of her library and down the stairs, and you are going to let me out the front door. Once I am safely away, you two can get back to your romance.”
Kenneth wanted to nail this arsehole, but was confident he could get confessions out of the two henchmen, and was desperate to protect Barbara.
So he nodded along, knowing he’d take out the leader if—when—given the opportunity.
All he said was, “Aye, aye of course,” as he stepped back, pretending to give the man the room he needed.
Barbara, however, didn’t get the silent message about going along with the bastard to stay safe.
She had turned about, even as he hustled her toward the door and, heedless of the pistol pressed to her side, reached clumsily for the cloth over the man’s head.
“Barb—” Kenneth began, wanting to warn her against revealing the man’s identity, but she was determined.
With one yank the cloth came off, and she gasped. “I knew it!”
Kenneth could only gape.
Mr. Niklaus Sinter, whose bushy white beard and normally twinkling eyes had been revealed, glared at both of them. “I wish you hadn’t done that, my dear.” He jostled her into movement. “Now I’ll have to kill you both.”
“You will not kill us.” Barbara’s voice shook with false bravado. “Y-You are my mentor. My friend—”
“Yes, but now you’re a witness.” He had edged them both around the fallen bodies of his henchmen, and now the chaise, on their way toward the door. Kenneth slowly turned to face them. “I can’t allow you to live.”
“We willnae tell anyone,” Kenneth lied. “Let her go and ye can walk away, Sinter.”
“And have you send the Bow Street Runners to my home?”
Desperate to convince him, Kenneth offered a charming grin and held his hands at his side, right hand twisted to keep the knife hidden. “Who’s going to believe me, eh? An upstanding citizen like ye, the head of a counterfeiting ring? Ye’re a scholar, no’ an artist.”
But to his surprise, Sinter’s expression darkened.
“Do you know how hard it is to build canopic jars from scratch? I know every inch of those things, I have studied them more than any other scholar alive.” He jerked Barbara toward the door, his eyes spitting rage as his mouth spat…
well, spit. “I have learned to reproduce those things so carefully, none of the witless collectors, experts they call themselves, even realized their antiquities have been replaced.”
Kenneth nodded to his woman, unable to keep the pride from his voice as he pointed out, “Barbara did. Ye couldnae get the patina quite right, could ye? Yer best student saw through it—literally.”
The white-bearded man scoffed. “Another reason to kill you both.”
Fook, Kenneth shouldn’t have boasted about her. “I’m the one ye want—take me instead—”
“Why in the world would I want you as a prisoner?” Sinter sneered. “I’ve seen the way you took out my men. Clearly you’re not the helpless rake you’ve been portraying.”
“He is an agent of the Home Office,” Barbara announced proudly, her wide blue gaze trusting as she smiled across the room. “Kenneth can do anything.”
“And you love him, yes, yes, very touching.” Sinter’s lips tugged into a frown. “That means you know about the fire and the rumors I started about the treason and Fondlet’s wife?”
Well, aye, Kenneth did…but not until about fifteen minutes ago.
If Sinter killed him tonight, the Home Office would have no proof.
So he lifted his chin and tried to appear as confident as possible as he lied.
“The Home Office kens it all, Sinter. But none of it is as serious as murder. Surrender now, and the worst things we have on ye is housebreaking and ring-leading.”
Barbara, bless her, grasped what Kenneth was trying to do.
“He is right.” Nodding, she twisted to blink innocently up at her one-time mentor. “You truly are talented—your forgeries are works of art in themselves. You could argue you brought value to their collections.”
It was bullshite, but it was good bullshite.
Sinter hummed thoughtfully, beady eyes darting about the room as if looking for a debate…or escape. “I suppose I could say that. I mean, I earned twice that by selling the originals, but the material the forgeries took were expensive, and of course the time…”
He really did think he was God’s gift to artists, didn’t he?
Still, Kenneth nodded enthusiastically, and Barbara smiled softly. “There you are. You are the victim in this, really,” she murmured soothingly, even as she turned them both toward the door. “Now, let me escort you to the hall…”
And in that moment, Kenneth understood the brilliance of the woman he’d fallen in love with.
By being the one to turn them, Barbara had given Kenneth the opening he needed.
Sinter’s gun was in his far hand, but her head and body were between Kenneth and her captor, blocking Sinter’s view of him.
As they stepped toward the door, Kenneth shifted his stance, flipping the knife down between his fingers.
He stepped forward, drawing back his arm…
Barbara pretended to trip. “Oh!” she gasped as she went down.
Sinter instinctively turned to keep his hold on her, opening his neck for the shot.
And Kenneth took it.
His knife buried itself into Sinter’s throat a heartbeat before Kenneth himself barreled into the man, slamming them both into the bookshelf beside the door. He heard Barbara hit the floor as the gun boomed and she screamed.
For one, horrible moment, Kenneth thought she’d been hit.
Then the pain in his side caught up with his brain, and to his surprise, all he could feel was relief.
It wasn’t until the gun went off that Barbara’s mind caught up with events, and then she was screaming as Kenneth slammed into Sinter.
By the time she scrambled on her hands and knees to his side, Kenneth was already pushing himself upright. Unable to think of anything else, nothing but no no no, Barbara threw herself against him, patting down his chest, his face.
“Oh God. Oh God, Kenneth, are you—please!” she was gasping, crying, desperate. “Speak to me. Kenneth!”
His grin looked crooked, stiff, but he was smiling as he caught her hands. “I’m fine, love. I’m fine.” He glanced down at Mr. Sinter, and she followed his gaze.
The man she’d always admired, the man who had turned out to be a counterfeiting mastermind criminal, the man who’d taken her hostage and threatened to kill her and the man she loved…
was dead. Perhaps he’d been dead when Kenneth’s knife had slammed into his throat, but if that hadn’t killed him, the awkward angle of his head now he’d slammed into the bookshelf would have.
His expression was locked in a look of mild surprise.
Shuddering, Barbara turned away.
Kenneth made comforting noises as he pulled her to her feet, holding her. “Dinnae look, Barbara. He cannae hurt ye now.”
“Hurt me?” She wrapped her arms around him, briefly noting he made a strange hissing sound, then pressed her cheek to his chest. “My God, Kenneth, I thought I had lost you—”
“Of course ye didnae.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I cannae leave ye, no’ after ye just confessed yer love for me. Ye did do that, aye? I’m no’ delirious from blood loss?”
Blood loss? Frowning, Barbara slid her hands down his side, and when he hissed again, she gasped in realization. “You were shot? Kenneth Fraser, he shot you?” she shrieked, realizing her hand was wet with blood.
His blood, Kenneth’s blood—
“Hush, love, ye’ll wake—”
“Who gives a shite if they wake up?” Her screech was loud enough to wake even Papa as she pulled his handkerchief out to press against his wound. “You do not think the yelling and gunfire would have woken them?”
“Ouch, Barbara, cease yer poking. I’m fine—”
“You were shot!”
His hands caught hers, stilling her movements, pressing her hand and the handkerchief against his wound. “Barbara,” he repeated softer, his eyes calm. “I will be fine. I’ve been shot afore, this is just a scratch.”
A scratch. She shifted her terrified gaze back to his, and the calm certainty in his warm brown eyes told her he wasn’t lying. Last night—had it really only been last night?—she’d marveled at the scars covering his body, and knew the truth.
“A scratch?” she breathed.
“Aye.” His grin was gentle as he lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I swear it. I would take four times this—to my heart—to no’ have to see ye in danger again. I love ye, Barbara. That’s at least three times I’ve said it—an’ I’m still waiting to hear ye say the words again.”
Oh God.
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears as the realizations of the last hour caught up with her. He loved her. He’d used her. He’d saved her.
“I love you, Kenneth,” she managed to choke. “I-I thought we had something truly magical.”