Chapter Twenty-Two
Two days later, Rafe led Zeph out to a newly rented—and unmarked—carriage. His plan was to take them to a remote house in Norfolk owned by Viv and Tate, Lord and Lady Appleby.
Zeph had objected to the move, but he would not change his mind.
“We will go by a circuitous route, north to the east, then west.”
He went on to say he had not only planned this out with the Applebys, but also with Carlisle, Halsey, and O’Neill, as well as Scarlett Hawthorne and all her agents.
“You will be so well protected, you need never fear.” She didn’t, because Rafe also told her that he had sent word to O’Neill, who had a few of his men haunting Silver Street in Deal. “We know not the number of the house, but we will find him.”
They climbed into the carriage and settled in for the ride. Lap covers and good whiskey added to her own good spirits, if not Rafe’s.
“What could go wrong?” she asked him, and got only a raising of his brows.
They were two hours out on the Great North Road when what went wrong had to do not with Faucon, but with the carriage.
“The wheel is broken, my lord,” their groom informed Rafe.
Snow had begun to fall, and the thin layer of it glazed over in the afternoon chill. What snow had lain on the ground from a storm days ago added to the problem.
“I will go into town,” the coachman said, “find a wheelwright, and bring him back with me.”
“Unhitch a horse and ride into this village.” Rafe consulted the map he’d brought with him and pointed to it.
“Drinkwater. Bring back another carriage, no matter the size or condition. My wife and I will travel on. You will remain with the horses and carriage, then return to London after it is repaired.”
The groom draped the three remaining horses in their lap covers, then he, Zeph, and Rafe climbed into the coach.
But half an hour later, the coachman returned on horseback. He had no carriage behind him and explained that none were to be had in the town.
Rafe decided the best thing to do was for them to unhitch all the horses, leave the coach where it stood, and ride into Drinkwater.
Thankfully, the ride was only a few minutes. Zeph had not ridden a horse in more than a year, and bareback was not the most comfortable means to travel.
In the small village, the local inn did rent beds to travelers.
“Only one room, sire,” the innkeeper told Rafe.
“I’ll take it with a good fire. For my two men, I wish good, warm accommodations in your attic and a hot supper for all of us. Feed and blankets for my horses.”
Rafe and Zeph inspected the small, sparsely furnished room and, with a nod at each other, accepted their lot.
After a chill but refreshing wash of her face and hands, Zeph went to her husband and brushed his worried lines from his face. “No one could have predicted this.”
But she knew he would not speak all he feared. If the Falcon had followed them, and if the snow continued to fall, the spy could find their wrecked carriage and trace them to this inn.
“I have a question for you,” he said, her attempts to smooth away his fears a failure. “Do you know how to shoot?”
“I was never taught, no.”
He sighed. “Well then, I want you to take this carriage pistol anyway.” He pulled a long-nosed handgun from his valise and placed it in her hands.
Earlier, she had seen him take it from the compartment in the floor of their carriage.
“If he comes, and you need to frighten him…I want you to point it at him and kill him.”
*
At dusk, Rafe left Zeph to get their supper. “I will return as soon as possible. Bar the door.” He indicated the rough-hewn wood that slid into slots against the door and wall.
She worried about accommodations for their coachman and groom. This inn was ramshackle, and she worried about its cleanliness as well.
She paced, but in the tiny confines of the room, she got little relief from her tension. Perhaps in future, I should take up knitting.
That idea had her wrinkling her nose. One day soon she would seek another occupation to fill her days.
After her decoding of Vaillancourt’s book was done, she would have free time.
But then, too, she would be mistress of Rafe’s household, and that would bring her a great satisfaction.
She might have success persuading her husband to let her work on his accounts.
She inhaled, anxious to be gone from here. What keeps him?
Of course, she should not seek him out. He would return soon. He would. And then…
A loud bang occurred. And she startled. Where was that? In the hall?
She pressed an ear to the door. No. A scuffle, wood cracking, a man shouting. All the noise seemed to come from downstairs. In the great room.
Rafe! Rafe?
Where were Rafe’s men? Two of them, he had told her, accompanied them north. She had not seen them, which she supposed was appropriate.
And O’Neill’s men? Did Duggan still follow her every move? If so, where was he?
She strode to the small table, eyeing the pistol Rafe had given her. She winced, then bent her mind to the matter here.
She lifted her chin. The noises downstairs had stopped.
Dare she open the door?
No. No.
“Ma’am!” a voice whispered at her through the door. “Duggan. Open!”
She lifted the bar and whipped open the door. A tall, lean fellow rushed in and closed it behind him.
“Come. We must go down and out.”
“Where is my husband?”
“Busy. Fighting two men in the great room. Come!” He looked around and grabbed her cloak from the foot of the bed.
“I won’t go without him.” She grabbed his hand to stay him. But he wrapped the heavy wool around her.
“My orders. Come.”
She shook her head. “Have you a gun?”
“Aye, mum.” He patted his leather coat that fit him so poorly.
He hauled open the door, took her free hand, and led her down the rickety stairs. At the third step, he halted. One hand in the air, he stared into her eyes, then froze, listening. “We will go past the way to the great room. Out to the courtyard. No stopping.”
“No. My husband—”
“Fights well, mum.” He tugged her forward.
Down she went, but at the bottom floor, she dug in her heels. In the great room, she heard clattering and groans.
She pulled away from Duggan and ran into the great room. Tables were upended. Chairs were broken, pieces scattered on the floor.
Behind her came Duggan, who clamped an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet.
She kicked him in his shins, but he did not let her loose.
Rafe, two feet from her, wrestled a tall, thin man whom she recognized at once. Tauzain.
Faucon.
Whatever his name, he would not have her husband.
She bent over and, with a mighty jerk backward, freed herself from Duggan’s hold.
She fell forward, her hand landing on a table…and beneath that hand, a large, cold butcher’s knife.
She grasped it with strong fingers and whirled, her arm up, her heart pounding, her whole body to bear in that arm as she sank the blade in Faucon’s broad back.
He sputtered. His arms flailed. He wove about. But he could not fly away—only sink to his knees, his eyes on his very surprised opponent as he fell, face first, to the stone floor.
She gasped. The knife was still in the man’s back.
Rafe bent over the creature at his feet. With fingers to Faucon’s neck, he looked up into Zeph’s eyes. “He is dead.”
It took her a minute, perhaps more, but the moments rang in her head like pealing bells. Faucon was dead before her, and dead too were the two guards who had abused her and taken her integrity. No one would ever do that to her or her loved ones.
No one.
Ever again.