by Brenda Joyce
Harry, who was always so good, so perfect, the perfect student, the adored son, the heir apparent—the Prince Charming. Harry, his brother, whom he truly despised.
Lionel closed his eyes, overcome by intense and debilitating hatred. When he had gained control of himself, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed back into the woods. For how much longer should he put up with his perfect brother?
Lionel began to track the doe. He had never been able to understand what Harry’s allure was. Clearly, Sarah was smitten with him. He had seen his stepmother eye him as well. Even Rachel seemed fond of Harry already. And Harry had dozens of male friends, all of whom adored him.
And somehow, Harry had known he was the one who had wrung the swan’s neck. Lionel considered the notion. It wasn’t the first time that Harry had overstepped his bounds. Harry knew too much about him, and Harry was in his way.
The woods were dark now, and damp, the scent of rot and decay potent. He found the odors in the heart of the woods as attractive as they were repugnant. But then, life seemed divided into polarities: good and evil, light and dark, truth and lies. Extremes of nature faced him at every turn, it seemed.
Like Rachel and Sarah. Like him and his brother.
Lionel smiled a little. Except his nature was hardly evil. Or did planning the murder of one’s brother constitute “evil”? Perhaps it did—by society’s definition of the word. But society was a bunch of fools. And it had never mattered to him what others thought. Except, of course, for Father.
Something moved in the woods ahead of him. Lionel paused, fighting a surge of anger. He had learned years ago that he was more effective without any emotions at all.
Today was the day, he decided. He had waited patiently for the perfect opportunity, and now he had it. He would forget about the doe. And then he imagined Rachel’s reaction when she learned of Harry’s fate.
Soundlessly, Lionel moved through a pair of trees, raising the rifle to his shoulder. It was a shame that he would never be able to tell her the truth.
The doe did not stand on the deer trail ahead of him. His brother did.
This was the moment he had waited years for. Lionel froze, and images tumbled through his mind swiftly, a kaleidoscope of the past. Harry and their father in earnest debate, as they had been about to engage in last evening at supper; returning from the hunt, muddy and happy and arm in arm; or discussing affairs of estate in the study, privately—fervently. Harry and Sarah, entwined and kissing shamelessly. Ellen, hungrily gazing after Harry. Rachel, looking at his brother with obvious admiration in her eyes.
Lionel realized he was sighting through the scope of the rifle. Excitement surged through his veins. This was it, then. He was a perfect marksman, but now he was trembling ever so slightly. Father would be destroyed by Harry’s death. Elation surged in his chest even though he tried to breathe deeply and calm himself—he must not think of Father or Rachel or anyone now. He must think only of the kill.
He squeezed the trigger slowly—the way Harry had instructed Sarah just a few minutes ago.
The rifle boomed. It jerked in his hands, an event that had not happened in years. And because he was shaking, the shot hit Harry in the back, just off center, instead of in the back of his head, where death would have been instantaneous.
Still, Harry crashed to the ground, face first, where he lay unmoving.
Lionel stepped back behind the pair of trees, stunned. Good God. He had just executed his deepest, darkest fantasy—he had shot his brother.
The elation began. Lionel fought it.
Harry moaned. The sound was weak and pitiful.
He was alive.
It wasn’t too late, Lionel could go to him, claim it was an accident, and help him to survive.
Lionel moved around the tree and stared. Harry was clawing the earth. A red blossom was spreading rapidly from the hole in his back, staining his tweed coat almost black. Lionel realized his heart was thundering in his breast. He had only minutes in which to decide whether to grant life or dispense death.
The power of it was fantastic.
Harry began crawling forward. His moan sounded again. And this time, Lionel thought he heard the whispered word “Help.”
“Help me. Please.”
He had done it. The disbelief was fading; reality and comprehension were setting in. And euphoria. For he had decided. Harry would die.
He had planned a hunting accident like this for years, and he had a plausible story. He had hit the doe, but she had run off, and he assumed he had grazed her. When they found Harry, they would quickly realize Lionel had shot his brother instead of the deer, thinking him to be the doe. Lionel almost smiled, except he was too giddy to do so.
He had the perfect story.
All of his problems were over.
Except for Father, that is.
Harry continued to crawl on his belly through the woods. Lionel wondered what he thought to do. He would never make it back to the house. Besides, the river was ahead—he was going in the wrong direction. How stupid the effort was. Why not just die in peace?
Harry paused, a soblike moan escaping him. He was covered in blood. He could not have much longer to live.
Curious, Lionel couldn’t help peering more closely at him, wondering what he would do next.
Harry turned his head. Their gazes met.
“Lionel,” he cried in a hoarse whisper. “Lionel.”
Lionel did not move.
The comprehension came then, and Harry’s eyes filled with shock. “Lionel! Help me!” Blood spewed from his mouth.
Lionel turned and melted into the woods.
Sarah was walking so quickly that she was outpacing Rachel. Rachel broke into a run and caught up with her. “Sarah, I am sorry,” she said, and she meant it.
“No, you’re not.” Sarah had tears in her eyes. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? That’s what this is about!”
“I’m not jealous!” Rachel gasped. “I just don’t want you to get hurt! Or even Harry.”
Sarah ducked her head, continuing to walk rapidly through the woods. A gunshot sounded somewhere behind them, not that far away. Both girls flinched. “What difference does it make if we’re Jews? Who cares? Harry doesn’t care!” Sarah said.
“But his father cares, and you know it. And our father cares very much about our religion. Poor Papa. He has been through so much. I hate to see him go through more tragedy. Sarah, it’s best for everyone—you, Harry, Papa, Elgin—if you forget all about Harry.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sarah said, and she broke into a run.
Rachel paused and watched her sister disappear as the trail curved away. She rubbed her temples. Life could be so unfair. “Why, God?” she whispered. “They are perfect for each other in almost every way. Why do this to them?” She wiped a touch of moisture from her own eyes. “Why take Mama?” she had to add. Rachel sighed. She really didn’t expect an answer, not even one from herself.
She had no desire to go back to the house. It was only midday, and dinner would not be for another few hours. Besides, Papa would want to know why Sarah was crying. Rachel would never lie, not to him or anyone, and she did not want to tell him what was really happening between Sarah and Harry.
The woods were thinner where she stood. Through the trees, she saw the river flowing, and on the opposite bank there was a wide-open sweep of hilly ground and the ruins of the castle. Rachel wondered if she could somehow cross the river. Maybe she would wander alongside it and find a bridge. Exploring Rhuddlan Castle would be the perfect antidote for her somber mood.
Rachel threaded her way through the waving birch trees, which were dappled with bright sunlight. The river ahead was slow and sluggish, but the landscape beyond was breathtaking, especially with the castle perched on the hill just above it. Rachel decided she would ask her uncle about its history. It would surely be fascinating.
Rachel left the edge of trees behind her, beginning to step down the embankment. B
ut it was damp and slick, and she had to pause or lose her balance. She reached down and steadied herself.
And when she looked up, she saw the body floating past her.
Rachel cried out, realizing that Harry was floating down the river. It took her a moment to react. “Harry!” she shouted.
Rachel scrambled down the bank, using both hands, trying to understand why he was drifting in the current facedown and not swimming to shore. As if he was hurt. She reached the soft mud by the water’s edge and righted herself. Harry floated past her, and his motionless form filled her with terror.
No.
Rachel ran along the river, screaming his name. And now she realized that a bloody wake was trailing behind him.
And he was motionless.
No.
Rachel screamed, rushing into the water. It was frigidly cold, shocking her, as she plunged in to her waist, her shoulders. Her chin. But then the water leveled off, and using her arms to help her move, as if she were swimming, she managed to catch Harry’s foot.
“Harry!” She was sobbing. “Harry!” She reeled him in.
As her arms went around him, she rolled him over onto his back, and she saw that he was dead.
PART THREE
THE CHASE
CHAPTER 10
Huge weights were pressing down on her. Her limbs and torso, every inch of her, felt heavy, paralyzed, useless. And there was so much blackness. It enveloped her; it was everywhere.
A man spoke to her.
She struggled to rise up through the heavy layers of darkness. It seemed an impossible feat.
“Claire?”
Claire blinked and was blinded by a light that seemed to be shining right into her eyes. She realized that someone was holding her hand. The cobwebs shifted. An image of a big black steel barrel filled her mind. Claire was awake and fully cognizant. Her head was hurting her. “Ian!”
He pushed a wisp of her hair from her face. “You’re fine. It’s just a graze on the side of your head. Can you understand me?”
Images of that terrifying car chase, and worse, the chase on foot through the river and the ruins at Rhuddlan, assailed her. Claire met Ian’s gaze. “Someone tried to kill me.”
“I know. I was there. Or don’t you remember?”
Claire’s heart was going wild. She tried to sit up. In that instant, all she could remember was facing the gunman as he pulled the trigger. “What’s happening?” she asked fearfully. She realized she was in a hospital room, and that she was woozy from whatever painkillers she was on.
“Take it easy, Claire,” Ian said as she tried to sit up. He helped her, propping more pillows behind her. Her bed was curtained off from whoever else was present in the room. She could not tell what time of day it was; the light inside the curtained-off cubicle was a sickly shade of yellow, although far too bright. “There’s a policeman outside. But he won’t come back.”
Suddenly exhausted, she sank back against the pillows. “This can’t be happening. What is happening, Ian?” She stopped. Their gazes locked. “Elgin.”
He was grim, but he smiled a little at her. “Yeah.”
Claire stared at him. But it was not Ian she saw. Instead, she saw the gunman with his impossibly cold eyes, regarding her as he aimed his gun. She would never forget the moment he had pulled the trigger. Her heart had literally stopped.
And that had been the exact moment that he had been knocked down, tackled from behind by Ian.
“What happened?” she asked. “The last thing I remember is seeing you hit him from behind and being shot. I must have blacked out.”
“We struggled over the gun. Fortunately, I was stronger, and I had just gotten it when some teenage boys appeared. I think they had entered the ruins to smoke some dope, but it was perfect timing. I had the gun, and our gunman decided it was time to make a hasty exit.” He touched her. “It’s okay, Claire.”
Claire was finding it hard to breathe. “No, it’s not okay. That gunman was working for Elgin, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
Claire stared, and their gazes met. Elgin . . . who might be William Duke, who might be Robert Ducasse. But he could not be Jean-Léon, obviously. Her father would never try to kill her!
“Was it a mistake?” she asked tersely.
“Look, Claire,” Ian began, reaching for her hand.
“No!” Claire had raised her voice, which was a huge mistake. Pain lanced through her temples. “Surely you are not still suspicious of my father.” Her tone was shrill.
“Elgin is a killer,” Ian said flatly. “Whomever he is masquerading as, he is a killer. I believe that gunman was after me, not you. I feel certain his shooting you was his own idea. These thugs aren’t renowned for their high IQs.”
“You did not answer my question.”
“You’re not up for this discussion now.”
She wasn’t, not physically, but having someone try to kill you negated that. “What about your theory that my uncle is alive? Or that William is Elgin?”
Ian sighed. “You’re on painkillers, Claire. You have a very slight concussion. From falling on stones, though, not from the bullet. You should rest.”
“Like you care!” She was so angry, and suddenly so afraid. It was all sinking in. This was no lark. Someone wanted Ian dead—and maybe her as well.
“I care.”
She had to focus on him. It was no easy task with the panic creeping over her. “I have known William Duke since I was a little girl. He would never make an attempt on my life.”
Ian hesitated. “If Duke is Elgin, then he might, and he most definitely would if you were a threat. If Duke is Elgin, then he is not what he appears to be, and you don’t know him at all.”
“So far, nothing in my life is what I thought it was!” she cried, thinking of Ian’s suspicions and recalling David’s brutal murder. “There has to be someone else out there, Ian. There just has to be.”
Ian settled his hip beside her and brushed her bangs out of her eyes. Her head was bandaged, she realized. “Maybe there is, Claire, and if that is so, I will find him sooner or later.” He smiled at her.
Claire could not smile back; but she was exhausted now. “So now what happens? We were hunting Elgin, and now he’s hunting us.” Renewed fear filled her.
“What happens next is that you go home,” Ian said softly. “Enough is enough, Claire. You don’t need to be in this kind of danger.”
Their eyes connected and held again. Go home. Of course she should go home. She was truly afraid now—she was a real coward.
He seemed to take her silence for acquiesence, because he said, “I had to tell the police everything, and they’re a bunch of village cops more used to dealing with parking violations and drunkards than anything else. They’re not going to be much help, Claire. But they need a statement from you. Just tell them the truth.”
“I can’t speak to them,” she said quickly. “I’m tired and woozy. I can’t think straight.”
“I’m afraid they won’t take no for an answer. You’re conscious—they’ll insist on speaking with you sooner rather than later. This is a big deal out here, Claire. We’re in the boonies, and someone has shot you.”
Claire stared into his eyes. They were more green than ever, not a hazel green, not a golden green, but a real Irish-clover green. “He’ll try again, won’t he? That gunman.”
“That hired thug is in France by now. And I’d be surprised if Elgin dared set foot in the U.K. right now, with the authorities closing in on him.”
“He’ll try again,” Claire repeated stubbornly.
“If he does, you won’t be in the picture, Claire.”
But she didn’t really hear him—she was thinking about the fact that the Dukes often traveled to London. Still, William would never hurt her. She just knew it.
And Jean-Léon was innocent. She would prove it—she had to.
Ian was speaking. “Look, I’ll book you a flight for tomorrow night. They’re talking about releasing
you in the morning, and that will give you enough time to get to London. You’ll feel like a new person when you get home and put all of this behind you.”
Claire took a sip of water from a paper cup beside her bed. How could she prove Jean-Léon innocent if she went home? And as far as putting this behind her, it would take years: David was dead, and that was not how she had intended to end her marriage. Even if she did go home, Elgin had tried to kill them.
Claire put the paper cup down. “I can’t go home. I can’t and I won’t” Oddly, having made the decision somehow calmed her. She had never felt more resolute.
He stood up abruptly. “Why the hell not?”
“We’re partners, remember? Concussion and all.”
“Whatever agreement we had, it’s over. Negated by the fact that you were shot, Claire. Elgin wanted me—and he got you. That is unacceptable as far as I am concerned. Absolutely unacceptable.”
Claire smiled a little. “I’m growing on you, I can tell.”
“You’re growing on me like a gray hair. Unwanted—and with real bad timing!”
“You’re comparing me to gray hair?” Claire tried to be insulted.
“That’s not what I said and you know it. Damn it, don’t look at me with those big eyes. You don’t have an innocent bone in your body—not when you’re after something.”
“If only you knew,” she murmured, her mind veering in the most absurd and forbidden direction.
“What?” he shot back.
“I don’t want to spend the night in the hospital,” Claire announced. “In fact”—she threw the covers aside—”I want to go now.”
“What are you doing?” he cried as she tried to stand up.
There were two problems. One, she was wearing a typically ridiculous and ugly hospital gown that exposed her backside. Two, she was dizzy the moment she stood up. So reaching to close the gown, instead of holding on to the bed, was a bad call.
Claire fell into Ian’s arms, then decided it was a good call after all. “I like that little inn we stayed at last night. Our stuff is still there. We never checked out,” she said against his chest. It was broad and hard and he smelled great.