A Lady of His Own bc-3

by Stephanie Laurens

“Good hunting country,” Jack returned.

  “Indeed—we had some very good sport earlier this year.”

  Penny exchanged a glance with Nicholas; Jack and Fothergill embarked on a lengthy and detailed discussion of hunting, one which, to her ears, painted Fothergill as one who knew. Used to reading Charles, she picked up the little signs—the easing of tensed muscles—that stated Jack thought so, too.

  Norris appeared with the tea tray; while she poured and dispensed the cups, then handed around the platter of cakes, the conversation turned to places visited in England, especially those known for bird life. Nicholas joined in, mentioning the Broads; Fothergill had wandered there. He seemed in his element, recounting tales and exploits during various trips.

  At one point, they all paused to sip. Penny noticed Fothergill eyeing the books along the shelves behind the chaise. His eyes flicked to her face; he noticed her noticing. Smiling, he set down his cup. “I was just admiring your books.” He glanced at Nicholas. “It’s quite a collection. Are there any books on birds, do you know?”

  Nicholas looked at Penny.

  “I imagine there are, but I’m not sure where…” She glanced over her shoulder at the nearest shelves.

  “Actually”—Fothergill set down his cup and pointed to a shelf behind the chaise—“I think that’s a Reynard’s Guide.”

  Rising, he crossed to the shelves and bent to look. “No.” He sent them a smile. “Like it, but not.” Straightening, he walked along the shelves, scanning the volumes. Penny faced forward as he passed behind the chaise.

  Beside her, Jack leaned forward and placed his cup on the low table before them. Straightening, he started to turn to keep Fothergill in view—

  Violence exploded from behind the chaise.

  A heavy cosh cracked against Jack’s skull. He collapsed, insensible.

  Half-rising, Penny opened her mouth to scream—

  A hand locked about her chin, forced it high, yanked her against the back of the chaise.

  “Silence!”

  The word hissed past her ear. Eyes wide, staring upward, she felt the blade of a knife caress her throat.

  “One sound from you, Selborne, and she dies.”

  Penny squinted, saw Nicholas on his feet, pale as death, hands opening and closing helplessly as he fought to rein in the urge to react. His gaze was locked on the man behind her—Fothergill, or whoever he was.

  “Stay exactly where you are, do exactly what I tell you, and I might let her live.” He spoke in a low voice, one that held not the faintest thread of panic; he was master of the situation, and he knew it.

  Nicholas didn’t move.

  “The pillboxes—where are they? Not the rubbish that was on display in here, but the real ones.”

  “You mean the ones my father appropriated from the French?”

  Contempt laced Nicholas’s tone.

  She felt a tremor pass through the hard fingers locked about her chin, but all Fothergill said was, “You understand me perfectly.”

  His tone had turned to ice. He lifted Penny’s chin higher until she whimpered; the knife pricked. “Where are they?”

  Nicholas met Penny’s eyes, then looked at Fothergill. “In the priest hole that opens from the master bedchamber.”

  “Priest hole? Describe it.”

  Nicholas did. For a long moment, Fothergill said nothing, then he quietly stated, “This is what I want you to do.”

  He told them, making it abundantly plain that he would feel not the slightest compunction over taking Penny’s life should either of them disobey in the smallest way. He made no bones of his intention to kill Nicholas; it was Penny’s life only with which he was prepared to bargain.

  When Nicholas challenged him, asking why they should trust him, Fothergill’s answer was simple; they could accept his offer, show him the pillboxes, and Penny might live, or they could resist, and they both would die.

  “The only choice you have to make,” he informed Nicholas, “is whether Lady Penelope’s life is worth a few pillboxes. Your life is already irredeemably forfeit.”

  “Why should we believe you?” Penny managed to mumble; he’d eased his hold on her chin enough for her to talk. “You killed Gimby, and Mary, and now another young fisherman. I’ve seen you—you won’t let me live.”

  She prayed Nicholas could read the message in her eyes; the longer everything took, the more time they could make Fothergill spend down there…it was the only way they could influence anything.

  Briefly, Nicholas met her eyes, then looked at Fothergill, clearly waiting for his response.

  Fothergill hissed a curse beneath his breath, a French one. “After today, my identity here will no longer be in question—why should I care if you’ve seen me or not?”

  He paused. A moment passed, then he softly, menacingly drawled, “I’m not interested in wasting further time convincing you—I want to be finished and away before Lostwithiel and his friend return. So…”

  Again he lifted Penny’s chin, drawing her throat taut. Again the blade of his knife caressed. “What’s it to be? Here and now? Or does she live?”

  Nicholas’s face was white, his lips a tight line. He nodded once. “We’ll do as you ask.”

  “Excellent!” Fothergill wasn’t above sneering.

  Turning, Nicholas walked to the door. Reaching it, he halted and looked back, waiting.

  At Fothergill’s direction, Penny rose slowly from the chaise, then, chin still held painfully high, the knife riding against her throat, she walked before Fothergill to the door.

  Her neck ached.

  Halting her a yard from Nicholas, Fothergill spoke softly by her ear. “Please don’t think of acting the heroine, Lady Penelope. Remember that I’m removing the knife from your throat only to place it closer to your heart.”

  He did so, so swiftly Penny barely had time to blink; she lowered her chin and simultaneously felt the prick of the blade through her gown, had an instant to regret she’d never taken to wearing corsets.

  Fothergill clamped his left hand over her left arm, holding her to him, also hiding the knife he held pressed to her ribs between them.

  He studied her face, then looked at Nicholas, and nodded.

  Nicholas opened the door, scanned the front hall, then glanced back. “No one there.”

  Fothergill nodded curtly. “Lead the way.”

  Nicholas did, walking slowly but steadily across the front hall and up the main stairs. Locked together, Penny and Fothergill followed.

  In slow procession they approached the master bedchamber. Once inside, Fothergill told Nicholas to lock the door. Nicholas did.

  Penny gasped as Fothergill seized the moment to release her arm and lock his arm about her shoulders, once again placing the knife at her throat.

  Nicholas swung around at the sound, but froze when he saw Fothergill’s new position.

  Fothergill backed, dragging her with him to the side of the room opposite the fireplace. With the knife, he indicated the mantelpiece. “Open the priest hole.”

  Nicholas studied him, then slowly walked to the heavily carved mantelpiece. He took as long as he dared, but eventually twisted the right apple. Farther along the wall, the concealed panel popped open.

  Fothergill stared at it. “I’m impressed.” He motioned to Nicholas. “Prop the panel wide with that footstool.”

  Still moving slowly, Nicholas obeyed.

  “Now walk around the bed, and sit on the side, facing the windows.”

  Feet dragging, Nicholas did.

  “Keep your gaze fixed on the sky. Don’t move your head.”

  Once assured Nicholas was going to obey, Fothergill urged her forward. He steered her to the corner of the bed, closer to the priest hole. When they reached it, he turned her so her back was to the bedpost; the tip of his knife beneath her chin held her there while, with a violent tug, he ripped loose the cord tying the bed-curtain back.

  He lifted the cord, gripped it in his teeth, then grabbed first one o
f Penny’s hands, then the other, securing both in one of his on the other side of the bedpost, stretching her arms back so she couldn’t move. Only then did he take his knife from her throat, deftly placing it between his teeth as he removed the cord and quickly used it to lash her wrists together, effectively tying her to the post.

  She mentally swore, searched desperately for something to slow things down, to delay or distract.

  Fothergill tied the last knot, took his knife from his mouth, and moved around her; silent as a ghost, he glided toward Nicholas.

  Who was still staring, unknowing, at the windows.

  Penny kicked out as far as she could—and managed to tangle her feet and skirts in Fothergill’s boots. Fothergill staggered, tried to free himself, tripped, fell. His knife went skittering across the floor.

  “Nicholas—run! Go!”

  Penny fought to keep Fothergill trapped, but he rolled away, wrenching free of her skirts.

  Nicholas sprang to his feet, took in the scene, saw the knife lying free. His features contorted. Instead of obeying Penny, he flung himself on Fothergill.

  “No!” Penny screamed, but too late.

  Rolling on the floor, Nicholas grappled with Fothergill. Even had he been hale and whole, it would have been an uneven match. But Nicholas was injured and Fothergill knew where. Penny saw the punch aimed directly for Nicholas’s injured right shoulder, saw it land, heard Nicholas’s shocked, pained gasp. Fothergill’s next blow plowed into Nicholas’s jaw and it was over. Nicholas slumped unconscious; Fothergill clambered to his feet.

  Swearing softly, continuously, in French.

  From beneath lowered brows, his gaze locked on Penny.

  She screwed her eyes shut and screamed—

  He struck her savagely with the back of his hand.

  Her head cracked against the bedpost, pain sliced through her brain. She sagged against the post, momentarily nauseated, dizzy, her wits reeling.

  Fothergill swore viciously in her ear; she understood enough to know what he was promising. Then he moved away.

  She dragged in a breath, forced her lids up enough to see. Through her lashes she watched as he swiped up his knife. Hefting it, he turned to her, then his gaze went past her—to the priest hole.

  The glittering boxes distracted him. She didn’t move, sagging as if unconscious. He walked past her without a glance, paused on the threshold of the priest hole, then stepped inside.

  Should she scream again? She had no idea whether there had been or would be anyone in the front of the house to hear. Her head was ringing; just thinking was painful. If she screamed again, now he had the knife once more in his hand…

  Before she could decide if it was worth the risk, she heard a faint scraping sound. She thought it was Fothergill in the priest hole, but then it came again—she looked at the main door.

  Nicholas had locked it, yet now it slowly, very slowly inched open.

  She knew who stood in the shadows beyond even though, with the sun slanting in through the windows, with her eyes still watering with pain, she could only make him out as a vague shape.

  Hope leapt and flooded through her. Her brain started to race. Opening her eyes wide, she frantically signaled to the open priest hole beside her. Not knowing where Fothergill was, she didn’t dare move her head, but he couldn’t see her eyes.

  Slowly, clearly, Charles nodded, then silently closed the door.

  Penny stared at the panel. What was he up to? Her head throbbed. She heard Fothergill’s footsteps on the priest hole’s stone floor; he was no longer slinking silently as he returned. Lowering her lids, she stayed slumped against the post, feigning unconsciousness.

  Fothergill strode out of the hole; he marched straight past her to the side of the bed. She heard the tinkle of metal, then other, softer sounds…after a moment, she understood. He’d made his selection from her father’s collection and was stripping off a pillowcase to use to carry them.

  He was loading the pillboxes into the case when the knob of the main door rattled.

  “My lady?” Norris’s voice floated through the door. “Are you in there, my lady?”

  Fothergill froze. Penny knew the door was unlocked; Fothergill didn’t.

  In the next breath he was at her side, his knife in his hand, his gaze on the door. Then his eyes cut sideways—and caught the glint of her eyes before she shut them.

  He moved so fast she had no chance to make a sound; he whipped a kerchief from his pocket, forced her jaw down, and poked the material deep into her mouth. She choked. It took a few seconds of wheezing before she could even breathe—screaming was out of the question. She couldn’t get enough breath even to make loud noises.

  Satisfied he’d gagged her, Fothergill left her; silently crossing the room, eyes on the door, he went to the double windows, looked out, all around, then unlatched the windows and set them wide.

  His escape route?

  Turning, he looked at Nicholas, still slumped unmoving on the floor. Silently, he walked over, then hunkered down at Nicholas’s side. After a moment, Fothergill lifted his head and looked at her. Then he reached for Nicholas, hauling his unconscious form around so he half sat, slumped before Fothergill. Facing Penny.

  Balancing Nicholas against his knees, Fothergill looked again at Penny. His knife flashed in his right hand as he raised it. A smile of inestimable cruelty curved his lips.

  He was going to slit Nicholas’s throat while she watched.

  Her mouth went dry. She stared.

  And felt a cool draft drift across her ankles.

  It could only come from the priest hole.

  She screamed against the gag, flung herself against her bonds, stamped her feet—made as much noise as she could to cover any sound Charles might make.

  Fothergill only grinned more evilly. He reached for Nicholas’s chin, drew it up.

  His gaze deflected, going past her. His smile froze.

  Charles appeared—was simply suddenly there—beside her.

  “I think she means don’t do it.” He moved farther into the room, away from her. “Wise advice.”

  He held a dagger, a much more wicked-looking weapon than the one Fothergill had; he turned it in his fingers, his dexterity screaming long and intimate acquaintance with the blade.

  Fothergill saw. Understood. They each had a knife. If he threw his and missed killing Charles…

  Quick as a flash, Fothergill threw his knife at Charles.

  Charles dived, rolling back toward Penny. Fothergill’s knife hit the wall and bounced off, spun away, landing closer to Charles. Charles surged to his feet between Penny and Fothergill. He’d expected Fothergill to go after Penny, the best hostage, or if not that, the door, behind which half the household staff waited.

  He’d forgotten the old rapier that hung on the wall above the mantelpiece. Fothergill flung himself at it, yanked it from the fixed scabbard. It came free with a deadly hiss.

  His lips curled as he swung to face Charles.

  With one quick, swirling turn, Charles grabbed up Fothergill’s dagger, crossed it with his, and met Fothergill’s first rush. Catching the rapier between the crossed blades, he steadied, then flung Fothergill back.

  Fothergill staggered, but immediately reengaged.

  Much good did it do him. Charles let his lips slowly curve. Despite the furious clashing of the blades, the sparks that flew as dagger countered flexing steel, within a minute it was clear that Fothergill wasn’t up to his weight, at least not in experience of the less-civilized forms of hand-to-hand combat.

  The rapier was longer than Charles’s blades, giving Fothergill the advantage of reach, but Fothergill had never been trained to use the weapon—he wielded it like a saber, something Charles quickly saw. Trained to the use of every blade imaginable, he could easily predict and counter.

  While he did, he planned and plotted how best to disarm Fothergill; he would really rather not kill the man in front of Penny. The others were gathered outside the door, waiting for
his word, but he had no intention of inviting anyone in; in his increasingly panicked state, Fothergill would undoubtedly run someone through. Enough innocents had already died.

  The thud of their feet on the rug covering the floorboards was a form of music to his ears. Through the fractional changes in tone, he could judge where Fothergill was shifting his weight and predict his next attack. Combined with the flash of the blades, the almost choreographed movements, he had all the information he needed; his instincts settled into the dance.

  Fothergill pressed, and pressed, trying to force him to yield his position before Penny, defending her—and failed. Desperate, Fothergill closed; again with relative ease, Charles threw him back.

  Fothergill stumbled, almost falling. Charles stepped forward—realized and leapt back as Fothergill dropped the rapier, grabbed the rug with both hands and yanked.

  On the far edge, Charles staggered back, almost into Penny.

  Fothergill grasped the instant to fling himself out of the open window.

  Charles swore, rushed across and looked out, but Fothergill was already on the ground, racing away, hugging the house so Charles had no good target. Charles thought of his direction, extrapolated, then swore again and turned inside. “He’s heading for the shrubbery—one will get you ten he has a horse waiting there.”

  Penny blinked as he neared. He gently removed the gag and she gasped, “Send the others after him.”

  Tugging at the knot in the cords binding her, Charles shook his head. “He’s a trained assassin—I don’t want anyone else cornering him but me, or someone equally well trained.”

  He jerked her bonds loose, caught her as she sagged. Eased her back to sit on the bed. Only then saw the bruise discoloring the skin over her cheekbone.

  His fingers tightened involuntarily on her chin, then eased.

  Penny didn’t understand the words he said under his breath, but she knew their meaning.

  “He hit you.”

  She’d never heard colder, deader words from him. Words devoid of all human emotion, something she would have said was impossible with Charles. His fingers gently soothed, then drifted away; turning her head, she looked into his face. Saw resolution settle over the harsh planes.