Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe (The Star Elite Series)

by Rebecca King

  He knew that he didn’t have long to live and, for one brief moment, wondered if tonight was the night he was going to die. He had been a soldier for nearly all of his adult life. It was all he knew and, given the risks he regularly took with his life, it was possible that he would be killed doing his job. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. There was so much more he wanted to do with his life. Cursing his own stupidity, he clenched his teeth and rolled into a sitting position.

  He had a choice. He could either remain where he was, and wait for the assassin to catch up with him, or he could get up and find somewhere to hide while he dealt with his wound.

  Immediately his thoughts turned to Jemima and Eliza’s old house. It would be perfect: it was empty, and unlikely to draw anyone’s attention. When - if – he got out of this situation with his life, he would take the opportunity to drop by Willowbrook Hall and explain to Jemima and Eliza what had happened, and offer to pay for any damage he did to their house while gaining entrance.

  For a brief moment, he wished that Peter was there to watch his back. He felt entirely isolated from the rest of the world, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  Cursing under his breath, he half-lay, half-sat beneath the shelter of the hedge for several moments, and tried to quieten his heavy breathing so he didn’t give his position away. He was incredibly vulnerable but needed to stem the steady flow of blood seeping from his arm, before he bled to death. Easing the thick band of black cloth from around his face, Hugo clumsily tied it around his wound. At the first touch of the rough cloth against the raw flesh, pain reverberated down his arm as the burning around the hole increased tenfold. A low moan escaped him despite the precariousness of his situation, and he felt sweat pop out on his brow. His breath sawed in and out and he fought to stem the rising tide of blackness that threatened to overwhelm him. It was sheer determination that fought off the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness long enough for him to use his teeth to tie the cloth around his wound as tightly as he could stand. He swallowed when his stomach lurched in protest at the additional pain, and he wondered if he could make it to Padstow.

  He knew that if the assassin appeared then, his life would be over. He was simply loath to lie there to wait for his assailant to catch up with him, and pick him off at will or for the Frenchmen and their protectors to stumble upon him. Lurching clumsily to his feet, he cursed at the sheer effort such a simple task took. He was exhausted. His body protested vehemently, and he swayed alarmingly for several moments, which didn’t help his already churning stomach.

  He was fully aware that with every moment he hesitated, his chances of survival diminished. With urgency nipping at his heels, he paused only long enough to allow his recalcitrant body to co-operate. As he stood silently waiting for the world to settle, Hugo became aware of heavy thudding sounds around him. Immediately backing up to the fragile protection of the hedge, he waited. In less than a minute, four riders thundered over the horizon, their outlines clearly visible even through the inky blackness as they crested the brow of the hill and disappeared into the night. He watched as they veered away from the cliffs, and Padstow, and headed inland.

  A small part of Hugo breathed a huge sigh of relief at the realisation that at least one of the immediate threats to his safety had been eradicated, even if it did leave the most lethal threat still free to roam and claim him.

  Urgency swept through him with renewed determination, pushing Hugo away from the sheltered protection of the hedge and into the open field. It was imperative he get to his horse as quickly as possible. That meant not taking any additional routes. He simply didn’t have the strength.

  He seemed to have been walking for miles, but in reality it was most probably only a few minutes. Unless he was much mistaken, he had already begun to weave, and thinking about anything suddenly seemed like such a difficult thing to do. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to concentrate on the simple task of placing one foot in front of the other.

  As he walked across the field, his thoughts turned toward the house in Padstow that could prove to be his salvation – if only he could get there. Immediately the image of a hauntingly beautiful face swam before his vision so strongly that he wondered if he was hallucinating. The image of her was so real, so clear to him, that she could have been standing in the middle of the field right before him, and he realised that he really had no choice.

  At least at Harriett’s house there were herbs, potions and tinctures. He could only hope that Harriett had labelled them clearly enough for someone like him to follow. She may have something that he could use on his wound to prevent infection, and help restore his energy enough for him return to London and report his findings to his associates.

  Thankfully Harriett was safely tucked away at Willowbrook Hall, saving him from the indignity of having to ask her for help. That was something that he absolutely refused to do.

  It didn’t bother him that she was a witch. He had never even considered it important before now, and it didn’t make him think any less of her. If he was honest, nothing could make him think any less of her. His gratitude that she was miles away meant that her presence around him wouldn’t make him want things he had no business wanting.

  The future was precious enough without Harriett making him wish for rainbows.

  Until he was strong enough to go after the assassin and obtain his revenge, Harriett’s presence in her own home would undoubtedly put her in danger. If he was the only one at her cottage and the assassin found him, then the resultant battle would be between the two of them and Harriett wouldn’t be caught in the middle.

  Right now he couldn’t even protect himself; the last thing he needed was to have to protect Harriett as well.

  Hugo almost collapsed to his knees in relief when he saw the shadow of the solitary yew tree at the far end of the next field. Although he hadn’t heard any sounds of movement for a long time, that didn’t mean that the gunman wasn’t behind him, posing just as much of a risk to his safety as he had back in Port Isaac.

  A surge of excitement swept through him when he saw the outline of his horse still tethered beneath the tree. The dejected droop of the horse’s head was enough to assure Hugo that nobody had been near the beast since Hugo had tied him there earlier the previous evening. The horse perked up at Hugo’s approach, clearly relieved that someone was finally going to get him out of the rain.

  Standing beside the horse’s reassuring bulk, Hugo took a moment to check that nobody had tampered with the saddle and girth before standing back to contemplate the new problem that presented itself. He somehow had to climb on to the horse, using only one hand, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment. Shaking his head at the enormity of the task, Hugo untied the horse, taking a moment to re-holster his gun before he slid his foot into the stirrup nearest to him, and used every ounce of his remaining strength to launch himself upward.

  It took three attempts before he could get enough leverage to hoist himself into the wet saddle. Although he tried to keep his arm immobile, at some point during his attempts to mount the horse, he jarred his arm which now hurt like the very devil himself was sawing away on it. He couldn’t withhold the low groan that escaped his clenched teeth, and did his best to ignore the stabbing sensations that shot down his arm, and the warm stickiness that congealed in his hand. He sat on the horse for a moment, trying to regain his breath. Sweat beaded on his brow and the world around him began to swirl and collide in a confusing jumble of shadows and darkness, until he knew that if he let go of the saddle, he would fall off.

  His fingers on his good hand had gone white because of the strength of his grip he used as he held on to the saddle while he turned the horse in the general direction of Padstow. Bile lodged in his throat. His arm had already gone numb, whether through cold or damage caused by his injury he wasn’t sure, but he knew that he had to get dry and take a look at it before he passed out.

  He didn’t need to nudge the gratefu
l horse forward; it had already begun to plod along, his hooves steady and sure as he walked across the uneven soil, clearly willing to go anywhere as long as it was out of the rain.

  While he was pleased that he had managed to get onto the horse, and was finally managing to leave the area, Hugo couldn’t lose sight of the fact that he was now sitting higher than the hedgerow and was a clearer target than before. If the assassin was behind him, Hugo’s outline would be clearly visible, even through the gloom, and would allow a clear shot. Immediately the image of the four riders on the horizon came to mind and he cursed fluidly.

  His arm hung limply down his side and, gritting his teeth against the pain, Hugo leaned forward in the saddle and dug his heels in. He wanted to hold his gun again, if only for the added reassurance that he could at least fire back if the killer emerged behind him, but with his useless arm he would then have no way to steer the horse.

  “I have just got to get away from here,” Hugo growled to his horse. “I hope you are going to be surefooted tonight boy.”

  Hugo tightened his knees and swore as the horse lunged into action. Within moments they were tearing across the fields toward Padstow. With the wind whipping in his ears, Hugo couldn’t hear anything behind him, but as he cleared the hedge and tore through the Cornish countryside, it was the least of his concerns.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next half an hour passed in a blur for Hugo, who struggled to keep his balance while fighting the dizziness that increased with each passing mile. He knew he didn’t have long before he would succumb to the blissful unconsciousness that beckoned, but was determined not to surrender to it until he was at Harriett’s cottage. It had suddenly become a haven to him that he simply had to get to, and was firmly locked in his mind as his final destination.

  He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but he was fairly certain that once or twice during his journey he had heard the thundering of hooves behind him. Although he glanced behind him several times, he saw nothing except blackness. Was the attacker following him, waiting for Hugo to slow down enough and give him a better shot? He wasn’t sure, but wasn’t prepared to wait around and find out.

  “Thank God!” Hugo said when the wonderfully reassuring sight of Padstow appeared before him. Although he had hoped not to need to see the place again just yet, and had had every intention of avoiding the small sea port, he had little alternative now. Going to Harriett’s house was his only chance of surviving the night.

  Taking a circuitous route along the cliff top toward the small fisherman’s cottage on the top of the hill, Hugo eyed the first sliver of daylight appearing over the horizon with a scowl. He could already see several fishermen working on their boats down in the harbour, preparing for the day’s fishing, and shook his head at his bad luck. The last thing he needed was curious locals gossiping about the arrival of the injured stranger at Harriett’s cottage. They probably wouldn’t care that Harriett wasn’t in residence at the time. Knowing how isolated Harriett was from the rest of the villagers, Hugo suspected that nobody knew she had actually left the village for a while, and cursed them for their callous disregard of someone who was essentially one of their own.

  Balefully eyeing the small gathering of houses within the village, he eventually came to Harriett’s back garden. Thankfully, the high hedgerow afforded him some protection against prying eyes, and allowed him to unceremoniously dismount his horse. He lay on his back in the grass for several moments, wondering if he could actually make it the last few steps to warmth and relative safety. He opened his eyes to find his horse staring curiously down at him. The warm snort of the horse’s breath brushed over his cheeks, and his eyes met and held those of the animal. Reaching up, he stroked the soft muzzle with his good hand and lunged clumsily to his feet. He wasn’t sure if the field he was in was Harriett’s or not, but it was grassed and there was a stone building at the far end which seemed in reasonable condition. His horse had everything it would need for the next day or so.

  “Sorry, boy, you’ve got to stay here,” Hugo whispered, giving him a gentle pat.

  First though, he had to remove the saddle, which proved no mean feat given the mangled condition of his useless arm. It took twice as long as it should have done, leaving Hugo aware that, with each moment he remained outside, especially in the field, he was risking being found by the assassin, who could still be trying to find him. Hauling the saddle and bridle over his good shoulder, Hugo staggered through the hedge, ploughing his way through the neatly tended rows of plants that lined Harriett’s well-stocked garden. The scent of herbs and flowers assailed his nostrils and, had he been fighting fit, he would have taken the time to identify the sage, mint and even a flower or two, but not today. Today the scent made his stomach churn and bile rise in his throat threateningly.

  Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Hugo paused at the door to Harriett’s cottage for a moment and considered the options. While part of him hoped she had the wisdom to lock her cottage, he fervently wished she had the foresight to leave a spare key somewhere nearby. He didn’t think he had the strength in him to kick the door down, but he had little choice if the door was locked.

  He was about to drop the saddle onto the floor at his feet when something made him pause. Niggling doubt began to creep in as he studied the roughly hewn door inches from his nose. He slowly reached out with his elbow and lifted the latch, appalled when the latch lifted clear of its holding and the door swung silently inward.

  Anger warred with disbelief. Hugo staggered over the threshold, closing the door behind him with a thud and stood beside the door in appalled surprise that entry had been so easy.

  Immediately dropping the saddle at his feet, he glanced out of the window, reassured to see his horse happily munching on the lush field of grass. Now that the rain had stopped, the animal didn’t mind being outside so much, and was more than happy with his new situation. His relaxed demeanour also assured Hugo that there weren’t any strange riders approaching the area.

  Despite his injuries, all of Hugo’s training kicked in and he shifted to one side, resting against the solid reassurance of the stone wall of the old cottage rather than the wooden door. Dizziness sweep through him worse than ever before. The room spun and whirled, and once again the sickness loomed. Glancing down at his arm, he winced at the sight that met his weary gaze. The entire length of his limb was covered in blood, and realised he was in deeper trouble than he had thought. Although he had tied it as tightly as he could, the strip of black cloth was blood soaked and hadn’t been enough to stem the steady flow that continued to drip off his fingers.

  He was about to push away from the wall when a warning hiss broke the silence. Hugo’s heart pounded and his eyes sprang open in disbelief. His gaze locked with Harrold’s large yellow, feral eyes. The cat stood in the opposite doorway, glaring balefully at the intruder, his back arched, and his hackles raised. Clearly, the beast was prepared to attack.

  “Harrold,” Hugo groaned, shaking his head at the beast. He wondered if he should just draw his gun and end both of their misery there and then. “Shut up,” Hugo growled, dismissing the beast with a dark look.

  Frowning, he wondered how Jemima had persuaded Harriett to leave the wretched animal at home to fend for himself.

  “It’s a pity you haven’t starved to death,” Hugo grumbled, unperturbed by the loud warning rumble now coming from the angry cat. It was the size of a large toddler, with a huge stomach and large paws with wicked-looking claws that were drawn and ready for use. “Maybe you eat anyone who drops by, and is stupid enough to just walk in,” Hugo reasoned, knowing that was just what he had done.

  He wondered if Harriett would realise the carcass in her kitchen was his, and shook his head ruefully at the realisation that he had started talking to a cat.

  Suddenly the beast let out a yowl that was so loud, and so drawn-out, that Hugo wondered if it would ever end. He screwed up his face and wished he could raise both arms to cover his ears. He was about to
reach for his gun, when a sudden movement in the corridor on the opposite side of the room drew his attention.

  He lifted tired eyes to the stunning vision that was staring back at him in shocked surprise. Her hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders in a wild tangle of unrestrained curls that made him itch to run his hands through it to see if it would really ensnare his wrists the way he envisioned. The plain nightgown she wore was practically see-through, giving him a clear view of her delectable feminine shape through the material. Although the cloth protected her modesty, from what he could see, the curves were in all the right, gloriously intriguing, places. The shadowy dips and hollows beneath the white material held a hint of sensual promise that called to his masculinity, tempting and teasing him with silken fingers until he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  The sight of her all rumpled and sleepy, and clearly fresh from her bed, simply took his breath.

  “Harriett,” he growled, warring between abject relief that she was there, and horror that she was seeing him so incapacitated.

  On the positive side, he now had someone with knowledge of medicines who was able to help him. On the negative side, not only was she seeing him at his weakest, but he had now put her in danger.

  “Hugo! What on earth has happened to you?” Harriett demanded. She was shocked, not only by the fact that Hugo was standing in her kitchen, and was the man who had haunted her dreams, but who was now clearly badly injured and bleeding steadily all over her kitchen floor.

  He suddenly stumbled. Lunging forward to help him, she was too weak to halt his downward slide and found herself bending over him as he half-slumped on the floor.

  “Lock the door,” Hugo gasped, feeling sick again. The burning sensation in his wounded arm increased tenfold when his hand hit the floor, but there was little he could do except clench his teeth against the pain, and fight the urge to swear in front of a lady.