by Linda Jones
"I do hope you're comfortable,” he said with an aggravating and ordinary tone of voice, as if they stood in Uncle William's study or the Huntlands’ grand hall.
She declined to respond, and still Victor made himself at home in her quarters, setting the bottle and glasses on the table with her supper and warming himself by the fire. “You haven't eaten. Is something wrong with the food? I can have the girl send up something else."
"I'm not very hungry.” she responded calmly. “I prefer to wait to have supper until I'm home."
Victor turned to face her, his head cocked to one side and his smile firmly in place. “That might be a while, Penelope."
"I don't think so.” Faith. She had to maintain her faith in Maximillian. Anything less would be a defeat for her, and a victory for the self-important man before her.
He studied her for a long moment, looking her up and down as if he'd never seen her before. “Wine, then. This is a fine bottle."
"No,” she said firmly.
Victor sighed, but it was clear he'd not yet given up. “I never would have thought it of you,” he said, stepping to the table and pouring himself a tall glass of liquor. “The genteel and reserved Penelope Seton Broderick taking a lover, and a man like the rascal who calls himself the Indigo Blade, at that. Really, Penelope, you disappoint me. If your husband did not satisfy you, you should have come to me."
She realized now why he'd been studying her so intently. A woman who would take one lover would surely take another. The wine, the private room instead of a prison ... he apparently intended to seduce her.
If she played the prudish and devoted wife, if she railed against his outlandish suppositions, he might begin to suspect that Maximillian was the Indigo Blade. She couldn't allow that to happen, but the thought of allowing Victor Chadwick to touch her made her physically ill.
"It truly never occurred to me,” she said sensibly. “I suppose I've always thought of you as an older brother, a trusted and dear family friend."
"I've always cared so very deeply for you."
As deeply as a man like him could care, which she doubted was very deep or true. “As a friend."
She could sense his frustration before she saw it in his eyes and in the set of his mouth. “I wouldn't have asked you again and again to marry me if I'd cared for you only as a friend, Penelope. I wouldn't have taken your rejection without insult if I hadn't cared for you as much more than a friend."
Penelope simply shook her head.
"There could be more for us,” he offered softly. “True, you're married to that nincompoop and you unwisely took up with a dangerous rebel, but I can forgive that. I can give you what neither of them ever can. We can start again. Tonight."
"No. Not tonight, not ever."
At last his smile faded. “I could simply take what you refuse to give. You're an adulteress, after all. Who would believe that you didn't come here with me of your own free will? Who would believe the protestations of a woman who has already made a dupe of her poor dim-witted husband? Yes,” he proclaimed, as if the notion appealed to him. “I can take what I want."
The panic rose, quick and unexpected, at those words. No matter what, she couldn't allow her fear to show. Victor would like that, he wanted and expected it, and she knew, somehow, that he would find her panic exciting.
"You could,” she admitted as she tried to force her heart to slow and her breath to come naturally. “But I will fight you, Victor, with all that I have. I don't want to be forced to do that. We were true friends, once."
"That word again,” he muttered. “All right, perhaps we were friends until you went and ruined all my plans by marrying that dandy Broderick. Admit it,” he said hoarsely. “You married him for his money."
"Perhaps,” she replied. She was willing to let him believe that was true, if it turned his suspicion away from Maximillian.
"I never knew you were for sale, Penelope,” he said angrily. “All your gentle protestations about not being ready for marriage, and all along you were waiting for a man whose wealth was impressive enough to sway you. I might have tried to raise the funds to buy you myself if I'd known."
He placed his now-empty glass heavily on the table. “Broderick has a bloody fortune, that I understand. But tell me, Penelope dear. What did it cost that damned Indigo Blade to have you?” he asked as he came to stand directly before her. “Perhaps I can match his offer."
"His heart,” she said as Victor moved his mouth toward hers. She turned her head at the last moment, and his lips landed on her cheek. Cold, wet, repulsive lips.
"His heart.” He spat with derision as he took her face firmly in his hands and held her in place. “What romantic foolishness. I thought better of you."
Holding her head tight so she could not move, he lowered his mouth to kiss her. Penelope spoke before he could claim her lips. “If you touch me, he'll kill you."
"He doesn't have to know."
"I'll make sure he knows, and I'll make sure one in Charles Town knows.” Penelope's voice was sure and strong, in spite of her pounding heart and wobbly knees. “Most of the rebels there would be content to send you back to England where you belong, but the man they call the Indigo Blade will make you suffer. He will kill you."
Victor hesitated, his mouth a breath away from hers, his fingers digging into her face and scalp. “He can try."
"And if he doesn't, I will.” God help her, she meant it. If she had a weapon now, she would use it without a second thought.
"You don't have the strength or the courage to take a life."
"I will,” she swore.
She could see the doubt growing in Victor's eyes, the hint of fear. Perhaps he saw her determination, the will he did not expect from her.
"One man's heart isn't worth killing and dying for,” he said in what she was sure he meant as a rational retort.
"Victor,” she said, lifting her fingers to his to remove them from her face, to shove his cold and intrusive hands away. “One man's heart is the only thing worth killing and dying for."
He didn't feel the cold anymore. Night had fallen long ago and the air was damp and chill, much too cold for this time of year. Max had stopped feeling it long ago, as he had tried to stop feeling anything at all. How else was he to get through this?
He looked at Dalton, avoiding setting his eyes on Mary Seton. “Is everything in place?"
Dalton nodded once.
Max's anger and, even worse, his helplessness, rose to the surface again. “If he hurts her, I'll make him pay in ways he never imagined. I don't care who he is or how many of the king's soldiers come after me, by the time I kill the whoreson he'll be begging for death."
"He won't hurt her,” Mary said softly, her voice cutting through the night and into Max's heart. “Victor's always been a little bit in love with Penelope."
Max spun on the red-headed woman who was huddled in her cloak against the unseasonable cold, hands tied before her, lips trembling. She'd barely spoken since leaving Charles Town, and she'd be wise even now to keep her mouth shut.
He'd never thought it in him to hate anyone this way, but he'd damned Penelope's cousin to hell a hundred times in the past twenty-four hours.
"I don't rest any easier knowing that the man who abducted my wife is infatuated with her.” He was seething.
If only he knew where Penelope was at this very moment. Mary was in possession of a note, a note she was to deliver for the Indigo Blade tomorrow morning advising him to meet Chadwick and Penelope at the tavern in Cypress Crossroads.
Cypress Crossroads, where the people were friendly and unarmed. At least, that was what Victor had remembered from his foiled raid on the village. What safer place to meet with and dispose of the Indigo Blade?
It was a lucky break, the only one they'd had thus far. Unfortunately, Penelope and her captors weren't there now. Mary had assumed the tavern was where Victor planned to keep his hostage until the appointed meeting time tomorrow evening. At least, that was her
claim.
They could be anywhere.
During the course of the day, Dalton hadn't paid Mary Seton any more mind than Max had. In fact, he'd ignored her in an even more pointed manner. They brought her along on this excursion because everyone else was occupied ... and just because she'd had second thoughts and expressed her regret, that didn't mean they could trust her. She was bound at all times, though it was likely not necessary. She was terrified of the swamp around them and the creatures who lived there. Even if she were free, she would be too scared to run in this wilderness.
Perhaps when this was over, he'd untie the ropes that bound Mary and leave her here.
When Victor left the room, slamming the heavy door behind him, Penelope breathed a sigh of relief and sat shakily on the edge of the bed. It was a miracle her legs hadn't buckled as she'd faced Victor.
Faced him and won.
She'd never known she had such determination inside her, perhaps because she'd never needed it before. Her days had been simple and easy, before Maximillian swept into her life, but Heath had been right. Some things were worth fighting, and even dying, for.
It was more than love that made her strong. In the past few months she'd left behind a part of herself and discovered another. Her life would never again be contained by four walls. Easy and simple were wonderful for a child, but a woman needed more.
Maximillian had such conviction, such courage. With his money, he could live anywhere in the world. He could live a safe life, easy and simple, and assign no consideration to the needs of a budding nation.
But that wasn't her Maximillian. He embraced the world around him, saw injustice and challenged it, and would never be one to turn a blind eye.
Penelope wondered, as she slipped off her shoes and crawled beneath the covers, if the Indigo Blade needed an addition to his league—a loyal and devoted female who had recently discovered her own strength.
She hated this place. It was cold and dark and filled with things she could hear but could not see. The night had been endless, black and damp and so cold that Mary thought she'd never be warm again. At last the sun was rising, lighting the sky much too slowly for her liking and bringing the promise of warmth.
She hadn't slept, and neither had Dalton or Maximillian. She'd heard them throughout the night, moving about, whispering in low, somber voices. Even when all was silent, she knew they weren't asleep. They surely needed their rest, but an unnatural energy drove them both.
For Maximillian, it was an energy born of love. For Dalton, it was an energy born of hate. Hate for her.
If she'd not been looking for deception at every turn, she would have asked Penelope to explain the letters. She would have gone to Dalton and asked him, outright, if he was the Indigo Blade. If she'd been able to trust anyone, none of this would be happening. Penelope would be safe at home, in bed with her husband.
And Dalton would still love her.
The way he kept playing with those knives when he looked her way, Mary was rather surprised he hadn't killed her yet. She should be more distressed at the prospect of her death, she supposed, but as she had nothing left to live for, it didn't seem to matter much. The pain would be with her until death, this pain of knowing she'd betrayed the only two people in the world who had ever truly loved her.
Mary couldn't help but wonder what would become of her if Dalton didn't kill her. She certainly couldn't return to Penelope's home, and she didn't want to return to the plantation, to her father's disappointment and disdain. When this was all behind her she could marry, perhaps, but who would have her?
No one.
There was only one person in this entire world who might have room in his life for her. Not as a wife, as she'd always hoped, but as a partner, a paramour. She'd never been able to make Victor love her and she never would, but he did want her, in his own way.
She shuddered at the thought, telling herself it was the chill of the swamp that made her bones shake.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty-six
After a chilly ride, the Cypress Crossroads tavern was pleasantly warm, with a fire blazing and people gathered at the tables that were scattered about the long, narrow room. The man behind a crude plank bar recognized Victor as he led Penelope through the door.
"Mr. Chadwick.” The hefty man greeted Victor with a smile as he closed the door. “What a pleasure to have you in my establishment once again."
There would be no help here, Penelope decided. The owner of the tavern was obviously acquainted with Victor, and the patrons paid the new arrivals no mind at all. No one seemed even to notice that Victor had a tight grip on her upper arm, or that four armed soldiers had been posted on the other side of the door.
At the table nearest the fire, a couple argued. An old stooped woman berated her companion—no doubt her husband—emphasizing her words with an occasional rap of her gloved hand against the old man's shoulder. The old man responded, head down, with a muttered apology.
An elderly man with a shock of white hair—an old sailor, judging by his clothing—sat at a nearby table. He talked to himself in a monotone between sips of beer. The only word Penelope could make out was “hurricane."
Another patron, a man with wild red hair who wore a tartan plaid around his shoulders, flirted with the barmaid. Soft, endearing words spoken with a Scottish accent drifted to Penelope. The barmaid, a tall, dark-haired girl in a homespun dress, had her back to the door, but it was clear by the tilt of her head and her gentle sway that she was receptive to the Scot's words.
Victor chose a table at a distance from them all, and he seated himself with his back to the wall so he had a clear view of the door. He forced Penelope to sit down beside him, and beneath the table he kept a tight grip on her wrist.
"What now?” she asked softly.
"We wait."
Who did he expect to come through that door? She'd heard Victor instruct the soldiers to allow all to pass, but to be ready to enter the tavern at his shouted command.
Yesterday's confidence was waning in the light of reality. She had no doubt but that Maximillian would do his best to save her and himself, and she knew he was a better man than Victor in every way.
But Victor had a short sword hanging at his side and concealed beneath the table, and those four soldiers posted at the door were ready to do battle. What chance would Maximillian have against five armed men? Would he come alone, as the note had instructed, or would his league of followers be with him?
The stout proprietor of the tavern left his station at the bar and came to their table with a wide grin plastered on his face. he said. “What brings you back to Cypress Crossroads?"
Victor gave the man a cutting glance. “My reasons for stopping at your establishment are none of your concern."
"Of course,” the man answered, apparently not at all offended. “I'll have my daughter bring you and your lady two tankards of my best ale."
"Fine,” Victor snapped, his eyes returning to the door.
The proprietor turned away from the table and shouted at the tall woman who was still flirting with the Scot. “Rebecca!"
The barmaid shot a quick glance over her shoulder.
"Two tankards of our finest ale for Mr. Chadwick and his companion."
Rebecca leaned over to say a quick word to the Scot on her way to the bar, where she filled two tankards as her father had requested. Even from this distance, Penelope could see that she was a homely woman, big-boned with harsh facial features. A mouth that was too wide, a nose that was too long. There was something very familiar about that plain woman...
"Remember what I said,” Victor whispered as the tavern owner walked away from the table.
"I do.” How could she forget it? Victor had threatened that if she pleaded with anyone for help, he would punish not her but the person she appealed to. It was an effective warning, for Victor had brought only four men with him; four of his most trusted and obedient men, who would never think to protest any o
f Victor's actions. He had set himself up to do as he pleased with the Indigo Blade, and as witnesses he'd brought these boy-soldiers who looked up to him with a kind of fearful awe.
Rebecca walked to the table with pewter tankards in each hand and a small crooked smile on her face. There was something familiar about that face, and Penelope had never so much as passed through Cypress Crossroads. There was the chance, of course, that Rebecca had been in Charles Town and they'd passed on the street, but Penelope felt that she knew this woman in more than such a superficial way.
The proprietor's daughter placed the tankards before them and nodded shyly. Penelope whispered a thank you, while Victor ignored the unattractive girl. All of his attention was on the door.
Penelope stared up at the barmaid, eyes fixed on a face she knew ... should know ... knew very well. As her mouth fell slightly open. Beck winked at her.
* * * *
Mary looked once again at Maximillian. He was dressed in his finest: royal-blue velvet jacket and trousers with a matching cape, lace cravat and cuffs, embroidered waistcoat, polished shoes with silver buckles.
The young couple who lived in this one-room cottage had disappeared soon after Mary, along with Dalton and Maximillian, had arrived. The others had been waiting, the men from the Broderick household who ignored her pointedly. While Dalton kept a wary eye on her, the others held a brief conference outside. She'd wanted so badly to say something to Dalton then, to plead with him not to hate her ... but she'd remained as dreadfully silent as he had. Perhaps there was nothing left to say.
She had spent the past two hours or more sitting in a chair by a low-burning fire, watching Dalton and Maximillian, listening to their softly spoken words. Her hands were bound, but not her feet. If she got the chance, she could run....
But Dalton would catch her if she did, and then what would become of her? Would he kill her with one of the knives he wore around his waist?