The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  She had a feeling he would.

  Maximillian was so obviously nervous; his body tense, he paced stiffly. Now and again he wrung his elegant hands, until he realized what he was doing and dropped them to his side. Their plan was simple, but everything had to come together perfectly.

  "Let me help,” she murmured, and two heads turned her way. It was growing dark outside, but the flickering firelight illuminated for Mary two fair heads, four eyes full of hate. “This is all my fault,” she said when she got no response. “And I want to help make it right.” She allowed tears to fill her eyes, tears of anger and frustration. “Please."

  "No,” Maximillian said forcefully.

  She ignored Maximillian and looked to Dalton. He'd cared for her once. Maybe he didn't love her, maybe he would never forgive her ... but maybe, too, he found it impossible to truly hate her after all they'd shared.

  "I can help convince Victor that the Indigo Blade isn't coming,” she said. “He trusts me completely."

  "He's the only one who's fool enough to trust you,” Maximillian answered curtly.

  Maximillian turned his head away, but Dalton did not. He continued to stare at her as if he didn't know her at all, as if she were a stranger, or worse, an enemy.

  "Gag her,” Maximillian said. “We can't have her shouting a warning, and we can't leave her here."

  Penelope took another look around the room. She only got a glimpse of the Scot's face, but it was surely Fletcher, the stableman. The sailor still had his head down, but when she caught sight of the small beard that was dusted and gray, she was reminded of Garrick.

  The old man who was being constantly berated by his wife mumbled a response. Was that John, Maximillian's valet, beneath battered hat and disheveled gray hair? The woman who scolded him had, in profile, a sharp face with a prominent chin and high cheekbones. The old crone was Lewis Turner, surely.

  Penelope turned her eyes to the door, watching and waiting as Victor did. She wasn't the only one who was anxious. Victor had not touched his ale, and he tapped his fingers restlessly on the table beside the tankard. He'd responded, when the bartender asked if there was something wrong with the ale, that he wasn't thirsty just yet.

  Her own throat was parched and dry, but she was afraid if she put anything in her stomach it would come right back up again. She jumped at every noise: when a tankard was forcefully deposited on a table, when the “Scot” laughed. The old man moved his chair back, and it screeched across the floor. The sound cut to her very heart.

  She'd always thought herself a patient woman, but this waiting was enough to drive even the most self-possessed person mad.

  Without warning, the door opened suddenly, admitting a rush of damp, chilly air and a well-dressed and very calm Maximillian.

  "Lud,” he said as he slammed the door behind him. “'Tis a night not fit for man nor beast."

  Maximillian faced the table where she and Victor sat, his back straight, his gray-green eyes deceptively lazy, and as Penelope watched, he tossed his velvet cape back over his shoulders.

  "There you are, m'dear,” he said, stepping smartly to the table. “Faith, until I received the note I did not know what on earth had become of you. ‘Tis good to see you looking well,” he said in an unconcerned voice.

  "You received the note?” Victor said in a low voice.

  "Of course, my good man. ‘Twas left on my pillow, after all.” Maximillian whipped a sheet of folded paper from his waistcoat pocket and presented it to Victor.

  Victor took the paper and unfolded it slowly. Penelope leaned to the side, just enough so she could read the letter.

  Your wife is being held hostage by Victor Chadwick. She can be found tonight at the Cypress Crossroads tavern.

  "This is his writing.” Victor seethed. “I'd recognize it anywhere."

  "Whose writing?” Maximillian asked casually. “The bloke didn't sign at all, just scribbled that dagger at the bottom of the page. Very inconsiderate of him, if you ask me."

  Penelope lifted her eyes to his. He revealed nothing with that calm face and those lazy eyes, not even to her. Of course, he had yet to meet her gaze squarely.

  "The Indigo Blade, you moron.” Victor positively simmered, frustrated that his plan had gone wrong. “The man who's been trifling with your wife."

  "Trifling?” Maximillian asked blandly, and with a slight lift of well-shaped, golden eyebrows.

  Victor finally lost his temper. “The man who's been rogering your wife!"

  Every head in the room turned their way, briefly.

  Maximillian finally turned his eyes to Penelope. If she didn't know better herself, she'd believe he was actually surprised. Surprised, but not especially distressed. “Faith, m'dear,” he said softly, and she could finally see the relief, the fear, the affection he hid from Victor so well. “Whatever would possess you to carry on in such a manner?"

  Victor's fingers manacled her wrist, and the pressure there only got tighter. But for a moment, for now, she forgot that he threatened her still.

  "Love,” she answered.

  Maximillian's eyes softened, and a silent message passed between them. All would be well.

  "So you think yourself in love with this Indigo Blade chap?” he said lightly.

  "Quite madly,” she answered without hesitation.

  Maximillian offered his hand, a strong, long-fingered hand draped with the fine lace that fell from his cuff. “Come along then. I'll take you home and see if I can't convince you to love me just as madly."

  She lifted one hand to her husband, a hand he took and lifted to his lips for a soft kiss of reassurance and love. She gripped his fingers tightly, refusing to lose this tenuous connection, and his grip on her was just as firm. She would never let him go. Never.

  Unfortunately, Victor maintained a tight grip on her other wrist.

  Hands bound, Mary waited behind a tree and watched the posted soldiers as Dalton did. After Maximillian entered the tavern, Dalton had removed the gag, making her swear to silence.

  "Let me help."

  "We don't need your help,” he said, never taking his eyes from the soldiers.

  "I could—"

  "We don't need your help,” he repeated, and this time he did look at her. She almost wished he hadn't, those eyes were so cold. They shone with disdain just as clearly as they had once shone with love. “The plan is in motion."

  "A potion in his ale,” she whispered. “I heard Maximillian talking about John's special herbs."

  He didn't answer, but turned his gaze to the soldiers at the tavern door. Unaware, they talked and laughed and watched the road for a suspicious character who might be the Indigo Blade.

  When Maximillian had entered the tavern, they hadn't given him so much as a second glance.

  "What if your plan doesn't work? What if the soldiers best the men who are only waiting for your command? If I'm inside I can help, I know I can.” She wondered if Dalton sensed or heard her desperation. “I want to do this for you."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm the only one who can."

  She saw the rigid control break—in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. He grabbed her arm and held her tightly. “Why did you take the letters to Chadwick?” he asked angrily. “I was ready to give up everything for you, and without so much as a word, you turned against me and your own cousin. You don't betray family. Not ever, not for any reason."

  She tried to back away, but Dalton's strong hand held her tight, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Why did you do it?"

  "I don't know.” It was the truth. Jealousy, hate, and greed had consumed her and made her do terrible things. She'd thrown away her one chance at love, the one man who loved her, her chance for happiness ... all for revenge.

  The hand that didn't hold her in place raised slowly. Dalton grasped one of the knives Mary had discovered in his trunk on her excursion to the third floor, and his hand rose steadily until he held that knife between their bodies. “I loved you,” he said.


  "I still love you,” she whispered, wondering if it would be enough to stop him—knowing it wouldn't be. She leaned forward to kiss him, to lay her lips over his one last time. The knife he held steadily pressed dangerously against her breast, but she didn't back away until the kiss was done.

  The knife wasn't lowered. He would kill her after all, and Mary found she didn't want to fight what was to come. Dalton jerked her hands toward him, wrapped his fingers more securely around the knife, and with a lightning quick slash cut the ropes that bound her hands together.

  "Run,” he hissed. “And don't come back. If this goes wrong, Max will likely kill you."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Max stared at Chadwick's hand on Penelope, and with great effort preserved his facade of calm. Relieved as he was to see and touch her, they weren't out of this yet. “You may release my wife, now, Mr. Chadwick,” he said idly. “I will take Penelope home and protect her from this Indigo Blade fellow."

  "She's not going anywhere."

  Max spied the full tankard of ale. “I may be mistaken, but I don't believe you have the authority to hold my wife against her will."

  "My own authority is all I need."

  Max knew that the four soldiers outside would be immobilized shortly. Dalton and the Cypress Crossroads volunteers were competent, driven, and dedicated to the aims of the Indigo Blade. He decided to give Dalton another moment more before making his move. They didn't need the roar of pistols and the clash of steel, though his men were prepared to meet such force if need be. But in a conflict of arms, anyone could be hurt—the tavern owner, the men of this village who had agreed to participate in this endeavor. Penelope.

  If only Chadwick would drink the damned ale! A few of John's specially chosen herbs had been steeped in that ale, especially for Victor. This would all soon be over quickly and quietly. Max's fingers tightened over Penelope's warm hands, his heart thudding much too hard beneath fine linen and velvet. Yes, they would soon be rid of Victor Chadwick.

  But only if he drank the ale.

  "Let's discuss this over a drink, shall we?” he suggested with a smile. “I'm rather parched."

  The words were barely out of his mouth before the owner of the tavern was at his side with another mug of ale. Max took a long swig before depositing the tankard on the table. Chadwick still didn't drink.

  This standoff could last for hours, and Max wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

  Another minute, perhaps two, and he'd pull Penelope out of Chadwick's grasp and take the bastard on, one on one. Plans be damned, the sight of that man's hand on hers was enough to make him lose all control.

  Penelope appeared to be unhurt, but until he could hold her tight, he wouldn't quite believe it.

  Behind him, the door opened and closed quickly. He hoped it was not some innocent stumbling into this explosive situation, but that was likely the case. Did the arrival of a true tavern patron mean Dalton and his men had been delayed? Damn it, he couldn't stand this waiting much longer.

  He didn't turn about until he saw Penelope's eyes go wide.

  "Mary!” Chadwick was so surprised he let his grip on Penelope falter. She wrenched from his grasp and Max pulled his wife to her feet and into his arms.

  Mary sauntered into the room with her cloak gathered close before her and her face deathly pale. Somehow she'd escaped from Dalton, and she was going to tell Chadwick everything. Damn her, she was going to ruin their chances for a bloodless victory tonight.

  She didn't look his way, didn't respond when Penelope whispered her name. Her eyes were on Chadwick. “Let them go, Victor,” she said softly. “This is a terrible mistake. I was wrong about everything."

  "You weren't wrong,” Chadwick said sharply. “Penelope herself admitted that she was involved with the Indigo Blade."

  "Rogering, I believe you said,” Max said angrily, releasing Penelope and forcing her to a position of safety behind him.

  He didn't know what gave him away. Something as simple as a fleeting expression, perhaps, displaying the passionate anger foreign to the Maximillian Broderick Chadwick knew.

  "You!” Chadwick said, rising to his feet so quickly he bumped the table and his tankard of ale teetered and sloshed, threatening to fall over and spill across the table. “It was you all along!” He drew a short sword from a scabbard that hung from his waist and pointed the tip of a sharp and deadly blade directly at Max's heart.

  There was the screaming sound of chairs quickly forced backward, and the rasping sound of steel against steel as the disguised “patrons” of the Cypress Crossroads tavern drew their own concealed weapons.

  Mary moved quickly, her cape whirling about her as she rushed to Chadwick's side. How quickly she chose sides, Max thought bitterly. She reached out a steady hand and laid it over his fingers and the hilt of the short sword. Did she want to help? “Don't,” she said, her eyes on Chadwick. “If I ever meant anything to you, drop this sword now."

  "Mary?” Penelope took a single step forward, but she was ignored by her cousin.

  "We can sail for England, together,” Mary continued. “I can't stay here, and after tonight, neither can you. Everyone will know you came here with the intention of killing the Indigo Blade, and like it or not, he's become a hero to many people. You can't deny your intentions. If you'd come to capture him, you would have surely brought along more than four soldiers."

  The tip of the blade touched Max's chest, and that fact alone kept his men at bay. A lunge, a simple forward thrust by Chadwick, and he was dead.

  "We can be happy there,” Mary continued.

  "Guards!” Chadwick shouted at the top of his lungs, cutting his eyes to the door. All was still for a long moment, and then he shouted again. Louder. “Thurman!"

  His sword didn't drop, but his eyes took in the armed men around him, the Scot and the sailor, the old man and woman, and “Rebecca.” He was weighing his odds, and evidently finding them not in his favor.

  "You won't get away with this,” Max said calmly. “Kill me if you must, but you'll be dead before you have time to draw the sword from my body."

  "Where are my soldiers?"

  "Detained,” Beck said succinctly.

  Chadwick spared a momentary shocked glance to the barmaid with the surprisingly deep voice.

  "It seems we have a stalemate,” Mary said softly and urgently, “so I suppose a truce of some sort is called for. There's no need for anyone to be hurt. Let us go.” She turned a despairing face to Max, and then to her cousin. “We'll sail for England and out of your lives."

  Penelope placed a steady hand on Max's arm. “Agree,” she whispered. “Please."

  A simple nod of his head, and he would be rid of Chadwick. But was that enough? Could he ever rest easy knowing the man who had kidnapped his wife was free? England was far away. Perhaps far enough. “Agreed."

  Mary smiled, and as she let her hand fall from the sword, she lifted the tankard of ale that sat before Chadwick. “Let's drink to it, shall we?"

  "Mary...” Max began, but he was too late. She lifted the mug of drugged ale to her lips and took a deep drink.

  And then she handed the tankard to Chadwick. “Come on, Maximillian,” she said, indicating his own tankard of ale. “This agreement won't be binding until we've all drunk to it.” Her eyes met his then, so clearly and so solidly that he realized she had indeed heard them talking of poisoning the ale. “Everyone!” she demanded.

  Tankards were lifted, including the one in Chadwick's hand. At last, he let his sword fall.

  Mary seemed to hold her breath as she watched Chadwick drain his tankard, and with a smile on her face she sat in the chair nearest her. “Good,” she whispered. She was obviously beginning to feel the effects of the potion. Her eyes drooped and she swayed back unsteadily. “Have a seat, Victor,” she said thickly, “before you fall flat on your face."

  "I am not...” he began, and then he raised a hand to hi
s head. “Good heavens, what's wrong with me?” He did as Mary had instructed and sat heavily in his chair.

  "Poison,” Mary said, very gently taking Chadwick's hand in her own. “They put it in the ale."

  "Poison?"

  "I'm sorry, but it really is for the best. I couldn't let you kill Maximillian or hurt Penelope, and I know you, Victor. You wouldn't be bound by your word.” Her voice was unsteady, the herbs or the moment overcoming her, “I couldn't allow you to hurt them anymore, and I know you would never be satisfied with only me and England. Dalton doesn't love me, and Penelope will never forgive me for everything I've done. I might as well be dead."

  Penelope moved quickly and a little shakily to Mary's side. “What have you done?” she asked tenderly.

  "I tried to fix this mess as best I could."

  Chadwick, who had taken a much larger dose of the drugged ale, allowed his head to drop. His last conscious movement was to wrest his hand from Mary's.

  Fat tears rolled down Penelope's cheeks, and Max was there to comfort her. He placed his arm around her shoulder. “It's a sleeping potion, not poison,” he said quietly. “She'll be all right."

  Penelope heard him and sighed with relief, but Mary was oblivious. “Forgive me. I never did tell you about Heath, and I should have. I should have trusted you with everything, Penelope. You always loved me."

  "Everything's going to be fine,” Penelope said as she brushed a red curl away from Mary's face.

  "Tell Dalton that I'm sorry,” Mary said as she lowered her head to the table. “Tell him I loved him from the moment he ... he helped me up."

  As Mary closed her eyes, Dalton and the Cypress Crossroads contingent burst into the tavern. Dalton's eyes searched the room until he saw Mary, so still, her head on the table, her eyes peacefully closed.

  "Oh, no.” His raised knife dropped to his side as he walked toward Mary. He looked at the tears on Penelope's face, and then at a very still Mary. “I tried to stop her—I really, did, Max. I released her so you wouldn't kill her, but instead of escaping, she ran straight for the tavern door."

  "Dalton...” Max began but his friend wouldn't stop.