Mary Jo Putney

by Sometimes a Rogue

  Having eaten well, most of the guests were content to bask in the sun and chat. The youngest Holt was asleep in his mother’s lap. But as usual, Bree was full of energy. She bounced up from her blanket. “Sarah, would you like to see more of the ruins?”

  Sarah would have preferred to bask in the sunshine, but it was true she hadn’t seen much of the site. “I’d love to. If you’ll excuse me?”

  The others waved her off good-naturedly. As Sarah followed Bree, she said, “I trust you don’t go out onto the headland that’s crumbling away. The other half of the brew house looks ready to fall off at any moment.” She studied the land that thrust out into the sea just in front of the castle, wondering how much farther it had extended when the castle was built.

  Bree looked a little guilty. “I did go out there once, just to see, but only once.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “I’m glad the headland didn’t choose that day to collapse under your feet. Please be careful. Ruins are dangerous.”

  “That’s what Papa told me. He said I should have another person with me when I explore.” Bree grinned mischievously. “That’s why I asked you to join me.”

  Sarah laughed. “Fair enough. I’ve only been here twice and haven’t explored much at all.” They climbed a grassy mound and she shaded her eyes to study the area beyond, which looked more like a village than a castle. “The ruins are really large, aren’t they? I’m surprised that more of the stone wasn’t carried away to build elsewhere.”

  “Mrs. Holt said the village was abandoned after practically everyone was killed by the plague,” Bree explained. “People don’t use the stone because it’s seen as an unlucky place.”

  The path ran near the cliff edge. Sarah looked down to see a boat moored between the headland that supported the broken brew house and a wider headland to the north. The large yawl looked vaguely familiar, but Sarah was no expert on boats despite Rob’s best efforts to educate her. She shaded her eyes with one hand and tried to see more detail. Several men were on the deck, but she was too far away to see much.

  She frowned with a vague sense of unease. “Do boats moor here often?”

  “Sometimes.” Bree studied the yawl. “Usually smaller boats. Fishermen. I’ve not seen that one before.”

  “Is there a path up the cliff along here?”

  Bree nodded. “It comes up the other side of that headland. It’s quite the climb, but safe enough.” Her voice quickened with excitement. “Do you think those are pirates down there? Or smugglers?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t have a good feeling about them. Can we get a closer look? I’d like to see if they’ve climbed the cliff.”

  Eyes sparkling, Bree led Sarah to a sunken lane that ran between old, collapsed buildings. “There’s an old barn that’s usable at the other end of the village. It would be bloody perfect for smugglers!”

  Perhaps, but most smugglers were on the east and south coasts, not on the west coast of Britain. They continued along the lane. At the end stood a broad, shambling stone building. Bree pointed. “There’s the barn.”

  Two men came from the direction of the cliff path carrying a long, heavy box between them. Sarah grabbed Bree’s arm and pulled her into the shelter of a fallen house in case the men looked their way.

  She waited a few moments before peering around the old building that concealed them. No one in sight. She whispered, “Bree, I want to get closer to determine if these men are a danger, but I don’t want you to come with me.”

  Bree looked mulish. “I’m coming, too. I know these ruins better than you!”

  Seeing that her stepdaughter was determined, Sarah said, “Very well. But we must be very quiet and careful. This is not a game.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Bree promised. “If we move behind the houses on the other side of the lane, we’re less likely to be seen.”

  “Lead the way.” Sarah looked out again. No one in sight. As she darted across the lane after Bree, she wished she had the freedom of the trousers she’d worn in Ireland.

  As Bree had said, their new route was better concealed from the barn. The old building had stone walls with empty windows and a crude thatched roof that was fairly recent. Sarah guessed that some of Rob’s tenants used it for storage.

  As they drew near, she heard the sound of voices. Familiar Irish voices. She froze in her tracks, heart pounding, and clutched Bree’s arm to halt her forward progress. Very clearly, they both heard, “Now that we’re here, how long till we go after that damned Runner and his bitch?”

  It was the voice of Flannery, leader of the group that had abducted Sarah. Her stomach knotted with fear.

  “Show some respect,” a woman’s ironic voice replied. She spoke like an educated Englishwoman with only a light Irish accent. “That damned Runner is now Lord Kellington, and I hear the bitch is now his countess.” Her voice turned malicious. “All the more pleasure in killing them before we go after Ashton.”

  Bree stared at Sarah with shock, no longer thinking this a game. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sarah put a hand over it.

  “I’ve never killed a bloody English lord before.” This time the voice was O’Dwyer’s. “I look forward to it.”

  “You’ll wait your turn, boyo,” a gruff Irish voice said. “I have a score to settle with that Runner. Then we can get on with the first Free Eire raid on England. Get people frightened of us.”

  Another voice spoke, this with a strong French accent. “You Irish are so bloodthirsty,” a man said with amusement. “That is what my master and I like about you. Free Eire is a finely crafted weapon to use against our mutual enemy.”

  The woman spoke again. “The Runner will be easier to get than Ashton. That damned duke has guards all around his estate.”

  “Kellington doesn’t,” the gruff voice said. “The locals talk mighty freely in the pubs here. ’Twill be easy to get into the house tonight.” His voice changed. “Then we can wipe out the village. We’ll put the fear of the Irish into these bloody English!”

  “ ’Tis a fine thing to start with people we already know and hate,” the woman said with purring malice in her voice.

  Sarah wanted to throw up. These brutes thought that slaughtering innocent, unarmed villagers would make them brave Irish heroes? They were just cowards who liked to kill so they picked easy targets. And the French were behind it, providing money and guns to sow terror. A perfect devil’s bargain: the Free Eire beasts got to kill, and the French got to cause trouble for England.

  Thumping of feet and a new voice said, “Where should we put these rifles?”

  “In the back room, with the ammunition,” the gruff voice said.

  Heart pounding, Sarah was about to signal Bree for them to move away when she saw a dark, ferret-like man with an air of menace stalking toward the barn along the lane they’d used earlier. Sarah flattened herself to the ground and pulled Bree down with her, praying the man hadn’t seen them listening under the window.

  He might have seen movement because he glanced their way, but by this time Sarah and Bree were hidden by the tall grasses growing around the barn’s foundation.

  He entered and announced, “Sir, you told me to scout the ruins to be sure that no one was around. Turns out there’s a bloody damned picnic at the castle! Three women and half a dozen little girls. Shall we silence ’em? Wouldn’t want to fire a gun and alert the locals, but a little knife work will take care of them.” He gave an ugly laugh. “I can do it all meself if no one wants to join me.”

  Sarah gasped, unable to imagine such viciousness. Then, horribly, she could.

  The man’s suggestion was met with silence, until the Frenchman said queasily, “You know that the empire supports the Irish quest for justice and freedom from English oppression. But do you really want your first strike to be the murder of helpless women and children? Surely that honor should go to more worthy opponents.”

  The gruff voice said, “You make a good point, Claude. But what if they discover that we’ve l
anded here?”

  Claude! He must be the man Sarah had heard mentioned when she was a captive in Ireland. Here was proof of the French involvement that Kirkland suspected.

  “Why not wait to see if we are discovered?” the Frenchman said. “We are some distance from the castle and little girls are not likely to wander this far.”

  The woman snarled, “We can’t let our raid fail because of squeamishness!”

  As an argument started, Sarah whispered to Bree, “Go back to the picnic and get everyone away! Then go to the house for help. Be sure to say there are a number of armed men. The militia might have to be called.” She prayed that there was a local militia, and it could be summoned quickly.

  Bree frowned. “Aren’t you coming too, Sarah?”

  “I want to listen a little longer. If they decide to come after us, perhaps . . . perhaps I can do something to slow them down.” Seeing Bree start to reply, she said sharply, “Don’t argue! I’ll be careful.”

  Bree bit her lip fearfully but nodded and slipped away. Sarah lay in the grass listening to the argument and wondering how her life had become so dangerous.

  The woman in the barn walked outside, still arguing what to do with the picnickers. The Irish rebel was middle aged, attractive—and Sarah recognized her. It was Georgiana Lawford, whom Adam had called Aunt Georgiana when he was young.

  Just last year, the widowed Georgiana had tried to have Adam murdered so that her own son, Hal, could inherit the dukedom. She’d almost succeeded, too. More than once. When her vicious plotting had been revealed, Ashton had exiled her to her Irish childhood home, Ballinagh, instead of turning her over to the authorities, which would have created a humiliating scandal for the whole Lawford family.

  As far as Sarah knew, there’d been no word from Georgiana since her return to Ireland. It looked like she’d found a rebel group to become an instrument of her revenge. This explained everything, including the attempted kidnapping of Mariah, who had been carrying Adam’s child. By thwarting that, Sarah and Rob had become targets as well.

  Georgiana’s companions had also emerged from the barn into the sunshine. The oldest man put a possessive arm around her shoulders in a way that said they were lovers.

  Coldly furious, Sarah considered what to do. Dear God, what if Rob was even now approaching the castle ruins for his daughter’s party? Even if he was armed, he’d be no match for the number of armed men in Georgiana’s party.

  She frowned as she considered the possibilities. Barns usually had doors on both sides. If the weapons were in a back room and not guarded . . .

  She worked her way around the barn on her stomach until she was out of sight of the people in front of the building. Then she stood and hastened to the back. Yes, there was a set of double doors on this end.

  She considered cracking open a door to look inside, but old barn doors always squeaked, which would alert anyone inside. The window was too high for her to look in, but the old stonework provided plenty of footholds for climbing high enough to look inside. A good thing Sarah had been a tree-climbing tomboy.

  Praying to go unseen, she peered through the corner of the empty window and saw no one. Cautiously she lifted her head higher, then sighed with relief to see that no one was inside. The room contained a few bundles of musty old straw from the year before, rusty tools leaning in a corner—and two long wooden boxes that looked as if they might contain rifles. Beside them were squarer boxes. Powder? Shot?

  Palms damp with perspiration, she eased herself up through the window and made the short drop to the floor. Silently she moved to the boxes. French words were stenciled on each. She opened the first and found a dozen shiny new rifles packed inside.

  She lifted one out and examined it. This was a much sleeker and more deadly weapon than she’d used when she learned to shoot on her uncle’s estate, but the principles were the same. She could handle it.

  As expected, the other boxes held powder and balls. She wished she could take them away so the cursed invaders would have no ammunition, but they were too heavy. From habit she’d brought her reticule, so she emptied it of comb and handkerchief. Then she scooped a large handful of powder into the bottom and piled as many balls on top as she could fit into the little pouch.

  Would she have the courage to ignite the powder if she’d been carrying a tinderbox in her reticule instead of a handkerchief? She’d be blown to kingdom come, but so would the barbarians of Free Eire. She was glad she didn’t have the tinderbox so she didn’t have to make such a decision. She loved her new life too much to want to lose it.

  Should she load this rifle now, or run and load it when she was away? The instinct to flight was strong, so she took off for the back door, carrying the rifle in both hands. She was almost to there when the door to the front room opened and in stepped O’Dwyer, the vilest of her captors.

  His expression blazed with vicious delight when he saw her. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the prissy little fake duchess!” He set down the box he carried and closed the door behind him. “I’ll have a wee bit of fun with you before I call the others for their turn.”

  She backed slowly away from him toward the door, wishing she’d taken the time to load the rifle. But she’d wanted so much to get away!

  “So what’s the little girl going to do with her great big gun?” he jeered. “Even if you knew how to load it, it’s damned hard to point a gun at a man and shoot, at least the first time. All you’re good for is one thing, and I’m going to bloody well take that.”

  As he closed the distance between them, she made swift calculations. She could try to club him with the unloaded rifle, but it was so heavy that she wouldn’t be able to move it quickly enough for a solid hit. He’d just take it away from her.

  So let him.

  “Aren’t you going to scream, little girl?” he said nastily. “I’d like it if you screamed, ’cept it would bring the others before I’m done.”

  He made a grab for her and she swung the rifle hard at his head. But not so hard as to unbalance herself.

  Laughing, he plucked the weapon out of the air with one hand. Sarah let him have it while she continued moving, spinning to her right. Half a dozen old tools were stacked in the corner and she grabbed the closest.

  A rusty pitchfork. Terrified by O’Dwyer’s ugly laughter, she stabbed the pitchfork at him with every iota of speed and strength she possessed.

  Unprepared for her second attack, he cursed and tried to raise the rifle to block the blow, but it was too heavy and he was too slow. The rusty tines of the pitchfork tore into his neck. Eyes wide with shock, O’Dwyer staggered and fell onto his back, gouts of blood gushing from his wounds as his cry was strangled in his ruined throat.

  Fighting off hysterics, Sarah held the pitchfork ready, but O’Dwyer didn’t get up again. He moved once with a choked sound. Then . . . nothing. His eyes dulled and the blood slowed to a sluggish trickle. He wasn’t breathing.

  Sarah stared at him, shaking violently. I’ve killed a man!

  This time she did throw up, folding to the ground and losing her delicate tea sandwiches and pastries into the musty straw. Pull yourself together, Sarah! Go!

  Grimly she lurched to her feet and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she grabbed the rifle and bolted from the barn.

  The outside air cleared her head a little. O’Dwyer was right, striking another person with intent to injure was hard, but if someone had to die in that barn, she was glad it wasn’t her. She headed back to the castle ruins, wishing she’d worn stronger shoes.

  She was at the far end of the village when she heard furious shouts behind. They’d found O’Dwyer’s body.

  She kicked off her slippers and began to run.

  Chapter 43

  Bree was gasping for breath when she reached the picnic area. The peacefulness of dozing children and adults seemed unreal. She stumbled over to the three adult women, her great-grandmother and the two vicar’s wives.

  Mrs. Broome saw her
first. “Bree, is something wrong? Where is Sarah?”

  “The kidnappers who took Sarah from Ralston Abbey are back!” Bree gulped for air before she could continue. “Irish rebels. They want to kill everyone in the village as a way of frightening the English. Mostly they want to kill Sarah and my father for causing them trouble before. Sarah sent me back to get everyone to safety.”

  The women stared at her. Mrs. Holt hugged her baby, Stephen, closer. “Surely you’re joking! This . . . this isn’t a good joke, Bree!”

  “It’s no joke,” the dowager said grimly. “She’s dead serious. Where is Sarah?”

  Bree was better able to breathe now. “She wanted to listen to hear more of their plans, and maybe find a way to slow them down.”

  “What could she possibly do?” Mrs. Broome said, aghast. “How many men are in the group?”

  “I don’t know. We heard half a dozen or so.” Bree shrugged helplessly. “We saw their boat down in the cove. It wasn’t huge, but there could be half a dozen more men on board.” Above the constant sound of the surf crashing below the cliffs, she heard shouting from the direction of the raiders. “Bloody hell, the buggers are coming for us!”

  “If they are, we’ll never get to safety before they reach us,” Mrs. Broome said, her voice calm but her eyes terrified as she looked at her daughter and the other children, who were now awake and staring.

  “The tunnel.” Bree ran her tongue over her dry lips. “There’s a tunnel back in the ruins that runs toward the house. I’ve been through it often and it’s muddy but clear. Once we’re inside it, they won’t find us.” She bit her lip as she stared at the dowager. “It won’t be an easy trip, though.”

  “I know that tunnel from my younger days,” the dowager said, eyes narrowed. “I can make my way through, but I’d best go last so as not to slow anyone else down.” She stood. “Come on, children. We’re going to have an adventure.”