by Eve Silver
Both of Gaby’s companions were shaking their heads now, and the larger man stuffed his pistol in the waistband of his breeches, holding his hands palms forward in front of him.
“lf’n you’d told me who we was going against, I never would have come, Gaby. I’m an idiot, right an’ true, but you’re a bigger fool that don’t deserve to live if you think he’ll let this pass. His Lordship keeps what’s his.” He glanced at his companion. “Jacko an’ me want no part of this, Gaby. We’ll be on our way, an’ if you have any smarts at all, you’ll leave her here in the road and be away yourself, an’ on the next ship bound for the colonies. Else he’ll find you, Gaby, and kill you sure.”
With that, he turned and lumbered along the road, his companion following close at his heels. Both men caught the reins of their mounts as they passed, and swung up. In an instant, they were cantering back the way they had come.
Jane gasped as Gaby twisted her arm and doubled it behind her back, his fingers a solid vise about her wrist.
“Go ahead and scream,” he whispered against her ear. “There’s no one to hear you.”
Terror swathed her like a shroud, and she stood, trembling, refusing to cry out. At her silence, he grunted his disapproval and gave her arm a sharp yank until she thought it would surely wrench from her shoulder.
“Why?” She gasped against the pain. “Why do you do this?”
“Why?” he snarled. “Because me an’ Davey go all the way back to when we was in nappies. He was like a brother to me... a brother... an’ you, you made me kill him.”
“What? I never—”
“Shut your yammering maw! You set a fire in his blood and he had to have you. Had to stay there at the New Inn. Had to wait for the night, for your light to go dark. He was going to steal you away from His Lordship. Talked about giving you pretty lace an’ a trinket or two.” Gaby grabbed the flesh of her arm and twisted cruelly. “Me, I see nothing to go after. Scrawny, crippled bitch, and I told him so. But no, he was bound and determined.”
The clouds had moved off, leaving the moon full and bright. From the corner of her eye, Jane saw a large shadowy bulk next to the ditch twitch ever so slightly.
Hawker. He was not dead.
A flicker of hope unfurled.
“Bound and determined to do what?” she asked to keep his attention as she shuffled an awkward circle in the hopes that Gaby would follow, thus removing Hawker from his line of sight.
He turned her in his grasp so their faces were close, and she could smell the stink of rotting teeth and unwashed flesh.
“Bound and determined to swive you, you stupid bitch!” He let out a low hiss. “I never meant him to die. We argued, we did... just brought out my knife to make my point, thought we’d leave the New Inn once he came round to my way of thinking. But then you came to the window and he lurched back to get a better look, and... he fell on my knife and was done for.” He was silent for a minute, breathing hard.
Jane fought to maintain her composure, though her desperation was a thick and choking fog.
“You killed him same as if you held the knife,” Gaby said, menace heavy in his tone. “And so I’ll kill you.”
Jane flicked a glance at Hawker. He was sitting now, his gaze sharp, pistol lifting as he took aim at Gaby’s back. They would have only one chance—
Suddenly, Gaby spun about, and Jane found herself between him and Hawker’s weapon. She felt the tensing of her captor’s body as he recognized the situation. A flood of misery turned her blood to ice.
Hawker could not save her.
Jane shoved against Gaby just as he fired, his gun belching smoke and flame. Her effort to alter his aim failed. To her horror, the pistol dropped from Hawker’s hand, and he clapped the other hand to his upper arm.
Gaby’s grip slackened, and then tightened, and in that instant she realized that Hawker had fired as well. With all her strength, she twisted, lifting her damaged knee. The impact shook her as her limb connected somewhere on Gaby’s body.
His breath left him on a groan. His grip on her wrist slackened.
Forcing her mind to focus only on her task, Jane wrenched her hand free and snatched his second gun from the waistband of his breeches as she moved. Pain ricocheted through her as she planted her foot on the ground. She cried out and her ruined leg gave way, making her stumble. She staggered back, frantically clinging to balance, willing herself not to fall. Leveling the barrel at him, she gulped air and fought the nausea that threatened to overcome her.
There was blood on his face. Hawker’s ball had grazed the side of his skull.
“Well now, girlie,” he said, backing away slowly. “Don’t be hasty now.”
Jane followed his movements, never letting him out of her sight. She was dimly aware of thunder rolling in the distance, growing closer. He continued to move away, toward Hawker, who scrambled awkwardly along the ground with hand outstretched.
Hawker’s fallen pistol. Dear heaven.
With unexpected speed and agility, Gaby dropped and rolled, a second faster than Hawker. Jane’s heart clutched as he came up with the fallen pistol in his hand.
Hawker lurched to his feet, swaying unsteadily, before he stumbled toward Gaby.
“Stay where you are.” Gaby’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “Stay where you are or I shoot her now. You hear me? I shoot her now.”
Take all the time you need, Janie. You have all the time in the world. Her cousin Dolly’s voice echoed in her mind.
She thought her whole body shook with fear, yet the pistol was steady before her, held in a grip she had practiced so many times under the watchful eye of her cousin and, on occasion, her father. Something changed in Gaby’s expression, a tension around his mouth, his eyes, and Jane knew her time had run out.
It seemed that the seconds spun an endless skein as the clouds moved from the face of the moon, and she imagined his finger tightening on the trigger. Instinctively, she tightened her own.
The thunder grew louder, pounding in Jane’s ears, mingling with the frantic thumping of her heart.
All the time in the world.
Jane aimed high on his right shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The recoil knocked her back, and she stumbled on her weak leg, collapsing to the ground. With a shuddering breath, she tossed away the now empty pistol, hands shaking, stomach heaving. Gaby lay on the ground, unmoving.
She had a shot a man. Shot him. Had she killed him? The possibility made her skin crawl. She had aimed only to wound him.
Her gaze flew to Hawker and she scrambled to her feet, only to find herself caught about the waist and pulled against a tall, honed form. She knew even before she turned, not thunder, but the pounding of hooves on the gravel road. Aidan Warrick had returned.
“My God, Jane!” There was urgency in his tone as he ran his hands over her shoulders and arms, then held her at arm’s length, his gaze roaming her body. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, her gaze straying to Gaby’s motionless form. A trembling overcame her and she shook uncontrollably, barely able to remain standing as the horror of the past moments overtook her.
“D-d-d-did I kill him?” she stammered, her hands clutching Aidan’s forearms for support as she swayed dizzily. “I aimed only to wound him. To save Hawker and myself.”
Aidan’s gaze locked with hers, cold and hard and flat. Merciless. Here was a man who was capable of anything.
“You aimed to wound, sweet Jane. But he still had a loaded pistol. Even wounded he could have shot you, put a ball through your innocent, brave heart.”
“So... I killed him?” The possibility made her sick.
Aidan’s mouth tightened, and he pulled her against his chest, his strong arms wrapping her in safety. She felt his lips move against her hair. “You aimed to wound, and your aim was true,” came his rough whisper. “But I aimed to kill.”
Chapter 9
Aidan doffed his greatcoat and wrapped it around Jane’s trembling form. He withdrew a
t once, not touching her more than he must, and she felt a sweeping regret that he offered no succor. Her wish that he pull her close, embrace her and comfort her no doubt would surprise him as much as it did her.
As she stood, swaying slightly, she could sense his fury, a cold and vast rage, held under such rigid control. She wondered that he did not crack apart like the surface of a frozen lake, leaving broken shards to float atop the deep and fathomless cold. The events of the night had put the darkest of moods on him, and the way he looked at her made his thoughts abundantly clear: it was the danger to her person that ate at him. He had killed Gaby to protect her. Those facts should make her cringe with horror. She was more than a little terrified to find that they did not, to find instead that they made her feel safe.
All her life she had spun fantasy and built imaginary walls in an effort to feel safe. And here, on this desolate stretch of road, with the scent of blood carrying on the wind and the stink of gunpowder staining her clothes, she finally found security. Because she had managed to defend herself.
And because, again, Aidan Warrick had not let the nightmare take her.
She felt many things. Relief that she had not killed a man. Immense gratitude that Aidan had come when he did. And wariness. His words, and his tone, played over and over in her thoughts.
But I aimed to kill.
Slipping her hand into her pocket, Jane closed her fingers around the hard shape of the button from Aidan’s waistcoat. A talisman, of sorts.
She realized that Gaby’s words had only confirmed what she had suspected in her heart: Aidan had not killed Davey. Still, she could find no doubt that there were others he had killed. Men. Perhaps women.
A shudder took her and she wrapped her arms tight about her waist, thinking of Ginny, pulled from the ocean, and of Digory Tubb’s vicious implications that Aidan had ordered her murder. Why would she think of that now?
“Wait in the coach, Jane.” The words were bitten out with sharp precision. “I will deal with Hawker.”
Her gaze snapped to Hawker, who stood unsteady, his face a stark white oval. He had shucked his coat—Jane took it as a good sign that he had strength enough to do that—and his fingers pressed against his arm. His blood glistened in the moonlight.
She wondered at Aidan’s harsh tone. He had said that Hawker would keep her safe but, in the end, that had proven untrue. And when Hawker had left her once before, the first night at the New Inn, he had mentioned Aidan’s displeasure.
Though she had borne little enough of his cruelty, she suspected Aidan was capable of such. Could he harm this boy in a cold fury for failing to meet his exacting standard? The thought frightened her.
“Let me stay with you,” she said, catching at Aidan’s arm to substantiate her plea.
His gaze met hers, his features a cold, cold mask, but his eyes blazing. For an alarming moment, she thought he would decline, and then he nodded and carefully pulled his arm from her grasp, as though that small contact was beyond his ability to tolerate.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, dropping her hands. She shifted the bulky weight of his greatcoat across her shoulders, masking the trembling of her hands. Her heart twisted at his rebuff but she held his gaze. Her pride demanded it. His icy facade cracked. Something flared in his eyes, something dark and primitive, a raw emotion that made her breath catch and her pulse race.
He made a sound, low in his throat, almost a groan. “I keep my civility by the thinnest thread, Jane. Touch me again, and you free the beast.”
Uncertain of his meaning, she studied him, her pulse hammering. Slowly, his meaning dawned: he spoke of feral nature and primitive instinct. Base need.
Dragging out the tail of his linen shirt, Aidan looked away, toward Hawker who stood clutching his hand to his bloody shoulder. As he strode to Hawker’s side, he tore a strip of cloth from his hem and folded it into a thick square. Jane followed behind.
“I’m sorry.” Hawker swallowed. “I’m a sorry excuse for a guard.” He ducked his head, yet his posture did not bespeak fear. In that instant Jane realized he was not afraid of reprimand or reprisal. He was ashamed. “I’m a sore disappointment again. To you, sir. To myself,” Hawker whispered.
Jaw tight, Aidan stepped closer and examined the wound. “You’ll live,” he said, and then he pressed the square of linen to the gash. The breath left Hawker on a pained hiss. “The ball went through the flesh, but not the bone. You’ll be keeping all your limbs.” Aidan turned to Jane and said, “Press this here.”
Stepping forward to lay her hands against the square of cloth, she saw the deep runnel gouged in Hawker’s flesh.
“Fault and blame matter not,” she said softly, struggling to keep her tone steady. “We are alive, and that is both a gift and a blessing.”
Aidan made a low sound, and she thought perhaps he would refute her statement. Instead, he tore a second strip from his shirt and tied it tightly around Hawker’s to hold the pad of cloth in place. Jane let her hands fall away.
“Can you handle the reins?” Aidan asked him.
Opening her mouth to protest, Jane choked back the words as Hawker stood a little straighter, ready to meet his employer’s request, somehow redeemed in his own self worth. Men. She closed her mouth and watched him shuffle carefully toward the coach.
Her gaze skidded along the road to the body, and she quickly looked back toward Hawker. “What will you do with him?’” she asked.
“Do?” Aidan shrugged, vibrating tension as he watched Hawker bend with slow care to lift the dragging reins from the ground. “I’ll tie him to the back of the coach.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, horrified by the thought that he meant to punish Hawker by tying him to the back of the coach and dragging—
No, she realized she had misunderstood him at the same second Aidan said, “Christ, Jane. You do think me a monster.” Her gaze shot to his and she saw... what? Bruised feelings? “I’ll tie the body to the back of the coach and see him buried when we reach Pentreath.” His lips thinned. “Go on.” He gently nudged her in the direction of the carriage door. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
“What will you do to Hawker?” she persisted.
A stillness crept over him, fearsome and remote. “What would you have me do? Maim him? Whip him?” he rasped. “For a fault not his own? I failed to foresee this circumstance. I bear the burden of guilt. Perhaps I should hand you the whip to take to my flesh for leaving you in such danger.”
Flayed by his words, Jane jerked back and shook her head, wishing she had not pressed him, wishing she had been quicker to comprehend. Suddenly, she understood the target of his fury. It was not aimed at Hawker, but at himself. Still, she was shocked by the vehemence, the strength of his assertion.
“Your self castigation is misplaced,” she said firmly. “Gaby chose to pursue some twisted vengeance. Surely you see you are not responsible for his actions. Surely—”
He stepped close, looming over her, eyes narrowed. “You are mine, Jane. Mine to keep safe. I’ll not live with the knowledge that all I’ve done to spare you—” He clenched his jaw.
“Spare me?” she blurted in confusion. “What do you mean?”
He looked away, staring up the gray ribbon of road. “Go to the carriage now.”
A bitter wind swirled, biting deep, and Jane realized that while she was warm with Aidan’s greatcoat wrapped about her, he stood in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Thinking how cold he must be, she reached up and tugged on the collar, but as she began to slide the padded coat from her shoulders, he caught her wrist.
“Keep it,” he said. “I want you warm.”
His tone invited no discussion. She studied him, the sculpted planes of his face, taut now with tension, the line of his mouth drawn rigid. Finally, with a small sigh, she turned and made her way to the coach. Hawker opened the door for her and she climbed inside. After a moment, the carriage creaked and dipped as Hawker clambered to the driver’s bench.
Jane sat rigid, her
fingers twined tightly together. She heard a grunt and then a thud, accompanied by the groan of springs and rods. She shuddered, unable to chase off the image of Aidan heaving the dead man onto the back of the coach and tying him in place.
Joining her moments later in the small, dark space, Aidan lowered his tall frame onto the opposite seat. His expression was unreadable as they lurched into motion. Moonlight came through the window, and she watched as he peeled off his black leather gloves. The sight of them chilled her; he must have put them on to handle the body.
“Are you well?” he asked, his eyes glittering.
“Yes.” The word was little more than a whisper, her answer true enough. She was neither physically harmed nor dead, which meant she was not unwell. If her heart yet pounded a little too hard, and her stomach tightened and heaved with nerves, she was still far better off than she might have been.
“You are distressed.”
“Distressed is vastly superior to dead.”
Aidan leaned forward, eyes downcast, lashes forming crescent shadows on his cheeks. Jane held her breath as he reached into the pocket of his greatcoat, which was still wrapped about her, and drew forth a small, round tin. With precise movements he pried off the lid and held the tin out to Jane. She stared at it in confusion. The smell of peppermint tickled her nose.
“When I was”—he clenched his jaw, his lips drawn down at the corners—“When I was a child, my mother kept a tin of sweets. Lemon, usually. Peppermint was a special treat. She always gave me one when I skinned a knee or came up bruised. She said candy was good for small hurts, that if I had something sweet, I would not be sour.”
Jane stared at him in the moonlight, feeling as though sharing this small story had cost him some secret forfeit, as though it had pained him to say those words. Carefully, she took a peppermint and popped it in her mouth, grateful for the strange sort of comfort he offered.
She wondered that he shared this bit of himself with her, and wondered, too, what he had looked like as a boy. Goldenhaired and gray-eyed. She tried to picture him laughing and running and chasing after a ball, and was saddened to realize she could not see him so, could not imagine him young and carefree.