Craig began shouting. “What did you do? Why?” He moved toward Jensen, slumped over in his seat on the box.
The stranger closest to him whipped his arm forward, and Craig clutched his throat. Blood spurted from his neck where the knife was buried. Craig reeled toward Madame Odette. She stepped back in distaste, and he fell to the ground, his hand stretched out to her.
Elin doubled over with the pain of loss. Death had stuck again. Death was all around her.
The murders had happened in the blink of an eye. Minutes ago, these men, who had been part of the Heartwood’s staff since she could remember, had been alive. Now, the only one left standing was Madame Odette, who did not appear frightened at all.
Instead, as the strangers began reloading their pistols, she took the men to task, her voice shrill and carrying, the French accent gone.
“Why did you do that without waiting for a signal from me? We were to meet farther up the road.”
“We tired of waiting.” The killer had a gravelly voice, a distinct one.
Madame sliced the air angrily with her hand. “More fool you. The girl is not here. If you had waited until I signaled you, then we’d have her.”
Now she had his attention. “Where is she?”
“She’s out there.” She pointed in the direction that Elin had left. “If she heard the shots, even clumsy as she is, she’s probably running to London by now.”
He growled an oath. “Peters, Tucker, go after her.”
“Bring her here?” one of them asked
“No, kill her,” the leader ordered. “That is what were are being paid to do. And make it quick. I want to ride back to London within the hour. There’s an extra bit to the one of you who bags her.”
His men set their heels to their horses and rode noisily into the forest. Elin’s heart pounded in her throat. They had come for her. They were hunting her. She tried not to panic.
“An extra bit?” Madame questioned, disdain dripping from her words. “You were paid to do a job a certain way. There will be nothing in it for any of you if this does not look like a robbery. And don’t think he is not going to hear about this. You fools have made it more difficult than what it needed to be. He should cut whatever he is paying you in half—”
A shot brought her scolding to a halt.
Elin craned her neck around the trees, trying to see what had happened. Madame took a step, and Elin saw the pistol the leader held leveled on the dressmaker.
Elin grabbed the silly velvet hat from her head and stuffed it in her mouth to keep from screaming.
Madame’s body stiffened as if in surprise. “No.” She shook her head. “This was not to be.”
“It was. He just didn’t tell you.” The leader turned his horse to follow the others as Madame Odette sank to her knees.
“You, fool—” she spit out with her last energy, sinking to her knees, before slowly falling to the ground beside Craig.
Elin’s heart was in danger of bursting in fear.
She couldn’t breathe, let alone speak, and that might have been a saving grace. She curled into a ball as if she could disappear. She started to shake but stopped herself. There wasn’t time to indulge herself. Think. She had to think what to do. She dared to peek once more at the road to see what was happening.
The leader was scanning the area as if divining her presence, yet he was unable to spot her. He frowned at the bodies, then directed his horse into the woods to join the search.
They would find her. This was a dense forest, but they were mounted and could move faster than she did.
Elin must escape. She had to tell the world what had happened here. She needed her father to know. It wasn’t just that someone wanted her dead—they had murdered people she cared about.
She was also too frightened to move—then she thought of Ben.
She had completely pushed him out of her mind, or so she had thought. Last week, in the middle of the turmoil of trying on dresses, she had taken down the journal where she’d pressed the rose he’d sent. It was no longer white but brown and gray. The scent still lingered and reminded her of her mother.
Elin had closed the book and shoved it back onto the shelf. Even after all this time, Ben could disturb her composure.
But now in the forest, she remembered him in a different way. She recalled the games they had played as children, including one where she would hide and Ben look for her. She’d been good at outwitting him, and if she could outsmart Ben, then those murderers pretending to be highwaymen should be simple to fool.
Armed with new courage, Elin considered her options. She could steal a horse. James and Toby’s horses stayed close to the coach horses, but the animals had started to realize the humans would not bother them. They wandered to the side of the road where they could graze.
But then she reconsidered. The horse she chose could make a sound that would alert her hunters to where she was. She was an excellent rider, but she didn’t believe she could outrace three desperate men.
No, her best chance was on foot. It would also help if she crossed the road. They wouldn’t expect her to be over there.
Determination replaced fear. Elin was not ready to die. Not this way. She even managed to whisper, “Thank you, Ben.” Those childhood games might keep her alive.
Elin lifted the hem of her cloak and skirts and scurried across the road as fast as she could, praying that she escaped notice. She plunged into the forest on the other side and flattened herself on the ground as she used to do as a girl.
No shout went up.
If she listened, she could hear the horses thrashing through the woods. She found it hard to tell, but she believed the riders sounded as if they were going in the other direction, and so she took off running away from them.
The silly velvet cap with its fashionable pheasant feather went flying from her head. It landed someplace on the forest floor on top of years, maybe decades worth of pine needles and leaves. She didn’t stop to pick it up.
Elin didn’t think about where she ran. She just moved. She clutched her cloak with one hand and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. Thorny hawthorns and needle-tipped hollies caught on her clothing. She yanked and traveled on.
Sometimes, she thought she heard voices. She could sense their presence in the woods around her, yet no shot rang out. No one called a warning. She began to imagine she was alone in the world, and as daytime passed, it grew dark under the tall pines and oaks with bare branches stretching to the sky.
Her pace slowed. She was hungry and thirsty. She had no money and only the clothes she wore. She tried not to think about who the “he” who had paid for her murder was.
She had to reason things out. She must be clever. The coach had been traveling into Northamptonshire. They were supposed to have stayed the night in a place called Corby. Jensen had known the innkeeper.
Elin eyed the moss on the trees and thought she was moving west.
Night fell. Doubt about the direction she was traveling contributed to the fears she’d been doggedly trying to ignore.
Every sound made her jump. The dreary day had become a dreary night. There was no moon.
Her feet ached, and she stumbled over hidden roots. The forest was now more frightening than the men searching for her.
Every myth she’d ever heard, every story, every tale echoed in her mind. She knew wolves no longer roamed the land, but that didn’t stop her from thinking about them—and then she saw a light through the trees.
She moved toward it and discovered herself approaching what looked to be a tavern. The light from the windows appeared welcoming . . . until she walked closer and realized how dirty those windows were.
Several horses were tied together in a lean-to at the side of the building. Muffled male laughter could be heard from inside. Hearty laughter, the sound of bold men.
“Please, God,” Elin whispered. She needed help, but she was one to always err on the side of caution. Stealing a horse might crea
te more problems than the men hunting her.
So, she approached a window and peered inside.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust but what she noticed immediately confirmed her first impression—this was not the sort of place for a lady. There were no chairs but benches around rough tables. The floor looked like the windows, as if it had never been cleaned.
A group of four men were gathered around one end of a table. Their concentration was on the dice being tossed. The roll was not to the liking of most of them. They shouted their feelings and slammed the table while the winner laughingly raked their money toward the pile in front of him.
Something about the winner with his unshaven jaw and his long hair tied back in a messy queue appeared familiar to Elin; however, it was the scent of cooking food that claimed her attention.
A man with a rag around his portly waist was ladling out a bowl of stew by the hearth. He carried the bowl to the bar and began to eat his supper. Elin had no money and nothing to sell save for the cloak she wore. The innkeeper might advance her credit based upon her father’s name. Mayhap they had heard of Fyclan Morris in these parts, or the Duke of Baynton—
Elin’s jaw dropped.
She did know the man winning at dice.
Startled by the recognition, Elin forgot her hunger and leaned closer to the window, the better to see him, and realized she made no mistake. Ben Whitridge sat at the table.
Or were her eyes and mind playing tricks on her?
She blinked.
Yes, that was Ben. She was certain although he didn’t look any better than the rest inside the tavern, and they were a disreputable lot—
A deep, male voice spoke behind her. “Little Miss, Little Miss, what have we here? Are you spying on the lads?”
Elin could have jumped out of her skin. The man stood so close she could feel his hot breath. She whirled, expecting to see pistols aimed for her heart.
Instead, the wan light on the window behind her fell on a huge bulbous nose, a grizzled jaw, and a mouth lacking a few teeth. He leered. “You are a sweet one. Come on in, lass, and join Big Roger—”
With a shout, Elin stuck that man in his big nose and did the only sensible thing she could think of in that moment. She ran for Ben.
It had been quite awhile since the dice had rolled in Ben’s favor. Tonight, it was almost as if he couldn’t lose, and that was a heady feeling, especially among this lot.
His mates around the table were grim and grimy. They were adventurers and former soldiers with perhaps unsavory pasts, and Ben adored them.
There was Hooknosed John, Big Roger—he thought that name particularly clever—and Nate. “Just Nate,” the man with a patch over his eye had growled at Ben when he’d wondered if he didn’t have a more colorful name.
I’m Whit, Ben had told them, taking his cue from “Just Nate,” and no one had asked for more. Every man served himself; every man kept to himself.
He had fallen into step with them while attending a fight in Sheffield. He’d been at loose ends for some time, and these mates appealed to him. They did odd jobs here and there, honest ones, to replenish the coin they lost to gaming. Hooknosed said they’d had enough of being afraid for their necks, but that could change. One never knew what to expect on the road ahead.
Ben had no doubt that each of his new companions had done unsavory things. He wasn’t the only man in the room with a knife in his boot, but he wasn’t uncomfortable with them. He’d rubbed shoulders with rough characters during his military days and preferred them to the entitled arrogance of his brother and his sort.
At least with these gents, Ben felt useful. He liked using his muscles and being so tired at the end of the day that he could think of nothing but sleep. The hot anger that had trailed after him since that night he’d severed ties with his brother had begun to fade, and he was finding a measure of peace.
Nor was it bad living hand to mouth. He had no responsibilities and answered to no one but himself.
And he rarely thought of Elin Morris.
He’d finally managed, once again, to tuck her away into a distant memory, a youthful foolishness. He no longer brooded over her as he’d last seen her. She’d been walking by his brother’s side as she’d followed her mother’s casket, so lost in grief she was oblivious to Ben’s existence. It had been Gavin’s hand she’d gripped for comfort.
Love was for poets, not men of the world like Ben. He didn’t have a need for her or any other bit of muslin.
Oh, the ladies always fawned over Ben . . . but after a time, he grew tired of substituting what he didn’t want for what he wanted.
Pulling the pile of coins on the table over to join his other winnings, Ben called to the innkeeper, separating a small stack of coins from the others, “Osprey, we are all in need for another round of your good ale.” That offer brought grins to the faces of his brothers of the spirit.
“Aye, the good ale,” Nate instructed, “and not the piss water you’ve been serving us.”
A heavyset man with a smattering of hair on his pate, Osprey left the bowl of stew he’d been eating and slid the coins from the table right into his pocket. “You’ll take what I give you. Are you including them?” With a nod, he gestured to the local lads sharing a corner of the bar. One was tall and beefy, the other his exact opposite.
“Include them,” Ben said, feeling generous.
“Thanks,” the short man said.
“Speaking of piss,” Hooknosed said with a grin, “if Roger doesn’t come back, I’ll be drinking his share of your largesse. I swear that man goes like horse—”
The tavern door flew open in a blast of chilled air that made the flames in the hearth dance. Ben looked up, expecting to see Big Roger lumber in through the door.
Instead, a young woman, her dark hair curly and wild, her dark blue cloak flying behind her, stood framed in the doorway for barely a second before she launched herself into his arms, practically flying into the room.
“Ben,” she said in a voice that had haunted his dreams. “Help me. You must help me.” Elin Morris then threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking him from his seat on the end of the bench, and burst into tears.
For a second, Ben couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Had he conjured her? Or was he going mad and imagining her? Except she felt solid and real, and she smelled of flowers and the night air and a sweetness he had always identified with her.
His arms closed protectively. She filled them well. She wore a heavy wool cloak, but he noticed she felt light as if she hadn’t been eating, as if she’d lost at least a stone.
Elin had always had a healthy appetite for all things in life—food, adventure, whatever. Her weight loss, her crying, this was not characteristic of her. Elin was made of sterner stuff.
And where was her retinue? She couldn’t be alone. Neither Gavin nor her father would allow her to be traipsing around this lonely stretch of countryside alone. She was the Morris heiress, her father’s sole heir. One carefully guarded any daughter, but when she was an heiress, a wise father was doubly careful.
Standing at the opposite end of the table, Big Roger roared his disapproval. “Here now, I saw her first. Caught her peeping in the window.”
Peeping? Elin?
Her response was to tighten her hold around Ben’s neck. “I’m sorry, mate, she chose me, ” he answered. “And have you no manners, shut the door.”
Big Roger kicked the door shut. “The only reason she is holding on to you is because she hasn’t seen me in the light.”
That response set everyone laughing, including the lads at the bar. The impossibility of any woman’s choosing the luggish Big Roger over Ben was a good joke between them, one that had good-naturedly whiled away many an hour. Besides, Big Roger had a wife and six children he kept in Sussex.
At the sound of their laughter, Elin seemed to return to herself. She looked around, her nose adorably red from weeping. Her hold on Ben didn’t loosen, but she asked, “Who are these
men?”
“Friends,” he answered almost defiantly. He knew what his brother would think of his companions.
How would the future duchess of Baynton react?
The future duchess? Hell, she might even already be the duchess. It had been weeks since Ben had heard any word from London. He had no idea what was happening in his family, and he liked it that way.
But Elin gave no opinion whatsoever on his friends. She didn’t join the banter or dismiss them with a sniff.
Instead, her large eyes dark with fear, she said, “Someone wants me dead, Ben. Someone is trying to murder me.”
Chapter Six
Ben set Elin on her feet, not believing he’d heard her correctly. “Someone is trying to kill you?”
For a second, she was in danger of blubbering again. Instead, she pulled herself together. She pushed away from him and he let her go.
Pressing the back of her hand against her mouth, she regained her composure. “It was terrible. They shot Craig and Jensen and the outriders—”
“Jensen, your coachman?” Ben had grown up with Old Jensen teasing him.
Her answer was a short nod. “They even shot Madame Odette, and she was talking to them as if she was one of them.” Elin drew a shaky breath as if she was afraid she would come undone once more.
“Have her sit here,” Hooknose said, giving up his spot next to Ben at the table.
“Yes, yes, Miss Morris, sit,” Ben said, a bit annoyed with himself that he hadn’t had her take a seat already. However, her story was incredible, and he hadn’t minded having her in his lap.
Gratefully, she practically fell onto the bench.
“Have you eaten?” Ben asked.
“I’m starved. At the same time, I don’t know if I could eat a bite.”
“Let’s try.” Ben looked to Osprey. “Do you have brandy or even something stronger? And a plate of that stew you have been dishing out?”
“Aye, I do.” The innkeeper walked over with a jug that could have had anything in it. Or anyone drinking from it. The Oak did not serve a picky clientele.
The Match of the Century Page 6