Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
Clippety-clop.
Ambush! Several men were riding hard to catch up to him.
He veered to the right through the wood, slipped nimbly out of his saddle, and tethered the animal to a tree, then circled back to discover who was chasing after him.
Three riders broke through the clearing, slapping their mounts’ flanks, pell-mell. As they drew near, the center rider shouted, “Halt!”
Dust plumed about the skittish horses’ legs. The leader dismounted, cautiously walking toward the point where Wolf had left the trail. “He’s on foot. Burnes, take the left. Reedie, the right. You know what to do.”
Bollocks. It was an ambush. Damned if he wouldn’t find out who was after him.
Wolf flicked out his blades and eased back, creeping toward a thicket. He didn’t want to use his pistols. Sound would disclose his exact location and attract attention he didn’t want. No, he’d wait for the one called Reedie, gut him clean through to his bones, and then work his way over to Burnes. The leader he’d keep alive long enough to find out who sent them.
A twig snapped, warning him that Reedie was near. Quietly, Wolf emerged from his hiding place and crept behind the man, grabbing his mouth to silence his protests and burying his blade in the man’s back between his ribs. Reedie struggled a moment before releasing a hissing breath that told Wolf he was dead.
He removed his blade from the man’s body, the sickening sound of steel leaving flesh fracturing the night. He lowered the man silently to the ground before slipping out to the wooded thicket to flank Burnes. Larger than Reedie, this opponent seemed to exist on luck as he shoved branches out of his way, announcing his presence to game, fowl, and the wrong man—Wolf. The fool exhaled, appearing to plot his next line of attack.
Wolf lunged for Burnes, this time embedding his blades into the man’s back, severing his spine. Burnes shuddered. His body stiffened just before he collapsed onto his belly, his pistol still gripped in his fist. It had been fired, and it told the others where they were located.
Bollocks! Wolf removed his blades and knelt. Crouching low on his heels, he searched the area around him. Nothing stirred. Nature absorbed the presence of man, the sulphuric scent of gunpowder the only remnant left to betray their presence.
Wolf eased away from Burnes.
A blow pelted him from behind. He recoiled, and then dodged to his left, slashing his blade to the left to ward off another blow. His attacker danced backward, escaping injury.
He and the third man faced off, sizing each other up. Wolf glowered at the large, dark figure, unable to see the man’s face clearly in the shadows. The smell of tobacco, whisky, and . . .
Wolf backed off. “Do I know you?”
Wicked laughter met his ears.
Wolf mimicked the man’s movements, step for step. When he moved left, Wolf moved right, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. His pulse raced, and blood rushed through his veins, flooding to his extremities. He ground his teeth as sweat beaded on his brow.
The moonlight filtered down, reflecting off a stream nearby. Flashes of memories darted through his mind, obscuring his vision. He remembered his mother at the pianoforte, smiling, leaning her head into his father’s hand. The door bursting open. Gunfire. Blood. The happy imagery flooded with pain, deceit, and a demoralizing rage that smoldered out of control.
Wolf clasped his head, screaming in agony, and fell to his knees. No, he couldn’t face the horrific memory his subconscious had clearly suppressed out of self-preservation.
Footsteps neared. He fought his way back from the depths to stand, fighting back tears, trying with all his might to purge his father’s bloody body from his mind.
Then a knife sank into his shoulder. Wolf howled, the pain cutting through the memories cluttering his mind. He spied his enemy and growled, gritting his teeth as he yanked the blade out of his flesh. “Why are you trying to kill me?”
“A good piece of coin will persuade a man to do almost anything,” the assassin said, working his way to Wolf’s left and moving out of sight into the thicket.
“You won’t succeed,” Wolf said.
But the man might if Wolf didn’t keep him talking. He needed to ferret out the assassin’s location in order to take him by surprise. Untrained killers like these liked to boast. Not so with Fouché’s or Typhon’s men, or those who’d entered the Legion. That knowledge gave Wolf a decided edge.
“I’m better than them.” The man laughed and nodded at his dead fellows. “Been at this longer.”
Wolf weighed the blade in his hand, judging it for balance and speed. “How did you know where I’d be?”
“Got the word to be watchin’ this road. Lay in wait, we did.”
The man was five feet behind Wolf now. He listened. No movement. “I’ve only been here for several hours. How did you know?”
“Aye. Lucky for us, our purse hails from these parts.”
Got you. Wolf spun on his knee and aimed the blade just four feet away from the man’s last location. He heard a grunt, then a moan before charging forward, his blades leading the way.
A scream of agony filled the air, and the force of Wolf’s forward movement knocked them both to the ground. “Who sent you?” Wolf shouted. “Who wants to kill me and why?”
“To get you out of the w-way,” the killer struggled to say. “Kept the money H-Herding paid for the s-son.” The man choked, then got control. “Told the others t-to let the girl go.”
“Why?” he shouted, getting no response. He knelt by the man and picked him up by the scruff of his neck. “Tell me!”
“Plans to keep you from b-bringing Herding home. Needs the b-blunt.” The man coughed up more blood and produced a waning smile.
“The bilge-sucking . . .” Wolf lifted the man by his collar. “Where have they taken Owen?” No response. “Where?” he asked again, shaking the man.
The man blinked, his eyes glazing. “Cadiz.”
“I know that already,” he growled. “Where in Cadiz?”
“Your b-brother . . .” His throat bobbed as he mouthed, Con-stric-tor.
“What about my brother?” Wolf asked, yanking the man by the scruff of his neck again. None of this made sense. “Who kidnapped them? A name. Give me a name.”
“Lord . . . G-gar—” Blood curdled from the man’s mouth. He pulled Wolf toward him, began confessing his sins, and then convulsed.
“Bollocks!” Wolf ground his teeth together. He’d known Gariland was up to something, but he hadn’t expected this. The mealy-mouthed lord had made every effort to convey that he adored Selina.
The jab to his pride cut deep. He’d had ample opportunity to delve into Gariland’s motivations, but he’d cried off instead. He could not change the past, his father’s death and his hand in it, the wasted years, his mother’s anguish, Selina’s captivity, but he could—and would—do something now. He’d make sure Selina didn’t suffer any further abuse, and he’d stop Lord Gariland from infiltrating Trethewey House and causing Selina any more heartache. Or he’d die trying.
Chapter Seventeen
Selina sat before her vanity studying herself in the mirror. Her hair was disheveled, pearls askew. Her face was smeared with tears. She’d sat here once before, preparing to marry a man she didn’t love. And then she’d been kidnapped on the way to the chapel. But the place she’d gone was far more dangerous than Trethewey House, far more painful than a father who didn’t love her.
Once more she found herself a victim of circumstances beyond her control, property of a man incapable of love. Except this time, the orders she’d been given came at the hands of her betrothed.
What was she to do now? Papa was experiencing some kind of fit, Owen’s life was in jeopardy, and Wolf had deserted her. Defeated and isolated, with her heart torn from her chest, Selina lost the will to fight. Lord Gariland had tossed her inside her bedchamber like an angry child discarding a toy, not caring whether or not she hit the floor and was harmed in t
he process. He’d even locked her inside to ensure her obedience.
Selina reached up and swiped away an errant tear from her face. For one moment, she thought her father had finally seen her, really seen her. It was a moment she never wanted to remember for the rest of her life. Papa was insane, and she finally realized she could never please him, no matter what she did. Nor would she ever forgive him.
Who was Selina Herding? The vibrant creature she’d felt pulsing through her veins on board the Sea Wolf and in Wolf’s arms was gone. Without her freedom, without Owen, without the means to disappear into music, and without Wolf, she was nothing but a shell of her former self.
She glanced down at the finery on her vanity. Pink crystal decanters shimmered in the lamplight, housing perfume and various oils and lotions a woman of means could afford. Her indulgent existence had given Trethewey a hostess and feminine appeal to a mineral lord who sought acceptance by the ton. But even the man who preyed upon her spirit and denied her the right to think for herself and choose her life’s path had demons to fight.
In a fit of rage, she brushed her arm across the surface of the vanity, tossing the worthless trinkets across the room. Crystal shattered against the wall.
Her mother’s pianoforte had been destroyed, and Selina had no doubt in her mind that its ivory keys and perfectly carved legs were already in the rubbish pile. Papa and Owen had memories of her mother, but other than Trethewey House and Owen, the musical instrument had been her only connection to the woman who’d given her life. Somehow, when she’d played it, she’d felt her mother’s spirit sitting beside her. Now that too had been stripped away.
The longcase clock ticked solemnly. Selina thought of Owen again and immediately righted her frame of mind. Here she sat, clothed in finery, a roof over her head, food in her belly. Could Owen say the same? What right did she have to bemoan her existence when her brother suffered privations she might never discover?
She stared at her reflection and narrowed her eyes, determination rising within her. It didn’t matter what had been denied her or stolen away. “I will figure out a way to leave this house and I will find you, Owen. I will not stop until I do.”
A key clicked in the lock of her bedchamber door.
Selina bolted from her seat on the vanity and stood in the middle of the room. Her heartbeat pounded, demanding more space as her stays tightened, and she fought to breathe a calming breath.
The door opened, and Mary appeared, carrying a tray of tea.
Selina relished the sight of the maid and stepped forward, counting the seconds until she could embrace Mary.
“Oh, Miss!” Mary glanced down at the floor as her feet crunched over the fragments of crystal. She moved to the cleared-off vanity and placed the tray there before rushing to Selina’s side. “I had feared what Lord Gariland had done to you. He was ever in such a state when he returned downstairs.”
“Where is he now?” she asked, contemplating if she could persuade Mary to aid her in some way without suffering punishment.
“He is downstairs with your father. There were several arguments after the couples were strong-armed out of the house.” Mary squeezed Selina’s hands in gesture of support.
Selina summoned a smile for the woman’s benefit. Papa would explain away his momentary lapse in sanity. It wasn’t as if the mineral lords in his corporation hadn’t seen him fall to pieces before. Their wives hadn’t, though. Surely the doctor would be sent for, bearing witness that Papa had suffered some delusional vision about his long-dead wife and acted out of character.
“There is more.” Mary’s voice heightened Selina’s concerns. “I am saddened to tell you that your beloved pianoforte is beyond repair.”
She suspected as much. “Owen warned me this might happen. I should have listened to him.”
Just as I should have placed more merit on Owen’s concerns about Lord Gariland.
But never in her wildest dreams had she suspected her betrothed had a violent streak. The man had never raised his voice or a hand to her before. And this new deficit in his character filled her with dread. How would he treat her once they were man and wife?
“I knew the chance I took when I played for Wolf tonight,” she said. “But I wanted him to hear Mozart’s piece.”
“Oh, Miss. He heard. Polke said—” She paused. “Well, I shouldn’t repeat what the servants say, but in this instance, I feel it must be allowed.”
Selina nodded, yearning to hear anything related to Wolf. “Go on.”
“He . . . Well, the captain left in a hurry as if a bucca-boo was after him.”
Chased by the hounds of hell? Had the music triggered some sort of memory after all?
“And?” Selina pressed.
“He said, ‘Tell her I am sorry for my hasty departure, but I must go.’”
“He has left, then,” she said, her mouth going dry. He truly had abandoned her. She turned to gaze at herself in the mirror again, hating the weak, foolish woman who gazed back.
Wolf needed her, but not for money and prestige. He actually needed Selina for who she was, what only she could provide him—unconditional love.
She clapped her hand over her mouth. It wasn’t possible! Not after all she’d been through. She barely knew Wolf, and yet, she felt as if she’d known him all her life. It wasn’t possible to care about someone this much so soon, was it? To feel their pain, to desire to endure it with them, come what may?
“What is it, Miss? Are you unwell?”
She shook her head. “What else can you tell me about the captain’s departure?”
Mary pursed her lips and patted her hands. “Worden asked him if you would be joining him.”
“And what was Wolf’s response?” she asked.
“He told Worden, ‘She is safer here than with me.’” Mary clasped her hands again as footsteps sounded in the hall. “Oh, Miss. He cares for you. Can you not see it? What are you doing here, sitting lifeless, resigning yourself to your fate? You are a fighter, I know it. Always have been, always will be. The young master has seen to that. We all watched your brother nurture your courage, and it gave us hope. What would Owen want you to do, eh?”
Selina took a long, cleansing breath as life began to flow through her veins again. Besides Owen, Wolf was the only man who’d ever considered her needs—and before his own.
The footsteps grew louder, and a loose plank on the floor creaked.
“I will not be safe until I am with Wolf again,” she told Mary. “He will help me find Owen. I just know it.”
Her maid nodded. “Plain as day, it is.”
“Act as if nothing has changed. Speak to Polke. Have him get word to Worden that I will be coming for my horse as soon as I can distract Lord Gariland.”
She squeezed Mary’s hands reassuringly, just as Lord Gariland entered the room. “Did I hear my name?” he asked, crooking his brow as glass crunched beneath his feet.
Mary curtsied and moved past the man. “I delivered the tray as you ordered, my lord.”
“See that this is cleaned up when I leave.” He waved his hand, motioning for her to leave.
“Yes, my lord,” Mary said, pulling the door closed gently behind her.
Selina moved back to the vanity where the tea tray waited. She sat down, determined not to show the man any fear, and took her time pouring the tea.
Lord Gariland moved to the mirror, positioning himself behind her, turning his chin to observe the angles of his face. He straightened his cravat and then placed his hands on Selina’s shoulders. “I think it is time we had a talk, Selina.”
“Of course,” she said, feigning meekness. “I have been waiting here for that very thing.”
“Before you flatter me with your desire to consummate our union . . .” He pointed to the bed reflected in the mirror behind him. “I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not care to bed you at all, but I will do so to ensure my seed grows in your belly.”
Selina swallowed back the bile rising in her
throat. “I am ready to do my duty to you, my lord,” she lied.
He clucked his tongue and regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Those are the words a groom likes to hear. But know this . . . Pretty words will not make me forget that you’ve been sullied by a pirate. A man, I should add, that is at this very moment breathing his last breath.”
She bolted from the vanity chair, but Lord Gariland pushed her back down. Blood drained from her face. She clasped her hands and bit her lip to harness her anger and despair as Lord Gariland tightened his fingers around her throat.
“The world you now belong to is pox-riddled and crass, not particularly what I had envisioned when I’d selected you to be my bride.”
She smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You are a viscount’s son, a titled gentleman, and my father—”
“Ah that. You see,” he said, smacking his lips and gazing at his reflection, “I owe many dangerous men a great deal of coin. And these men will do anything to get it, including kill my beautiful wife.” His stare hardened. “Just as they’ve killed your captain by now.”
He allowed that knowledge to settle over her, clearly hoping to scare her. But the fool only made her angrier. She was practiced at controlling her emotions; she’d spent her entire life holding them in. She knew how to play the game well. So she said nothing, giving him no satisfaction.
“You are mine,” he said. “While I know you’ve occupied your days with fencing, riding, and other masculine pursuits, you should consider those days done. Do not expect to leave this house—and if it comes down to it, this room—without my approval.”
He smiled warmly, transforming back into the charming man who’d finessed his way into Papa’s good graces. “I expect the reverend will be arriving within the hour. We shall take advantage of your father’s need to see you out from under his thumb.” He glanced back at the bed with its high headboard. “It’s a shame you do not have a four-poster, my dear. What I wouldn’t give to see you tied to the mast . . .”
The Mercenary Pirate (The Heart of a Hero Book 10) Page 20