The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Freedom. Would she ever be free again?

  "Where is Peter?" Anne's voice cut through the shadowy darkness, the frightening stillness, of the tower.

  Kate whirled. "At home."

  "You lie. I can see it in your eyes. I won't have that bastard competing with my son." Anne's eyes were wide and filled with determination. Her pupils seemed huge.

  Kate was panting. She felt claustrophobic. "I don't like it here. Don't leave me here. I can't breathe!"

  "Then you will die, won't you?—for lack of air," Anne said coolly. "Perhaps we can make an exchange. You—for Peter."

  Kate stared. "How can you be so hateful? I loved you like

  a sister. And I swear, if you touch Peter, you will pay for it! Edward will make certain of it! Anne, stop, think, please, consider what you are doing! Release me—^and I swear, no one will ever know what has happened these past two days.*'

  Anne stared back. "You are the insane one, Kate. To think to destroy my life, my dreams, my love. Never mind. I will find Peter, just the way I found out that you were here, and not in New York, during your pregnancy." Anne turned to go.

  Kate's shaking increased. "Please untie me." She rushed after Anne and stumbled, falling to the ground on her bound hands and knees, where she choked on a sob. The inmiensity of her predicament, the hopelessness, finally seized her. Kate looked up. Anne stood in the doorway. Behind her was nothing but a dark, dusky sky and the grotesque shapes of trees left stunted and gnarled by too many storms to count. "Don't you remember Christmas two years ago?" She wept. "We were to be best friends forever. You gave me the locket."

  Anne regarded her unblinkingly. "Of course I remember. That was before you betrayed me."

  Kate remained on the ground. Their gazes locked. And then dizziness assailed Kate. She closed her eyes, trying to control herself, and she failed. Kate vomited. .

  It was not a short spasm, but one that seemed to go on and on endlessly. And when it was over, Kate wept, faced now with nightmare reality.

  "Are you carrying another bastard, Kate?" Anne's cool, distant voice cut into Kate's inififcry and grief, into her sudden, utter futility, like the blade of a knife.

  She was exhausted, beaten down, and, too late, wished so desperately that she had told Edward about her confrontations with Anne. "Yes," she whispered, not looking up. "Have mercy," she choked.

  The door slammed closed. Kate heard the sound of a lock turning. She collapsed into a heap on the ground, the damp earth her mattress and her pillow.

  "Please, Edward, please find me," she moaned. But she knew Anne was right. He would never think to look for her under his very nose.

  Jiirs heart was pounding with such force that she could not seem to breathe, that she feU faint. She backed up, away from Alex, gripping the rock that she held behind her back.

  Alex stared at Jill, shining his penlight directly on her face.

  Jill couldn't see his expression; the light was blinding. Her heart dropped with sickening force. This was it, she knew. This was the very end of the line, the very last stop.

  Images swept through her mind with stunning speed, a confusing kaleidoscope of scenes with her and Alex, as lovers, as friends, as adversaries.

  Jill backed up again. A nightmare, she thought, come true.

  "Jill." He lowered the light and suddenly she could see his eyes, pale and unnaturally bright in the darkness of the tower. "You're too brave for your own good, aren't you?"

  Jill clenched the stone. There was no point in replying. She wondered if he would search her for the evidence she'd stolen from the Libretto before doing whatever it was that he had come to do.

  "And too damn smart," he said grimly, and then he sighed. He started toward her.

  "Alex, don't come any closer," she warned, trembling and backing up. Her spine hit the wall. Her frantic gaze darted past him^—she could never get by him to run out of the tower.

  He halted in midstride. "Jill. You didn't have to run away—even if you did steal my files. I want to explain. But not here, in the goddamn rain,"

  Jill fought to breathe, harshly and loudly. A line of sweat was creeping down the side of her temple, more sweat was pooling between her breasts. Outside, lightning lit up the sky and thunder cracked. "Where do you want to go, AJex? Out to the cliffs? So I can fall to my death? That would be djimned convenient, wouldn't it?" She choked on her last words.

  The penlight wavered, and briefly, she saw his eyes, which were wide. "Are you crazy? Has Kate Gallagher driven you insane? Jill, I'm trying to stop you from hurting yourself," he said vehemently.

  Her gut reaction was that this was a trap. But it dawned on her that he did not seem to have a weapon. He was holding the penlight, nothing more. Jill shook off her confusion with an effort. "I can't believe I ever trusted you at all." Bitterness echoed between the tower's four stone walls.

  He did not reply. A sudden silence fell there between them, hard, and because he'd raised his light again, Jill could not see his face, just the eerie dark shadow of his form. It was disconcerting, frightening. Pounding rain filled up the silence of the night.

  "Jill," he started, when a car's engine sounded from outside. Alex turned his head. The engine was cut and it died. Jill froze, paralyzed. She could hit him with the rock now. His back was to her—this was her chance. Knock him out— maybe even kiH him—^and run like hell.

  She could not move.

  She could not lift the stone.

  "Who the hell is that?" Alex asked abruptly.

  A car door slammed.

  "Your accomplice?" Jill suggested with sarcasm, but she was alarmed—because there had been alarm in his own tone.

  "Step back," he ordered.

  Jill didn't obey. A shining light wavered as the person holding it walked toward the manor. And an image of the Mercedes with William driving flashed through Jill's mind. Then she thought about Vicar Hewitt, just across the way. Maybe he had called the local police. Jill dared to hope, to pray.

  He came toward her in a rush.

  Jill flinched, her heart ceasing its frantic beat with sickening abruptness as he threw his arm around her, almost tackling her. Jill met his eyes, thought, This is it, he's going to strangle me, but he moved her back against the wall, turning off his own penlight. "Don't make a sound," he breathed in her ear.

  His grip was like a vise. Shock and confusion reigned. Sweat streamed down Jill's body in rivers. Relief came. Alex was hiding her, not hurting her, but why? Who were they

  hiding from? And was Alex the good guy or the bad guy? And did the person outside know they were in the tower, and not in the house? What if that person was the police? Should she scream for help?

  As if he understood her thoughts, he whispered, "Ssh," in her ear, the single hushed sound filled with warning. Their gazes locked. And Jill nodded.-

  If she was making a mistake, she would find out—sooner rather than later.

  The minutes passed endlessly—a painful slice of eternity. And suddenly a large flashlight was shining into the interior of the tower, blinding them. "How quaint," a very familiar female voice said. 1^ Jill jerked at the sound of Lucinda's voice. For one '^^ moment, she was stunned. And then she cried, "Lucinda, get help!"

  "Mr. Preston, please stand back from Jill," was Lucinda's calm reply.

  Jill did not understand. Alex continued to hold her against the wall, and he did not move. Then he shone his peolight. toward Lucinda.

  Her face was an expressionless mask.

  And then Jill saw the large steel revolver in her hand. It was pointed at them both.

  October 23, 1908

  She was going to die.

  Kate lay curled up on the wet, cold ground, shivering, too weak to move. Three, four, five days had gone by since Anne had locked her in the tower. At first, Kate had kept track of the days by the rising and setting of the sun. At first, she had been hopeful. She had shouted for help until she could no longer speak, her throat left miserably raw and sore and dry. No
one had heard her cries; no one had come to her aid. There was no way to get out of the tower; the front door remained securely locked. The hope had died.

  The way she would die.

  For Anne had left her to die, without food, without water.

  A cramp seized Kate, not for the first time. She could barely clutch herself, her muscles were so weak. Kate moaned, rocking slightly, the pain unbearable. The spasm lasted much longer this time than before. Kate finally cried out.

  And when the spasm had died, Kate felt the trickle of warm wet blood between her legs and tears slipped down her face. She clawed the wet earth beneath her, but it was not a pillow, and it could not give her any comfort.

  She was losing Edward's child the way she was losing her life. How she missed him. Was he frantically searching for her? Or because she had left Peter with his mother, did he take that as a sign that she had abandoned him?

  She would never see him again. The realization was brutal.

  She would never see her son again. The reaUzation was agonizing.

  More silent, salty tears fell.

  A click sounded loudly, penetrating the silence of the tower, the aching stillness, penetrating her thoughts.

  Kate's Uds lifted.

  Her heart raced as she watched, disbelieving, the door to the tower slowly opening. She stiffened—expecting to see Anne.

  But a big man in coarse clothes whom she did not know stood there, holding a bucket and a package, staring at her.

  Water! He had to be bringing her water—maybe she would not die after all! Kate wanted to sit up. Desperately. But she did not have the strength to do more than he there and watch him.

  He set the bucket down by the door, then also set down a brown paper parcel.

  Wait. Kate realized she hadn't spoken aloud, and she tried to wet her dry hps, to no avail. "Wait." But her cry was hoarse, low, and inaudible—a pitiful attempt at speech.

  He turned and left.

  The lock clicked again loudly in the door.

  Kate's hopes plummeted. He had left her to die. She

  wanted to scream, to shout after him, to pound the earth, to sob. But she did none of those things. She was too weak, she could not move. So she lay there, panting, fighting waves of nausea and pain.

  And then she thought, but he had brought water. I will not die.

  Kate fought for courage and resolve, for strength. And she began the endless, painful process of crawling forward, inch by painful inch, toward the water bucket. She had to stop repeatedly, panting badly, her heart thundering at an alarming rate, wondering if it might not give out on her. She was so weak. She had never been this weak before. It was frightening.

  She finally reached the bucket. A cup floated in the water. Kate had never been so thirsty in her life—she had never wanted anything more. Her thirst gave her the strength to sit up and reach for the cup. Half of the water spilled down her chin and chest.

  And then she stopped.

  Her mind, functioning so oddly now, made a terrible deduction. She had been locked up in the tower for days, maybe even a week. What if he did not come back for another week? She must ration the water. Kate let the cup sUp from her fingers, back into the pail, despondency settling over her like heavy chain mail.

  She could smell food. The saliva increased in her mouth and she tore open the paper parcel. In it was stale bread and moldy cheese. Kate was not disappointed. It was a glorious sight. She tore into the bread, stuffing it into her mouth, and ripped off a piece of cheese, but in the end could only ingest a few bites. Then she collapsed, severely exhausted, incapable of further movement.

  Night fell.

  She slept.

  When Kate opened her eyes, she thought—and hoped— she felt slightly-better, and looking up through the holes in the roof, she saw a sky brilliant with stars and a crescent moon. Bitter sorrow washed over her and more tears fell as

  she thought about those she loved and missed desperately, whom she might never see again. She was too young to die, dear God.

  Maybe, just maybe, she would live. If God blessed her with a miracle. But if she did not live, there was something she had to do.

  Anne could not get away with this.

  Kate slowly removed the locket from her neck. The task seemed endless, her fingers refusing to work adeptly, and when she was done, she had to rest for a few more moments. Then she began another long journey—crawling inch by inch to the nearest wall. Pausing many times to rest. Getting there took forever. It took more than fortitude, it took absolute determination. And when she was there, she was not through. Somehow she sat up, clawing her way up the stone. Her hands and fingers were numb and bloody.

  And using the clasp, she began to engrave a message onto the stone.

  A message for anyone who might find it and read it, anyone at all.

  Twenty-Six

  I

  s Tffls A JOKE?" Jill asked slowly, sick with dread. For she'knew it was not Lucinda's expression—and the gun she held—told her that.

  Alex's grip on her wrist tightened, a warning for her not to speak.

  "I don't like jokes, they are a waste of time and so very American," Lucinda said with disdain. "Shame on you, Mr. Preston," she added. "Allowing her to destroy the good CoUinsworth name."

  Jill stared, incredulous but not disbelieving. "Lucinda— what are you doing?" But she knew. Oh, God, she did. What had Thomas said? That Lucinda was, perhaps, as loyal as any CoUinsworth? Lucinda, who had been director of Uxbridge Hall for well over twenty years. Lucinda, who knew as much about Kate and Anne and Edward as anyone.

  Lucinda, who was her friend.

  Or who had appeared to be her friend.

  An accomplice was out there, Jill realized. Unless Lucinda had not cared if she lived or died, someone else had cut those brake hnes. But was it Alex? Again, it crossed Jill's mind that Wilham was at the house. Either with Margaret— or he had come with Lucinda and Jill had assumed his passenger to be his wife.

  Lucinda did not smile. "12m[i doing what Mr. Preston has failed to do, my dear. I am going to prevent you from destroying the CoUinsworth family," she said. "I have

  devoted the last twenty-five years of my life to this family. I have devoted the past twenty-five years of my life to his lordship. What you are doing is intolerable—destroying a great man and his family—tainting their immortality." Her stare was hard. "Mr. Preston, I wish you were not here. But you are, and the greater good must prevail. Please move away from Jill."

  Alex did not move. "Lucinda, Jill is not about to destroy anyone," Alex said quietly. "Why don't you give me the gun before someone gets hurt and you are guilty of a felonious crime?" His tone was firm and conmianding. "We both know you did not cut the brake lines. This does not have to go any further than it already has. I think, with some persuasion and compromise, we can all walk away from this satisfied."

  "She has gone too far, Mr. Preston," Lucinda said as flatly, standing as still as a statue. The gun in her hand did not waver, not even slightly, and that frightened Jill even more. "I had hoped you or Thomas would dissuade her from her quest, but neither of you did so. If I had guessed when I first met her that it would come to this, I would have never befriended her as I did." Lucinda blinked at Jill. "It was amazing, the first time I saw you, I felt as if I were seeing a ghost. I made the connection between you and Kate immediately. As I believe everyone did. And I thought. Thank God Anne is not here to see this day. She was probably turning over in her grave, my dear, knowing you were with her grandson, knowing you had come to town, knowing what you wer^ about.

  "I made a terribly erroneous assumption. I assumed you would learn that Kate was your great-grandmother—and she was, my dear—and that you would leave it at that. Her son, Peter, despised the family—Anne hated him, and Edward was never there. When he was eighteen he ran away to New York, giving up a small fortune as well as his entire heritage. I had no idea you would be so terribly stubborn."

  "Lucinda, give me the gun,
" Alex said, "^ill doesn't want to destroy anyone."

  Jill gripped Alex's wrist. "So Peter was raised by the family?"

  "Not exactly. He spent his first few years at Stainesmore, with the best care, as Edward wished. As soon as he was old enough, he was sent off to Eton. He hardly suffered, except, of course, Anne would not allow him to set foot in any of her homes—including Uxbridge Hall and the house in Kensington Palace Gardens. But can you blame her?"

  It was almost too much to absorb. "How do you know that Kate is my great-grandmother?" Lucinda had no DNA tests to go on.

  Lucinda smiled. "Anne kept a journal. For the course of her entire life. It is very explicit. When Peter ran off, Edward's heart was broken all over again. How angry Anne was. Not that Peter was gone—that thrilled her—but that Edward was distressed. And he hired investigators to locate his son—against Anne's will. I am certain that Edward knew where Peter was, and I do believe he even tried to contact him several times." Lucinda shrugged. "But Peter wanted nothing to do with the family, not ever again."

  Jill could not speak.

  "Mr. Preston? Stand aside. I have no wish to hurt you."

  Alex did not move. "Give me the gun," Alex said. He stepped toward her, hand outstretched.

  She pointed the gun at him, causing Jill to cry out—suddenly terrified. Not for herself, but for Alex. "I suspect you are fond of her, Mr. Preston. But alas, that is of no avail. And in the end, I am quite certain you will come to the same conclusion."

  "Lucinda," Jill said quickly, "give Alex the gun. I know you don't want to hurt anyone. There's been enough scandal and deception to last hundreds of years, hasn't there?"

  "Any scandal that now ensues will be laid at my feet," Lucinda said flatly.

  "You can't possibly want to martyr yourself—not over this," Jill cried.

  "I am hoping William will be able to talk some sense into Mr. Preston."