Amelia patted her shoulder. “Stay here.” She looked at the darkness of the wood. She had to make an immediate decision. Had Fiona taken the necklace and passed it on before being caught? She didn’t know. Nor did Anne. “When Luc comes, tell him I’ve followed the man—I’m not going to tackle him, just keep him in sight until Luc and the others reach us.”
Freeing her fingers from Anne’s, Amelia rose and ran on. The path led straight into the wood; the trees closed around her, enclosing her in gloom. She hurried on, no longer running but moving fast, her slipper-shod feet padding all but silently on the leaf-strewn paths. She knew these woods, not as well as Luc did, but better than anyone who’d only recently come to the area possibly could.
There were only so many ways the man could go; it was easy to guess he’d veer to the east, putting as much distance between himself and the Chase as he could. She doubted he’d keep running—crashing along the narrow tracks would invite pursuit—so with luck . . .
Ten minutes into the wood, her decision bore fruit. She caught a glimpse of a large shadowy figure through the trees ahead. A minute later, she saw him clearly.
He was walking, striding along, quickly but without panic.
Silent and determined, she settled to track him.
Astonished, Anne watched Amelia disappear into the wood, her throat too raw to voice any protest. As soon as she’d caught her breath, she struggled to her feet and limped back to the house.
She didn’t have to go far to find Luc. He was standing on the path outside the east wing, looking up at the window high above from which Portia and Penelope hung, yelling and gesticulating toward the rose garden and the wood.
They saw Anne, and shrieked, “There she is!”
Luc swung around, then he was beside her, hugging her, holding her. “Are you all right?”
Anne nodded. “Amelia . . .”
Luc felt his heart plummet. “Where is she?”
He held Anne away from him and looked into her face.
She coughed, then hoarsely enunciated, “In the woods—she said to tell you she wasn’t going to try and catch him, just keep him in sight until you came . . .”
He smothered a curse—an expression of sheer horror Anne didn’t need to hear. Amelia might not intend to catch the man, but he might catch her. He pushed Anne toward the house. “Go inside—tell the others.”
His mind was already with Amelia. Turning, he raced for the wood.
Amelia slipped along beneath the trees, increasingly cautious. While the wood at first had felt, if not comfortable, then at least familiar, the trees had grown progressively denser, older, the paths beneath their gnarled branches more dark, the air more weighted with age. Ahead, she could hear the regular thud of the man’s boots; he wasn’t trying to skulk but was steadily tramping on. A quick mental survey had suggested he intended keeping to the wood to where it ended on the rise above Lyddington.
He was clever enough to recognize the unwisdom of rushing—one trip over a tree root could incapacitate him and leave him waiting for his pursuers to rescue him. Also clever enough to take the least exposed route to see him safe home, assuming he was staying somewhere about Lyddington.
The more she thought of how clever he was proving, the more uneasy, the more wary she became. But the thought of the Cynster necklace, the notion of following him to his lair, and then waiting to point the way to Luc and the others who she was sure must be close on her heels kept her putting one foot in front of the other.
Then the ground started to rise. She glimpsed the man ahead and above; she craned her head, trying to fix his direction—her foot hit an exposed root. She stumbled. Swallowing a curse, she fetched up against a nearby bole—and snapped off a dry twig.
The sound cut through the heavy air like a pistol shot.
She froze.
About her, the forest seemed to stir, menacingly breathe. She waited—only then remembered that her gown, the walking gown she’d changed into, was primrose yellow. If she was visible from where he was. . . .
Then his footfalls started again. The same steady rhythm, in the same direction.
She drew breath, waited for her pulse to slow, then went on, even more cautiously than before.
He was following a rough track that led up a short rise, then dipped into a heavily wooded dell. She was deep in the trees before she realized she’d lost the repetitive tramp of his footsteps. She stopped. Strained her ears, but heard nothing beyond the usual woodland night sounds. A distant hoot here, a furtive rustling there, the creak of branches rubbing high above. Nothing that signified man.
Yet . . . she couldn’t see how she’d lost him.
Ahead, the track widened; stepping even more warily, she went on. The track opened into a small natural clearing closely ringed by trees.
Again she paused and listened; hearing nothing, she walked forward, her slippers whispering on the soft leaves.
She was almost across the clearing when sensation swept her spine.
She glanced back.
Gasped.
Whirled to face the man she’d been following.
His bulk blocked the path between her and the Chase. He was tall and wide, with close-cropped dark hair . . . her mouth dropped open as she recognized the man she and Portia had met near the kennels.
He smiled—evilly. “Well, well—how helpful.”
Her heart thumped, but she snapped her lips shut and lifted her chin. “Don’t be daft! I have no intention whatever of helping you in any way.”
Her only hope was to keep him talking—here and as loudly as possible—for as long as she could.
He took a swaggering step forward, eyes narrowing when she only tilted her chin higher; she’d had years of dealing with men who sought to intimidate with sheer size. Apparently accepting she was not about to make a bolt for it—into the dense woods—she knew how far she would get—he halted and looked down at her, lip curling with contempt.
“Ah, but you will help me, you see—to a nice slice of your husband’s wealth. I don’t know what happened back there”—with his head, he indicated the Chase—“but I’m experienced enough to know when to cut my losses.” His chilling smile returned. “And when to seize an opportunity fate throws my way.”
He tensed to step forward and grasp her arm; she stopped him with an utterly patronizing look. “If you really are clever enough to know when to cut and run, then you’d better start running. There’s absolutely no possibility my husband will pay very much for my safe return, if that’s the direction your mind is taking.”
His smile didn’t waver; he nodded. “That’s my tack, right enough, but you can save your breath—I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
She blinked. “You have? How?”
The look he gave her suggested he wasn’t sure what her tack was. “Like he’d cut off his right arm before he’d let you go.”
She fought not to grin delightedly. “No.” Lips pinched, she stuck her nose in the air. “You’re quite wrong you know—he never did love me. Our marriage was arranged.”
He gave a disgusted snort. “You can stow the guff. If it’d been Edward, I might have believed you, but that brother of his always was a painfully straight dealer. Arranged or not, he’ll pay, and pay well, to have you back unharmed—without any public fuss.”
His eyes narrowed to mean and heartless shards as he emphasized the last words. He went to step forward.
Again she stopped him, this time with an abject sigh. “I can see I’m going to have to tell you the truth.”
She glanced up through her lashes, could see the urge to get on, get away, taking her with him, war with the need to know why she thought his plan doomed. He knew better than to argue, but . . .
“What truth?”
It came out as a growl, a warning to be quick.
She hesitated, then asked, “What’s your name?”
His eyes glittered. “Jonathon Kirby, although what that’s got to do with—“
�
�I do like to know to whom I’m confessing.”
“So tell me—and make it quick. We don’t have all night.”
She lifted her head. “Very well, Mr. Kirby. The truth I apparently need to confess to you concerns the how and why of my marriage. Which is also the reason my husband won’t pay any great sum for my return.”
She rushed on, speaking the words as fast as they came into her head, knowing she had to keep him there for just a little longer—Luc and the others couldn’t be far away. “I said our marriage was arranged, and it was—for money. He doesn’t have much—well, that’s an understatement—he doesn’t really have any, not . . . well, what one might call cash as such. Land he has, but you can’t eat land, can you?—and you certainly can’t gown girls for their come-outs in hay—so you see, it was imperative he marry for money, and so we did, so he got my dowry, but with all the urgent bills and the repairs and so on—well, if you’ve been about here for more than a day, you must have seen the working gangs—so what I’m trying to say is that there’s hardly any left, and he won’t pay you much because he can’t.”
She had to pause for breath.
Kirby stepped menacingly nearer. “I’ve heard enough.” He leaned close, thrust his face close to hers. “What sort of fool do you take me for? I checked—of course, I did!” His voice dripped scorn. “As soon as I realized the possibility might arise to cozen one of his sweet little sisters. No joy there, but his wife’s an even better mark. I don’t even have to try to charm you, and you won’t be on my hands for long. The man’s as rich as bloody Croesus and he worships the ground you walk on—he’ll pay a small fortune for you, and that’s precisely what I’m going to demand.”
His features had contorted with some ugly emotion; Amelia set her jaw and stared him down, her belligerence fueled by desperate necessity, and the irrational irritation of knowing she was half-right and he was half-wrong. “You’re the fool if you believe that!” Eyes narrowing, she planted her fists on her hips and glared. “We didn’t marry for love—he does not love me.” A complete and utter lie, but she could put her heart and soul into her next declaration: “And he’s next kin to a pauper—he hasn’t a coin to bless himself with. I’m his wife, for heaven’s sake! Don’t you think I’d know?”
She flung her arms wide on the words—and glimpsed something from the corner of her eye. Until he’d stepped close, Kirby had blocked her view of the path into the clearing; looking past him, she saw Luc, standing motionless at the clearing’s edge, his dark gaze locked, not on Kirby, but on her face. On her eyes.
For one instant, time stood still. Her heart contracted; she felt . . .
Kirby read her face.
He turned with a roar.
Amelia jumped, gasped, skittered back as Kirby flung himself at Luc, one huge fist rising, swinging.
She screamed.
Luc ducked at the very last minute; she didn’t see what happened, but Kirby’s body jerked, then the big man bent foward, only to straighten abruptly as Luc’s fist connected with his jaw.
She winced at the sound, quickly scuttled farther away as Kirby staggered back. The close-packed trees gave her little room to move, but although Kirby’s gaze flicked to her, he kept his attention on Luc.
Who, after one glance at Amelia, stepped into the clearing. That one graceful step held immeasurably more menace than anything Kirby had done.
Kirby groaned, slumped, then straightened; a knife flashed in his fist.
Amelia gasped. Tensed.
Luc stilled, his gaze on the blade, then he resumed his slow, prowling approach.
Kirby crouched a little, spread his arms wide, started to circle.
Luc drifted aside.
Amelia pressed back among the trees . . . a too-recent memory of Amanda with a knife at her throat flooded her . . .
Kirby lunged with the knife. Luc weaved back, just out of reach.
Horrified, Amelia stared—Kirby was quite plainly aiming for Luc’s face. Her husband’s beautiful fallen-angel face. A face Luc himself barely noticed, and certainly—contrary to what Kirby was imagining—felt no vanity over protecting.
She was very attached to that face—exactly as it was.
Jaw setting, she glanced around. Her gaze fell on a fallen branch—a nice, stout oak branch—large enough for a cosh, small enough for her to heft—best of all, close enough and free of debris so she could lift it undetected.
Kirby’s back was to her. The branch was in her hands before she’d finished the thought.
She paused, gathered her strength, took one step as she lifted the branch high—
Kirby sensed her, started to turn—
She brought the branch down as hard as she could. It broke with a satisfying crack over Kirby’s head.
He didn’t go down. But he wobbled.
Very slowly shook his head.
Lips grimly set, Luc stepped forward, caught Kirby’s wrist, holding the knife at bay. With his other fist, he delivered the coup de grâce—Kirby dropped like a stone to the leaf-strewn ground.
Clutching the remnants of her club, Amelia stared. “Is he . . . ?”
Luc glanced at her, then bent and removed the knife. “Unconscious. I don’t think he’ll wake for a while.”
In the distance, they heard voices, calling, coming nearer, yet here and now, there was just them.
And the silence.
Still ringing with all she’d said.
She frantically replayed all she’d gabbled to Kirby—how much had Luc heard? He could have been there for some time . . . but he couldn’t possibly believe . . . think she believed . . . ?
She dropped her club, pressed her hands together, cleared her throat. “I—“
“You—“
They both stopped, gazes locking—locked. She felt like she was drowning in the intensity of his eyes. Her lungs seized, as if she stood teetering on the brink of . . . happiness or despair, she wasn’t sure which.
Stiffly, Luc stepped nearer, reached for her hands. Then he sighed and hauled her into his arms. Crushed her close. “I want to shake you for running off alone into danger.” He growled the words into her curls, his arms an iron cage about her.
Then she felt his arms ease.
“But . . . first . . .” He drew back, looked into her face. “I have to tell you something—something I should have told you long ago.” His lips twisted. “Two somethings, if truth be told. And they are the truth—the real truth.” He drew in a breath; his eyes held hers. “I—“
“Hroo-hroo! Hroo!”
Luc turned; they both stared. “Damn!” Releasing her, he faced the path; a steady crashing and rhythmic thudding were rolling toward them. “They’ve let the dogs out.”
On the disbelieving words, hounds came bounding up, a veritable tide, joyous and excited, thoroughly delighted to have found their master. It wasn’t just a few dogs, however, but the entire pack. Luc stood before Amelia; clutching the back of his coat, she pressed close, not frightened but in danger of being batted off her feet by so many whipping tails and bumptiously overjoyed canines.
“Down!” Luc thundered. “Sit!”
Eventually, they did, but clearly believed they were due a great deal more thanks for having acquitted themselves so well.
Luc had just restored some semblance of order when the human tide descended. Portia and Penelope, more familiar with the woods, led the way, running and ducking branches ahead of Lucifer, Martin, Sugden, and a disgusted Simon.
They were all out of breath when they piled into the clearing.
“You got him!” wheezed Portia, one hand clutching her side.
Luc glanced briefly at Kirby, then Amelia, then he looked at his sister. “We did.” He continued to look at Portia. “Who let out the pack?”
“We did, of course.” Penelope’s tone stated that the decision had been fully evaluated and only a fool would dare challenge it. “They all reached the first fork, and didn’t know which way you’d gone. The dogs were the only way
to trace you.”
Luc looked at her, then sighed. Patsy pressed close, pushing her nose into his hand, whining with quiet joy.
“What’s the story, then?” Arm braced against a tree while he struggled to catch his breath, Martin nodded at Kirby’s slumped form.
Luc looked down, then shook his head. “As to that, I’m not sure—but his name’s Jonathon Kirby . . . and I understand he’s acquainted with Edward.”
Which, of course, told Amelia just how much of her tirade Luc had heard—all of it. She was still wincing at the thought when, hours later, she finally climbed the main stairs and headed down the short corridor to their rooms.
Dawn could not be far off.
Getting back to the house had proved an unexpected effort, not least because, with the villain caught and answers to all their questions doubtless to come, the determination that had fueled them all night abruptly waned. They slumped. Their feet dragged.
Luc dispatched Sugden, Portia, and Penelope to return the pack to the kennels. They went ahead, the hounds still alert, ready to dash off after anything at the slightest excuse.
Kirby, roused ungently, was too groggy to walk unsupported. Martin, Lucifer, and Simon took turns chivying him along in Luc and Amelia’s wake; Luc was the only one who could lead them unerringly through the woods back to the Chase.
They’d arrived half an hour earlier to questions and exclamations. Portia and Penelope had said only that all was well before continuing to the kennels to help Sugden quarter the pack.
It was Helena who, in matriarchal fashion, eventually took charge. She pointed out that Luc himself was the local magistrate, that apparently there was a perfectly sound cellar below stairs in which Kirby—unanimously referred to as “the felon”—could be incarcerated for the time being, until they wished to question him further, and that, meanwhile, they all needed their rest.
As usual, Helena was indubitably right, yet Amelia hoped that before she and Luc fell asleep . . .
She didn’t actually know what he wanted to tell her. Not absolutely. Yet entering her private sitting room, she was all but floating on her hopes and dreams. Two things, he’d said. In her heart, she knew what one of those things was.
On A Wicked Dawn Page 42