Linda Barlow

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Linda Barlow Page 43

by Fires of Destiny


  “Why should you bother about my betrothal? You never cared for me. From the day we met, we disliked each other.”

  “That is true. Until recently on the Argo I thought you were nothing but an unmitigated troublemaker. Now, unfortunately for us both, I’ve grown rather fond of you. No, keep your seat,” he added as she half-rose. The flat of his blade touched her shoulder and pressed her back down. “I wanted you married to Will because I knew Roger was coming home. I was afraid of what would happen when you and he met. And I was right to be afraid, wasn’t I?”

  She was dumbfounded. “How could you have known? I’m not beautiful or witty or seductive—nobody was more surprised than I when he grew to love me. How could you have foreseen such an unlikely event?”

  “You underestimate yourself, my friend. Your beauty is not conventional, but it is vivid and alluring—even I, who have no interest in women, can perceive that. You are highly intelligent, also, a quality Roger admires. You are honest, loyal, and determined, and you stand up to him in a way that few people dare to do.” He paused. “Your courage too is remarkable. It will be there to support you at the moment when you need it most.”

  She knew then that he was going to kill her. The breath rushed out of her, leaving her empty and ill. For an instant she thought she would be sick. The room seemed to glide around in slow, surging circles. He was going to kill her. And her brains might have been cooked and mashed for all the help they were giving her; she couldn’t think of any way to stop him.

  He moved a little closer to her; she shrank into herself on her stool. “What happened that night with Will?” She was desperate to keep him talking, desperate to stay alive. Courage? What courage? She’d borne too much already; she didn’t have the fortitude to deal with this.

  “I sent the message and went up the road to wait for Will. He came directly, riding like a madman. Despite your speculation, I did not leap out and frighten his horse—nothing like that; I gave him plenty of warning. He saw me and stopped.

  “He dismounted and we talked. As gently as possible, I told him that he had a son, but that the child was illegitimate and must remain so. He was legally bound to you. I went on to insist—and this was my mistake, I realize now—that a debt-ridden widow like Pris Martin was no fit wife for the next Baron of Whitcombe.”

  “Oh heavens!”

  “Aye. Like all the Trevors, Will was proud. He had fallen in love and had made up his mind. He was also drunk and, because of it, easily aroused to anger. And clumsy. He drew on me and ordered me out of his way. I was unarmed, except for my infamous Turkish dagger, but he set upon me nonetheless. In short, he lost his temper, and I, who am usually more controlled, responded by losing mine. I kicked the bloody sword out of his hand and hit him as hard as I could. He went over backward into the ditch and struck his head on something, an old tree limb, I believe, or maybe a rock. I’m not sure; it was dark.” Francis stopped a moment, his voice vibrating with tension. “I thought he was dead. I was sure of it.”

  “But he was still alive; he lived for three days, while you sat faithfully beside his bed, praying, no doubt, for his breath to stop.”

  “No. In sooth I have never prayed so sincerely for a man to live. I was sick with fear that he would die and Roger would discover that I was responsible. Roger’s loyalty to his family is far stronger than he lets on. Our friendship has survived many crises, but this it would not survive.”

  “So, after our encounter in the woodland, when I so carelessly put your own lost dagger into your hands, you killed Ned, to keep Roger from learning the truth.”

  “Yes. I realized the lad must have been a witness to what had happened that night. I found him in the forest and followed him back to his cave. It was so isolated there that I hoped his body would remain hidden for a much longer period of time. Leave it to you to discover him so quickly.” He thrust his sword back into its scabbard, then sat down upon the herb table, so close to her that she could feel the heat generated by his body. “I was sorry for silencing him, but there seemed no other way.”

  “No other way? Why didn’t you go to Roger and explain? If it occurred as you just described, it was an accident. Such tragedies happen. It wasn’t a crime until you hid it and compounded it with other murders. A halfwit boy, Francis. A woman.”

  “There is a small chance that Pris Martin might still be alive. She fled from me and was thrown from her horse. I found the papers in her clothing. I saw no point in running her through. It was raining last night, and there was nobody about. She was unconscious, and by morning she would most likely have been dead of exposure. I don’t like to put a sword in someone unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Heaven forbid that you should do anything so unchristian!”

  He reached out and caught her chin between his fingers. His eyes were as metallic as his sword. “I hate this, Alexandra. I hate every moment of it, I assure you. I should have confessed to Roger in the beginning; you’re right about that. But I did not, and now it’s too late. He must never know.”

  She drew a deep breath and jerked her chin out of his hand. “So, what now?” He hadn’t been able to run Pris through. Alan had set out after her—perhaps, with luck, he would find her. Perhaps Pris would survive. Perhaps Francis, who had refrained from putting his sword through one woman, would falter again, now, with her. “The evidence has been destroyed and there’s no one to speak against you.”

  He rose to rummage in Merwynna’s shelves. “There’s you.” He turned back to her with something in his hands. It was a length of Merwynna’s homemade rope.

  “No, Francis.” She jerked to her feet and backed away, wondering if he was going to strangle her as he had strangled Ned. Again her wits seemed to be operating with all the speed and incisiveness of honeyed candy. Was this how you felt when you knew death was imminent and there was no escape—paralyzed, impotent, helpless?

  She put the table between them. “Despite my suspicions, I’ve said nothing to Roger. Now that there’s no evidence to prove my case, there’s no point in my ever saying anything. I’ve cried wolf too often. Besides, he trusts you.”

  He kicked the table aside. It crashed to the floor with a violence that shocked her. She made an involuntary little sound in the back of her throat.

  “I’m sick about this, Alix. I may not show it, but I feel—” He stopped. His hands shook slightly; he wound the cord around his own wrists, and then pulled it free. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  She backed again, but there was nowhere to go. She felt the herb shelves hard against her shoulders as he closed upon her. The fire cast his shadow before him, like a demon. “I saved your life.”

  “I told you you’d regret it.”

  Oh God! He was going to do it. “I am carrying Roger’s child.”

  “Liar!” Cursing, he spun her around, seizing her wrists and jerking them together behind her back. She struggled, crying out at his sudden roughness. He restrained her effortlessly and bound her, winding the rope several times around her wrists before pulling it tight. “I should have killed you last summer. ‘Twould have been far less painful for all of us.”

  “’Tis no lie. My babe will be born in April. He’s lost one child already, and one woman, Celestine. You saw how deeply that hurt him. Imagine how this will affect him, Francis. He loves me.”

  “Yes. And there’s a part of me that has wanted to kill you ever since the day I first saw you together.”

  “Do you think he’ll turn to you in his grief? Don’t deceive yourself. He doesn’t feel what you feel. As much as he cares about you, he will never give you what you want.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I’ve known it since he was a boy of fifteen. I’ve accepted it. I’ve tolerated his love affairs, his women. I even tolerated you. I made no attempt to stop your marriage, did I? But there’s one thing I cannot, will not tolerate. I cannot allow you the power to destroy the trust and the friendship between him and me. That is something I will not give up
, though my soul is damned for all eternity to hell.”

  She swallowed. She felt tears crowded behind her eyes, whether for Francis or herself she wasn’t entirely sure. “I’ll never tell him,” she heard herself say. “‘Twould hurt him too much. Spare me and I’ll keep your secret forever.”

  “No.”

  She set her jaw. “You don’t trust me? What harm can I do you now? Do you think I want vengeance?”

  “I think you want justice. Your loyalty to your dead friends will demand that you reveal the truth. No, don’t deny it,” he added as she opened her mouth to argue. “I’ve watched you chase that truth for over a year. Watched you and feared you as I have never feared a woman in my life. I am sorry. Child or no child, you’re going to die.”

  “My child is innocent of any of this! Is that the price of your soul, Francis—a half-witted boy, two women, and an unborn babe? Even condemned prisoners are spared execution until after their children are born.”

  Francis was breathing hard, almost as hard as she. He turned his face away from her and coughed. “I see no sign of pregnancy,” he said when he could speak. “You are very likely lying.”

  “I am but two months gone.”

  “Then the babe has not yet quickened within you,” he countered. His voice rose ominously. “I am damned already, so cease your arguments.” He shoved her toward the door. “Enough. I had no more than a few hours’ start on Roger. This must be finished now.” He took one of her arms just above the elbow. “Outside, quickly, before the witch comes back and I have to kill her too.”

  Her legs felt like sticks. She was afraid. Terrified. Her baby was dependent upon her. If she died, Roger’s daughter or son would die, too. She stumbled, and without her hands to save herself, nearly fell. Francis caught her and held her, his grip strong but not hurtful. When she stumbled again, he lifted her and carried her out of the cottage in his arms.

  “Please don’t harm Merwynna. I love her. She’s an old woman. Don’t kill her, Francis.”

  “Your evidence, flimsy though it was, has been destroyed,” he said gruffly. “Who’d believe the ranting of a mad old witch?”

  “Promise me.”

  He dragged breath and coughed again. “I won’t touch her. You have my word.”

  “There’s coltsfoot in the cottage. A spoonful of the tonic will help your cough.”

  “Jesus, Alix! I’m going to kill you and you’re worried about my cough?”

  No less stunned than he at the absurdity of this, she began to cry.

  “So you’re a woman at heart, after all. And I expected you to die proudly, stalwart as a man.”

  Shamed into silence, she fought back her tears as he carried her down to the lakeside. It was a wild afternoon, dark, and so foggy she couldn’t see more than six feet ahead of her. She couldn’t imagine what he intended. He couldn’t use his sword, and she had no horse to conveniently fall from. “How am I going to die?”

  The old wooden boat she had used to rescue Alan was pulled up on the shore. He set her down in the stern and pushed it into the water. “You’re going to drown,” he said, taking the oars and striking out for deeper water.

  “Drown?”

  “You took this boat out on the lake. Who knows why? I doubt anybody will be surprised, though. ‘Tis the sort of thing you’d do. A storm came up, the water got rough, as it is getting now. The boat is old and rotten—the bottom seams began to separate, as they will before I’m through. The boat capsized; you could not swim; you drowned.”

  You could not swim. She stared at him as if she hadn’t heard right. What did he mean, she could not swim? Of course she could swim. She’d been swimming all her life.

  But he didn’t know that. It occurred to her that she knew very few people who could swim. Most of the seamen on Roger’s ship, she’d been astonished to learn, hadn’t the least idea how to keep their bodies afloat. Merciful heavens! Hope surged in her again. “Then what? You go back to Westmor dripping wet and tell them all you’ve just tried and failed to save my life?”

  “No, that would be too risky. No one but you knows I’m here. Roger thinks I’m behind, not ahead of him on the road. I won’t arrive at Westmor until well after he does, a couple of days, perhaps, from now. By then they will have found your body and Roger will need my comfort and consolation.”

  She said nothing. He had it all figured out. Except one thing.

  He sent her a sharp look, as if he could read her mind. “You cannot swim, can you?”

  If she had ever needed the skill to dissemble, she needed it now. She raised large round eyes to his, eyes she knew must be dilated with fear and shock and grief. She thought about Priscilla. She remembered Ned’s pitiful dying in the dark. She imagined Will lying on that stony bier beneath the altar in the Whitcombe chapel. “No,” she said, her voice shaking convincingly. “In sooth, I’m terrified of drowning. There was a prophecy, once, that spoke of dark water and death. Please, Francis. I’m sorry to disillusion you with my lack of stalwartness, but I don’t want to die, particularly in such a manner. I will never tell a soul what you have done if you will spare my life.”

  “They say drowning is the least painful way to die,” he told her, not ungently. They were well into the middle of the lake now. The water heaved with the rising wind, and the fog was so thick they could not see the shore. Francis pulled in the oars. “‘Twill be easier if you don’t struggle. When the water enters your lungs, ‘tis said to feel euphoric. Surrender to it, and it will soon be over.”

  “Many thanks for the advice!”

  He moved toward her and she shied back against the side of the boat. Her wrists were bound, her clothes were heavy; her skirts and petticoats must weigh several pounds. Being able to swim would not save her if he threw her in in this condition.

  “Courage, Alix.”

  “My hands. I wish to fold my hands and pray.”

  The boat rocked as he pulled her away from the side and against his big body. Something flashed—a knife—and then her hands were free. Of course. A drowned body with its wrists bound could only be the victim of a murderer. “Pray, then, but quickly. Your soul will fly to heaven, of that I have no doubt.”

  She bowed her head, pressing her trembling hands together. God give me strength, she prayed silently. Preserve me, for I do not intend to die. Not while Roger lives. Not while I carry his child beneath my breast. Please, God. Spare my life!

  Aloud she said, “Forgive me my sins in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti. And forgive Francis, Father, as I do. Help him do penance so that one day his soul may be free of this fearful sin.”

  Francis groaned; against her, she felt his body tremble. She knew then that her words were not a lie. She did forgive him, this man whose tragedy was loving a man too much, loving the same man she also loved. In that they were united. She had not realized until this moment that love itself could be a sin. Francis Lacklin’s fear of losing Roger’s friendship had led to the destruction of his immortal soul.

  She raised her head. “It’s over for you. I think you know that. Whatever happens today. You’re not just killing my babe and me; you’re killing yourself as well. If you can do this, your soul must already be lost.”

  “Be still! I will not miss your tongue.”

  “My tongue called you back from the bourns of death once. Remember that when you pretend to mourn with Roger over my poor drowned body.”

  He stared at her, his shoulders slumped. For a moment she thought she had broken him and saved herself. For a moment she thought he would not be able to go through with it after all. Then he pursed his lips, and the hard, controlled expression she’d always associated with him came down over his features. She remembered his self-discipline, the quality he possessed in greater measure than either Roger or herself.

  Without another word he picked her up and heaved her over the side. She caught her breath and held it just as the cold black water closed over her head.

  Chapter 35

  Ale
xandra surfaced once near the boat, arms deliberately flailing. If he suspected she could swim, he would come after her. The water was choppy, the fog thicker than ever, almost hiding him from sight. The fog, she realized, was a blessing.

  Her shoes and heavy broadcloth gown combined with the roughness of the water to make staying afloat difficult. As she swallowed water and choked, fear stole through her again. She was a goodly distance from the nearest bank and weakened from her pregnancy. What if she couldn’t make it?

  She tried to focus her mind, remembering the words Merwynna had taught her long ago:

  Avaunt thou, Fear, Thou Menacer,

  Thou Shadow, thou Mirage

  I see thee not, I feel thee not,

  I rise up firm and proud.

  Avaunt thou, Fear…

  “Alexandra!”

  Francis was shouting at her. The fog cloaked him, but she could see him reaching out toward her. His limbs seemed to have elongated in a bizarre fashion—a long, ghostly arm was thrusting at her… No. No, it was an oar. Was he having second thoughts, or simply getting ready to bash her with it, to make certain she sank? He yelled again, but the wind tore his words away. Alexandra flailed her arms once more, then took a deep breath and slid beneath the surface. She dived deep and began to swim underwater as fast as possible, away from the boat, away from the man who wanted her dead.

  She stayed under until her lungs were screaming for air, and then she surfaced, trying not to gasp as she breathed. Fog was all around her. She couldn’t see Francis, but once again she thought she heard him frantically shouting her name.

  Treading water, she reached down and pulled at her awkward clothing. The wind was tossing her and the fog was so thick she couldn’t see the shore. She was disoriented. Perhaps the weather was no blessing after all. Perhaps it was a curse.

  She finally kicked free of her shoes and shed the heaviest of her petticoats, then struck out again, swimming on the surface this time. She could not see anything clearly. It occurred to her that she could be moving in the wrong direction. Or in a circle. Or back toward the boat. She stopped and listened, hearing nothing now. No more shouts. Did he believe her dead? Shivering, she swam on.

 

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