by Amy Quinton
“It’s his all right.”
“But…”
He looked at her directly now. “Bea, I know it’s his. His initials are carved inside.”
Chapter 26
“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.”
― William Blake
In the Woods Nearby…
Entirely Too Close to Dansbury and Beatryce…
“Did you leave them my little present?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Very good.” The cloaked man closed his eyes as he tried to imagine the scene. He was quite certain Cliff would remember the ring. But would his heart start racing with fear? Would he confess everything to the little whore he traveled with? Would he even understand the significance of the ring? Would his memories be…painful to recall? The cloaked man took a deep breath to subdue the excitement he felt at the thought, but he couldn’t resist adding, “God, I would have loved to see the look on his face when he found it.” Sigh. “But it’s enough to know the torment he must be feeling. So it’ll do. For now.”
The cloaked man opened his eyes and looked down his nose at the younger man before him…the traitor so willing to betray his own friends. And so typical of someone who was not English by blood or birth. He wanted to make this man uncomfortable, too. To make him squirm. God, the thought was thrilling.
It was a rare stroke of genius for Himself to enlist this man’s assistance. To convince him to betray his own friends. He wondered if the turncoat realized that traitors always lose in the end. Alas, now was not the time to make the man aware of this fact. Not while he was still of some use.
And it was really quite frustrating that the man did not appear to cower under his powerful glare.
So be it. He would still delight in revealing this man’s identity to Dansbury…right before he killed Dansbury once and for all. For now, he would bide his time and send this latest henchman, this puppet, on his way.
“Excellent, my friend. You’ve been very useful to the Society. In future, you will be rewarded quite handsomely for your service. But for now, keep on their trail and report back to me when you can.”
He continued, “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you not to get caught. Dansbury can be quite lethal when he wants to be, you know.”
The traitor crossed his arms, but didn’t speak, frustrating the cloaked man to no end. He loved tormenting others. Loved to see fear and pain in another man’s eyes. It was how he kept his sanity through all his years of hiding. Damn this man’s eyes. What was it going to take to break him? Whatever it was, he would find out before it was over. Before the deceiver’s life was forfeited for the cause.
“By the way, I have another little present for our friends. This time I want you to stay and take note of Dansbury’s reaction to my little gift. I want to know every detail when you return with your report.”
“Aye…”
* * * *
An Abandoned Tenant Hut…
Beatryce looked around their lodgings for the night with a practical eye. The one-roomed place was drafty and isolated, and that was an understatement to be sure. But at least this time, there was a fireplace with a blazing fire to keep them warm…er. The hole in the roof certainly hindered the effect. And the gaps in the walls that even a rather large bird could fit through didn’t help matters either.
There wasn’t a bed, not even a rickety old table. Just a couple of rocking chairs, one on the verge of collapse, the fireplace, and the floor. In fact, there weren’t even any hinges to hold up the door. Just some crude lengths of wood that would be nailed in place by Dansbury to keep the door from falling in. Or out.
He’d found a hammer on the floor just inside the open doorway when they’d arrived—as if he’d known it would be there waiting. Certainly it was odd. La, this entire journey was bizarre.
The hut must have been abandoned sometime in the last century—at the latest. Despite that, the place smelled fresh—thanks to all of the built in ventilation and a lack of any linens to speak of. For that, the place was infinitely better than their stay at the barn. Possibly even better than the last Inn for that matter. And they’d stay reasonably dry if it rained in the night. La, she could care less about sleeping on the floor so long as she stayed dry and the bed—er, pallet on the floor—was lice and odor-free.
While Dansbury tended to his namesake outside, Bea made up two pallets on the floor with their surfeit of blankets. She really did wonder where Dansbury had found them all and why he’d thought they’d need so many. She wouldn’t complain, for they were certainly coming in useful tonight.
And there she went, answering her own question.
Her pallet was likely to be reasonably soft and warm for a makeshift bed on a hard-packed, earthen floor.
Dansbury returned just as she was settling in on her crude pallet. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, simply set to work ‘locking’ them in. His color had returned to normal; his demeanor now only ‘slightly angry’, if she were any judge. It was better than his earlier desolate look of despair and horror. Like he’d seen a ghost, if one believed in such things.
He’d been lost in his thoughts the entire day. In fact, they hadn’t spoken at all throughout the rest of their drive save for him to give her directions for when and where to stop or where to turn. Though there was the one time she pulled off of her own volition for lunch and a rest. He didn’t even question her decision; he just took care of his own needs, and after a small rest, returned with her to the wagon to resume their trek.
Well, she was finished with his silent brooding. He needed to talk about it, though she doubted he’d agree. He was a man after all.
“All right, Dansbury, what have you come up with?”
He looked up at her, startled. As if he’d forgotten she was present. Forgotten even where they were. He was sitting on his own pallet, his arms resting on raised knees. He only stared at her a moment before he leaned back against the wall behind him and sought the ceiling. The moon shone through one of the many gaps in the roof, making his golden locks sparkle. The sight was distracting.
Surprisingly, he spoke his thoughts. “I remember Father giving my brother the ring now. I was very young, possibly six, and the bulk of the memory is somewhat vague. I remember watching them from beneath a sofa in my father’s library. I’d been hiding in there for some time with my toy soldiers. They didn’t know I was there. I remember wanting desperately not to get caught though I don’t remember why exactly. And I remember nothing of what was said.
“The worst of it all is that I do recall, now, my brother’s face as he looked up from admiring his new ring. I remember him rubbing the stone with his thumb while he grinned up at Father. I remember thinking it was an odd sort of smile. One I didn’t fully understand at the time. But after that, I never gave it much thought, though I must have just buried the memory deep in my mind because now, I can see his face, and it is as clear as if I were still in that library looking at the both of them now. His grin is quite vividly imprinted there. And as an adult, I see it, and I know that what I didn’t recognize then was the look of…greed.”
Was this one of the secrets the assassin referred to in his note? She doubted it; it wasn’t haunting enough, though a terrible memory to be sure.
Dansbury banged his head once against the wall in frustration. “I am somewhat saddened to know this.”
He said ‘know this’ and Bea understood that he did not doubt his recollection at all. She also understood that ‘somewhat saddened’ was the perfect example of an understatement. He was torn apart inside. She leaned back on her elbows and watched him from beneath her lashes. Her relaxed pose all but inviting him to continue.
He looked over at her then, “It gets worse, though I hope I am wrong. You see, I cannot help but wonder what else is known about my family’s involvement with the Society?”
He appeared to be getting angry now. He balled his hands into fists on his knees, and continued, “How could the Hom
e Office not know of my family’s connection to the Society? How could Stonebridge not know it?”
There. That was the crux of the matter, she could see it as plain as day. It wasn’t ire at his brother’s possible deceptions that brought forth his anger; he was just a boy when his brother died…thus, any brotherly feelings toward him would have diminished with the passage of time.
But Stonebridge? The duke was another matter altogether. Could Stonebridge have known about his family’s involvement with the society and kept this information from his friend all these years? His best friend? And it couldn’t have been simply a lie of omission. Stonebridge would have had to actively cover up Dansbury’s familial connection to the society in order to keep this information secret.
She sat up and began to chew her nails. Something she hadn’t done in years. She felt cold at the thought of what all this might do to Dansbury. How it might change him. Would it break him?
To lead a life of relative ease. To trust so easily and completely, only to have it all come raining down on your head in a matter of days…
Deception—from a fellow agent? From your best friend? Treason. Learning your family might have significant skeletons in their closet. Knowing someone knows and is clearly taunting you about it.
Not to mention having to travel across the country with a woman you generally despise. Or did. Perhaps, not any longer.
La, Dansbury’s world seemed to be crashing down around his ears. He was on a straight path to hell.
And he didn’t even know the half of it. How was she ever going to tell him the rest?
She didn’t know, but yet again, now was not the time. She looked at him, and said, “Well, we can't know for sure until you talk to Stonebridge. And quite frankly, your family's past is irrelevant to the matter at hand.”
“Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Bea. Someone knows something about my family, and that gives them an advantage.”
Every time he called her Bea, it lit a flame inside her she desperately wanted—no, needed—to ignore. Unfortunately, she could recall the exact moment, in detail, he’d first called her that. It was when they’d been shot at on their second day out of London. She’d done her best to chalk the event up to the stress of the situation. But then he’d called her Bea again. And again. With increasing frequency. And, now, it was impossible to ignore. She liked it. Perhaps more than liked it. No one had ever given her a pet name before. Or at least not one that wasn’t crass or rude.
She shook off her fanciful thoughts and returned to the matter at hand. “So what is your plan, then?”
“Our plan is to go to the place we’re most likely to find answers. And from there, I will send a message to Stonebridge, inviting him to join us…”
Chapter 27
“Sometimes in life we find comfort in people we least expect it from.”
―Unknown
The Next Morning…
He’d managed to keep his hands off her the entire night. It hadn’t been easy. She was so near, yet so far away. Oh, but he’d wanted to both hold her for comfort and bury himself so deeply inside her they’d not know where one began and the other ended. It was a sobering thought. His friends had been right. He wanted to tup her; he admitted it freely now.
He hadn’t allowed himself to analyze any further feelings toward her. But, he realized, it wasn’t so long ago that he abhorred the very thought of being attracted to her at all. But he could confess, now, that the attraction was there. And strong. Had never gone away, really. And the thought no longer bothered him like it had. She was a beautiful and inherently sexual woman. He’d have to be dead not to notice and respond to her appeal.
But he was starting to realize that Lady Beatryce was so much more than she seemed on the surface. He was starting to understand her, even if he didn’t always agree with her actions. He’d caught a glimpse of her past and could see the demons that drove her behavior. And he was starting to admire her strength, and her practical nature.
They’d been on the road for days now, sleeping in extreme and remote locations. Not once had she complained about it. And she did everything he asked without question. It wasn’t blind obedience, that, but her understanding of the seriousness of the situation and, though she’d rather die than admit it, her trust. In him.
That knowledge was far more disturbing because he understood the significance of it for a woman like Beatryce. And he shied away from the thought of its importance to him.
He looked up and inhaled the crisp morning air. The sun had just made its presence known above the horizon. Dew still coated the ground and made the toes of his boots darken with the dampness.
He approached their carriage with his pallet of blankets, but was halted in his steps by the sight that greeted him. For there, on one side wall of the wagon’s bed, stood a child’s toy soldier.
And right away, he knew it was his.
Anger surged. He dropped the pile of blankets and grabbed the toy. Then, he spun around and scanned the trees around him. Of course, there was no sign of the traitor lurking nearby.
“Damn you, you traitorous bastard! You were supposed to be my friend! My friend! How could you?” He bellowed his questions to the trees, hoping that the turncoat was still nearby to hear his curse. He didn’t know if the man following them was MacLeod or Kelly. But it was one of them, without a doubt. Not many people had the skill.
And he’d counted them both as friends. His eyes watered with emotion at the thought. It tore at him. Ate at his soul. Never mind, the significance of the toy soldier. The one he’d thought he lost after that fateful day under the sofa in Father’s library.
He spun at the sound of footsteps behind him. It was Beatryce, wrapped in an oversized blanket with her hair sticking out in all directions. She was a mess, dirty and disheveled. She’d never looked more beautiful.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” she asked, concern darkening her brow.
He broke the trance brought on by her beauty. “What’s the matter? A fool has dared to play a terrible, dangerous trick on me. A dupe who will pay with his life.” He looked to the trees again. “Do you hear me, you bastard? You will pay with your damn life!”
He was so angry his hands shook. His heart raced, and his mouth went dry. His thoughts were wild; he couldn’t focus on any one thing. And the things around him looked off, sharper and off-color. He was so angry…and destroyed…by the thought of betrayal.
A warm hand began rubbing his back in slow, smooth circles. It eased him, somewhat—took the edge off his racing thoughts. He turned and without a second thought, enveloped Bea in his arms.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled her scent through a deep breath. She smelled of the outdoors. Of pine and grass. Crisp. With a trace of smoke from the fire that’d burned in the hearth.
They stood there that way for what might have been hours, embracing and sharing their strength. He didn’t care that the turncoat might be watching. He didn’t care that not long ago, he’d despised this woman. She offered her strength, which he knew was formidable, and he took it.
Eventually he pulled back and looked at her. He couldn’t resist running his hands through her hair in an attempt to straighten it. He watched his hands as they disappeared into her thick blonde tresses. His fingers caught in a particularly tangled knot. He tugged and picked at it a moment, then he caught her smile out of the corner of his eye.
He looked down, into her eyes, and they both burst out laughing.
“Don’t even bother trying to fix it. I know I’m a mess. Always have been. Always will be. My father always claimed nothing could help.”
“I hope you didn’t believe him.” She looked somewhat bothered by his remark, and he was both astonished and angry to see it. He never would have believed this strong, beautiful woman could doubt herself. Even for a minute. Ah, but she was a complex woman…with hidden vulnerabilities and insecurities. They made her real even though he didn’t like the thought of her feeling th
at way.
He wanted to kill her father all over again for making her doubt herself, thus he didn’t think before he blurted out, “How can you think that when you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on?”
Her mouth fell open. It would have been funny, if he wasn’t red-faced with sudden embarrassment. “You think…”
“Ah, hell, I didn’t mean to say that.”
* * * *
In a Nearby Village…
The cloaked man paced the floor of his room, desperate to hear news of Dansbury’s reaction to his latest gift. He’d spent all night dreaming of the many possible outcomes—vivid, fantastic dreams. Dreams that made him excited to the point that he’d spent himself in bed. The idea of his foe in fear was indescribably titillating. A fantasy come true, one he’d harbored for years.
He paused by the room’s lone table. It was scarred and wobbled persistently. His finger traced a particularly deep groove, carved by a small knife. Just that light touch was enough to cause the table to rock, the far leg hit the wooden floor with a clunk.
He clenched his fists in anger at the thought that he had to stoop to sleeping in such low class accommodations. Such squalor. Hell, he would hardly classify the room as an accommodation; it wasn’t fit to house rats.
He should be living in gilded splendor. And it was all Dansbury’s fault that he wasn’t, damn the man. It was comforting to know that their roles would be reversed soon enough. He would have it all. As he should. As he deserved. Soon.
One wooden chair sat behind the table, facing the door. He decided it would be best if he were sitting when the traitor arrived. It wouldn’t do to have the man see him pacing the floor, as if he were anxious. Or concerned. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
He sat in the chair and clasped his hands together on the table. He forced his body into perfect alignment, to exude calm confidence. Manly poise. Both feet firmly on the floor. Head lifted…