Mostly dark.
Wait, why were Mr. Costeroe's clothes only mostly dark? What was that on his clothes? Her eyes narrowed and she raised the lantern toward him.
Although he had clearly attempted to brush his garments clean, Mr. Costeroe's waistcoat still bore some short fawn hairs which had eluded him. Short fawn hairs.
Mr. Costeroe had been shed upon by a pug.
She glanced up at his face.
His eyes were no longer sympathetic. When he spoke, his voice had a maliciously harsh tone. “Insufferable dog's hair gets ever'where."
Twelve
Gwenllian spun on her heel and ran for the house. Brutal arms encircled her waist, throwing her back. She lashed out, swinging the Argand lamp at Mr. Costeroe's head. The glass globe made contact and shattered. He filled the night with profanities as darkness enveloped them both. But he had let go of her.
She stumbled forward, her hands on the ground, half running, half crawling. It was too dark. The moon must be hidden behind clouds. She fixed her gaze on the yellow-lit windows of Primroselea, hoping she did not trip as she ran.
Hands were on her again. That man had the eyes of a cat. He wrenched her arm, pulling her up short. She kicked at him. He knocked her to the ground. She heard her muslin dress rip as she fell. At least it freed her legs. She kicked wildly at him, momentarily keeping him at bay. But when she rolled over to regain her feet, he grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers hurt as they dug into her flesh.
She screamed. There was nothing left to do but scream. Then he had her, one hand clamped over her mouth and the other wrapped around her torso. He was dragging her toward the cliff. She continued trying to scream even though she had already known they were too far away from the house for anyone to hear her.
Mr. Costeroe swore at her and ordered her to be quiet. Gwenllian flailed her legs. She attempted to dig her heels into the earth but her thin leather boots were too delicate to do much more than make an impression. He hauled her across the grass. The moon peeped out from between the clouds. She could tell by the silver light that they were inexorably approaching closer and closer to the cliff.
Suddenly he flung her around. She fell toward a ramshackle, wooden structure resembling a shed. The makeshift shelter had been assembled in such a way that it was partially hidden by a natural cleft in the land. She recognized the location. It was from this fold in the cliffs that an obscure path had been cut down the inside cliff face all the way to the narrow strip of pebbly coastline below.
She leapt to her feet but he shoved her inside the shed before she could run. It was lit by several half-burned, guttering candles. And they were not the only things the shed contained.
Five men stood around a barrel upon which a small collation of bread and cheese was spread. Each one carried a sword at their side. When she had been pushed inside, their hands had gone to their swords as if expecting a fight. Having seen who the newcomers were, they relaxed.
A few of them watched her curiously as Mr. Costeroe spoke French to them. Those did look like French uniforms. Was this some sort of sheltered staging area? Was the invasion under way?
She had to warn the others. Gwenllian whirled away from Mr. Costeroe, dodged around him, and rushed for the entrance. She almost made it. He grabbed her arm and yanked her about to face him. She only got a glimpse of his infuriated eyes before he backhanded her across the face so hard he knocked her to the dirt floor.
She crawled over to the corner farthest from Mr. Costeroe. Her eyes were watering madly and her face ached beyond reason. She curled up and hugged her knees. Her clothes were torn and even her boots were irrevocably ruined. Perhaps if she stayed quiet for a bit he would forget about her and she could escape.
Mr. Costeroe was watching her. “Nice bit o’ muslin, y'are. Feisty. I fancy a bit o’ that."
She ignored him. If only she had her bow and arrows.
He chuckled. “He won't have nothin’ t’ do with ya when I'm done."
She tried to remain calm despite the icy terror constricting her belly. She was uncertain exactly what he meant, but those words could only signify unpleasantness.
The longer she sat, the harder and colder the floor felt. She would have liked to stretch her legs but feared drawing attention to herself. If only the entrance were closer. She glanced at the only gate to freedom.
Suddenly Geoffrey appeared at the entryway. Gwenllian's hope surged. She clambered to her feet, ready to flee to his side. He stepped fully into the room.
"I see you did not need this, then.” Geoffrey held Oliver in his arms.
"Oliver!” Gwenllian gasped.
The pug raised his head at the sound of her voice and upon seeing Gwenllian began to squirm and wriggle excitedly, trying to get down to go to her. Geoffrey dropped the dog. Oliver careened over to Gwenllian's side. She knelt and hugged his warm, wiggling body. He seemed to be unhurt. The end of a rope collar dangled from his neck. He had apparently been tethered someplace.
They had used him as bait to lure her away from the house. Mr. Costeroe and Geoffrey. Geoffrey with the French bee in his watch.
"Why?” Gwenllian could barely manage to say the word.
Geoffrey raised a disdainful eyebrow and gave her no answer. Instead he spoke to Mr. Costeroe.
"Everything going to plan?"
"The second boat will be here soon, sir.” The way Mr. Costeroe said it, ‘sir’ was not a mark of respect. “There's only twenty men but they're a fearsome bunch—all battle-hardened veterans. Butchering and burning one house will seem like nothin’ to ‘em."
"No, no burning,” Geoffrey said quickly. “Primroselea's an acceptable inheritance and I will have better things than furniture to spend my lovely new money on."
"No burning then. Just the butchering."
Geoffrey nodded. “Fine. Do make certain they understand that I am to be the only survivor."
"They know, sir. Ya wear your tricolor ribbons and y'll be safe."
"And tell them to leave it to me to acquire a flesh wound,” Geoffrey added. “Wouldn't want one of them to be accidentally accurate at my expense."
"Get back afore yer missed."
As Geoffrey turned to go, his eyes met Gwenllian's.
"It won't be worth it,” she said coldly.
Geoffrey hesitated. “What won't?"
"You want to be Baron Berwentford.” It was the only reason she could think of for such a massacre. He had to kill both his brother and his brother's wife—in case she were pregnant—to assure himself of the title. The rest were incidental. No, wait, Geoffrey had not known about the house party. The rest were more of a happy accident for him. A pile of murders in which to hide the true targets.
"Bluestocking hoyden,” Geoffrey sneered. “If that sister of yours wasn't such a slut I would not have had to resort to this. In a few years, Edgar would've died childless and I would have inherited. With Faircross ploughing her, she's probably well on her way to bearing fruit. Why are you laughing?"
Gwenllian could not contain her hysterical giggles. So this was a consequence of her sister's immoral behavior. Of all the consequences which Letticia had not thought about, this one had to be ranked first as being completely beyond consideration. It simply could not be happening.
"A pathetic, little weasel, that's what you are, Mr. Berwentford,” Gwenllian managed to declare between giggles. “And you will be an atrocious baron."
Geoffrey scowled at her. He glanced over at Mr. Costeroe. “When you kill her, drag the body closer to the house. No, make it look like they took her from the house and ruined and murdered her here. Oh, do what you want.” He made a dismissive motion with his wrist. “Just make certain she's dead. She's the only one who might trace this back to me."
Gwenllian pressed her lips together. He was unaware that Mr. Wyckliff knew about the bee. Letticia knew about the bee, as well, though Mr. Wyckliff was far more capable of seeing to it that Geoffrey met with some sort of justice—assuming Mr. Wyckliff survived the nigh
t.
Two of the French soldiers were arguing with Geoffrey. French words were flying thick and fast, but from their faces and gestures Gwenllian had the strong impression that the two Frenchmen were repudiating Geoffrey's suggestion of rape.
Geoffrey threw up his arms and turned to Mr. Costeroe. “They're killing everybody in Primroselea, you wouldn't think a little ravaging would be so objectionable."
"Soldiers have peculiar morals, sir,” Mr. Costeroe agreed. “Get back t’ the house so the raid can get on as planned."
Geoffrey left, muttering to himself. Gwenllian subsided to the floor and Oliver climbed onto her lap. She stroked his hairy back, the familiar, rhythmic movements helping to calm her nerves. Somehow she had to warn Primroselea. Somehow she had to warn Mr. Wyckliff.
* * * *
The lock on his bedchamber door had been fairly simple to defeat. Daniel waited, making certain the house was still sleeping. Then he crept down the silent hallway, down the circular stairs, to Lord Berwentford's collection of swords. He chose one modeled on the familiar dragoon sword with its long, gently arcing blade. It was a fine weapon, nicely balanced, a privilege to carry. Not standard issue by any means.
Daniel headed downstairs for the back door. Whatever Mr. Berwentford was smuggling into the country was arriving tonight. In a way, he was glad he had been forced to spend the day resting in his room. It might have been simpler to apprehend Mr. Berwentford during daylight, but without the actual smuggled loot it would have been near impossible to prove that the brother of a baron was cooperating with the French. Best to catch him at it. Better still if he resisted. Daniel could execute him in self-defense and save a bit of hassle all around. The same went for that vile traitor Costeroe.
He crossed the darkened kitchen and paused at the unlit back door. Didn't they usually leave a lamp here for Miss Lloyd? He glanced outside. No one was standing out there, not even a pug. So the lamp was not in use. He squeaked the back door open and was out into the cool night air. The moonlight was weak and intermittent, but it was enough for him. Perhaps they reckoned it was enough for Miss Lloyd, too.
Miss Lloyd. He felt himself spontaneously smile at the thought of her. It was too bad he could not have had more time with Miss Lloyd. She was the finest thing about this assignment. Hell, she was the finest thing in his life for many a long year.
Halfway down the lawn toward the cliff path, he stumbled. Odd. This lawn was normally so smooth it was unnatural. He crouched down and felt about in the darkness. Fresh clots of dirt. Torn up grass. Small, dug out depressions that could have been heel marks. A struggle had occurred at this spot. Recently. His pulse quickened.
The hunt was on.
Daniel covered the remaining distance to the rickety shed at a swift lope, his nerves thrumming with excitement. As he approached, he could discern multiple shadows crossing through the pool of candlelight that spilled out the shed's open entrance. It would seem there were more people inside than he had expected. Not that that was too much of a problem. He was used to the unexpected.
He positioned himself flat against one side of the entrance and took a chance, sneaking a glance inside the shed. Speak of the unexpected.
Miss Lloyd.
She sat in a corner, her pug on her lap. She looked much the worse for wear. Her clothes were ripped. Her hair was wild. But she glared balefully at the other occupants of the shed, so plainly her spirit was untouched.
He turned his eye to the shed's other occupants, who were just as unexpected in their own way. Five French soldiers. Of all the things Mr. Berwentford could have chosen to help Costeroe smuggle in from France. The man was seven types of fool. And a treasonous fool at that.
Daniel stepped back around the corner where there was less risk of being seen. Not much room in there to fight five men with a sword. Though he would have the element of surprise. Wait, where were Costeroe and Berwentford?
He leaned around the corner of the shed to peer inside again. They definitely were not present.
Suddenly the back of Daniel's skull exploded in a crescendo of pain. He fell to his knees. Another blow cracked into his side, then his sword hilt was wrenched from his fingers. There was shouting in French. Hands grabbed his shoulders, his arms. He was being dragged across the threshold, across the dirt floor of the shed. Daniel struggled to get his feet under him, trying to clear his head. He had to resist.
Miss Lloyd depended upon him.
One of the Frenchmen was trying to pin Daniel's arms behind his back. Disregarding the pain, Daniel lunged sideways, toppling them both over. The French soldier released him as he reflexively tried to catch his own fall. Daniel rolled away, lunged to his feet, and came up fighting.
His punches took down the first Frenchman who swung at him. The next he dispatched with a violent forward move of his head, using his own forehead to break the man's nose with a single, satisfying whack.
"Wyckliff.” It was Costeroe's voice.
He glanced up in Costeroe's general direction. And froze.
Costeroe stood holding Miss Lloyd in front of him, one arm wrapped around her waist. His other hand held a knife at Miss Lloyd's throat.
* * * *
The moment Mr. Wyckliff checked his swing the French swarmed him. He disappeared under the assaulting bodies. Gwenllian tried to call out to him, and felt the knife edge bite her throat.
Using very foul language, Mr. Costeroe told her to be quiet. Then he yelled something at the French soldiers. They piled off Mr. Wyckliff and hoisted him to his feet.
"This isn't yer lucky day.” Mr. Costeroe was gloating. “I'm doubly relieved. I come back from a slash t’ find you hangin’ ‘round our doorway. Now we don’ have nothin’ t’ worry us."
Mr. Wyckliff's eyes burned fiercely. His fists were clenched at his sides. But he said nothing.
Gwenllian was just happy he seemed to be only minimally harmed. She felt Oliver press up against her shin. He was confused by all the commotion and hovered around her feet nervously. She watched as Mr. Wyckliff's eyes went down to Oliver and then back up to her face. He gave her a small but reassuring grin.
She flinched as the knife nicked at her throat again.
"Look at him.” Mr. Costeroe chuckled. “He aches for ya, I can tell. But he thinks he's a gentleman, so he does, so I'll bet he's never touched ya. Have ya, sir? Well, has he, swee'heart?” Mr. Costeroe's fetid breath was hot on her cheek. Arms straight at her sides, she clutched the fabric of her gown with both hands.
Mr. Costeroe was still talking to her, goading Mr. Wyckliff. “What was he like? Was he violent? Or appreciative? Or a bit hasty like? No, he's never had ya. An’ he's never gon’ t', neither. Show him wot he's missin', swee'heart. G'wan! Show him wot you've got, ya lil’ doxy."
Mr. Costeroe grabbed at the neckline of Gwenllian's dress.
"Do not touch me,” she growled. She heard her words almost as if another person spoke them. But she was proud that her voice did not betray the horror thrashing through her frame.
Mr. Costeroe paused, as if her absence of hysterics made him uncertain how to proceed. Then he barked out an order in French. One of the Frenchmen stepped forward and thrust his sword along Mr. Wyckliff's neck, forcing his head up. The tip grazed Mr. Wyckliff and blood trickled down his throat.
"She has t’ look ravaged. You do it, Wyckliff,” Mr. Costeroe ordered.
Mr. Wyckliff's eyes blazed. The Frenchman prodded him with the sword. In a moment Gwenllian feared Mr. Wyckliff would impale himself on the blade trying to fight back.
"I can do this myself,” she quickly said. Anything to save Mr. Wyckliff from injury. “Lower your knife."
Mr. Costeroe surprised her by obeying. He stepped a pace away as well, obviously in order to obtain a better view.
The front panel of her dress buttoned at the left and right corners of the low neckline. Gwenllian unbuttoned it and the front panel fell away, dangling from the juncture with the gown's high waist, exposing the internal, laced white bodice. S
he tried to unlace her bodice. Her shaking fingers only made the knot at the top more entwined. She had to stop, take a deep breath, and start again.
The knot finally gave way. She pulled the bodice halves apart to loosen the laces. Her eyes darted around the room before she could control herself. If only she had kept staring at the ceiling, she would not have seen the gross desires on Mr. Costeroe and the Frenchmen's faces. She glanced at Mr. Wyckliff. His head was lowered. He was attempting to give her what privacy was within his power.
"That won't do!” Mr. Costeroe had noticed Mr. Wyckliff's averted gaze. “Ya must watch.” He gestured to the Frenchman holding the sword on Mr. Wyckliff's neck.
The French soldier forced Mr. Wyckliff forward to stand directly in front of Gwenllian. His eyes locked with hers. She was certain there was admiration in his gaze. He had such lovely hazel eyes.
Her bodice was loose enough to slip down from her breasts now. She let it go.
Mr. Wyckliff gazed directly into her eyes and never once glanced down.
Then he gave her a tender smile as if they were the only two people in the room. In defiance of the blade at his throat, Mr. Wyckliff's hands slowly came up and with deliberate precision restored the two halves of her bodice to their rightful place. She felt the warm, slightly rough skin of his fingers brush against her breasts as he did so. Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes, still steadily gazing into hers, seemed to grow dark as their black center dilated but his unfaltering fingers continued to tighten her bodice laces.
"Shall I kill him for thee?” Mr. Wyckliff asked coolly as he finished lacing her up. It was the only acknowledgment he made that anyone else was in the room.
Gwenllian could feel a pall of uneasiness settle over the others following his words. The French did not know what to make of him. He stood there so tall and calm, never looking at anyone but her, and yet one could almost feel upon the air the intensity of his anger, burning so brightly inside him. The Frenchman holding the sword upon him involuntarily drew back.
Mr. Wyckliff seemed to sense more than see the tiny movement, and he took full advantage of it. She could hardly credit her own eyes at his speed and dexterity as he ducked away, lashed out, and slammed the Frenchman to the floor. Mr. Wyckliff's boot heel crushed the man's wrist. He wrenched the sword from the soldier's broken hand and came up slicing toward Mr. Costeroe.
The Secret Hunter Page 16