Mr. Costeroe pounced at her, undoubtedly hoping to hide again behind his hostage, but his motion spurred Gwenllian's wits into action. What was she doing standing here? Run!
She dodged Mr. Costeroe and ran for the entryway. No, wait, where was Oliver? She spun back. Mr. Costeroe was coming for her, his face frighteningly twisted with malice.
Then Mr. Wyckliff leapt between them.
But Gwenllian had no respite, as harsh hands grabbed her shoulders from behind, pulling her back. She twisted and kicked, all the while attempting to keep her anxious gaze upon Mr. Wyckliff.
Mr. Wyckliff lunged. He killed Mr. Costeroe with one thrust of his sword.
Mr. Costeroe was decidedly dead.
Gwenllian had inadvertently stopped fighting, covering her horrified eyes with her hands. The hands on her shoulders shoved her to the ground. She struggled to roll free, then suddenly Mr. Wyckliff hauled the Frenchman off her.
She scrambled away. Where was Oliver? She found him standing where the bread and cheese had once been. She scooped him up in her arms and made her way toward the entrance in fits and starts, trying to avoid the frenzied fist fight careening around the room.
Almost there. Almost there.
Carrying her pug, Gwenllian ran outside. She got far enough from the shed that Oliver would not be distracted by the goings-on inside it, then put him down on the grass.
"Where's Letticia?” she asked him.
Oliver cocked his head. He looked at her inquisitively. He recognized that name.
"Where's Letticia? You can do this, Oliver. Where's Letticia? Where's Letticia?"
Oliver turned and looked back toward the faint lights that were the windows of Primroselea.
"Yes! Good boy. Find Letticia. Find Letticia.” Gwenllian pointed his body toward the house, one hand on either side of him. “You can do this, puglet. Find Letticia.” She released him, subtly urging him forward with the flourish of her hands.
Oliver barreled away down the lawn. What with the weak moonlight, he disappeared into the dark almost immediately. Hopefully he would be able to attract the attention of one of the servants and they would realize she was missing. If he could not, he would never get in the house. And they would still be on their own.
Gwenllian ran back to the shed. The moonlight was glinting on something metal by the entrance. A sword. Mr. Wyckliff must have brought a sword with him. She stooped to pick it up. When she stood, she could see why the battle inside was not a sword fight. There just was not enough room to wield a bunch of these heavy weapons. Fists were much more appropriate. But since she could not fist fight...
Gwenllian entered the shed. Two of the Frenchmen lay unresponding on the ground. The other three were pummeling Mr. Wyckliff, but he was giving as good as he got. She dragged the sword the few paces it took to reach the brawl. Do not think. If she thought about what a sword did to a body she would not be able to use it. Do not think. She reached the closest Frenchman and swung the sword as best and as hard as she could.
Gwenllian had good aim.
There was blood everywhere. How could a body have that much blood? Blood on her clothes. Blood on the dirt floor. Blood on Mr. Wyckliff. Some of that was his. The French soldiers had injured her Mr. Wyckliff. Fury gave Gwenllian another good blow with the sword before the remaining French could react to the surprise of her attack.
But they could not recover.
Mr. Wyckliff dispatched the other two Frenchmen with his bare hands. He certainly had some lethal talents.
She let the heavy sword drop from her fingers to the floor. “They are all dead?” she whispered.
"Aye. We won't have to worry about them.” Mr. Wyckliff stepped across the bodies to stand in front of her. “Are you injured?"
She shook her head. “Are you?"
"Nothing I mind. Now, quick, what's their plan?"
"It is not an invasion. But there is a second boat coming with more French soldiers. They are to slaughter everyone at Primroselea, apparently at Geoffrey's request."
"More likely the French were looking for a coastal manor to destroy. Such a raid would create a good deal of terror for very little expense. It would seem to prove they could murder us in our beds any time they want. And if Geoffrey was looking for someone to kill his family, I imagine Costeroe approached him at one of the gaming hells he frequents and Geoffrey was quick to sign on. Do you know how many there are?"
"I heard the number twenty, but I do not know if they,” Gwenllian indicated the bodies on the floor, “were part of that number. Mr. Costeroe is a French agent?"
Mr. Wyckliff nodded. “Seems he has turned so for money. He has no loyalty beyond silver. Now, get thee away from here, lass. ‘Tis too dangerous for the likes of thee."
"But not for you, judging by your skills.” She could not think precisely how to phrase her next question. “You, you are not a gentlemen, are you? I mean ... I did not mean it like that."
Mr. Wyckliff laughed darkly. “No. I'm nothing: the damaged, illegitimate son of a peer who was more of a bastard by nature than I am by name. I can just about act like one of them, but I'm not one of them. And I never shall be."
"Your money?"
"I haven't any. What wasn't simply rumor was given to me, like the curricle and my clothes. All props for play-acting."
"And your carriage accident?"
He grinned mirthlessly. “Aye, a carriage called Assaye. You would not have liked it."
She recognized the name. It was a battle. “So you are a soldier?"
"A lieutenant. Though I am but a year or two older than yourself, you are thinking I am rather old for a lieutenant, and you would be right."
"I was actually thinking nothing of the sort. I believe a gentleman can begin his military career as an ensign at sixteen, but as to how it progresses from there I am sadly uninformed."
"I am with the Light Dragoons, so for me it would have been cornet, not ensign, had I been a gentleman. As I was not, my advancement took a bit longer. I was raised from the ranks. A common soldier. So you see, I am utterly beneath you."
She took a deep breath. The world was upside down tonight. She might as well add to the madness. “I would still marry you."
"Brazen hussy,” he teased. He bent forward and gave her a swift kiss on the forehead. “Who spoke of marriage? I shan't marry thee. I would never condemn you to a life on campaign."
"I could adapt."
"I dare say you might envision how to boil an egg for supper, lass, but do you know how to use maggots to clean a wound?"
"I can learn."
"We do not have the time for this conversation now. And chances are at least one of us won't be alive to continue it later. We must throw the French back into the sea."
"We? What we? Have you pigs in your belly?"
"We are enough.” He raised his hands and firmly clasped her shoulders. “The militia is too far away. They would not get here in time to do anything but look futile. You must fetch as many people from Primroselea as you can. We won't alarm the village unless we cannot hold them off."
"But with the village's help..."
"The fewer people who know of this incursion the better. The French want to terrorize our countryside. Once the village knows, the news will spread like the plague. We will have panic in the streets as far as the Scottish border. We will have done their job for them.” Mr. Wyckliff gently took her in his arms and hugged her. “Princess, all that stands between England and complete havoc is you and me. And as many people from Primroselea as you can fetch."
"I understand."
"Off with you, then.” He released her.
She moved toward the entrance. “What will you be doing?"
"Blocking their path,” he responded, his tone light.
"Just you?"
"And the pigs in my belly."
"Do not jest. I admit you are good, but how..."
"I've examined that path before. ‘Tis treacherous. They must come up one at a time. And there ca
nnot be more than twenty of them."
"You can hold off twenty men?"
"I've done worse."
"You are a bad liar, sir."
"Then ‘tis a good thing I do not intend to make a habit of it."
There was an uncomfortable silence. Gwenllian hesitated, staring at the floor. She knew she must leave. The sooner the better. She had to raise the alarm.
But she was afraid to leave, afraid that once she turned her back she would never see him again. She raised her eyes and their gazes locked.
Mr. Wyckliff crossed to her in three long strides. He grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her up against his chest. Then his mouth claimed hers. She felt his fierce passion all the way to her toes. When he broke the kiss to speak, his voice was ragged.
"Give me my name. It's—"
"Daniel,” she answered breathlessly. “I know. Daniel."
She kissed him. He moaned softly, a low desperate sound, and fervently returned her kiss. Gleefully, she hoped that meant she was acquiring talent. The pressure of his mouth increased, demanding access, submission, and she complied. His tongue gently parted her lips further, touching, swirling, deepening the kiss until his possession of her mouth was complete and she melted against him. She wanted him to possess her entirely.
"I love you, Daniel."
"Nowt to how I luv thee, Gwenllian.” He was grinning, tenderly kissing her between each word, making a point of saying her first name.
She hugged him tightly, her fingers trying to clutch his back through his blood-stained cambric shirt. “Come with me."
With gentle, reluctant movements, he freed himself. “You know I cannot."
She pulled herself together and gave him a determined nod. “Good luck."
She started for the door.
"Gwenllian."
She turned and looked back. Daniel had picked up his sword. He held it down at his side with unaffected ease. She was painfully aware of his long fingers wrapped around its hilt, of his bright smile, of his disheveled golden hair, and of his torn and bloody clothing. He had never looked more handsome.
He winked at her. “Fight dirty and die hard."
She smiled. “Is there any other way?” Then she ducked out the door before he could see the tears spilling from her eyes.
* * * *
Daniel stood on the clifftop brandishing his great sword with the gently arcing blade. Even in moonlit silhouette, Gwenllian could tell it was him. The first French solider hove into view suddenly above the cliffline. Daniel brutally kicked him where a man is most vulnerable, then slashed the soldier coming behind as the first one fell.
He swung the heavy sword like it was an extension of his arm, swirling and thrusting violently, madly, beating down the French weapons raised against him as much as parrying them. She heard the clang of metal, and grunts of pain, but above all she heard his voice, raspy with rage and emotion. It carried across the distance like the roar of a defiant lion. “Come on! Come on, you bastards! I want you!"
Gwenllian turned and continued running. She did not dare look back again. Not only was there no time to spare, but if she did look back she might weep in earnest and that would hamper her running. Soon she could no longer hear Daniel. She was nearing the gardens. She tried to make her legs dash faster.
A lamp! Someone was carrying a lamp in the gardens. Gwenllian aimed for the lamp. She was stumbling as she got near enough to see who was holding it.
Letticia!
"Gwenllian!” her sister shrieked. “Are you unharmed? James heard Oliver scratching at the back door and you weren't anywhere to be found. What is happening?"
And she had brought two footmen with her. Footmen with muskets. Gwenllian bent over and held on to her knees for dear life. Her lungs burned.
"Bless you, Letticia, for bringing weapons,” she gasped between heaves and coughs. “The path from the sea, do you know where that is?” she asked the footmen.
"Yes, miss."
"Then go. Go! Daniel is holding the path. All alone. Against the French."
The two footmen rushed off in the direction Gwenllian had been pointing. She turned to Letticia. “Where is Oliver?"
"I closed him in your room so he wouldn't be underfoot."
"The French are attacking. We need more of the Baron's weapons. And men."
"Is this the invasion?” Letticia had turned sickly pale in the lamplight.
"No, they just want to kill us all.” Gwenllian resumed running for the house.
"That does not make me feel better,” her sister called, hastening after her.
By the time Gwenllian reached the back door of Primroselea, she had an excruciating stitch in her side. As she dragged herself upstairs, her legs felt like lead. She could hear Letticia assembling the servants, but it sounded very far away.
Gwenllian found the Baron first. He proved to be a solid man in a crisis. He took her at her word—the few, panting ones she could get out—and immediately ordered the footmen to start loading weapons.
"We shall start for the path posthaste,” he assured her.
"Where is Geo—Mr. Berwentford?” she asked.
"I will send a maid for him and Mr. Faircross,” the Baron replied, calling over one of the maids and giving her the instructions. “They will be here shortly."
Isabella and Mariah appeared on the stairs, wondering at all the commotion. While the Baron went to explain it to them, Gwenllian snuck over to the pile of newly-loaded weapons. She surreptitiously stole one of the pistols as the Baron announced that the ladies should gather in the drawing room.
"Miss Lloyd, do come to the drawing room. You ladies shall be safe there."
"I must fetch something from my room first,” she replied, hiding the pistol behind her back.
The moment the Baron turned to supervise the footmen, she charged up the stairs. If Geoffrey was still in his bedroom, he would regret it. On the stairs, she passed Mr. Faircross hurrying down.
He looked at her with startled eyes. “The maid said the French are attacking."
"Yes."
"If I had any skill with a blade, I'd have joined a militia.” He groaned.
"Do your best."
"Are you carrying a pistol?"
Gwenllian kept going up the stairs.
She was at Geoffrey's bedroom door almost before she knew it. This was it. She tried the doorknob.
"Go away!” Geoffrey ordered.
"You will speak to me."
There was a pause. Then the door opened.
Geoffrey stared at her. “How did you escape?"
"Mr. Wyckliff. He is currently holding the clifftop against your prospective assassins."
"My brother will never believe I had anything to do with this."
"I did not come here to expose you. Mr. Wyckliff could use help—even yours. Trust me, you have nothing better to do with the time remaining to you.” Gwenllian revealed the pistol she had been hiding behind her back.
She pointed the pistol at Geoffrey's chest, taking care that she was far enough away from him that he could not grab it from her.
He gave her a withering look. “I am not going out there."
She pulled back the crooked hammer atop the pistol. It made a distinctive, metallic clack. “Do not make me kill you."
He raised his eyebrows. “You would kill me?"
"As certain as I stand here, you will either come fight for your country or you will never leave this room."
"You're joking,” he scoffed. “No little gypsy girl can make me."
"Welsh! I am Welsh, you ignorant—” Gwenllian interrupted, but stopped herself. She took a deep breath before continuing, her voice thick with fury. “Our last Prince was drawn, quartered and disemboweled by you treacherous English. Do not dare dismiss what an angry Welshwoman might do."
Gwenllian moved forward, keeping the distance between them and forcing Geoffrey to back into his room. She advanced until the light from his bedchamber candelabra was full upon her.
Slowly his countenance began to pale. He had been gazing at her this entire time, but only now had he truly seen her. A predatory spirit Gwenllian had not known she possessed quickened and she knew with instinctual certainty that she had him. He was within her power. Her grip on the pistol was solid as a rock.
"Now, sir. Will you die here or will you die with honor?"
Thirteen
The remnants of white musket smoke floating in the pre-dawn gloom did nothing to aid Gwenllian's search as she picked her way across the segment of lawn and clifftop that had so shortly before been a battlefield. The aftermath was terrible in its quietude. The shouting and clanging metal and bang of gunfire had been replaced by a few soft moans which were gradually becoming nothing. Nothing but the muted crash of the waves below and, in the distance, sporadic birdsong.
By the time she had marched Geoffrey out to join the Baron, Mr. Faircross, and the footmen at the cliff, the engagement was well under way. She had been unable to discern Daniel amongst the smoke, and dark, and confusion. Now that the battle was over, she had to find him. Her place was at his side. She should have been there sooner.
"Come away from there, Miss Lloyd,” Mr. Faircross called.
The Baron's voice boomed in the silence. “Ladies should be in the drawing room. Someone tell me who let this gel out here."
Gwenllian ignored them. It wasn't difficult. It was taking all of her willpower not to be violently ill as she stepped among the corpses, hoping desperately that she would find Daniel alive and sick with dread that she would not.
A hacking cough cut through the hush. One of the bodies was struggling into a partially raised position, propped up on his bent elbows. She abandoned her somewhat methodical search pattern to scamper over corpses and across the despoiled grass to him. Skidding to a halt, she crouched at his side. The man was filthy with blood and dirt but she knew him immediately even in the weak morning light. Tears prickled her eyes as air rushed out of her lungs in a gigantic sigh of relief. Daniel.
The Secret Hunter Page 17