by Sharon Wray
Once at the truck, he threw his T-shirt and Escalus’s pack onto the front seat. Then he hid his gun behind the spare tire and found a bandana in the glove box. Although dirty, it allowed him to tie off his shoulder to stop the bleeding.
He drove to where his father-in-law’s trailer had stood and shut off the ignition. His wounded arm felt dead, and his head hurt. A breeze blew through the open windows. His dry mouth throbbed like it’d been scraped out with sandpaper.
He needed water. With a series of grunts, he rummaged through Escalus’s backpack, praying for a bottle. Instead, he found something else: Escalus’s cell phone.
Rafe typed in the passcode and smiled. Because Escalus hadn’t bothered to change the sequence, Rafe was able to discover two unfortunate things. The first was a live camera feed of Juliet’s Lily, the Liberty Square site, and another building he didn’t recognize. Escalus has been stalking Juliet. The second was the most recent incoming text.
Where art thou, Escalus?
Fuck. The Prince’s men—Fianna warriors—never hunted alone.
He’d never hunted alone.
He pressed the first speed-dial number.
A male voice answered. “Is all well, Escalus?”
The Prince. Rafe closed his eyes. “Escalus is dead. ‘Twas a true reckoning. His dark heart met with my treacherous revolt.”
Although a sniper had taken the final shot, Rafe’s strike had been fatal. Escalus, like all men, deserved to have his murderer named.
“Romeo.” The Prince spoke the name like a curse. “What hast thou done?”
“What I had to do. To protect my beloved.”
“You gave away your heart when you tithed to me. You belong to me.”
Although Rafe’s arm spasmed, the pain was nothing compared to the tattoos that ran the length of his other arm. They were eight years old yet caused him more pain than a shot to the gut.
“I speak no treason, my lord. Only offer a sad truth. I broke my tithe by seeing Juliet. Escalus claimed her life was forfeit, and now our brother is dead.”
“You didn’t kill Escalus. He met a rogue’s death.”
The Prince had ordered Escalus’s execution? Rafe opened his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“Escalus and his partner were in town to retrieve something when Escalus decided to sell it to someone else. I discovered his treachery, and now he’s dead. He had no right to pass a judgment on your tithe. If you find what he sought, you may return to me and your wife will remain safe.”
The Prince was speaking contemporary English? “And Escalus’s partner?”
“Since I don’t know if Balthasar knew about Escalus’s betrayal, I’ll offer him the same deal.”
“A contest between me and Balthasar?” The sadistic bastard who’d trained him? “You can’t be serious.”
“Whoever returns first receives a full pardon. The loser faces the Gauntlet.”
Fuck. “What am I looking for?”
“A seventeenth-century glass vial.”
Another obscure artifact. Peachy. “Filled with what?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.” And if the Prince wanted it, it was bad.
“The vial was last seen in Savannah. And you’re not the only one who seeks it.”
“Do you know these seekers?”
“Yes.”
Rafe waited, and then realized that was all the intel he’d get. Sometimes the Prince reminded him of Colonel Kells Torridan, Rafe’s last CO, who was always tight with the info.
Rafe got out of the truck and leaned his ass against the metal. “You want me to find a vial before Balthasar and these other men do and return it to you?”
“Yes.”
“Are these other men to be eliminated?”
“Do whatever’s necessary to complete your mission and protect the brotherhood.”
Meaning, if these men got in his way or found out what Rafe was, kill them.
A doe watched him from the edge of the woods. With delicate legs poised to run and wary brown eyes, the deer reminded him of Juliet. “Any clue where I should start?”
“Juliet may be of help.”
The doe took off. “How?”
“The vial was once owned by her ancestor Anne Capel.”
One of the Isle’s accused witches, hanged in the seventeenth century, held the key to his future? Super peachy.
“Romeo?” Hints of the Prince’s Boston accent cut the edges off his cultured voice. “Find the vial, return to me, and your wife will remain unharmed.”
This was insane. But since Rafe’s heart always decided before his head, he said, “Yes.”
“If you fail, it’s on your word to return and face the Gauntlet. Don’t disappoint me.”
Like he’d disappointed so many others. His laugh came out in gasps. He’d just remembered the Prince had brown eyes. “How do I contact you?”
“Keep Escalus’s cell phone. Do you need money? Weapons?”
“No.” The less he took from the Prince, the less he’d owe.
“I want my vial by Sunday. Seven days.”
“Six and a half.”
“’Tis an act of peace you’re committing. An act of redemption and honor. Good luck.”
Rafe tossed the phone through the truck’s open window onto the seat and pressed his good arm against his eyes. Escalus had been right. The Prince had never lost a man except to death. So why had Rafe thought he’d be lucky?
“Hands up!” a man shouted. “Or I’ll shoot.”
Two hunters came out from the forest dressed in camo gear, orange vests, and rifles.
Dammit. Rafe held up his hands. “Grady, I’m not armed.”
“On your knees, you fucking coward,” Grady ordered. “Hands over your head.”
Rafe knelt, his hands up, while Grady Mercer and Tommy Boudreaux cornered him. Although Grady was Pops’s age, Tommy had changed from a spindly teenager into a full-grown man. “Grady—”
“Shut your traitorous mouth. We just found a body at your woman’s manor.”
Tommy swung his fist. A whoomph hit Rafe’s ear, and he fell against the truck. Stars and stripes exploded in his head. Tommy grabbed his arms. A sharp pain speared Rafe’s shoulder, and he fought until Grady’s rifle barrel found his forehead. A sickening pain shattered Rafe’s vision, and his stomach heaved. They threw him down. The gun against his head forced him to eat mud.
“One more move, you die,” Grady said. “Got it?”
“Yeah.” Rafe spat out vomit, dirt, and blood. “Got it.”
Chapter 7
Juliet had to win this job. And she had to stop thinking about Rafe and his drama.
She left the fourth floor of the Prideaux House, hung her camera around her neck, and avoided the staircase’s soft spots caused by termites and water damage. Like everything else in the antebellum mansion, the stairs needed to be replaced or the place would end up like her manor.
She gripped the railing. She could almost hear her father’s boots on the wood floors, Rafe’s laugh from the tree he climbed outside her balcony, and her kittens mewing. It hadn’t been the easiest childhood, but there’d been some joy.
Mr. Delacroix stood in the foyer. His gray suit fit his trim body like it’d been painted on. His short brown hair was even more styled than Calum’s. “What do you think?”
She’d gone upstairs to get aerial photographs of the two-acre backyard that claimed a city block. “The garden can be lovely again.” And this job would keep her solvent for another six months.
He guided her through French doors leading to the garden. “I’m awaiting a guest and have some lemonade outside. I’d love to hear your ideas. And any history you know about the house.”
“I know it was built by the Prideaux family before they changed their name to Prioleau. T
here was another structure on the property from the early seventeen hundreds, but that burned down during the Revolution and was rebuilt by a Prioleau after the war ended. He decided to keep the original name to honor his ancestors.”
“I’ve heard that the eighteenth-century Prideauxs were notorious pirates.” He whispered as if that story was forbidden gossip.
But she knew the truth. Despite the fact that Calum was one of her oldest friends, his family’s pirate history was far worse than the history books suggested. Then again, hers probably was as well.
“That’s what people say.” She followed him onto the patio covered by a rotted pergola. The rain had stopped, and she raised her face to the sun. “How long until you close on the mansion?”
He poured from the decanter on an iron table. “A week if the inspection goes well.”
She snorted and took the glass he offered. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
He swept his arm toward the four-story antebellum mansion with eight bowed balconies and four chipped chimneys. “The house needs attention.”
And money. “The hard part is dealing with the Habersham sisters.”
“That’s why I made them an offer they can’t refuse.”
“Why this house? There are other historic homes for sale in better condition. And this one’s on the edge of the not-so-nice part of town.” Near the center of the heroin epidemic slowly taking down the city. But she didn’t say that. She needed him to buy this house so she could renovate the garden.
“It’s the second biggest.”
She hid her smile behind her drink. “And Calum Prioleau, who owns the largest, wouldn’t sell?”
Delacroix shrugged. “This one will have a bigger garden. So, what are your thoughts?”
“Keep the dependencies.” She pointed to the brick buildings on the east side. “They’re nineteenth-century but will make nice sheds and a gardener’s office.”
“And the fountain?”
She put down her drink, and they followed the boxwood-lined path to the raised pond. A cherub lay in pieces on the bottom of the round basin, leaving a rusted spout in the center.
She raised her camera. “My foreman says the plumbing works. You’ll need to pick a fountain style. Nymphs are popular, and so are Pans and sprays.”
“What do you prefer?”
She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Ariadne. Williams Ironworks in Charleston has one in iron, but they can cast one in bronze. That’s what I’d recommend.”
“The demigoddess who protects the secrets of her labyrinth.” A crack between his lips broke up hard facial lines. It was as if he didn’t know how to smile. “An unusual choice.”
“There’s no Ariadne in Savannah, Charleston, or New Orleans. It would be unique.”
“A betrayed woman who knows her own mind and doesn’t rely on others for help. Is she a favorite of yours?”
“Kind of.” She photographed the broken stone benches.
“We’ve a lot in common, Miss Capel. We’ve both been hurt by love. We’ve both decided never to risk our hearts again.”
She lowered her camera to meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“I did a background check on you, like I do with all those I hire, and do you know what I found?”
“No.”
“It takes a strong woman to put herself through school and open her own business.” He spoke in a low tone that promised that secrets would be kept.
She studied the crushed oyster shell pathway.
“It takes a strong woman to move on from a difficult past and do things people look down on. To recover from a brutally broken heart. And I admire people who survive. I’m a wealthy man who scraped and clawed until someone gave me a chance. I believe in offering those opportunities to people like me.”
“Thank you.” He deserved a better answer, but it was all she could manage.
“You are your greatest strength. Relying on others will leave you wounded and alone.”
Something she needed to remember if she was going to get in that cage tonight.
“Juliet?” Carina Prioleau’s high-pitched voice rang out. “What are you doing here?” Carina moved through the garden, her short-sleeved black suit impeccably tailored. Her spiky heels caught in the patio’s uneven bricks. Her driver guarded the garden entrance.
“Viewing the garden,” Juliet said. “You?”
Carina smiled at Mr. Delacroix and held out her hand. “Fund-raising.”
Mr. Delacroix kissed her palm. “Welcome, Senator.”
Juliet’s phone buzzed with a text, this time from her lawyer, John Sinclair. He wanted her to call him ASAP. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call, and then I’ll take more photos before I leave. I’ll have your estimate done by the end of next week.”
“Thank you, Miss Capel.”
“Wait,” Carina said. “What’s this talk about my square not being ready for my party?”
“What party?” Delacroix asked.
“My birthday party. My late husband—” Carina pressed a hand against her breast. “You know I’m recently widowed?” She played the rich, grieving widow-turned-senator to perfection.
“I do,” Delacroix said. “I’m sorry. I also heard you took over his Senate seat.”
“Yes, well, Eugene and I paid to tear down a parking garage and rebuild one of the city’s original public squares. I’m throwing a birthday party in my honor and a memorial in his in the new Liberty Square. It’s on Sunday, and the whole city is invited.” Carina glared at Juliet. “But it’s Monday, and the square’s not done yet.”
Juliet loved Carina’s Is and mys. As if Carina had planted the trees and dug the paths. As if the renovation had been her idea and not her late husband’s. “I told Henry we’ll finish once we get paid. Final payment is due Wednesday.”
Carina frowned until Mr. Delacroix led her away. “I’m sure Miss Capel will make your day a success.”
Carina sent her a backward glare. “I hope so. For her sake.”
Juliet almost threw out a witty comeback, but she’d experienced Carina’s vindictiveness. Turning away, Juliet dialed her lawyer. “Hi, John. I got your text.”
“Juliet, I wanted to let you know that I heard your husband has returned.”
Good grief, that was fast. “Ex-husband.”
“Have you spoken to him yet?”
“About?”
“Juliet.” Exasperation threaded through his voice. “You own over two thousand acres on the Isle of Grace, acquired three-and-a-half centuries ago, marked in twenty deeds. Before your father died, he added Rafe’s name to those deeds. Remember? You need Rafe’s signature before you can sell.”
“I’ll let Rafe know.” She’d get Pops to do it for her. “Now tell me about these King’s Grants I need to find.”
“The titles to your land date to the sixteen hundreds when the property was given to your family through a series of King’s Grants signed by King Charles I and issued by the Lords Proprietors in Charleston between 1670 and 1682.
“Since the land was never sold or divided among heirs, the State of Georgia has always assessed the property as one piece without needing a clean title. South Carolina has dealt with sales like this before, but there’s no precedent in Georgia. I can’t give you a clean title to the land without seeing the original grants and getting your husband’s signature.”
“If I find the grants and Rafe signs, how long before I can sell?”
“It depends on the grant stipulations and finding the right buyer. Probably a few months.”
Which meant she had to dance tonight. She rubbed her forehead with her fist. “I’ll look for the grants. And get Rafe’s signature.”
“I’ll have the paperwork ready. He’ll need to bring a witness that’s not you.”
“I’ll let Rafe know.” W
hich meant she really did have to speak to Rafe again. When John put her on hold, she moved into the shade to study the house. The eleven boarded-up attic windows—black with mold—reminded her of rotted teeth. She’d tried to get into the attic, but it’d been locked. Using her free hand, she raised her camera and focused on the last visible window. The sun’s angle and glare exposed the design. Worked into the center of the stained glass was an image of a skeleton hand gripping the blade of a vertical cutlass. Blood dripped down from the fist to the tip, and the drips formed red words beneath the image. Sans pitié.
No mercy. The Prioleau family crest.
“One other thing,” John said, coming back to the phone. “Isn’t there an investigation of Senator Wilkins’s death on your land nine months ago?”
“The case was closed. The senator’s death was deemed an accident from the wildfire he got caught in.”
“We’ll need affidavits. I’ll look into that. I’m also sending you an email with a list of supplemental research items to find that could increase the price of the property. If you do the work, you can cut my legal fees.”
“What do I need to find?”
“Besides the King’s Grants, any documents dating to the mid–sixteen hundreds, including Anne Capel’s will.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. With everything going on, why wouldn’t she be asked to research a woman accused of killing forty-four children with witchcraft in 1677?
Because it was just that kind of day.
“Thanks, John. I’ll be in touch.” As she hung up, another text buzzed.
Beware, fair Juliet.
Now she was getting annoyed.
“I’m looking for Miss Capel.” Detective Garza, in jeans, blue blazer, white shirt, and green tie strode into the garden.
She hurried over. She’d deal with the text later. “What’s wrong?”
Garza took her arm. “Samantha Barclay, your employee, told me you were here. I didn’t want to call.”
After saying her goodbyes and collecting her work bag, Juliet followed Garza. “Is this about the vandalism?”
“No.” Garza opened the unmarked patrol car door and settled her in the front seat. Then he slid behind the wheel. “We’re going to the Isle of Grace.”