Wyndcross (The Families 0f Dorset Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  Never had young Kate imagined herself to be at such a disadvantage as she now was, hands tied, disheveled hair and clothing, taken by surprise at the confrontation.

  Was her father one of a long list of murders for him? Had he felt anything at all when he had shot an innocent man? What could she possibly say now to him? He had only asked for her name.

  “Charles Matcham,” she said in the strongest voice she could muster. Lord Ashworth stiffened almost imperceptibly and turned his head to look at Kate.

  Briggs guffawed. “Charles! What a name for a lady.”

  Emmerson put up his palm, and Briggs went silent.

  “I know that name. Unlike Briggs’, though,” he blinked lazily, “I am not gullible enough to believe it is yours. Why, then, do you give it?”

  “It is the name of a man you killed.” She blinked away the stinging in her eyes, determined that she would show no weakness to the man. She could not allow her father’s brave memory to be overwritten in the script of her own fear or weakness.

  Emmerson’s expression didn’t change but for the slightest glint of recognition in his eyes. “That was many years ago,” he said dismissively.

  “Of that I am well and painfully aware,” said Kate. She made fists with her tied hands to stop the shaking. “That man was my father.”

  Emmerson suddenly looked bored. “Ah, I see. You’ve come to exact revenge.” He crumpled the note and tossed it on the ground. “Well I am afraid you have botched it, Miss. And while I am sure we would all love to spend more time reminiscing on days past, duty calls.” He began to turn away. The ease with which he seemed to put her words from his mind answered the question she had asked herself.

  Her father was not the only man he had killed.

  “Revenge is for the weak,” pursued Kate. “Something my father taught me. He also taught me that, though life often seems unfair, the universe is ultimately a place where we all reap what we have sown. So, Mr. Emmerson, though I may not live through this night, I would still rather be in my shoes than in yours.”

  Briggs growled. Grasping the pistol barrel in his hand and taking two of the longest strides his short legs would allow for, he swung the butt of the pistol at Kate.

  With only a split second to anticipate Briggs’ sudden designs, Lord Ashworth managed to deflect the hit so that, instead of hitting Kate at her temple, the pistol butt caught her cheek.

  Crying out in surprise and pain, Kate tumbled to the ground, unable to catch herself with her tied hands.

  Lord Ashworth sent Briggs sprawling backwards with a swift uppercut to the jaw and moved to Kate’s side.

  “Are you hurt?” he said in urgent undertones.

  Even amidst her pain, she looked at Lord Ashworth with brows raised. Her grazed cheek throbbed, bleeding slowly. A lump protruded from her temple where she had been knocked unconscious earlier.

  Seeming to understand her expression and silence, Lord Ashworth grimaced and rephrased his question. “How badly are you hurt?” His eyes scanned her face, reaching her injured cheek. She turned her face to avoid his gaze.

  That he should ask her such a question and pretend to such concern when he bore so much of the responsibility for her situation was outside of enough. It reminded her of all his prior affected concern over the past weeks.

  When she responded, her voice was laced with sarcasm. “It is all quite fortunate, in fact. The pain in my face has made me forget almost entirely about the pain in my wrists and head. So, you see that all is quite well.” She smiled humorlessly.

  Lord Ashworth grimaced as Briggs came to.

  Emmerson was observing Kate and Lord Ashworth with an impassive expression. Without turning to look at Briggs, he said, “That was quite unnecessary, Briggs.”

  “Aye, sir,” Briggs said, rubbing his jaw.

  Emmerson looked at Lord Ashworth. “Yates is it?”

  Lord Ashworth rose. “Yes, sir. At yer service.”

  Kate’s nostrils flared at the words. Hearing the gruff and raw voice he had adopted as Yates, she couldn’t stifle a disdainful snort. What would Emmerson do if he discovered that Yates was Lord Ashworth, heir to the Purbeck Earldom? Would it matter to him? It must, or else Lord Ashworth wouldn’t have bothered to disguise himself and adopt such language.

  Kate had the power to put Lord Ashworth in danger. And though this appealed to part of her, it only did so for the briefest of moments. She was not vindictive. Had she not just told Emmerson that revenge was for the weak?

  “You will take her to the hole,” Emmerson said dispassionately. “There you will find a large ring attached to the cliff wall. Tie her hands to the ring. Bind her mouth.” With each instruction, Lord Ashworth nodded his head.

  He began helping Kate up off the ground. She desperately wished she could have stood without his aid, but any pride she salvaged by refusing his help would be wounded by the spectacle of her attempting to stand without the use of her hands.

  Emmerson kept his eyes on Lord Ashworth as he said, “Briggs, you will accompany Yates and the girl. In case Yates’s apparent compassion interferes with my instructions. We must not risk any errors this time.”

  Lord Ashworth looked up. “Sir, I can ‘andle ‘er on me own, I swear it! Ain’t it better to use Briggs for some of the ’eavy lifting?” Despite the way his jaw had clenched on hearing Emmerson’s instructions, the words were said casually enough. He even managed a chuckle as he said, “I lifted one of them barrels meself, and I fair fell over.”

  Emmerson smiled humorlessly. “I will take no risks. Go now. The sooner you go, the sooner you both will return to do, as you said, the heavy lifting.”

  The three of them turned to leave, and Emmerson’s voice sounded a final time. “Oh, and Briggs?” Briggs turned around. “If Yates falters, shoot him.”

  30

  Though Lord Ashworth’s grip on Kate’s arm was guiding rather than compelling, Briggs insisted on taking her opposite arm in a vice-like hold. He seemed determined to do everything in his power to exceed Emmerson’s expectations.

  The three of them walked towards the coast, Kate attempting deep breaths to still the nerves which were beginning to overcome her. Briggs set the pace for the group, pulling along not only Kate but Lord Ashworth with his zeal.

  Kate had spoken to Emmerson with the conviction and assurance borne of being in the right, but the exhilaration had faded and left her with the prospect of an imminent death. And despite her general recognition of the area, she had no knowledge of the hole they had spoken of. She imagined a sort of well which they might drop or lower her into. From Lord Ashworth’s words, though, she gathered that the rising tide should be of chief concern to her.

  She cursed the ropes which chafed her skinned wrists with each harried step they took. The thought of sea water on her abrasions made her wince.

  The cringing expression was followed by an ironic smile. How ridiculous that she should concern herself with salt on her wounds when death itself was knocking more loudly on her door with every pace.

  The lantern held by Lord Ashworth illuminated an approaching precipice, and Briggs slowed his pace, ordering Lord Ashworth to give him the lantern so that he might determine whether the hole lay to the east or west. He released Kate’s arm to inspect the surrounding area.

  The smell of seaweed and damp rock was heavy in the night air.

  Lord Ashworth leaned his head closer to Kate’s ear. “Do you trust me, Kate?” he said in an urgent whisper.

  Kate reared her head back to look at him in utter disbelief. “That depends. Am I speaking to Yates or to Lord Ashworth?”

  She paused for a moment but cut him off before he could answer. “It was meant rhetorically, my lord.” The last words were said in contempt. “The answer should be quite obvious, I imagine.”

  The lantern light which had been moving along the cliff edges stopped a moment, throwing its beams out over one part of the cliff. Briggs turned and began walking toward them again.

  “T
here is no time for your outrage or vengeance,” Lord Ashworth said with more anger and impatience than she had ever seen from him. “Trust me.”

  She snorted softly.

  “Over here,” Briggs cried to them.

  As they approached the cliff edge, it became clear to Kate that the edge was not, as it had appeared to be, a steep drop into the water below. It was rather a ravine leading down to a small cove, surrounded on all sides by large rock formations. At the base of the rocks nearest the ocean gaped a hole. As each wave approached, water broke around the openings, spilling through the hole and wetting the small rocks inside.

  Kate peered down at the base of the ravine. How long would it be until water began pouring into the cove with the rising tide? It was unlikely that such a small cove would take much time to fill with sea water. She swallowed and breathed deeply, knowing that time was rapidly running out.

  The only way down to the hole was a steep slope, a perilous descent even for a person privileged with the use of their hands. Not being thus privileged, Kate was obliged to rely on her captors to assist her. Her ankle ached, and she gritted her teeth as they made their way down.

  Briggs seemed to have a fear of heights and was chiefly concerned with his own safety, as evidenced by his blatant disregard for Kate’s welfare each time his or her footing became doubtful. Had it not been for the care and adroitness of Lord Ashworth, Kate had to grudgingly admit to herself that, bedraggled and injured as she felt, she would have fallen any number of times.

  On more than one occasion, Lord Ashworth was required to catch Kate’s tottering form in the crook of one arm as he crouched and balanced himself with his other hand. On those occasions, Kate thanked him almost inaudibly, too trained in civility to omit doing so, but upset enough with him to resist it. But after a second and sizable piece of fabric tore at the hem of Kate’s dress due to a clumsy misstep of Briggs, causing all three of them to slide precariously, Kate could bear it no longer.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she cried. “Untie my hands before we all fall to our deaths!”

  Lord Ashworth pursed his lips, but Kate noted how they had twitched. “I reckon she’s right, Briggs.”

  Briggs shook his head vehemently. So much so, in fact, that he was required to stabilize himself to prevent a fall. “I don’t trust ‘er.”

  “And just where do you suppose I might go?” Kate said in exasperation, indicating with her head the unforgiving landscape surrounding them, with water and waves on the one hand and a steep, rocky climb on the other.

  Briggs made a noncommittal “hmph” before agreeing to untie her hands. “Only til we reach the bottom, mind ye.”

  Lord Ashworth took the rope in his hands, deftly undoing the knot and unwrapping Kate’s wrists. He slowed as he undid the last loop and swore softly.

  But Kate was not in the mood for fruitless sympathy or pity. She tugged her wrists away from his hands. “There,” she said, ignoring the stinging through a forced smile full of clenched teeth. She demonstrated the good sense her captors had used in freeing her by using her hands to brace herself as she descended further toward the bottom without them.

  As her feet met the pebbles, she tried not to think of how quickly the water would cover her feet and then reach her waist, her neck, and her head. With her hands temporarily free, the time to think of escape had come. But how was she to escape when surrounded by unpredictable ocean currents and a steep ravine?

  Escape by water she hastily discarded as an option. She was not sure she could swim and guessed that her dress would complicate the attempt, to say nothing of the wild current. A quick look at the violent crashing of the waves on the surrounding rocks confirmed the ineligibility of such an option. As for an escape up the ravine they had just descended, the men were dressed in a manner much more conducive to scrambling up rock, not to mention the fact that she was outnumbered.

  The only avenue open to her seemed to be the one she had only recently condemned to Emmerson: violence. And though she disliked Briggs intensely, she was shrewd enough to admit that, if his clumsy descent was any indication, he would be the less formidable foe to run from if she had to choose which of her two captors to leave uninjured.

  She felt annoyance as her conscience recoiled from doing Lord Ashworth an injury. If they were keeping tally of intended injuries to one another, the injury she did him would come nowhere near to evening the scale. If she submitted to the fate he had prescribed her, it would be the last thing she did.

  She was unsure she possessed the fortitude to follow through with her plan. But the door of opportunity was quickly closing, so she hunched over on the pretext of removing a pebble from her shoe.

  Briggs was still occupied in traversing the final stretch of ravine, and Lord Ashworth was readjusting his hat, his mouth cover pulled down.

  A large rock rested near Kate’s feet, small enough that she could hold it in one hand but significant enough that she felt sure, unversed though she was in the ways of violence and brutality, that it might at least stun him long enough to give her the head start she required. She was fairly certain that the only person she had managed to injure in her entire life was herself, and that was always quite unintentional, of course. Her hands shook.

  Kate watched, trembling, as Briggs reached the bottom of the ravine. He eyed the water entering the cove uneasily. Standing water was already visible in the lower areas.

  “Tie ‘er up, then, Yates, and let’s be on our way.”

  Kate and Lord Ashworth met eyes for a moment, apology written on both their faces. Seeing his apologetic gaze gave Kate a greater determination to carry out her plan. His apology was hollow. The hypocrisy was unfathomable. It was surreal to her that this man—one who had laughed with her, cared for her when she was injured, drew her out of her protective shell—stood before her, prepared to send her to her death. And he had the gall to look apologetic as he did it?

  He approached her, and his gaze became pointed, as if he were willing her to understand something.

  “Be quick about it,” Briggs yelled. “I ain’t of a mind to drown with ‘er, ye clod!”

  Lord Ashworth held Kate’s eyes. “Right ye are,” he said, never taking his eyes from hers. He pulled the rope from his coat.

  Kate took a breath, steeling herself against the prospect before her. Never having tested her strength to injure, she was suddenly struck with the fear that she might do greater harm than she intended. She had heard stories of men being killed by a single strike, and though she doubted she had the strength for such a thing, she could never forgive herself if the damage she caused was lasting or, heaven forbid, fatal.

  Her only consolation and hope was that, if she were indeed strong enough to do great harm, Lord Ashworth’s hat might act as a small buffer.

  His most recent words to her sounded once more in her head. “Trust me.” She knew a moment of doubt, wondering if perhaps he still had some plan that truly did merit her trust.

  With such a struggle taking place inside her, she raised the rock high above her head, bringing it down upon the head of Lord Ashworth. And though her will to injure him had instinctively weakened at the last moment, resulting in a contact more wavering and weak than she had intended, Lord Ashworth fell to his knees and then onto his side, motionless.

  Eyes wide with disbelief and fear that she had indeed killed him, Kate dropped to her knees next to him.

  She had killed him.

  31

  “Oh dear!” she gasped.

  The moment for her escape had arrived, but she had no thought of leaving the lifeless form which lay before her. She suffered an inexplicable pang of guilt as she realized that, not only had she done injury to his head with the weapon she had used, but he had then fallen head first onto the uneven and hard pebbles below.

  She gently lifted his head and placed it in her lap. Removing his hat, she ran a hand through his hair and felt softly along his scalp for the inevitable bump which would be forming. Had she drawn
blood? Was there a crack in his skull from the blow?

  “‘Ey!” there was both surprise and anger in Briggs’ voice as he rushed over.

  Gently but quickly laying Lord Ashworth’s head onto the ground, she picked up the stone again. She knew a moment’s panic as she realized that she was left alone and essentially defenseless with a man who had earlier expressed an intent to compromise her reputation. A man who had a gun.

  “Stay away.” She held the rock above her shoulder, ready to defend herself. “I am much stronger than I appear!”

  Briggs cackled. “Well that’s not sayin’ much, is it? Don’t feel bad, though. Pretty figures like yours ain’t made for cruelty, Miss.” His eyes surveyed her in a way that made her skin crawl. “Though I do prefer my wenches feisty.”

  It seemed to Kate, as she looked at the abhorrent man Briggs, that her situation could hardly have been worse. Death seemed preferable to the prospect Briggs had suggested at, to say nothing of the guilt she would have to live with, having killed a man.

  “You see that I have killed Lor—Yates,” her voice broke, “and I am quite willing to help you to the same fate if you take one step closer.”

  Briggs had begun walking towards her with purpose, but on hearing her words, another cackle erupted from him, and he slapped his thigh.

  “Killed ‘im?” He held his round stomach in enjoyment. She thought he might weep with mirth.

  Kate glanced behind her and did a double take. Lord Ashworth, holding his head with one hand, and supporting his weight on the other, was sitting up.

  Disbelief and relief filled her. Relief that she was not the murderer she had thought herself, that she was not to be left at the mercy of Briggs. Depraved as Lord Ashworth might be, at least he would not allow Briggs to compromise her.

  She dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around Lord Ashworth and saying, “Oh thank heaven!”