by Lynn Kerstan
A smile quirked his mouth. “You needn’t. Guilt does not dissolve because we will it to, nor would I hold you hostage to my own regrets. Tell me only that you have confronted the last ordeal, and come through it.”
“I don’t know. I think I have done. For so long, it has seemed I was dragging an anchor around with me, but I don’t feel it now. Perhaps it’s gone. Or perhaps you have taken it from me and onto yourself. You would do that, I believe, if you could.”
“Yes.” A statement of fact. “Is there more you need to do here?”
She looked around, at the stream that had carried her to shelter, and the roots that had scooped her up and held her safe. “It’s astonishing,” she said, “that someone managed to find me. I had not realized, until coming here, how unlikely a circumstance that was. Nor been glad of it. They carried me away, but I never left here. Perhaps the anchor kept me tethered to this place for all this time. But today I will leave here forever, with you.”
The brush of gloved fingertips against her cheek. Then he rose in a single motion, carrying her with him, and set her on her feet.
They returned in silence to the horses. He seemed withdrawn, his attention elsewhere, as he unwrapped the reins. She started to speak and he raised a hand to stop her, head lifted as if scenting the air. Then a knife was in his hand. He cut through the twine securing her bow and quiver to the saddle and passed them to her. A pistol as well, taken from his coat pocket.
“Hide yourself. This may be nothing, but don’t come out until I return. I’ll try not to go far. Use the gun if you need to.”
“But I can’t shoo—”
“Go!”
She hurried off, glancing once over her shoulder. He was tying a lattice of twigs and shrubbery to the saddle. Over it, he draped her cloak. Then he swung onto Loki, seized the mare’s reins, and headed back for the road. Moments later, she heard the beat of hooves as he took the horses to a gallop.
Angling away from the stream, she went up a short rise and concealed herself within a ring of blackthorn and holly bushes. Directly after, hollow thumping sounds as horses—she could not tell how many—passed over the bridge, moving very fast.
Chapter 32
Michael held to the road, which dipped and rose for several miles, letting his pursuers glimpse the two horses and their passengers. He’d have to outmaneuver them. The mare was too slow for a getaway, and when he set her loose, there was a risk the men would follow and uncover his deception. Then, with him out of reach, they’d go back after Mira.
He thought there were only two of them, probably the same pair of thugs who had eluded the Runners for several weeks. But why should they come for him? Someone had to be paying them. Maybe the Archangel. He’d hired thugs in Calcutta, brought them to Michael’s house, set them on him. It seemed out of character, though. A stupid mistake, not a habit.
It didn’t matter. He was getting too far from Mira. Needed to circle around, separate the pursuers, pick them off one by one. But it was open land on both sides now, for about a quarter mile. He kept going. Was lucky to have sensed their coming, he supposed, with the same instinct that had kept him alive for so many years.
When he left Mira in the stable yard that morning, he had first dispatched Hari to Seacrest with instructions to make it presentable in a hurry. Then he’d settled on the bed where Mira had lain with him and entered the lake of Naini Tal, preparing himself for the journey she was soon to take him on. The concentration he gathered there had kept him calm when she spoke of the nightmare she’d endured, and the torment of unreasonable guilt, which he understood and lived with every day. The lake held him still when she wept in his arms. And later, it had alerted him to the vibration of the ground as the riders approached, and to the threat in the wind.
Now, all his senses at knife’s edge, he saw in the distance a stand of trees, the prelude to another stretch of woodland. The first break was to the left. He passed it by and cut off the road a hundred yards beyond, to the right. Rolling hills ahead, studded with beech and oak. Not much undergrowth, no concealment. Any other time of year, he could have found a way to vanish.
Zigging and zagging like a hare, he used the cover of hillocks to hide his objective. The mare was tiring. He had soon to send her off and hope one of the men went after her while he brought down the other. And found out who had sent them and why, or Mira would never be safe.
Ahead, the woods thickened. He couldn’t keep the mare at his side for much longer. They came through a small break, splashed across the same stream that wound its way to Mira’s tree, went up a hill. On the other side, denser woodland, thick with undergrowth and shrubs low to the ground. A narrow woodsman’s path straight ahead.
He drew out his knife. Let go the mare’s reins. Darted the knife bee-sting deep into her hindquarter. Sorry, girl. She squealed. Kicked up her back hooves. Plunged ahead, down the path, while he swerved right. Over another hill, and another, looking for his spot.
He saw it on a level stretch of ground between two hills. Nearly impenetrable ground, overgrown with oaks, yews, and spiky holly bushes. Plenty of cover.
They’d figure it out, but not before he’d had time to prepare. As Loki approached a tall oak, Michael slipped his feet from the stirrups, crouched on the saddle, stood as they came close to a thick branch, and sprang into the air. Loki continued on, swerved when he got to the screen of shrubs and trees, found space to his right and pounded away. As he had been trained to do.
Michael lifted himself onto the branch and moved in the canopy from tree to tree for about thirty yards before returning to the ground. Nearby, clumps of holly surrounded the base of an oak. He removed his greatcoat, calculated the most probable approach by an enemy, and arranged his coat and hat to make it appear he had concealed himself behind the tree and the bushes. A bit of sleeve, the edge of a hat brim. No more, or it would be clearly a trap.
He backtracked to an old yew, its gnarled bole wide enough to conceal two of him. Dull needles crowded low-hanging twigs, providing more cover. He stilled his breathing. Slipped his knife into his hand. Summoned the goddess of the lake. Waited.
They came a little after he’d expected them, separated where he’d expected them to. One shouted to the other, but they were too far away for him to make out the words. A rough voice, accented.
More waiting. Then the clip-clop of hooves—one horse—ceasing at the top of the hill. He couldn’t chance taking a look. It was all by sound now. A dismount. Feet hitting the ground. The crunching of dead leaves as the man moved slowly, cautiously forward. In the right direction, the one that would take him close by the yew tree.
He would be following Loki’s tracks, and would see where the horse had veered to the right. He might follow, but Michael had left his own tracks from there to the oak and holly and brushed leaves over the tracks, but not completely, as if he’d been in a rush. He might have been giving his followers too much credit, or perhaps not enough.
What would they do when the other man caught up with the mare, saw the twig-and-cloak ruse? His heart began thumping. He snatched his thoughts from Mira’s danger, returned them to the quiet of his purpose.
The man was close now. Michael assumed him to be armed. Heard him stop. Jump to one side. Behind a tree? That would mean he’d spotted the betraying hat and coat sleeve. A rustling sound. He was closer than he had seemed. Almost in reach, just the other side of the yew. Using it to conceal himself, Michael realized with a spike of humor.
“Come out, Y’r Grace. I sees you there!”
Michael readied himself to spring at the next covering sound. It came almost instantly. A gunshot.
Then Michael was on him, one arm across his shoulder and chest, his knife at the man’s throat. “Toss the guns.” There were two of them, a string of smoke ascending from one muzzle. “Now!”
Both pistols hit the ground about ten feet awa
y. The stench of onions and ale rose from the man’s filthy clothes.
For a brief time, Michael considered his choices. In the short run, better to kill this man and go after the other. But he needed information, and as always, balked at a cold-blooded murder. That squeamishness would be the death of him one of these days. Perhaps this day. “Who sent you?”
The man spat. Made a squeaking noise as the knife sliced in, drew blood.
“Make no mistake,” Michael said. “I’ll kill you if you fail to talk, and talk fast.”
“I dunno who it were.” The sputtered words tumbled over one another. “He leaves messages and money at a tavern near to the river. We worked mostly for the duke, but a little for t’other man. And after the duke turned us off, we was hired to make it look like we killed him.”
“You didn’t?”
“Would have done. Hated him. Paid bad, he did, when he paid at all. The message said to go there, and how to get in, and what to do when we got there. He were dead already, just like we was told, and the knife was left on the desk where we could see it. We turned ’im over, put the knife in ’is heart, spread some pig’s blood around. We was told to look for papers ’n’ bring all we found. Later, we was sent back to get more.”
“Someone else poisoned him, then.”
“Mebbe. Like I said, he were dead. There’s a way into the house, through a bit of wall that opens with a key if you know the right place. Davie has the key. I paid no mind.”
“Which tavern? And why come after me?”
“We was supposed to leave the country. Word was that Runners been lookin’ for us, so we had to go. The man didn’t want no questions asked, paid good to be rid of us. Said if we killed you first, he’d give us more. But it had to be done before Sunday next, when we be takin’ ship from Southampton.”
The man started to struggle. Kicked out, lost his balance. Shouted an oath as Michael pulled him erect and secured his hold.
Click. Behind him!
Michael whirled, taking his prisoner with him. A blast of sound, a scream. The man sagged in his arms. Michael shoved him out of the way, aimed himself for the discarded pistol, the one that hadn’t been fired. A thump as the man hit the ground.
“Hold!”
The gun was beyond his reach. Michael froze in place, half crouching, arms splayed, and turned slowly to face the Welshman.
The new enemy had two guns as well. One had brought down his fellow, and the other was pointed at Michael. The hand was steady, the slanted eyes clear and wary.
“Canny trick with the sticks and the cape,” he said. “If the horse hadn’t stopped running, I’d be chasing her still. But it weren’t of use. We’ve not been paid to kill the woman. Is he dead?”
“I don’t know.”
The Welshman’s eyes hadn’t shifted to glance at his fallen companion. Smart and experienced. In control. Michael figured he had one slim chance to reach the pistol on the ground, but it would only come after he’d been shot. Assuming he could still move, and reach it in time, and fire.
The urgency was not so great now. The Welshman didn’t mean to go after Mira. That was all that mattered. “Who sent you?” Michael asked, wanting to know before he died.
“I don’t know.” A chuckle. “We neither of us know much of anything, do we? Nothing personal, Your Grace, but you’re trouble alive and worth a lot of blunt to me dead. That’s only if I get away. Somebody passing by might be hearing these shots. Time to pray now.”
Michael watched his eyes, all his attention focused there, waiting for the sign to leap. He sensed the finger begin to tighten on the trigger, the clench of muscles, all in the space of a heartbeat—
A whirring noise. Thwap!
The gun went off, a bullet sped by his cheek. The Welshman staggered forward.
Michael jumped for the pistol, found it, rolled over, searching for the target.
Whir. Thwap! The man jerked upright, eyes wide, mouth open, blood gushing out. He held there a moment, then fell forward. Hit the ground.
From his back pronged two feathered arrows, still quivering with the force of their arrival.
Michael’s gaze went to the crest of the hill, to the slim figure poised there, another arrow nocked in her bow, her eyes fixed on the man who lay dead at her hands.
Discipline sent Michael, breathing heavily, first to the man who’d taken a bullet. He felt for a pulse at his wrist and throat, examined the glassy eyes. Dead. There could be no doubt about the fellow Mira had brought down, but he checked anyway.
Finally, letting go the pistol he’d been gripping, he rose and looked directly at Miranda. She had lowered her bow, was standing with her hands at her sides, pale skinned and clearly shaken.
“Diana,” he said. “The Huntress.”
At his words, color rose in her cheeks. She gazed down at him, directly into his eyes. “We are matched, then. I had hoped we could be.”
That meant something to her—he didn’t know what—and it seemed to help. He would ask her later, after the shock had worn off. It would be on her soon. He put two fingers to his lips, gave a loud whistle. It startled her. He whistled again.
Loki appeared not long after, while Michael was retrieving his coat—a bullet hole through its sleeve—and his hat. He found a key in the Welshman’s pocket and took that as well. Mira had remained where she was, accepting that the men were dead, saying nothing. And he knew better than to speak before she was ready. Even when necessary, killing was never easy. It wasn’t supposed to be.
He considered the two horses abandoned by the thugs, the possibility of finding the mare, and decided to take Mira up with him on Loki. He mounted and beckoned to her. She went wordlessly into the circle of his hands, let herself be lifted up, settled across his legs with one arm around his waist and the other clutching her bow.
“I saved you,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.
“In every way there is,” he said.
Chapter 33
Mira stood at cliff’s edge, pearl-gray clouds swirling overhead, the silver ocean below sleek as fur. Fat snowflakes drifted in the air. She breathed deeply, tasting salt in the moist breeze. Soon the pale light would fade, and she would withdraw to the house to wait, as she had already waited the better part of the day, for her husband’s return.
She had asked him to bring her here, and not to Longview, although it meant she would be alone. On this day, the day of her rebirth, she wished to be at Seacrest, where she had first been born.
Snowflakes on her cheeks, melting, gliding down like tears. But she felt warmed from within as the silent girl inside her, given a voice at last, began to stretch and move about. Make herself known, springing from the ice like a snowdrop. The promise of new life, a different life.
She wondered if Michael would like the woman reborn in the roots of a tree, in the snap of an arrow from her bow, in the healing embrace of his arms.
She wondered if she would like the new Miranda.
He had been reluctant to leave her by herself, but she insisted that Mr. Singh, who had been here when they arrived, accompany him to deal with the aftermath of the attack.
She’d used the time to prepare a room for them to stay the night, plundering the attics and walking a mile to the nearest neighbor for the loan of blankets and other necessities. Mrs. Dwindle, whom she had known since childhood, brought her back in a wagon piled with supplies, in case they got snowed in. Mira was hoping they would.
She felt much better now. Earlier, gripped with shivers and nausea, she kept hearing the sound of her arrows, seeing them strike—Well, she mustn’t think on it now. She’d found mint in the overgrown kitchen garden, brewed it into a tea, and rid herself of the bad taste in her mouth. Later, she’d been able to swallow a few crackers and keep busy enough to distract herself. It wasn’t that she regre
tted what she’d done—how should she?—but she wished never to do violence again. What ghosts must haunt her husband, who had spent most of his life fighting and killing?
Her face under the hood of her borrowed cloak burned with cold. Fire and ice. And now, the anticipation tingling at her awareness. He was on his way. She decided to wait, to greet him here, suspended between earth and water and sky, a place of new beginnings.
A few minutes later, she turned to watch him striding down the long slope of the grassy hill, his greatcoat open and flowing behind him. She held out her hands, and after a look of surprise, he took them. A man unsure of his welcome, she had come to understand. His eyes, the color of the winter sea, regarded her with concern.
“I’m quite well,” she said. “Will you tell me what has occurred?”
“We found your mare. I answered the same questions several hundred times, signed papers, and left the rest in the hands of the authorities. In a day or two, I shall be required to go to London. That’s about all.”
“What of the man responsible? What is to prevent him from hiring someone else to kill you?”
A pause. “He’s dead, Mira. There was a message sent me at Longview, and Hamman MacFife had got the word as well, from Bow Street. The investigation is not complete, but it appears the man drank the same poison he used to kill my brother. And he confessed to the murder in a letter apparently written while he waited for the poison to work. It was slow acting, according to the magistrate, and he’d have known that. The handwriting deteriorated as he wrote, the ink is smeared, and the letter is stained with the poisoned wine and his sweat. But it can be deciphered, and it appears credible.”
Appears? Mira put that aside for the moment. “Who is he?”
“No one I ever heard of. Mr. Phineas Garvey, ship owner, country trader, charter member of the East India Consortium. He’d lost the better part of his fortune in recent years—I’m to blame for that—and it seems my brother held notes on his property and meant to foreclose. Garvey mentions the notes in his letter, and I’ll be required to sift through Jermyn’s papers in search of them.”
