In that terrible future that Arthur had invented for them she heard herself crying in heartbroken fashion, and wailing at last, “Oh, Anna, don’t do it—don’t let him!” on a note of despair—and she could feel Arthur’s hard fist smashing into her face, and then merciful unconsciousness.
An unconsciousness from which she would wake, dizzy and sick, to see her husband in bed with another woman, a woman who hated and despised him, a woman who had gone to his arms solely out of pity—for her.
Now in that shabby Hudson River farmhouse, as she sidled away from her husband, shuffling her feet like a sleepwalker, in a trance from her terrible dreams, her gaze riveted on the pistol that had fallen out of Jack Belter’s belt as he dropped, brought down by Arthur’s poker. Almost without volition, she reached down and picked up the pistol. She looked down at it in an almost detached way, with a little demented smile. Here was a way out. She would not have to go to Boston or endure what Arthur had in store for her. She would remove herself from this hateful triangle. She would turn this gun toward her breastbone and pull the trigger. She studied it dreamily—and cocked it.
At the sound of the gun being cocked, Arthur whirled—and stiffened in shock as he saw Mattie turning it toward herself with that little secret smile on her face.
“Mattie!” he cried. “Are ye mad?” And lunged toward her.
It was sheer instinct that made Mattie turn the gun toward him to fend him off, for it had never occurred to her in her wildest dreams that she could best Arthur in anything. It was sheer reflex action that caused her finger to tighten on the trigger just as Arthur loomed over her, reaching out to wrest this dangerous toy from her slender fingers.
There was a deafening explosion.
Shot through the heart, Arthur’s arms closed spasmodically about his wife and he teetered there. To Georgiana’s horrified gaze, it seemed as if they were executing some macabre dance.
Then Arthur’s hold relaxed. He fell away from Mattie and slumped to the floor, to sprawl at the feet of the man he had killed but minutes before.
Mattie stood staring down at him, her face growing more pinched, more ashen by the moment. The smoking pistol dropped from her nerveless fingers. She took a faltering step backward and her hands went up to cover her face. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “I’ve killed him—I've killed Arthur.”
Georgiana, breathless from the swift passage of events, found her voice.
"So you have,” she said briskly. “And well he deserved it!” She gave Arthur’s fallen body a grim look. “Now cut me free from these bonds before the crew from the sloop come in to investigate that shot and decide to make off with us or drown us in the river to save their skins!”
Mattie’s gaze, fixed and horrified, was still riveted on the man before her. He had once been her husband.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” she whispered. “I meant to shoot myself. But when Arthur came at me, I thought only to fend him off. The gun went off....” Her voice dwindled away.
“Nobody will blame you, Mattie. I will be your witness. Had I had the pistol, I'd have shot him without a second thought. Now cut me free.”
Mattie’s feet still refused to move. She stood there swaying in her pink dress.
“Oh, Mattie, please don’t swoon,” pleaded Georgiana. “Set me free or it will all have been for nothing—we’ll die anyway. Use one of the kitchen knives—there’s one on the table there.”
Before Mattie could move to do her bidding there was a noise at the door. Both their heads turned as it swung open.
Nicolas stood there, a dark figure against the moon-washed snow. As he took in the scene before him, he gave a low whistle.
“Mathilde,” he said with respect, looking at the pistol at Mattie’s feet and noting that Georgiana was still bound, “don’t tell me that you have killed two men this night!”
Mattie had begun to shake—uncontrollably. Her voice seemed to rattle in her throat. “No,” she quavered. “Only one. Arthur struck down this cottager—” she indicated Belter—“with a poker and said he was dead. And when Arthur began telling us the horrible things he was going to do to us, I picked up the gun and—and—”
“And you shot him,” Nicolas said sympathetically. “Thereby saving me the trouble.”
“You—you were going to shoot Arthur?” whispered Mattie uncertainly.
“Of course, Mathilde. And rescue you from an impossible marriage—and incidentally rescue this lady, whose husband would be glad to turn over the deed to Windgate just to get her back from Arthur Kincaid!”
“You were going to—save us?” Mattie’s head whirled.
“Don’t listen to him, Mattie,” said Georgiana in disgust. “Your plan has been found out, Nicolas. Arthur left a note saying I had run away with you—and signed my name to it!”
Nicolas frowned. Even with her wrists bound, he felt that Georgiana was capable of pulling off a tremendous bluff. He turned to Mattie. “Is this true, Mathilde?" he asked severely.
“Oh, it’s true, it’s true.” Mattie burst into tears. “Arthur told us so—he bragged about it.”
“He was sneering at your culpability, Nicolas,” said Georgiana calmly.
Nicolas gave her a nettled look.
“You may as well untie me, Nicolas,” she sighed. “Brett and any number of others will be here any minute.”
Nicolas looked disturbed. He moved to the door, threw it open and looked out. It had never been any part of his plan to involve himself in Georgiana’s kidnapping as other than a “go-between.” He had meant to take them all—excepting Jack Belter, who had been well paid and knew he could expect more—to an isolated place downriver and there quarrel with Arthur and shoot him—something he had been yearning to do ever since Mattie had told him her story. Mattie, he had intended to put on a ship bound for Boston with a promise—not meant to be kept—to join her later and a stern admonition to keep her mouth shut about what had really happened, for she would not stand to inherit her husband’s fortune if it could be claimed that she had been party to his murder. Georgiana—ah, his plans toward Georgiana had never been certain, just as his feelings toward her even now were mixed. If she seemed to respond to him, now that he had made his move, he would have been tempted to let her stand beside him as they seized Windgate. If she did not—
He stiffened as he heard in the clear cold air the distant but unmistakable thudding of hooves. Georgiana had not lied. Danforth was out there—and seeking him! And doubtless he had a force at his back.
He turned to see that Mattie had seized the kitchen knife and run over to Georgiana and cut free her bonds.
Now as he advanced on Georgiana, she snatched the knife from Mattie’s hand.
“1 will not let you take me!” she cried in a ringing voice and brought up the knife to defend herself. “And you have not much time, Nicolas, for I can hear them coming. All the forces of Windgate are gathered in pursuit of me at this very moment!”
She was right, this was no time to tarry. He had not the time to subdue her, for they would be on him. He thought fast.
“Georgiana,” he said. “You have just killed a man.”
“No,” cried Mattie. “Arthur killed the cottager and I killed Arthur—”
“Ah, yes, you said so.” A charming smile curved his lips. “But it will be believed of Georgiana,” he said softly.
Georgiana watched him warily. What trick was this? She kept the knife poised like a dagger, half expecting him to spring upon her to wrest it away.
Nicolas was gazing at her steadily, still with that smile on his lips. “So I would make a bargain with you. To save both your fair skins, you will say I had no part in this—and I will back you up, saying that I saw the deed. I will say that I arrived too late to stop them, but that I guessed where Kincaid had taken you, knowing Belter for a rogue, and that I had come in haste to save you. I will say that as I flung open the door, Kincaid struck Belter down and from the floor Belter shot him. Are we agreed?”
“Oh, do say yes, Georgiana,” cried Mattie, wringing her hands. “Say yes or they will hang me! For as badly as Arthur treated me—and too many know of it—who will believe that I killed him by accident?”
“Why do you do this, Nicolas?” Georgiana demanded.
“I want no further smears against my reputation when my case comes up in court,” he said frankly.
“So you are still determined to have Windgate?”
“As firmly as ever.” He started for the door and from the entrance cast an uneasy look at the low ridge over which at any moment now help would come. “I will take my leave of you, ladies,” he flung over his shoulder and trotted down the slope toward the sloop, which was tied up to a tree. He whipped out his sword to cut the ropes. “Who knows?” he called merrily to the women watching from the doorway. “I may yet find some comfort in the packet of papers ye kept secreted!”
At the word “packet” Georgiana broke into a run, following him.
“Wait!” she cried. “What packet is this?”
“The one you kept in your bedroom.” He had leaped aboard and now he hacked through the ropes and was telling the schipper to cast off.
Over the rise a number of horsemen were streaming, but foremost among them and some distance ahead, leading the pack on a lathered horse, was Brett Danforth.
He saw Mattie standing appalled at the cottage door. He saw Georgiana running down the slope toward Nicolas who was just leaping aboard the sloop. He saw Georgiana in her rag doll costume running after him.
He could not see her face. He could not know what was in her mind: The journal and the affidavit—Nicolas had them! And those papers would unmask her as a counterfeit heiress, they would reveal her true parentage, they would ruin Brett!
Chapter 34
Without hesitation, Georgiana made her decision. “Nicolas,” she cried. “I must have that packet back. If you will give it back to me unread I will go with you, Nicolas!”
Brett Danforth, still some distance away but thundering forward, could not hear that. But he could see the surprised stance of the man on the sloop.
Had Brett and the other pursuers not been so close, Nicolas might have got the schipper to turn the sloop around and go back for Georgiana but—pursuit was too near.
“Too late!” he called.
But Georgiana, hands twisted together, was locked in agony in her private world. She had visions of Brett ruined—and she would have caused that ruin by not destroying the packet while she had the chance. “Give them back!” she entreated. “Oh, Nicolas, give them back—and take me with you!” And as the sloop slipped away from the shore, was taken by the current, she slipped, went down in the snow. "Come back, Nicolas! Come back!”
Her voice was a blend of heartbreak and entreaty—and Brett heard it. Not the first part, only “—take me with you!” And then as she slipped in the snow and went down on her knees, he heard her calling raggedly, “Come back, Nicolas! Come back!”
His face turned gray and he spurred forward like a madman and brought his horse to so sudden a halt that it almost catapulted him over the beast’s head, just short of his fallen wife. He vaulted off, dragged out his sword and hurled it with deadly accuracy at the man who stood at the rail of the retreating sloop.
Nicolas, caught unawares, doubled up as the sword pierced him in the thigh. He went down cursing onto the deck of the sloop, which was now some distance from shore, being swept south by the fast current.
Georgiana, hardly aware that there was anyone else in the world at that moment but Nicolas and the stolen papers that meant so much to her, felt long fingers close over her arm in a steely grasp.
“It would seem your lover prefers his life to your embraces,” Brett said harshly, and she turned, dazed, to see the deep hard anger in his eyes. “But be that as it may, you are my woman—mine to hold or mine to fling away." He jerked her upright and toward him so violently that her feet left the ground and she came up breathless against his hard chest.
“Brett,” she cried wildly, realizing with a jolt how the scene must have looked to him, with herself from the shore entreating Nicolas not to leave her! “Brett, I can explain!”
She was suddenly aware that they were surrounded now by a group of silent, staring men. who had arrived shortly after Brett.
“Save your explanations,” said Brett brutally and picked her up, tossed her over his saddle in front of him, head dangling, uncaring that her lovely long hair was streaming down and catching in the brush, being wet by snow, or that she was fending off sticks and low branches that slapped at her face and legs as they rode.
“Let me up!” she cried.
He did not answer.
“Brett!” she wailed. “I’m freezing and my hair is getting soaked!”
“Be quiet,” he said through his teeth, “or I may be tempted to silence you!”
But he swept her up, righting her so that she rode sidewise before him with her legs dangling over one side of the horse, and he threw his cloak around her shivering body. In the wind her long hair streamed out and flicked his angry face; he shook it away. She turned and looked back at him once, her face very close, her eyes full of entreaty. She intended to speak, but the look in his gray eyes forbade it. She kept silent, shamed and confused and shivering in her rag doll costume, for she realized all too well what she had said and how it must have sounded—as if Nicolas had deserted her and she was wailing at him to come back. Half the river must have heard, she thought, cringing. Those men who rode behind them now, those men who had ringed around them and stared at her in wonder, what were they saying now?
Penitent now—although it was certainly no fault of hers that she had been kidnapped—she let him take her home. Taken up by one of the riders who rode behind them, she could hear Mattie sobbing out that Arthur and that man in the cottage had killed each other—no, she didn’t really know why, some quarrel, she lapsed into incoherence. A pair of riders broke away and went back to investigate Mattie’s story. The patroon rode on in silence.
Georgiana could have spoken up but she felt that Mattie was doing very well for herself. Later she could corroborate the story Mattie had told. But for now she was riding home through the snow to Windgate with her body held against a broad chest whose deep throbbing rhythm she could feel through her rag doll costume.
The big frowning mansion had never looked more formidable to Georgiana than it did when Brett drew up his mount before the open lighted door. Its dark shape seemed to bulk up enormously, all the downstairs windows glittering with candlelight, and from the chandelier in the lighted hall, light poured out in a long streamer across the snow, making a white carpet that they must tread upon to enter. Guests were crowded into the front hall, craning out—some of the more venturesome had come outside. She saw men trying to look elaborately unconcerned, women holding up their satin skirts carefully as they picked their way through the snow on dancing slippers. Wouter had come out and was standing by anxiously.
Conscious of her disheveled appearance and the fact that her costume was exactly like Linnet’s—she had no way of knowing that her deception had already been discovered but she divined it from the knowing faces of her guests—Georgiana felt abject humiliation as Brett dismounted in that long shaft of light, threw the reins to a nearby groom and lifted her down. Her awkward black felt boots, stuffed with yarn to make them the same size as Linnet’s, sank into the snow.
“Take care of the horse—he’s winded,” Brett told the groom. “Give him a good rubdown and feed him well. And find a bed for Kincaid’s wife,” he told Wouter tersely, indicating Mattie with a jerk of his head. “We can sort out her story tomorrow.” He paused in that long streamer of light that led inside past his excited guests. “Will ye bid my guests good-bye for me, Govert? I’ve matters to sort out with my wife.”
Silent and dignified and looking more than ever like an elderly liveried servant, Govert Steendam nodded his gray head in grave assent. He looked sorry for Brett, for the story told by
the dismounting men was already spreading among the guests like wildfire. They could hear snatches of it buzzing around them now: The patroon’s bride had run away with Nicolas, they must have quarreled for he had left her on the riverbank and sailed away—perhaps because he did not wish to be involved in a double murder—and when the patroon and his party had arrived they had found her calling after Nicolas, on her knees in the snow entreating him to come back to her!
That last item, when they heard it, caused Katrina ten Haer’s face to contort. She broke her ivory fan in half and hurled it at the mantelpiece. Then in rage she began tearing out her hairpins and then her hair in great saffron tufts, while Rychie, scandalized, tried to soothe her. Erica gasped on hearing it and then sank down and laughed till tears ran down her cheeks and Govert, looking shocked, muttered to her that such mirth was unseemly. But most of the guests reacted with lively interest, for there was much resentment against the “English patroon” and there were many at the ball who yearned to see him humbled.
The word “humble” hardly described the tall man who strode through the whispering throng dragging his strangely costumed wife by the wrist. Up the wide stairway they went, with everybody watching, to disappear from view around a corner of the corridor. Once they were out of sight, excited voices broke loose and there was a general hubbub as everybody, all at once, tried to find out from everybody else the real truth of the perplexing situation at Windgate.
But in Georgiana’s big square bedchamber, where a worried Wouter had already lit the candles and ordered a fire built while they were gone, the guests and their speculations were forgotten. Brett almost jerked her off her feet as he strode through it, kicking the door shut behind him. He tossed her onto the bed and stood for a moment glaring down at her. The look on his face was so formidable that she felt a tremor of fear course through her.
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