The building was small but defensible if Ian was foolhardy to enter the place intending to draw blood. The mare Emily had ridden from the stables was tethered to a hitching post outside. Ian could only hope they were still holding her somewhere inside.
That she was in the cottage, waiting for him, praying.
Jesus, God, how terrified she must be.
Instinctively Ian checked his pistol and the sword at his belt then let his hand stray down to where a dagger was concealed in his Russian leather boot.
He had been instructed to walk to the front of the cottage and surrender his weapons. But once his enemies had him unarmed, he had little doubt about the fate he and Emily would meet.
There had been a time when Ian would have been eager for this battle. He would have been irritated that the rescue would not be even more challenging, with more swords to avoid, more pistol balls flying.
But as he swung down from his mount and tied the stallion to a low-hanging branch, he was only relieved that the odds were not even more heavily weighted against him.
Of course, Ian thought grimly, there was always the chance that an even bigger army of men waited for him inside the cottage, their pistols cocked, their swords drawn.
Tugging his cape tighter around his shoulders, Ian stealthily slipped past the guards and made his way down to where a set of shutters were closed tight over the back window of the cottage, only a small crack allowing him a glimpse of the room beyond.
He could make out some sort of table, a few chairs.
But the sight that made his heart lurch was that of flowing mahogany curls and the soft folds of a primrose-hued petticoat. He searched for a better vantage point and found an empty knothole in one of the shutters. When he peered through it, what he saw only tightened the noose of fury about his throat, deepening the hideous sense of imbalance that seemed to rock inside him.
Those violet eyes had been brimming with wild, sweet passion the night before; now they were huge in Emily's face, filled with so much terror, so much pain, that Ian felt himself sinking into those same emotions until he could hardly draw breath.
Those slender hands that had comforted little Lucy with such tenderness and explored his body with such fervor, were bound in front of Emily, rendering her helpless.
No, Emily was far worse than helpless. Five soldiers stood guard at different points in the room while a jowl-faced bulldog of a man lounged with his back against the thick stone wall, a pistol pointed with studied negligence against Emily's back.
The sly bastard was far enough away from any window so that he could pull the trigger before Ian could reach him. And those eyes, those soulless eyes lost in pockets of flesh, were fixed on the only door.
It was a perfect trap unless... Could he set up a diversion? Set the building aflame? Oh, God, he had to get her out of there....
The metallic click of a pistol being cocked shattered Ian's thoughts, and he froze, feeling the nub of cold steel jab against the back of his head.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Reginald Atwood's face. The captain's features were contorted with anger and unease, a far cry from the expected reaction of triumph.
"You've made your first mistake, rebel scum, disobeying the orders given you!" Atwood hissed. "For your lady's sake I hope it is your last."
Chapter 17
Fury and disgust ripped through Ian. By God's wounds, how could he have been so reckless, so heedless? How could he have failed to hear Atwood's approach? The man was a bumbling ass at best. He'd been made to look the fool a dozen times in comparison to Pendragon.
But this time Ian had been the fool. His mind had not been emptied of all but his own keen awareness. He lacked that single-minded focus that shut out everything except his mission.
This time his mind had been filled to bursting with the terror in Emily's wide violet eyes and the pistol's kiss of death pressed against her slender back. His mind had been distracted by the self-blame that had savaged him from the moment he opened the ominous message.
You've made your first mistake, Atwood had said. And the Englishman was right.
But this mistake—the first of its kind he'd ever made—might well be his last. His stomach clenched. He might have just cost Emily her life.
"Fraser is waiting for you, and getting damned impatient," Atwood snarled. "If you've brought anyone with you, you'd best tell me now, or it will be death to—"
"I am alone." Ian interrupted firmly, suddenly struck by how strange that felt, how oddly fitting. If he were to die, it would be better that it happen without his men around him, without a blaze of patriotic glory. No, far more fitting that Ian Blackheath should die alone.
If only he could save Emily first.
Atwood's gaze slashed through the underbrush to where the nearest sentries were just visible. "I have Blackheath at the point of my pistol, you dolts," Atwood shouted. "Be alert, damn you, in case he has brought any of his men."
"We saw nothing!" A youth of about nineteen cried twenty yards to the north. "By God, how could he have gotten through?"
"Black magic," Ian said, forcing a sneer to his lips. "Everyone knows that I am the devil's own."
"Enough, damn you," Atwood snapped, nudging him none too gently with the pistol.
Ian dredged up Pendragon's usual scathing sarcasm. "You'd be advised not get too energetic with that weapon, Captain. It might go off and kill me, and then what would you do for amusement?"
"Rebel scum!" Atwood bit out. "You'd best leash your tongue before you meet with Mr. Fraser, or the fate that will befall Emily... My God, man, what he has planned..."
Was there the slightest hint in Atwood's voice that he was sickened? The tiniest quaver of disgust.
Bloody hell, Ian thought, if even Atwood was horrified, their plans must be beyond heinous. Panic twisted in Ian's belly. What kind of monstrous evil had he unloosed upon the woman he loved?
"Your sword, your pistol—leave them both out here," Atwood said. "Make one false move, and I'll kill you."
Carefully, so carefully, Ian divested himself of sword and pistol, praying that Atwood would not see the dagger in his boot, not know it was there.
The captain gave a grunt of satisfaction as the weapons clunked to the ground. Then his eyes narrowed. "What's that in your boot, Blackheath? The dagger I've heard you carry sheathed there?" With fury, Ian withdrew the slender blade, his fist clenching and unclenching on the hilt before he let it clatter against his other weapons. Now nothing stood between Emily and death save Ian's own wits.
"Get moving," Atwood commanded, shoving him toward the cottage door. "And if you love Emily d'Autrecourt at all, damn your eyes, you'll do exactly as Fraser tells you."
"Let me guess," Ian said dryly. "Then your friend Fraser will kill us mercifully as opposed to... more creatively?"
"No! He'll release her. He would have to. She's loyal to the Crown. She's done nothing to warrant death."
"You really believe he'll let her live?" Ian hissed. "My God, Atwood, you are a fool. He'll kill her, just as he'll have me killed. I might suggest that you watch your back as well, Captain. If things get messy, men of his kind are always compelled to tidy things up. Permanently."
"Don't be absurd, you traitorous dog! Fraser will not—" Atwood stopped abruptly, as if realizing the precarious conversation he was holding with his captive. "Her life is in God's hands," he said tightly.
"No." Ian glanced down at his own fingers, empty of weapons. "Her life is in the devil's hands."
With a measured stride, Ian moved toward the cottage, his eyes covertly taking in his surroundings. Seven horses besides Emily's were tied to the hitching post, in addition to those of the soldiers Ian had taken note of before. Even more riders could be concealed among the trees, though his stallion's nickering would most likely have raised an answering whinny from their mounts by now.
Was it possible there were so few men here? Not even enough to match Pendragon's raiders in number? Whoever t
his Fraser was, he was either a brave man or a fool.
Or was Fraser so damned certain of himself that he had taken too few precautions? Was it possible that what Ian had just said to Atwood was true—that Fraser intended for things to get very untidy indeed?
"Open the door and enter."
For an instant Ian considered wheeling around, grabbing Atwood's pistol, counting on surprise to get to Fraser in time. But the other soldiers were still in the room, and the gun was still pointed at Emily.
Ian had rescued people before, under far worse conditions. He had moved swiftly, ruthlessly, and most times he had been rewarded by success.
But could he risk this being the one time that he failed?
Could he risk Fraser's bullet slamming into Emily's spine?
The image was so vivid Ian's stomach churned. He opened the door.
Atwood's hand slammed against Ian's back, sending him stumbling into the room. The soldiers leaped as if Atwood had just pushed forth Lucifer himself, Emily crying out in horror.
Her sob lanced through him. "Oh, sweet God, Ian, you shouldn't have come!"
His throat constricted at the torment in her face, but he glanced around at the soldiers stationed about the room, their faces devoid of any emotion save that almost satanic terror the legend of Pendragon always spawned.
His eyes returned to Emily, her face so filled with anguish. His voice was soft, loving. "Of course I came, Emily Rose," he said. "How could I have abandoned my lady?"
Even the threat of the pistol couldn't hold her as she wrenched away from Fraser's grasp. She flung herself against Ian. His arms closed around her, and he felt the warmth in her, that agonizingly fragile pulse of life. Her bound hands reached up to touch his face, her eyes stark and filled with self-loathing.
"Ian, I'm so—so sorry," she choked out.
Oh, lord, that she should feel guilty. Guilty because they had used her to bring him here!
It was pain beyond bearing.
He caught her trembling fingers in his. "Hush, love. Don't even think it! It was my doing. All of it."
"No, Ian. You don't understand. It was mine!"
His gaze locked on her swollen fingers, the circulation all but cut off in her hands. Ian wheeled on Fraser. "Do you have to keep her tied so tightly? What, are you afraid a lone woman could escape you?"
"Oh, your lady is going nowhere, Blackheath. Of that I am certain. Perhaps we could strike a compromise. Captain Atwood, take the ropes from Mrs. d'Autrecourt's hands and place them on our most recently arrived guest. You will understand, Blackheath, that I couldn't stand to see a good length of rope left to languish in a corner when it could be so much more divertingly applied about someone's wrists."
Fraser jerked his head toward Atwood. "Bind him to that chair over there, so that he may be quite comfortable. I wouldn't want to be considered an ill-mannered host."
Atwood shoved his pistol into the waistband at the back of his breeches—a ploy Ian recognized as an effort to keep it out of a prisoner's reach.
Ian's fists knotted. He had to make his move now, do something before they immobilized him. He had to find some way... His muscles tensed, poised, ready, but Fraser chuckled with mocking evil.
"I know exactly what you are thinking, Blackheath—how desperate you are as you plot to keep your hands free. But you will be the most docile of captives. Not only because the rest of these soldiers have their weapons at the ready but also because, if you prove difficult, I will be forced to bury a most unsightly pistol ball... where? Oh, say, between your woman's breasts."
Gently but firmly, Ian attempted to put Emily away from him, but she clung to him, glaring at Fraser. "No! I won't let you do this. I don't care if you pull that trigger!"
"This mutual adoration between you and Blackheath is becoming tiresome, Mrs. d'Autrecourt. Perhaps you would be more amenable if I explained to you that I will disable your lover either with ropes or with a creatively placed bullet."
"Do as he says, love," Ian tried to keep his voice soothing, tried to convey all he felt for her in his heart—a lifetime of love that they had possessed so briefly. One that they might never live to share.
Fraser pulled back the hammer on the pistol. Emily gave a tiny cry and stepped away.
"You're making a big mistake, Fraser," Ian said as Atwood fumbled with the bindings about Emily's wrists. "I'm one of the most powerful planters in all Virginia, with business interests all over the world. You're going to live to regret this."
The rope fell free, and Atwood grabbed a wooden chair, dragging it across the floor to where Ian stood.
"Do you think any of your fine connections will step forward to defend you when I prove that you are Pendragon?" Fraser jeered. "A rebel cur who will meet a traitor's death?"
Atwood gave Ian a shove, forcing him to sit, then looped the thick cords roughly about his wrists.
Ian caught one of the loops in his palm, desperately attempting to employ a trick he'd once learned, but the rope tangled about his thumb. Atwood tightened the bindings so brutally that Ian wondered if he'd further disabled his hands and failed Emily yet again.
"You're insane, Fraser," Ian spat. "I don't give a damn about political drivel. Everyone knows that."
"Oh, yes, you've announced it to countless audiences. You've all but taken out an advertisement in the London Times. But the game is up this time, and you have come out the loser."
"Prove your accusations, you bastard! I dare you to—"
"I fully intend to. With the lovely Emily d'Autrecourt's help."
"No, Ian!" Emily flung herself against him, as if to shield him with her own slender body, her fingers knotting in his shirt. "You cannot listen to him. You must not betray—"
"Name your price, Fraser. For her life." Ian said the words, knowing already that if he could give Fraser the world in ransom for Emily, it would make no difference. The cold glimmer in the man's eyes was a precursor to dealing death. A glimmer that Ian had seen far too often. One that, on occasion, had shown in his own eyes.
Fraser's lips split in a diabolical smile. "I prefer to set forth my terms in private. Captain Atwood, you may dismiss your soldiers. Send them outside to guard against any intrusions by Pendragon's men."
"I told you. I have no connection to the rebel raider," Ian asserted as the soldiers filed out. "I have no men. I am nothing but what you see—a dissolute bastard, a—"
"Yes. A dissolute bastard who has ridden to his own death because a woman was in danger. A rakehell and a scoundrel, a man who cares for no one, but who is apparently willing to sacrifice himself in an uncharacteristically noble fashion. Spare me your protestations of innocence, Blackheath. You and I are men of business. Let us begin our bartering for the woman's life, now that only Atwood is present to overhear us."
Fraser's eyes seethed with triumph. "I have a desire to host a somewhat elaborate entertainment," Fraser purred. "And since you are so adept at organizing such debauchery, I want you to provide me with a... guest list of sorts."
"A guest list?"
Fraser's gaze sharpened. "I want to hang your friends, to show those foolhardy enough to espouse the rebel cause that they are courting death, disaster. But a single hanging, with a single martyr for them to rally around, would do more harm than good. You and I are both students of human nature, Pendragon. You know what an annoying rallying point a martyr can be. Therefore, as I see it, I must discourage people from clinging to your ghostly cape by horrifying them so deeply that they would never dare take action of their own."
Ian cringed inwardly. So close to his own words. Spoken the night he had clashed with Lemming Crane. Had he ever suspected how bitter they would sound when turned against him?
"I want a full confession from you, Blackheath. And I want the names of your men, in exchange for your woman's life."
Ian's blood froze.
That it should come to this—his most horrifying nightmare. Real now. So hellishly real.
Faces flashed before hi
s eyes—Tony, furious that night at Brigand's Cave, and later as he tried to explain his love for his Nora. Talbot and Taylor, Dettmer and Benetton. And the others... so many others...
"You're hallucinating, Fraser." Ian forced the words from between stiff lips. He closed his eyes, and even Tony Gray's face blurred beneath the burning vision of Emily... sweet, innocent Emily. "I'm no rebel raider."
"Then why do you look as if I'd just twisted a knife in your gut?" Fraser gloated.
"Maybe because it turns my stomach to see a bastard like you terrorizing a woman."
"So you do love her." There was a sadistic satisfaction in Fraser's purr. "Ah, my friend, have you not read enough heroic tales to learn that a woman is the most certain path to destruction?"
"I've done well enough in traveling that path on my own. I would not stoop to blaming an innocent woman."
"Of course you must save the tragic innocent, protect her at all costs." Fraser gave an ugly laugh. "You know, I have been waiting a very long time to entertain you, Pendragon. You have proved a most elusive enigma to solve. Of course, it is unfortunate that your lady had to become entangled. But such things are a regrettable necessity at times."
Fraser smiled. "I shall be open with you, Blackheath. Honest. We can accomplish the task before us in two ways, as I am certain you have already surmised. You can tell me now the things I need to know. And then—a swift bullet through the skull. Or you can decide to be... difficult. And I will have to punish Mrs. d'Autrecourt for your stubbornness."
"She's innocent, damn you! Even Atwood—"
"Atwood has also been much smitten with Emily's charms, it seems. A fact that I find most advantageous at present. You see, it seems the captain has been craving the bounty between Emily d'Autrecourt's thighs. I mean to give it to him, in plenty, unless my own desires are satisfied."
Ian glared at Atwood. "You would savage Emily?" he demanded. "Rape her? By God, you know she's done nothing."
Atwood's face was ice-white. "I am a soldier."
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