The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  "That's far enough.” The whisper stopped her well short of the gazebo, on a curve in the path.

  "Who are you?” she kept her voice as low as his.

  There was a brief pause, a few seconds of complete silence before the answer came. “I came in response to your invitation, Mrs. Broderick. Surely you know well enough who I am."

  "Yes.” She breathed in relief.

  "Why have you called me here?"

  Her heart beat much too fast, and she questioned again why she was doing this. She did not know this man, and she certainly didn't owe him anything—least of all a sacrifice of these proportions. But she'd made her decision.

  "To warn you."

  "To warn me?” She could hear a touch of humor in the hoarse whisper.

  "Victor Chadwick knows—believes—the Indigo Blade lives in this house. If this is true, it's only a matter of time before he catches you."

  She heard a rustle of leaves to her right. “And so you felt it your duty to warn me? Where is Chadwick now? Waiting behind the gazebo with his army?"

  "He'll be here in an hour."

  There was a long moment of silence, but she knew the man who had answered her summons had not departed silently. Finally, he spoke. “And you're supposed to keep me entertained for that length of time? How interesting. Whatever was Chadwick thinking?"

  The stranger in the shadows was a frustrating man, like every other in her life. Could he not take this seriously? “I told Victor I was to meet you at eleven. I trust you'll be long gone by then."

  "What do you want, Mrs. Broderick?” he asked again, the whisper deeper and harder to hear than before.

  "I told you, I simply want to warn you of the danger at hand.” Why was she doing this? The man obviously did not want or feel as if he needed her help. “Please accept my apologies for wasting your time, sir. I suggest you make yourself scarce before the hour has passed."

  She spun away and started toward the house. In an hour, she would return and play the role of the waiting decoy for Victor, but she'd done all she could for the moment.

  "Wait.” There was a hint of urgency in his voice, enough to make her halt her progress.

  Penelope heard him step onto the path behind her, stealthy footsteps as the stranger left the heavy foliage that had shielded him. If she turned, she would see the face of the Indigo Blade in the moonlight. She didn't move.

  "Why?” he hissed. He was close, closer than she'd imagined.

  A minute passed, and neither Penelope nor the man behind her moved. “I admire what you do,” she finally whispered. “I think you're a commendable and worthy man, fighting for your convictions as you do. You shouldn't have to die for what you believe in."

  "What's one more rebel head to your name?” he asked, and she could tell by the soft sound of that voice that he'd moved very near. “What difference does a little more blood on your hands make?"

  It was more than she could take. Her fists balled at her sides, and she lifted her chin in the darkness. “I had nothing to do with Heath Lowry's death."

  "Why should I believe you?"

  "Why should I care if you believe me or not?"

  All was silent, and for a moment she thought herself to be alone. The man had silently walked away, and she would never know if he believed her or not. Despite her protest, she found she did care—very much.

  And then he spoke from directly behind her. “If you had nothing to do with Lowry's capture and death, why would he denounce you?"

  "Because he believed it to be true.” Unshed tears came to her eyes, and she felt the anger and confusion she'd tried to bury rise within her once again. “Poor Heath! He died thinking I betrayed him, and I didn't. I couldn't have."

  "Why would Lowry think you betrayed him?"

  "Because that's what Victor Chadwick led him to believe.” Her voice rose slightly, loud in the silent garden. “Victor lied to hurt me, to punish me for marrying another man.” She couldn't tell even this stranger that on some days she was convinced marriage to Maximillian was punishment enough for all her sins.

  "And you never protested?"

  "I did!” Penelope started to turn to face the accuser behind her, but a hand on her shoulder stilled her progress. She shook his hand off, but did not turn about. “At least, I tried to tell the people who are important to me, the ones I love."

  "Did you, now?"

  She had been unable to speak of this to anyone, and she found it a great release to share it all now, even with this stranger. And she found she wanted, very badly, for the man who stood silently on the garden path to believe her. “My uncle didn't believe me, my cousin didn't care, and my brother...” Her voice shook. “My brother ran away before I had a chance to explain."

  The hand returned to her shoulder, comforting and steady, and this time she didn't shake it off.

  "And your husband?"

  "He never asked,” she said. It hurt to admit it aloud, that Maximillian cared so little for her that the troubles in her life were nothing to him. A nuisance, a bother less consequential than a stain on his clothing. “He doesn't care."

  "Then he's a bigger fool than he appears to be,” the man replied.

  "I did not come here to talk about my husband,” Penelope said sharply. “Leave this house,” she advised. “Take yourself to a place of safety and stay there until Victor's obsession with you has passed."

  "I can't do that."

  "Then I can do nothing more to help you."

  The hand on her shoulder tightened. “Mrs. Broderick?” The whisper was close to her ear. “After all he's done to hurt you, why do you assist Chadwick in this endeavor?"

  She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, trying to force away the tears and the night. “He has my brother."

  "Tyler,” Max whispered.

  "You know him?"

  There was such light in her voice, such hope, even now. “Yes, but I did not know he'd been taken."

  "Arrested,” Penelope said softly. “Tyler believes, as you do, in liberty and freedom, in revolution. He foolishly took up with a band of rebels who stole weapons from Victor's arsenal. They were caught. Victor says he'll have Tyler whipped if I don't do as he asks, he says he'll break his spirit ... and Tyler's spirit, his heart, is what makes him so dear to me."

  "Then you're taking quite a chance, warning me.” Max wanted to spin Penelope around and take her in his arms and beg pardon for all he'd done, for what he'd believed. But there was not enough time for all that needed to be said, not here and now. Chadwick was coming, and they probably had no more than a few minutes.

  "How can I trust the word of a man like Victor Chadwick?” He could hear the despair in her voice, and knew what torture this decision had been for her. “Even if I were to help him capture you, I don't believe he'd release Tyler, as he promises. He'd use Tyler again, and again, and I would be no better than a slave to his every whim. I can only hope that if Victor believes I'm doing my best to assist him, it will buy me time to find a way to free my brother."

  He placed his free hand on her shoulder, so his gloved hands bracketed her hooded head, his thumbs at her neck, his leather-encased fingers folding over the dark green cloak that was almost black in the night. With the hood up he could see nothing—not her hair, not a glimpse of her face—but he could touch her, for a moment.

  "I'll see Tyler freed."

  "Will you?” There it was—the hope in her voice, the light.

  "You have my word."

  Penelope lifted a hand and placed it over one of his, there on her shoulder. She trembled, but just a little, as she folded her fingers over his. “I thank you with all of my heart, sir."

  He bent to kiss her fingers lightly, to ask forgiveness silently for condemning her without ever giving her a chance to explain. It was a mistake she would likely not forgive, when faced with the truth.

  "Mrs. Broderick?” he whispered as he lifted his lips from her fingers.

  "Yes?"

  "Penelope."

 
; "Yes."

  They stood there for a long and silent moment, hand in hand, heads so close together that if she turned her head a fraction she'd see and know his face.

  Would she ever forget that he had condemned her without asking for an explanation, that he lied about his true self? Likely not. Would she listen to his inadequate explanations? Of course not. Perhaps she would listen to him now.

  "You are a most remarkable and beautiful lady."

  "I thank you for the compliment, sir, but you are the remarkable one. Rescuing rebels, leading Victor on a merry chase as no one else could. Devoting yourself to what you believe to be right. You have my deepest admiration."

  Now was the time to tell her ... but the sound of approaching horses interrupted, and Penelope stepped forward and out of his grasp.

  "Go,” she whispered harshly, hurrying down the path toward the house. “That's Victor, I'm sure of it."

  She didn't look back.

  Huddled beneath her lightweight woolen cloak, Penelope sat on the gazebo bench, her hands in her lap as she waited. All was silent, though she knew full well she wasn't alone.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dark long ago, and she watched the bush Victor was hiding behind just a few feet away. Now and again she'd see the leaves flutter.

  "Maybe he isn't coming."

  His response was so low she could barely hear it. “You'd better hope he does."

  She didn't. She hoped he was far away by now, saving Tyler, saving himself...

  More than ever, Penelope wondered if she knew the man who called himself the Indigo Blade. When he'd kissed her hand, she'd seen a lock of long dark hair swing forward. The only dark-haired men in the house were John, Garrick, and Fletcher, but the man she'd met had seemed like none of these. John muttered and mumbled constantly, and this man's voice had been quite clear. Garrick was cold as ice, and she'd sensed great kindness and warmth in the Indigo Blade. Fletcher was earthy and coarse, and the man who'd placed his hands on her shoulders and comforted her was a gentleman. Of that she was certain.

  Perhaps he didn't live beneath her roof after all, and Victor was looking in the wrong place for his quarry. She hoped that was true, and that Victor would never catch the man he sought so diligently.

  After meeting the Indigo Blade, she respected him more than ever. He was strong and brave and noble, fearless in his beliefs, and clever in avoiding Victor. He was a man who was willing to fight and even to die for what he believed to be right, a man who aided those in dire need. Why couldn't her husband have just a few of those qualities?

  Good heavens, she was fascinated with the man, after only a brief meeting and a brush of his lips against her hand. There was nothing to the feelings that bloomed inside her, she knew. She would never know the Indigo Blade, would likely never see his face, and would never hear his voice again. But for the moment, she found herself foolishly enamored of that soothing whisper.

  How long would Victor insist that she wait? The minutes dragged past slowly, a silent torture. But then she was the only one who knew the Indigo Blade wasn't coming.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Broderick.” The familiar whisper came from behind her, breaking the silence of the night, and Penelope nearly jumped out of her skin.

  Why was he here? He should be far away right now, safe from Victor and the soldiers who were waiting nearby.

  "I'm very disappointed,” he said, not waiting for her response. “I thought our meeting was to be private."

  Penelope felt frozen, unable to speak, unable to move.

  Victor jumped from his hiding place near the pathway entrance to the gazebo, leaping onto the path with a pistol in his hand. “He's here!"

  Penelope waited for the rush of soldiers Victor had posted around the property, waited for the warlike shouts and the blasts of gunfire, but all was silent. Soundless, except for the tsking sound that came from the foliage behind her.

  "I'm afraid your men have been otherwise detained, Chadwick. There's just you and me and the lovely Mrs. Broderick. What a sweet lure you chose, Chadwick. After all, what man could resist an invitation from a lady such as she?"

  Victor stepped onto the gazebo, moving with a stealth Penelope had not seen from him in the past. He raised his pistol and took aim at the lush foliage. “Every man has a weakness,” he said as his eyes searched the darkness.

  "And Mrs. Broderick is supposed to be mine?” The whisper responded with a touch of humor. “Did you really think I would be so easy to capture, Chadwick?"

  Victor used the sound of that voice to locate his objective, taking aim and firing.

  Penelope covered her ears against the blast and shouted “No!” a protest that was lost in the explosion of the weapon.

  As the roar of the pistol subsided, all was silent once again.

  "I got him,” Victor whispered triumphantly, and a wide smile bloomed across his face.

  Penelope knew she couldn't let her revulsion show. She couldn't cry, she couldn't lash out at the man before her. For Tyler's sake, she remained calm.

  "How can you be sure?"

  Victor didn't answer, but left the gazebo to explore the grounds behind Penelope, to crash through the foliage in search of his victim. As minutes passed and he found no body and no wounded traitor, he became more and more impatient, cursing as he thrashed about in the dark garden.

  Penelope clasped her hands together and held her breath. She prayed silently that Victor was wrong, that he'd missed his target and that the Indigo Blade was safely away from danger. Behind her, Victor continued to search, muttering and slashing at the thick growth of shrubs and flowers.

  Victor cursed aloud, and she prayed silently, and the minutes dragged past. Too many minutes. Surely someone in the household had heard the shot. Where were they? She turned her attention to the house, just in time to see Dalton headed her way at a brisk walk.

  "What's going on here?” Dalton asked, as he and the others came down the path. “I heard a gunshot.” They were in varying states of dress, Dalton and Garrick still in their livery. Beck and John in loose shirts and tight pants and bare feet, Fletcher and Lewis in crude clothing worthy of the stables where they spent much of their time. They all spoke at once, excited and curious, so that it was impossible to make much sense of their words.

  Maximillian lagged behind, joining the commotion several minutes after his servants. He was in his nightclothes, a long flannel nightshirt beneath a loose white banyon that floated around his body as he followed behind them all. With a wide yawn, he raised his hand to sleep-ruffled hair as if to make himself more presentable.

  "Yes! I got him, all right!” Victor shouted, and Penelope closed her eyes against the tears she could not shed. Her plan had failed miserably, costing more than she'd imagined, adding to her list of sins. Heaven help her, she didn't want to see the Indigo Blade's body fallen in her garden. Why hadn't he run when she'd warned him?

  Victor returned to the gazebo and offered his hand to her. “Blood,” he said gleefully. “By God, I shot the Indigo Blade."

  The blood on his hand was black in the moonlight, and even though she knew she should show no emotion, Penelope shuddered. Her stomach roiled and her head swam. If she were given to fainting spells, she'd likely collapse at Victor's feet.

  "Come, on,” Victor ordered, nodding toward the crew on the path. “Help me locate the body. This blood was on a palm frond, and a wounded man couldn't have gone far."

  None of the men on the path moved.

  "I demand that you assist me in this search!"

  "Perhaps in the morning,” Maximillian said with another wide yawn, and when he spun about the others turned as well. “Dalton,” Maximillian halted in the middle of the path and glanced over his shoulder, “would you see my wife to the house? It's turned quite chilly, and she really shouldn't be out here in the night air. It's not healthy."

  "Of course.” Dalton turned to her and waited, and Penelope gratefully left the gazebo to join him.

  "You can't just leave
me like this. The brigand's done something with my men!” Victor protested.

  "Those would be the soldiers we found bound and gagged outside the kitchen door, I suppose,” Lewis said nonchalantly. “Since you've shown such concern, I'm sure you'll be glad to hear that they appear to be unhurt. Embarrassed, perhaps, but unhurt."

  "A mere eight men to capture the Indigo Blade,” Beck said lightly. “What were you thinking, sir?"

  "Stop!” Victor shouted. “All of you stop right where you stand.” He hurried forward. “Each and every one of you will be examined, by me, for a gunshot wound.” His motions and his voice were desperate, excited.

  "Are you suggesting that you perhaps shot one of my servants?” Maximillian asked tiredly. “Gad, the gentlemen in my social circle wouldn't take kindly to such a tale, Chadwick."

  Penelope, and everyone else, knew that Maximillian's lazy words were a threat. Victor had already made a mistake in allowing Heath to die. He couldn't afford another blunder.

  Max spread his arms wide. “Faith, they all look perfectly healthy to me.” He crooked his fingers in a simple gesture of command, come along, before he turned and walked away.

  "Watch your step, madam,” Dalton said, offering Penelope his arm. She took it, needing the support as her legs shook uncontrollably.

  Far ahead, separated from her full view by the servants who rambled and chatted between them, Maximillian disappeared into the house. She saw no more than a flash of his rippling white banyon and then he was gone. Why could he not escort her into the house himself? He so carelessly gave her over to his butler, at a time when she needed his support—his arm to lean on, his shoulder to cry on.

  Victor hurried past her with a curse, on his way to free his men.

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  Chapter Nineteen

  Once the door was closed behind him, Max let the banyon fall to the floor, and he closed his fingers over the flannel nightshirt. The bandage beneath was damp with blood, but not soaked through. Damnation! Chadwick had the devil's own luck, to have found his target in the dark. It was just a scratch, a nuisance more than anything else, but it irritated the hell out of him that Chadwick had such luck.