Pistols at Dawn

by Andrea Pickens

  "Aren't you the clever one yourself, Miss Kirtland," he sneered. "Yes, that is precisely what I had in mind. Mr. Harkness proved an easy mark. A weak, blabbering fool. The fact that he and the earl despise each other made it child's play to manipulate him."

  Eliza did not disabuse him of that notion.

  "Then you came along and had your own idea on how to profit from Killingworth's penchant for bedding women."

  She drew in a sharp breath.

  "My arse gets tossed in the mud, while yours lands in a fine tester bed. It hardly seems fair, does it?"

  "You are mistaken." Her voice was a taut whisper. "I assure you, the earl has no interest in me."

  "Oh, I don't doubt that a shrewish country spinster has few charms to attract a notorious rake," agreed Hastings. "But as I made it my business to know his habits, I am aware that it has been a long time since His Lordship has had a woman in his bed. I imagine he would take his pleasure with anything that wore a skirt."

  Argument seemed pointless.

  "As I said, it doesn't seem fair."

  "I have learned over the years that life is rarely fair, Mr. Hastings. One must learn to deal with disappointment."

  "Why should I?" His face twisted in anger.

  "Surely you've a handsome sum tucked away from your embezzlement. Why not take it and flee to some distant place where you can live to enjoy it," she asked.

  "Be a sheep and meekly accept my fate? Not when I am smart enough to do something about it. I want more and I intend to get it."

  "Perhaps you are not so smart as you think."

  A nasty laugh echoed the slap of his palm on her cheek. "I'd watch my mouth if I were you. You are hardly in a position to comment on my intelligence, seeing as you blundered straight into my arms."

  That was the one thing on which she and the devil saw eye to eye. "What do you intend to do with me? It won't be long before I am missed at the Manor."

  Hastings took some time to consider the question. Stepping away from the chair, he circled the table, lips pursed in thought. After several turns, a slow grin indicated he had reached a decision. "The footpaths are notoriously unstable this times of year. A pity you chose to wander too close to the edge while looking for your blasted berries."

  "Another accident?" Eliza tried to keep the tremor of fear from her voice. If push came to shove, she knew she didn't have the strength to fight him. "The earl will know it was foul play."

  "But again, he won't be able to prove it." The former steward yanked her to her feet. "You have been a cursed nuisance, Miss Kirtland. With you out of the way, I can bide my time and pick the right moment for my next move against Killingworth. And this time, I'll make sure that my plans aren't spoiled by a nosy chit."

  "You think he will stand by and wait for you to strike again? He will hunt you down."

  "Let him try. So far, the Black Cat has been a toothless tabby."

  Chapter 15

  The tinge of red in the scudding clouds added a new shade of urgency to their search. The sun was setting fast, and if night came before they found Eliza, the earl didn't dare think of what might happen during the stretch of blackness between dusk and dawn.

  He left off his survey of the horizon. "That is the last spot on these hills. What is left?"

  "Two places," replied Meredith quickly. She, too, was eyeing the deepening colors of the sky. "But they are in opposite directions. There is no way we can get to both before darkness falls."

  "Then we must split up," said Lucien decisively. Though his face was deathly pale beneath the dust and sweat, he had hung in gamely over the bruising ride. "Uncle Marcus?"

  The earl nodded. Loath though he was to accept it, his nephew was right. "Which you do think he has chosen, Miss Meredith?"

  She hesitated, but only for an instant. "The cliffs."

  "Whitney, you and Robbie will check the caves, while we head on to the cliffs."

  The two men listened intently to Meredith's description.

  "I need not warn you to go carefully. If you have a clear shot, take it. But otherwise..." he didn't bother to finish. They all knew the alternative was prayer.

  The freshening wind and the sound of the rising surf muffled their approach to the clearing. Still, Marcus signaled for them to dismount and continue on foot. Handing his rifle to Lucien, more as a crutch than anything else, he quickly checked the priming of his pistols. At close range, they would be far more effective weapons.

  "Watch your step," he warned, tucking one in his coat pocket. At the first stumble, he meant to leave his nephew behind, even if it meant lashing him to the nearest oak.

  The way was clear enough and they quickly crested the wooded slope. Half hidden in the lengthening shadows, the hut looked as if it hadn't been disturbed in ages.

  Marcus eased back the hammer. "Wait here. I'll have a look."

  The scuffed earth, the unlatched door—someone else had been here, and recently. Holding his breath, he nudged the door open a crack wider.

  "Damnation."

  The earl wasn't aware that he had spoken aloud until Lucien and Meredith, breathless from their headlong run, appeared at his shoulder.

  "Too late," he added, stepping inside and surveying the tumbled basket and overturned chair.

  "That is Eliza's basket," whispered Meredith.

  He already knew that, for the staleness of the air could not quite overpower the lingering trace of verbena and lavender. "Damnation," he repeated. "Damn, damn, damn."

  Lucien could not repress his own oath on catching sight of the pistol barrel under the bedstead. "It's been fired," he said, brushing the grains of powder from his fingertips. His eyes swept over the floor. "But," he was quick to add, "I see no sign of blood."

  Thank God for small miracles, thought Marcus. An involuntary glance heavenward revealed the splintered wood and jagged hole. The scenario flashed before his eyes—she had managed to draw the pistol, only to be overpowered by the superior strength and size of a male opponent.

  Oh, if only she had learned her lesson the first time around.

  "They have not been gone long." Meredith held up a sprig of wild thyme from the tangle of herbs. "Look, the leaves have not yet wilted."

  The earl prayed that the same could be said of Eliza. "We may have a chance to catch up with them if we hurry. There is only one way they could have gone."

  The sea.

  His insides were churning like a storm-tossed ocean, crosscurrents of emotions colliding in a tempest of hope and fear. He had always been calm in the face of danger before. The choices had been his and his alone. That he could live with. But this gut-wrenching worry was something he had never experienced before.

  Perhaps because he had never been in love.

  His past affairs had been fleeting—flesh touching flesh, nothing deeper. But Eliza Kirtland had gotten under his skin. Her fierce loyalty, her sharp intelligence, her gritty courage had slowly but surely won his heart. He couldn't quite imagine life without her there by his side, demanding he measure up to his own expectations.

  Indeed, they made an odd couple, for he believed that he, too, had helped her to see another side of herself. There was passion beneath the rigid columns of numbers. That was part of life's equation, and judging from their first lesson, she was a quick study.

  Work and play. Killingworth Manor could be a real home, filled with countless possibilities for happiness, for a family, for a future. All the things he had never valued before.

  Lord, let him find her. He had never even told her of his feelings.

  The evening mists had not yet floated up from the water, yet he moved as if in fog, finding it hard to breath, hard to think.

  But think he must. Time enough later for regrets, recriminations.

  "Uncle Marcus." Lucien's low call slowed his steps.

  As he looked around, Marcus noticed that his hands were bleeding from scrabbling up the steep path that cut between the outcroppings of granite. He nodded and continued on at a mor
e measured pace. Another twisting turn and they would be within a stone's throw of the cliff top.

  * * *

  If only.

  The words seemed to crush against the inside of Eliza's head with the same incessant rhythm of the waves pounding the rocks below. She rarely indulged in pining over the past. The worries of the present and the future were usually daunting enough to keep her mind fully occupied.

  Being useful, she reminded herself.

  That thought seemed to mock her every move of late. At least she had, for a fleeting interlude, shoved her ledgers and her everyday troubles aside and allowed herself a taste of passion. She would take the earl's kiss to the grave and beyond, savoring the warmth of its intimacies, the sweetness of sharing a connection of body and spirit.

  Nothing could take that from her. Not the bruising grip on her arm or the muttered threats that harangued her to move faster over the steep stones.

  "Clumsy cow." Hastings jerked her upright and with another crude oath shoved her forward.

  Eliza controlled the urge to fight back. She was not after a moral victory, but a far more pragmatic one. There was no doubt he could knock her senseless. The only reason he had not done so was to save himself the trouble of hauling the deadweight of her unconscious body along the narrow path. So she would march along meekly and watch for the one slip that might give a chance to break free.

  "Not much farther," he taunted. "Let me think, I believe I shall leave your shawl artfully arranged on a snag of rock, in case your body is never fished out from the pounding surf."

  She smiled, hoping a show of calm would goad him into a temper. Anger often clouded judgment.

  "An excellent idea. I trust the hangman will be equally artful in arranging a knot of hemp around your neck once the earl has seen you charged with the crimes of assault, arson and murder. I may be feeding the crabs, but you will be carrion for the crows. They tend to leave a murderer's carcass dangling from the gibbet until it's pecked clean."

  The sting of the slap was worth seeing his face contort in rage. "You think the earl is going to care about the disappearance of his doxie? I don't see him rushing to your rescue. I wager he is already has another wench warming his sheets. But not for long. He'll pay for his pride."

  She stopped his gloating with a quick retort. "If you have been truly clever, you would have used your head instead of your fists when it came to Killingworth's nephew. You call him a stupid boy, but he is the earl's heir, you know. I, for one, would have realized the opportunity for a profitable partnership and made friends with him, rather than be so short-sighted as to frame him for a crime."

  It was almost amusing to see the man's face fall as the import of her words sunk in. His lips moved—counting, no doubt, all the guineas he let slip through his fingers by not having thought of the idea himself.

  "So that was your game?" Hastings finally snarled. "Bedding the nephew and not the earl?"

  Eliza didn't deign to answer the despicable question.

  "Well, either way, you chose a losing proposition when you thought you could usurp my place at the Manor," he said. "Did you really think I was going to give up such bounty so easily?"

  "I didn't realize it was yours to give," she replied.

  Cursing, he pushed her again. With her hands bound, Eliza fell awkwardly against the rocks, banging her knees and shoulder. But she managed to cup a shard of granite between her palms before he wrenched her upright. As a weapon it was hardly a match for his knife. And yet, she reminded herself, David had slain Goliath with naught but a pebble.

  The path was winding closer and closer to the precipice. She knew she would have to strike soon.

  * * *

  The two shapes stood out in sharp silhouette, dark as slate against the purpling sky. Marcus watched for a moment, heart beating like a hammer against his ribs, as their pace along the path slowed because of the treacherous footing.

  He climbed a little higher, angling off the path for a clearer view of Eliza and her captor. "Let her go, Hastings." Waves crashed against the rocks, nearly drowning out his shout.

  His former steward whipped around, the wind carrying his first words out to sea. The next, however, sailed loud and clear. "Never!"

  "You have won. Name whatever price you like—money, a boat to France. It's all yours if you release Miss Kirtland."

  "You think I am a bloody fool?"

  "You have my word of honor that you will go free."

  Hastings replied with a jeering curse. "You want your bit of muslin? Come get her."

  Marcus measured the distance. No way could he reach them before his former steward made it to the edge of the cliff. "You are right—you are no fool. So think on it, Miss Kirtland is your only bargaining chip." He flashed his pair of pistols. "If she comes to any harm, you're a dead man in the next instant."

  He saw Hastings hesitate and consider the situation.

  "Perhaps you are right." The former steward yanked Eliza around to serve as a shield and held a knife perilously close to her neck. "I assume you have come on horseback."

  "Yes," answered the earl, his finger hovering in frustration above the trigger of his weapon. He was a crack shot, and Hastings's head was exposed just enough...

  But no. He had bought some time and would wait for a better chance. He would rather tear the man limb from limb with his bare hands.

  "Throw down your weapons," ordered Hastings, pointing to a deep crevasse in the splintered rocks. "In there. Then we will come down. Once I'm well away from the village I'll let her go." A pause. "You have my word of honor."

  Which was, thought Marcus, worth less than spit.

  Nonetheless, he did as he was told. "You'll get no trouble from me." He looked around to order his nephew to do the same, but Lucien was nowhere in sight.

  Meredith had started to climb up to join him, and the look in her eyes caused the question he was about to ask to die on his lips.

  "I'm unarmed as well," she called to Hastings. "Our two horses are yours for the taking."

  Fisting a hand in Eliza's cloak, the former steward pushed her forward. "Step back off the path," he ordered, "and put your hands atop your head so I can see that you're not up to no good."

  As Marcus watched their slow progress down through the loose stones, he tried to force his thoughts away from the sharpened steel at Eliza's throat and concentrate on how he was going to free her from the madman's clutches. He would only have a split second to act.

  And no second chance.

  * * *

  "Hastings."

  At first Eliza thought it was merely the whisper of the wind playing tricks with her ears. But when it came again, her captor yanked her to a halt. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucien crouched behind an outcropping of granite.

  "Back off." Hastings pushed the blade right up against her throat. "Put down that bloody rifle or I swear, I'll hurt her."

  "As if I give a fig what you do to her," said Lucien in a nasty drawl. "She and my bloody uncle are making my life hell—so I've got a proposition for you."

  Hastings darted a look at the earl, who was standing still as a statue, and then wet his lips. "I'm listening."

  "You're a diabolical bastard—but a very clever diabolical bastard. I need someone with brains and daring. So I'm willing to forget about all the trouble you caused me because between you and my uncle, you're the lesser of two evils."

  "Go on."

  "I say we make a deal and become partners. We get rid of my uncle with a quick bullet and lo, I'm the earl's heir and with him out of the way, Killingworth Manor is mine. I'll rehire you to run it—we'll have a binding bond, for neither us can betray the other without putting a noose around our own neck."

  "You are cleverer than I thought, Mr. Harkness."

  Yes, he is, thought Eliza.

  "I could learn much from you."

  Hasting tightened his grip on her arm. "What Miss Kirtland and her sister?"

  "Toss them over the cliff, along
with my uncle's carcass, once we put a bullet in his brain." Still hidden by the rocks, Lucien held out the rifle by its barrel. "Here, you had better take it," he muttered, nearly dropping the heavy weapon. "I'm still too weak to aim the damn thing. And I'm a poor shot."

  The rifle butt was out of his reach. Hastings gauged the distance, then Eliza felt the blade leave her throat as he darted sideways to grab it.

  It all seemed to happen in a blur—in the same instant Lucien sprang up and swung the weapon in a tight arc.

  The heavy wood stock smacked against the former steward's skull with a resounding crack.

  Hastings dropped to the ground like a sack of stones.

  "That," said Lucien forcefully, "was for Miss Meredith."

  As Hastings twitched and tried to raise his head, a swift kick caught him flush on the jaw, knocking him unconscious.

  "And that was for Miss Kirtland." Lucien dropped the weapon and reached out to untie Eliza's wrists, but stumbled and dropped to his knees, the last of his strength ebbing away. "Sorry," he said with a wry gasp. "A fine hero I make, falling into a half faint, but—"

  "Oh, Mr. Harkness..." Eliza sunk down beside him and steadied his shoulder with her bound hands. "You are quite the most wonderful hero in the world."

  "I am?" He sounded a little dazed.

  "Indeed, you are." Marcus skidded to a halt and crouched down to enfold both of them in a hard hug. "Thank God," he whispered, giving one last squeeze before releasing them and reaching for the fallen knife to cut away the rope around Eliza's wrists.

  "No doubt you have a few far less flattering names to fling at me, sir," she murmured as he carefully sawed at the knots. "Which I sorely deserve. I'm so sorry—"

  "Let us save recriminations for later," he interrupted. "Right now, all that matters is to get both of you back to the Manor, where you can be tended to properly."

  "I'm not injured in the least—save for my pride," responded Eliza haltingly. She was still feeling a little dizzy from the spin of last few moments. "I—I thought I was being so clever, and yet what I did was put all of you at terrible risk."