“I hear nothing,” Andrew whispered.
“This may be a futile trip,” Richard replied. He slowly swung the torch around. To his relief, there were boot prints on the dusty floor. “No, someone has been here recently.”
Andrew gripped his pistol tighter. “Then lead on, My Lord.”
Richard knew that Andrew showed a confidence he did not feel. His steward was not a fighting man, nor a soldier trained for battle. He was a man of books and maps and numbers. Still, Richard knew he would fight vigorously if in danger.
“Tread carefully,” he said. “The floor is slick.”
The room led straight to another corridor and another downward staircase. Uneasy, Richard’s heartbeat echoed in his ears. The dungeon gave all the appearances of being empty. His senses told him otherwise. Still, he walked on.
They were two floors down when a faint sound drew his attention. Hardly more than a whisper, at first he thought it was rats. Yet with a second consideration, he was not convinced that rats were the cause.
It sounded like the whisper of fabric on the stone floor. Was the killer lying in wait to attack them in the darkness?
He turned to press a fingertip to his mouth. Andrew froze.
Richard lifted the pistol. He handed Andrew his torch and whispered, “Stay a few paces back, just enough to give me some light but not enough to alert the killer I am coming.”
Andrew nodded. He stepped back until Richard was out of the direct light. Richard carefully moved forward, careful to silence his footsteps. His senses were on alert.
He neared the cells and glanced into the first one. It was empty but for a pair of rats. There was nothing but ancient pieces of what may have once been a cot and a broken and rusted chain hooked to a link on the wall. The second and third cells were empty, too.
Maybe the sound was rats. A low moan dispelled him of that notion. He carefully made his way to the fourth cell and glanced inside. On the floor was the form of a woman, lying prone on the damp stone.
“Andrew,” he called, in a harsh whisper.
He hurried inside and knelt beside her. She moaned again when he touched her. Her skin was cold and her hair tangled. Careful not to hurt her, he slowly rolled her onto her back.
The steward ran up behind him, torchlight flooding the cell. Richard’s stomach recoiled.
“Miriam?”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Brenna heard footsteps in the hallway outside the room. She hurried to take a position next to the door, pressed herself flat against the wall, and readied her pistol to fire.
Just as quickly as she worried that she might have to take a life, she realized the person who rushed past the open door was not male. The scent of lavender gave her sex away. Brenna darted a glance out the door. “Anne?”
The woman stopped and spun around. Clutched in her shaking hand was a large knife.
“Brenna.” She blew out a breath and put a hand over her heart. “I saw your horses on the road and knew you were here. Where are the men?”
“We found the dungeon door.” Brenna led her to the fireplace and indicated the open passageway. “They have gone below to see if they can find George and Clive.”
Anne’s face fell. The knife slipped from her fingers. She placed her trembling hands over her mouth. “What a foolish idea. What if the murderers hear them coming and lie in wait? They could be killed.”
Brenna patted her arm. “We must have faith—” A blast from below cut off her words. It echoed up the staircase and startled them. “It’s a gunshot!” she cried, overwhelmed with sickening dread. Richard!
Brenna stood, immobilized with panic, unsure of what to do. The terror of knowing Richard was in danger snapped her indecision into action.
Spinning on Anne, she grabbed her arms. “Go to the village and find Jace.” Anne whimpered. Brenna shook her, hard. “Do as I say. Now go!”
Anne turned and ran.
Wasting no time, Brenna dropped to her knees. She sucked in a deep breath and scrambled inside the fireplace and through the door.
The press of chill air prickled her skin like the touch of the dead. She clambered to her feet, wobbling slightly in her haste. She put one hand on the door for balance and jerked up her skirts with the other.
With panic cutting through her veins, she took the narrow stairs at a rapid clip, willing herself not to fall. She rounded the bend in the staircase, when the folly of her impulsiveness suddenly hit her. Without the light from the room above, the inky blackness surrounded her in its grip.
She’d forgotten to collect a torch. She paused for a moment, weighing her options, when a second shot jolted her backward. She held her breath, then made her decision. She’d continue forward, letting the wall be her guide.
The journey was grueling. Each step deeper into darkness twisted greater fear through her body. Her hands shook, her heart beat erratically, and she became more and more certain with the passage of time that she’d lost her way.
Struggling against the urge to curl up on the floor and submit to the horror of being lost forever in the darkness, the slightest hint of light appeared in the distance. Relief flooded through her. She cautiously stepped forward and took a second set of stairs downward.
A voice brought the pistol up. She could see a torch on the floor outside of an open cell and heard the weak sound of a male voice. At first she thought it might be the caretaker, Mister Crane, but she quickly recognized the voice.
Andrew. Brenna kept watch for a trap, following his voice until she could collect the torch. She slid it into a sconce outside the cell door and looked inside. Andrew was propped against a wall, blood on his breeches, a woman lying next to him on the floor.
He stared up at her. “It’s Miriam.”
Brenna rushed to kneel beside him. “How? Why?”
“I cannot say. We found her like this,” Andrew said. He pulled off his cravat and tied it around his leg. “She is in a stupor.” Brenna reached to touch her arm. She was cold. She bent to brush the hair from Miriam’s face. She was breathing. “Where is Richard?”
“He chased after the men after one of them shot me. The second shot went wide.”
Brenna tamped down the desire to scream. She would do Richard no good if she gave in to her anxiety. He was alone in the dark dungeon with two killers. He needed her to be strong. And the only person who could give her answers to this puzzle was lying at her feet.
Bending over Miriam, Brenna tucked the pistol into her pocket and patted Miriam’s cheek. “Miriam? Miriam? Can you hear me?” She tapped her harder. “Miriam, wake up.”
Slowly Miriam roused, too slowly. Brenna gently shook her, her impatience growing. Miriam had gone off with a man. Somehow she was involved in all this. How, she could not know, until Miriam explained her actions.
“Wake up.” Miriam’s eyes fluttered open. She stared, puzzled, into Brenna’s face. “Why are you here, Miriam? Were you kidnapped? Where are George and Clive?”
Miriam blinked. Her eyes welled. “I thought Clive loved me,” she whispered.
“Good lord,” Brenna said, gnashing her teeth. Miriam had willingly run off with a killer. “I do not need to hear your tale of woe. Where are George and Clive hiding? I need to find Richard.”
Rubbing her bruised face, Miriam whimpered, “Clive beat me.”
Brenna grabbed both sides of her head and lowered her face until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “Tell me where the men are hiding right now, or I will beat you myself.”
The woman blanched. Under Brenna’s threat, she nodded. “They have a hiding place down the corridor and to the left. It is a small room where the guards tortured prisoners. There are chains on the walls.”
Brenna stood, retrieved the pistol, and glared down. “If anything happens to my husband, I will come back and make good my threat.”
Miriam turned her face away.
Andrew pushed himself off the wall. “If you give me a moment to rise, I will go after him.”
&n
bsp; “Nonsense. Stay and watch her.” Reaching deep for courage, Brenna fled the cell, her mission clear. Save Richard.
Get out of the way, George.” Richard’s limp arm dangled at his side, and the other gripped his pistol. Leaning against the wall, he forced himself to stay upright. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating, yet he could not succumb to the driving need to slip to his knees. Not while Clive was alive.
“This is between Clive and me,” George said. The two men held pistols on each other. George’s voice wavered. “I will not allow you to kill anyone else. This is over.”
Richard’s eyes widened. George was protecting him?
“You are a coward,” Clive sneered. “You have always been a coward.” He lifted his pistol level with George’s forehead. “You cried when I killed that laundress. What sort of man are you?”
“You forced me to help you,” George cried out. “I thought after Cambridge, I was free of you. But you came after me. You planted Brenna’s writing paper under the dead woman to taunt me, you broke the wheel and set fire to the tree, and you killed that maid in Dover and Clara, to make me look guilty.” His pistol shook. “You threatened James, you bastard. I will kill you for that alone.”
Clive grinned. Richard tried to get off a shot, but George stood between them. “You will do nothing of the sort. You are weak. Controlling you was almost as enjoyable as killing those women, perhaps even more so. It gave me pleasure to know that you were suffering with night terrors because of me. You will never be free. Never.”
“You are the devil, Clive Everhart.” Brenna stepped into the room, her pistol aimed at Clive. His surprise quickly turned to laughter. He turned his pistol on her. “It appears the Lady Ashwood has decided to join us…and we have a standoff. Who will take the first shot?”
Richard wanted to call to her but feared she’d lose her focus. She needed to keep her eyes on Clive.
A sob caught in George’s throat. He dropped to one knee, and his pistol clattered to the floor. Richard lifted his pistol and aimed it at Everhart. Worry that the man would fire at Brenna kept him from making the shot.
“I meant you no harm, Brenna,” George said, tears in his eyes. “You were my friend.”
“I know that now.” Her voice softened, but her aim stayed true. “You are my friend. You cared for my son. I never wanted to believe you were a killer.”
George put his hands over his face.
“You make me ill,” Clive said, to George. “I’d kill you myself, but I need the bullet for Lord Ashwood. Then I can play my little games with his pretty little wife—”
A shot exploded through the room, and Clive went down. Brenna dropped to a crouch with a cry, her hand over her ear. Behind her and just off to the side stood Miriam, the smoking pistol she must have taken from Andrew in her grip.
“I will take the first shot, Clive.” With that, her eyes rolled up, and she crumpled to the floor.
Richard forced himself forward and stumbled to Brenna. He pulled her to her feet and bent to examine her face. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Only my right ear. It’s ringing.” She covered her ear with her hand and winced. “And you?” she asked, her gaze going to his injured shoulder.
“It will heal,” Richard replied. Brenna reached for him, but they were pushed apart when George stumbled past, jostling Richard. He ran down the corridor and out of sight. “I’ll get him. You guard Clive.” She bolted after George.
“Brenna, come back!”
With her hand on the wall, she hurried through the darkness, gaining light where she left the torch at the cell. She darted a quick glance inside, saw Andrew as she’d left him, and continued forward at a brisk pace.
Now familiar with the dungeon, she knew the direction of the staircase and listened for the sound of George’s footsteps in front of her. He meant to escape.
“George,” she called. He didn’t slow. Brenna was not about to give up. With one hand on the wall to guide her, she followed him through the darkness and up the staircase. He scrambled into the fireplace, leaving the door open behind him.
Brenna poked her head out and saw him exit the room. She went after him. But he wasn’t going down to the lower floor to escape the abbey. Instead, he went up toward the bell tower. Brenna paused. Was he leading her into a trap?
This part of the ruins had no route to freedom but for the staircase. She lifted her pistol and took the steps slowly. She did not have to look far for him. He was in the bell tower, sitting on an open windowpane.
“I am unarmed,” he said, and lifted his hands. Brenna lowered the pistol but kept her distance. She could not afford to trust him.
“Brenna, I truly am sorry.” He pressed a hand to his mouth. “I made the wrong friend, and it has haunted me ever since. If only I’d seen his villainous nature before he had me trapped in his web of murder.” His voice trailed off.
“This was not your fault, George,” she said softly. “You killed no one.”
“But I did nothing to save those women, either.” George rocked forward and back. “I was afraid of Clive. It was my cowardice that let him continue killing. I should have turned him in to the Runners, but he threatened to tell them that I was the killer. They’d believed him once; they would again.”
“No, George. I will help you,” Brenna said, and reached out her hand. “Everything will work out.”
He lifted his face to her and shook his head. There was resignation in his eyes. “Tell Bethany I love her.”
Brenna saw his intention too late. She cried out as he pushed backward out of the window. There was no cry as he fell.
With a hand clamped over her mouth, she went to the window and looked down. George was sprawled on his back on the stone pathway below. From the angle of his head, he’d broken his neck.
She spun away from the sight. Bile burned her throat.
Richard entered the room and walked to her. “Where is George?” She pointed out the window. He looked out, cursed, and pulled her to him with his good arm. Brenna clung to him, her tears flowing. “He could not live with his guilt.”
“Shhh, love. It’s over.” He nuzzled his mouth in her hair, comforting her until her sobs subsided.
“Is Clive dead?” she asked.
“He lives. Miriam is a terrible shot. I locked him in a cell and met Jace, Mister Freemont, and Lucy below. The men will take care of Everhart. He will hang.”
“And Miriam?” She brushed her tears away with her sleeve.
“Andrew is watching her. After she’s seen a physician, we will get answers. Until then, she is under arrest.”
“What a mess.” Brenna thought having the case concluded would bring relief. Instead, she grieved for the lives lost all because of one evil man. “I must go to James. He is probably starving.”
“I will take you. There is nothing more we can do here.”
Jace arrived as Brenna slid up under Richard’s good arm. He glanced around the empty room.
“Where is Bentley?”
“Dead,” Richard said. “He jumped from the window.”
Jace tucked his pistol away. “It appears that I have missed all the excitement.” He looked at Richard. “Miriam is not the only one in need of a physician. How were you injured?”
“Clive came out of the darkness and slammed me into a wall. I think my shoulder is out of joint.”
“Let me have a look.” Jace probed the area with his fingers. Richard winced. After a moment, Jace nodded. “I can fix it if you promise not to scream too shrilly.”
He was rewarded with a scowl. “I’ll do my best.”
Jace instructed Richard to brace himself against the wall with his good hand. He moved the arm this way and that until he was satisfied with its position. Without warning, he jerked the arm. Hard. It popped. Richard cursed Jace, his mother for birthing him, and his entire family tree.
However, there was not one shrill scream. Brenna smiled.
“Well done, Jace, Richard,” she sai
d. Richard moved the arm around, his teeth gritted and his face screwed up. Once she was satisfied he was able to use the arm, she walked into the hallway. “I’m going home to our son. Are you coming?”
The two men followed her down the stairs and out of the abbey. When they reached the road, they met up with several Runners. Jace stayed behind to clear up matters at the abbey. Brenna just wanted to get home.
James was sleeping peacefully when they returned. Nanny explained, “When you did not return, he was inconsolable. Mrs. Beal sent for Mrs. Cookson, and she happily fed him. She said it was the very least she could do for you, after your kindness toward her family.”
Brenna blinked, her eyes filling as she stared down at her contented son. “I shall thank her when I see her.”
With all her jests about living with the sheep, she did not realize until just that moment how deeply attached she had become to the hall and the residents who lived within.
She tried to imagine her life, had she never gotten with child and decided her marriage was worth saving.
And no one would take this away from her. Not ever.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Andrew’s wound was tended to, and the physician sewed him up. Barring infection, he had survived his first bullet wound and now had a tale to tell his children someday about his harrowing experience with a killer.
It was nearing dusk when Jace and Mister Freemont returned to the hall, dirty, exhausted, and needing food. Brenna ordered baths prepared and trays to be brought up, wanting both men settled with all the comforts the hall could provide.
Brenna left Jace’s room and saw Lucy catch up with a maid who was carrying the tray toward Mister Freemont’s room. She took the tray from the startled girl.
Lucy lifted her nose as she and Brenna passed in the hall. “I have decided Mister Freemont is not as uninteresting as I first thought,” she said, shrugging. “I think I might give him a chance to woo me.”
Laughing, Brenna shook her head. “Poor Mister Freemont.”
The next few days were a whirl. The Harringtons—Walter and Kathleen; Simon and Laura; Eva, Nicholas, and baby Catherine; and Noelle and Gavin—had all came to the hall en masse to assure themselves that Brenna, Richard, and little James had not come to harm.
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