Relieved that help for Simon was at hand, she nodded and leaned against the rough bark. The Marquess strode off into the forest. She peered around the tree.
Simon lay on the ground at Ogden’s feet. One of them must have knocked him down, because he was shaking his head as if to clear it. Tears rose in her eyes as he forced himself to his knees then to his feet. Why didn’t he just lay lie down and stay there?
He swayed, his expression insolent. “Is that your best shot? My last mistress had a better right hand than you.”
Victoria winced. Was he deliberately trying to bait Ogden into killing him? If so, he was going about it the right way. Ogden, fists clenched, closed in on Simon. Oh, where was the Marquess? If he didn’t do something soon, she would have to intervene herself. She could not allow this to continue.
The sun rose over the trees and the clearing burst into vibrant colors. Ogden’s hair gleamed gold, his clothes and linen immaculate. Simon, bare-chested, dirty and bloody, would have looked like a beggar beside him were it not for his warrior’s pride.
“We has to get going, my lord,” Quigley said glancing around as if he sensed danger. One of the other men cocked his head, as if he’d heard something. Was it Deveril? Oh, dear heavens she hoped so.
Simon could not quite believe that Ogden had managed to find him hidden away in this quiet corner of Wales. But here he was, once more haranguing Simon about his sister. Ogden pulled his pistol from his pocket, triumph blazing in his pale eyes. He stepped back. “Say your prayers, Travis.”
Damn the twisted bastard. If not for Victoria, Simon wouldn’t care one way or the other. The thought of her being in this man’s power was nigh on killing him. He needed a way to bring him down. The clever bastard never quite got close enough for Simon, bound as he was, to attack him. A shoulder to the gut would do it. Or a head cracking down on his nose. There were a dozen things that would bring the man down if he would simply take one step closer.
It had never occurred to Simon to suspect Ogden of being as unbalanced as his sister, but looking at him now, he wasn’t sure. For the first time in a great many years, the maggots of fear crawled in his gut. Fear for Victoria.
He held his anger in check and his excruciating pain isolated from his sharply focused mind. He really had only one choice. “If you will agree to let Victoria go, I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Ogden smirked. “All right.”
Simon’s blood ran cold at the mad light in Ogden’s gaze. Simon needed more assurance. “Swear it. On your honor as a gentleman.”
“You’d trust my word?”
His mouth filled with salty blood from the cut inside his cheek. He spat. “I don’t have much choice. But yes, I do trust your word.”
Ogden straightened.
“Besides,” said a calm voice from the trees, “you have a witness.”
Deveril, a golden, pagan god, sauntered into the open space and stood in a patch of sunlight.
Bloody hell. Deveril had arrived. And hours earlier than expected. Simon repressed the urge to smile now Now the odds were evening out.
“Good morning, Ian.” Simon grinned and bit back a wince at the sting from his cut upper-lip. “Nice of you to drop by at such an early hour.”
“Not a time of day I prefer to see too often,” Deveril replied with a slight bow.
“Get on with it then,” Simon said to Ogden.
The excited bobbing of Ogden’s Adam’s apple gave the man way. Ogden had been waiting for this day for a very long time to forgo the opportunity to get what he wanted.
“Listen well, Deveril.” Ogden fisted his hands on his hips, his expression a mask of pure hatred. “Learn what sort of man you have befriended and you will feel the same disgust I do.” He turned to Simon. “You recall the day your father’s carriage tipped over at Danson’s ford, don’t you, Sin?” He spat Simon’s soubriquet.
“Never a day passes that I don’t remember,” Simon said softly.
“Speak up, man.”
“Yes,” Simon raised his voice. “I remember.”
“When the carriage began to sink, you held the baby, did you not? Your baby brother.”
“I took him with me.”
“Answer yes or no.”
“What is this, Ogden, some kind of trial?” Deveril asked.
Ogden flicked a glance his way. “It is justice after all these years. Your answer, yes or no?”
“What are you? Judge, jury and executioner?” Deveril questioned again.
Ogden smiled, a chilling, mirthless little smile. “Yes.”
Simon glanced at his friend standing, one fist on his hip, staring at the nails on his other hand, a picture of nonchalance.
“Yes or no?” Ogden pushed his face into Simon’s.
Simon stared at him. He had a question of his own. “Tell me one thing before I answer you. Was it you in Miranda’s bed that day?”
Ogden lowered his voice. “You are in no position to be asking me questions.”
“Tell me. No one else need hear the answer.”
A nasty smile curled Ogden’s lips. “Yes, it was me. You should have seen your face when Miranda yelled at you. I thought you’d piss yourself.”
Simon closed his eyes. Now everything in his past made sense.
“Your turn,” Ogden said. “Answer my question. Did you or did you not have hold of the child.”
“Yes,” Simon said.
“And you let him go?”
“Yes.” Simon forced the word out.
“You purposefully allowed that tiny, innocent child to drown.”
Not on purpose. At least, that was what he’d always told himself. “He slipped out of the blanket. The current carried him away.”
“Liar. You miserable, damned liar,” Ogden screamed.
Damned was right. Simon tensed as Ogden’s fist drove into his gut. He didn’t resist, diffusing the force of the blow by doubling over, and by numbing the pain as McIver had taught him.
Spit ran down Ogden’s chin. He flexed his knuckles as if to ease the sting. “Tell the truth, Sin. You hated Miranda for giving your father another son. A son he loved better than you. You were jealous of the child.”
All the old guilt swept through Simon. He had been jealous of his father’s love for his second son. A love he’d never been able to earn, no matter how hard he tried. He’d finally come to the conclusion he wasn’t worthy of love. The events of that long ago day proved it.
Ogden sneered. “You were jealous of a baby. Come on. Admit it.”
Sadly, he had been. His father doted on baby John, because he was Miranda’s child. The son of the wife he loved. His father, who had all but ignored Simon most of his life, adored the newcomer.
“Yes, damn you. I was jealous of...” He couldn’t say John’s name, or prevent the catch in his voice, no matter how hard he reached for control. “But I did not let him go on purpose.”
“You drowned him.”
Miranda had cried out in alarm. He’d glanced back to see what new danger faced them, distracted for no more than a second. When he looked back, all he held was an empty shawl. John’s small round head with its wisp of blond hair had bobbed above the rushing water for a moment or two then disappeared. Simon bowed his head. “Yes. I let him go.”
“Murderer!” Ogden yelled. “Killer! You see, Deveril, he admits to the murder of his own brother, my sister’s child. No wonder she lost her reason.”
Deveril shook his head. “Not quite. He said he didn’t do it on purpose.”
Ogden’s eyes narrowed and his lips curled in a snarl. “He admitted it. We all heard it, didn’t we?”
The other men all nodded.
Ogden turned to Simon, speaking softly. “Tell the truth. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”
His pint of blood. Simon had given his word and Victoria’s life depended on him satisfying Ogden’s need for revenge. Ogden would never let her be, if he did not do what he had promised.
“Don’t adm
it to something you didn’t do, Simon,” Deveril said.
Something he didn’t do? The air rushed from Simon’s lungs. He swayed on his feet, his head spinning, from a surge of pain as control slipped from his grasp at a question that had haunted him for years. Had it been an accident? Or had something mean inside him let the child drown as a means of regaining his father’s undivided attention?
Miranda had so accused him and his father believed her story. It was so far in the past, the accusations repeated over and over, by Miranda and her family, by Simon’s father, Simon didn’t know anymore. It didn’t matter. He only cared about Victoria’s safety. He pulled himself together, gathering in the pain and thrusting it deep inside him.
“I admit it,” he said, loud and clear and the devil take his soul. “I killed John. That’s what you wanted me to say, isn’t it? Damn you!”
Someone moved to his right, disturbing his focus, an awareness he could not quite place. Not Deveril, he had already taken account of his presence. Not Ogden’s men. Another watcher he sensed but could not see.
“And now you die,” Ogden said.
“You can’t just kill him in cold blood,” Deveril said, his voice calm and quiet. “I would make sure you hanged for it.”
What the hell was Deveril doing? Did he not realize the stakes were not Simon’s life, but Victoria’s? He glared at the marquess.
Suspicion filled Ogden’s face. “If you had men here, they’d be on us by now.”
Deveril raised an arm. Garforth, Wilson and James moved silently from behind the trees and stood at the edge of the clearing. They must have been the cause the odd disturbance Simon had felt.
Ogden’s men muttered, raised their weapons and tightened their circle around him and Ogden.
“You will hang, Ogden, I promise you.” Deveril glanced down and picked a speck of lint from his sleeve before raising his piercing gaze to meet that of Ogden’s furious one. “Unless, of course, you are prepared to do the honorable thing?”
Ogden was clearly uncomfortable with being put at a disadvantage, when only seconds ago everything was going his way. “What do you mean?”
Ogden was an idiot if he hadn’t realized the import of Deveril’s words. Simon laughed out loud. Pain nudged at his chest. Quigley must have cracked a rib or two during their one-sided discussion. “He means a duel, you whoreson,” Simon said. “Or are you too cowardly to meet me man to man?”
Simon watched with sardonic amusement as Ogden looked him over. He knew he looked bad. He was barely upright. One eye was half-closed and blood running into the other. Not to mention the bullet wound they’d pounded on. Ogden would see him not as an equal but as an easy mark.
A fatal mistake.
“Fine,” Ogden said. “A duel.”
“Ogden,” Simon said. “If I die, have you thought about what happens to your family? According to my father’s will, the golden goose dies with me, as it would have disappeared if you revealed the truth to anyone else.” His father, despite believing his guilt, had done his best to protect his son and the family honor.
Ogden backhanded him. Simon rocked on his heels and let the blow caress the side of his face, moving precisely to reduce force of the impact. He shook his head to clear the blood from his eye.
“I say, bad sport,” Garforth shouted.
“If you die,” Ogden shrieked. “You mean when. I don’t give a damn about your bloody money. It’s Miranda I care about. Only Miranda.”
Christ Almighty. Simon’s gut churned at the thought of the unmentionable relationship between Ogden and his sister. He forced himself to focus. “It is not only you who will suffer. What about the rest of your family?”
Ogden glared at him, wild-eyed. “They abandoned her for to get their hands on your money. Let them find out what it’s like to be cast adrift.” He jerked his head at Quigley. “Free his hands.”
Quigley did as he was bid while Ogden counted out the twenty paces, clearly eager to finish what he had started.
Kind of him not to make Simon walk the distance. Ogden’s first mistake.
The pistol Deveril handed Simon felt familiar. His own dueling pistol. Another of Ogden’s mistakes. Simon let it fall to his side. He nodded his readiness at Deveril’s questioning look.
“Good luck, old friend,” Deveril murmured.
Simon gave him a cocky grin. “The devil’s own luck.”
Like the military man he was, Deveril strode ten even paces and stationed himself halfway between the duelists. He held up a white handkerchief.
Simon staggered slightly then planted his feet apart and turned his shoulder to his opponent. He fixed his gaze on Ogden.
A cry of anguish came from the trees.
Victoria? She was here. His gut clenched. Agony twisted in his chest. It was her presence he had felt. She had heard all of Ogden’s foul accusations, but worst of all, she’d heard the truth. The idea of her knowing what he had done sliced him with a thousand cuts. Yet deep in his soul he knew it was for the best. Better for her.
His heart shattered.
Control deserted him. His body screamed at him, the pain in his shoulder, in his chest, his head, but worst of all, in the heart that she had melted, leaving him vulnerable.
He fought his way back into the cold and the dark where nothing could touch him, but still she was there, at the forefront of his consciousness, warm and alive and fearful.
“Get her out of here,” he shouted.
One of Deveril’s men rushed toward her and caught her around the shoulders, pulling her away.
“Don’t hurt him,” she cried out.
Which him did she mean? Himself or Ogden? No matter. Ogden had to die. If he did not, he would continue hurting her, because of Simon. Before they had reached the clearing, Ogden had told Simon in graphic detail exactly what he planned for Victoria once Simon was dead. Even if she hated him for it, he had no choice but to rid the world of one very bad man.
“Take her to the inn,” Deveril instructed his man.
“Please Simon. Don’t do this.”
Her voice ached with sorrow. Bitterness filled his soul. He refused to look at her knowing what even a glimpse of her upset would do to him. She was his Achilles’ heel, but he could not afford even that weakness if she was to be allowed to live her life in safety.
The man holding her led her away.
Shutting everything from his mind, he absorbed the feel of the gun in his hand, his weapon an extension of his arm, a living part of his body, like his finger, his palm. He was the weapon in his hand.
He distanced all emotions—pain, grief, love—until nothing existed but the pistol in his fist that was a living thread connecting him to his enemy. Each movement, each breath, became a fragment of time filling the space between them. He saw only Ogden and the fine thread guiding the bullet into Ogden’s brain.
A flash of white midway along the thread.
The signal. He aimed, coldly, without compassion.
His heartbeat loud in his ears, he breathed deeply through his nose just as McIver had taught him. Peace flooded his mind.
The white square hit the ground.
The image of Victoria’s face, frightened and anguished, flashed before his eyes. The thread wavered and flickered. She hadn’t left. She would see him for what he was. A killer. But then she already knew what he was. She’d heard him admit it.
Numbness enveloped him. Encased in ice, he drew in a breath. The gleaming line steadied. He pulled the trigger.
Explosions roared in quick succession.
Ogden’s bullet drifted toward him. Wide.
His own bullet slid quietly along its guide. A hole appeared in Ogden’s forehead.
Victoria was safe. Thank you, McIver. He knelt and offered reverence to his old teacher, the only person who had ever believed he was worth anything.
Shots made Victoria jump. They echoed through the silent woods. Birds squawked and fluttered skywards. Freeing her arm from Wilson’s fettering grip, she
turned. Simon was on his knees. For one heart- shattering instant, she thought he’d been hit. Relief washed through her as he hauled himself to his feet.
He glared around at the other men, his face an expressionless mask.
She shivered. This was the real Simon St. John. Sin. A dark, vengeful angel, an admitted murderer of children, who killed on the field of honor as calmly as other men ate dinner.
His gaze clashed with hers. Cold. Fathomless. Empty. Not even death touched him. She really didn’t know him at all.
She shivered. He raised a hand as if to reach out to her. She froze. A flash of something crossed his face before he smiled, a cynical curve of his lips then he bowed. After which he turned and sauntered over to Deveril who was bending over Ogden’s body.
“Please, miss, come with me.” Wilson tugged on her arm.
She let him lead her away. How could she have thought she loved such an unfeeling devil?
Bars of afternoon sun fell across the scrubbed faces of ten children of varying ages. They gazed solemnly at Victoria, immobile in neat rows of desk and chairs.
Victoria smiled. “And that’s the end of the story.”
The spell broke on a collective sigh.
“Good afternoon, children,” she said getting to her feet.
“Good afternoon, Miss Yelverton,” they chorused.
Bert Johnson threw his hat in the air. “No more school,” he crowed and they were off. An unruly group of farm children clattering and laughing their way to their chores in the fields. School was finished until autumn. It seemed as if they were gone in an instant, all except Neddy, a black-haired, brown-eyed scamp, sporting a green and black bruise around one eye. Ned’s father was the village drunk.
The lad couldn’t be more than seven, but he’d suffered numerous broken bones and now dragged one leg. Though Ned never complained about his dad. Victoria had discussed his situation with the vicar, who thought nothing could be done to protect the child. After all, the child belonged to the father. No one could take him away.
“Not leaving yet, Ned?” she asked, halting beside his desk.
“Me da don’t get home from the pub yet, miss” he said and wiped his nose on his ragged sleeve.
Tempting Sin Page 27
