Delaney's Shadow

by Ingrid Weaver

  “I suppose so.”

  “You had a different instrument in the castle. Wasn’t that one a lute?”

  “That wasn’t a lute; it was a balalaika.”

  “Was that yours as well?”

  “Uh-huh. It belonged to a friend of mine I used to jam with. He was Russian, but he was into country. It’s got an interesting sound, like a mandolin, only richer. I don’t use it as often as the guitar.”

  “As much as I enjoyed your music, we should be concentrating on planning our escape. We don’t know how long we’ll have before dawn—” She stopped when he chuckled. “This isn’t funny, Rick.”

  “Sure, it is. You assumed I was fixed on serenading you instead of helping you.”

  “I wouldn’t have put it like that.”

  “And you’re figuring a guitar won’t do us much good.” He gave the tuning peg another twist. “Whoever left it here must have figured the same thing.”

  She realized he wasn’t tightening the string; he was loosening it. As soon there was enough slack to unhook it, he pulled it free, set the guitar aside, and yanked off his boots. When he pulled off his socks, her curiosity peaked. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “The socks are for padding.” He wrapped one sock over his knuckles and coiled one end of the guitar string around it. He repeated the procedure with his other hand, then shifted closer. “Hold out your arms.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m going to saw off that plastic tie.”

  Realization dawned. The guitar string he had removed was one of the lower ones and was, in fact, a metal wire that had been wound with more metal. The tight ridges from the winding weren’t sharp, but they would be much harder than plastic. She extended her arms immediately. “I’m sorry, Rick. I, uh, didn’t know what to think.”

  “Uh-huh, you thought I was an idiot.”

  “Of course not. Quite the opposite. This is brilliant.”

  “Let’s see if it works first. It may take a while.” He angled one elbow between her arms, fitted the wire against the plastic, and drew it across. His arm bumped into her shoulder. “Could you turn sideways? I’ll get better leverage.”

  She rotated so that her legs were perpendicular to his. After a few more bumps, she swung her legs across his thighs so that she could hold her wrists directly over his lap. “How’s that?”

  He uncoiled the wire from his right hand temporarily so that he could slip his arm beneath hers and bring it up between them. He did a few experimental strokes across the plastic, then settled into a firm, back-and-forth rhythm. As he’d warned, it did take a while—the ridged wire wore the plastic away rather than cut it—but eventually a groove did begin to form. “Okay,” he said. “Looks like we’re in business.”

  The progress was slow but steady. Elizabeth told herself to ignore the proximity of their bodies. It wasn’t easy because he was a large man. He smelled surprisingly good for someone who had been around a horse and had been tossed in a dungeon and a dirt-floored hut. As a matter of fact, he smelled as if they were in bed. She caught a whiff of cotton that reminded her of crisp, freshly laundered sheets. And his skin exuded a mellow, early-morning scent, reminiscent of a man still warm and relaxed from a night’s sleep.

  But the way he smelled was no more relevant than the way the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath hers, or the way his forearm came so close to her breasts on each down stroke that she could feel his body heat. Breasts that he’d seen naked. She glanced at his bent head. The hair at his nape had a slight curl to it and was long enough to fall partly over his collar. She didn’t normally care for the look of long hair on a man, yet on Rick it seemed perfect. She could all too easily imagine how the curls would wrap around her fingertips . . .

  “Does that hurt?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You moaned.”

  “Headache.” She focused on the wire. It had begun to squeak as it moved across the plastic. The groove was deepening more quickly as it heated from the friction. The undersides of her thighs were heating, too, from the contact with his legs. “This was creative thinking. I’m glad now that you’re a Luddite.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think all technology is evil. I’ve got nothing against power tools, only cell phones.”

  “And computers.”

  “Yeah, but I do love my TV remote.”

  “Apart from news broadcasts, I don’t watch television.”

  “Say it ain’t so. You don’t watch TV? No Jerry Springer? No Monday Night Football?”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Too busy talking on your BlackBerry with the rest of the Borg Collective?” His elbow rubbed along the upper crease of her thigh. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “I usually don’t leave the office until after ten.”

  “Huh. Lots of nights that’s when I start working.”

  “With your songwriting talent, I’m surprised you have to play in bars to make a living.”

  “Thanks, but my songs aren’t exactly popular. Seems audiences like them better the drunker they get. A lot of the time I do covers of old standards so I don’t get pelted with peanuts.”

  “Nonsense. Your songs are powerfully moving. Your melodies are haunting. You’re also a very skillful musician. You should have an exceptional career.”

  He paused. “You know about music?”

  “I studied piano in my youth.” How simple a statement that was. It didn’t begin to describe the long hours of daily practice or the years of devotion. Or how precious that dream had once been. Another example of a desire she grew out of.

  “I always wished I could play the piano when I was a kid, but this old guitar was all my folks could afford.” He resumed sawing. “Just as well, because I wouldn’t be able to take a piano with me when I went to gigs, ’specially if I start going green and use Chester instead of the truck. What kind of music did you play? Ten to one it was the stuffy stuff.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that. Many of the men we consider classic composers were the rock stars of their day, quite scandalous and cutting-edge. Don’t you like classical music?”

  “Can’t say as I never listened to it much.”

  “Don’t let the packaging drive you off. The passion comes through, whatever format is being used. Good music is universal. It has the ability to take you out of yourself.”

  “Take you out of yourself,” he repeated. “That’s a good way to put it. That’s pretty well what mine does for me.”

  “I believe music does even more than that. It’s a kind of sharing that crosses all boundaries, whether they’re time or place or genre. I learned to play the classics, so that’s what moves me the most easily. Any emotion you can name has been expressed by the masters, and they do it on a level beyond words. When it’s right, it can slip straight past your conscious thoughts and . . .” She trailed off when she realized he had stopped sawing again. “What?”

  “It’s good to hear you talk about emotions. Most of the time you seem to avoid them.”

  “They have their place.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “They’re an integral part of the best music. However, they’re counterproductive in crisis situations.”

  “You ever get a melody in your head that you can’t get out? Like, if you hear a song first thing in the morning, you’re stuck with it for the rest of the day?”

  “From time to time. Why?”

  “It’s as useless to ignore what you’re feeling. Seems to me you might as well give in and hum along.” He dropped the guitar string, fitted a hand around each of her wrists, and gave them a sharp tug.

  The plastic bundling tie snapped and fell off.

  Her hands were free.

  Finally. Yes. Yes. Yes!

  The relief that crashed through her was out of all proportion to the situation. Regaining the use of her hands wouldn’t matter if she and Rick couldn’t find a way out of their prison. They weren’t yet out of danger. This wasn’t over.

  B
ut he’d given her hope. That was more than she’d had an hour ago. From what she understood, it was more than she’d had in five months. She wiggled her fingers, delighting in the simple ability to move as she wanted. She was no longer completely helpless. “Thank you, Rick.”

  He smiled. It was a full-face smile, not a one-sided quirk of his lips. The corners of his eyes crinkled. His cheeks lifted. And to the left of his mouth, a dimple appeared. “You’re welcome, Lady Elspeth Isabella Elizabeth.”

  She flexed her fingers again, then touched his dimple. His beard stubble was softer than she would have expected. It rasped gently against her skin. She wondered what it would feel like against her lips.

  Which was an incredibly inappropriate thought. As she’d told him, she shouldn’t allow herself to get emotional. They were in a life-and-death situation, and even if they weren’t, she certainly shouldn’t consider kissing him, no matter how enjoyable it would be to, well, hum along, as he put it. The more time they spent together, the more obvious it was that they had nothing whatsoever in common. In the real world, they probably would have never met.

  His smile faded. “Do you hear that?”

  All she could hear was her heartbeat. She dropped her hand. He couldn’t have heard her thoughts, could he? “What?”

  He tilted his head. “It sounds like a helicopter.”

  She held her breath so that she could listen. There was a distant throb. It was unmistakably mechanical, and it was growing louder fast. It wasn’t long before the ground beneath her vibrated in time with the engine.

  They weren’t the only ones who had noticed the noise. Men’s voices came from outside. Footsteps pounded past the hut. Someone shouted orders in Spanish. Within seconds, the entire camp was abuzz with activity.

  Rick yanked on his socks and boots.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “From what I can make out of what they’re saying, they think it’s a raid.”

  “A raid? As in police?”

  “Or the army.” The noise of the helicopter increased rapidly. It seemed to be coming from directly above the camp. Rick raised his voice. “Either one’s good news for us as long as we don’t get caught in a—”

  His words were drowned out by a rapid burst of gunfire from overhead.

  “Cross fire!” he yelled. “Get down!”

  Elizabeth didn’t have the chance to absorb what he said before his body slammed into hers, knocking her on her back.

  Bullets tore through the roof. Splinters flew from the walls. Rick dragged himself on top of her as dust and wood chips rained down on them.

  Answering gunfire erupted from everywhere as the guerrillas or drug smugglers or whatever they were fought back. There was a high-pitched whistle that ended in an explosion. The ground shook. Men screamed. More explosions followed as rapidly as the gunfire. Soon a new noise joined the din: the whooshing crackle of flames. Black smoke wafted into the hut through the bullet holes.

  Elizabeth struggled for air. Her vision dimmed. Frantic to stay conscious, she pushed at Rick’s shoulders. “Let me up!”

  “It’s not safe.” He cupped his hand protectively over the top of her head. “We need to stay put until the firing stops.”

  “No! The smoke! I can’t breathe!”

  He couldn’t have heard her. The battle that raged around them was too loud.

  She fisted her hand to pound his back, but didn’t have the strength to lift her arm. The energy she’d awakened with had dwindled. It wasn’t the smoke that was sapping her strength. The darkness that spread over her was coming from within.

  It was happening again. She was slipping away. She splayed her fingers, trying to stay with him. “Rick, please, don’t let me go to sleep! I have to stay awake!”

  Her plea went unanswered. He couldn’t hear her. She couldn’t even hear herself over the earsplitting noise. Another explosion shook the ground. The wall beside them burst inward. The bullet-riddled roof collapsed, burying them under a pile of burning debris.

  Rick! Get up!

  He didn’t move. A roof beam lay across his shoulders. His body was a deadweight on hers.

  The void opened. Elizabeth screamed her resistance. No! She couldn’t give up now. Rescue was within reach. She knew it. She felt it. All she had to do was stay alive. Someone was bound to find them.

  ALAN CHECKED HIS WATCH, THEN AIMED THE REMOTE AT the TV on the wall to switch off the news and pushed himself out of the chair. He needed to get moving if he was going to make the game. The Rangers were playing the Bruins tonight and Grayecorp had season tickets on the blue line. He wasn’t much of a hockey fan himself, but Sherri Silver was Canadian so what else could he expect? She also happened to be the only daughter of a man who owned a very lucrative gold mine.

  Alan considered himself quite accomplished in the art of seducing poor little rich girls, but being shackled to Elizabeth cramped his style. If he’d been free to pursue Sherri openly, he would have had her in his bed months ago, but playing the sympathy card was slow work. The main reason he’d managed to get as far with her as he had was because she was impressed by his devotion to his fiancée. She was also impressed by his choice of fiancée. Sherri’s father had begun as a common prospector, wandering around the wilds of Northern Quebec, before he’d struck it rich. Her family had wealth, but no roots or pedigree like Elizabeth’s. Sherri was intelligent enough, but she had no competitive streak; she was more like a guppy than a shark. He suspected she felt flattered by his attention, since any comparison between the two women wouldn’t favor Sherri. She couldn’t open the doors Elizabeth could, or provide access to the kind of power that controlling Grayecorp would give him.

  But Alan was at the point where he couldn’t afford the luxury of being choosy. His expenses were mounting. So were the demands from his creditors. The project he’d initiated on the expectation of Elizabeth’s financial backing was in danger of falling through unless he found alternate financing. He needed to hedge his bets. Unlike the turnip he was still engaged to, Sherri was fully capable of signing a check.

  “Damn you, Elizabeth,” he muttered, pulling on his coat. “I’ve given you more time than you deserve. You’ve got no right to do this to me.”

  He eyed the equipment that kept her alive. The hums and beeps were getting on his nerves. They were as relentless as she used to be. Too bad Lidstone got scared off by Delaney—pulling the plugs would have been the perfect solution, particularly if someone else had done it. Even the fraction of Elizabeth’s estate Alan would get through a palimony suit would have been better than nothing. He shifted his gaze to the bed. “Why can’t you just die?”

  She moved her hand.

  Alan froze. He couldn’t have seen what he’d thought he had. It must have been an optical illusion, or maybe a reflection of his own hand in the metal bed rail. He rubbed his face and looked again.

  There was no mistake. Elizabeth was holding her right hand an inch above the mattress.

  Alan glanced behind him to make sure the door of her room was shut, then stepped closer to the bed. He kept his arms at his sides. “Elizabeth?”

  Her breathing became ragged. Her body stiffened with her efforts to keep her hand in the air.

  The occasional twitches he’d witnessed during his previous visits were nothing compared to what he was seeing now. She had never moved her hand before. This didn’t appear to be the result of an involuntary reflex. The gesture seemed deliberate. It was more life than she’d displayed in five months.

  Could Delaney be right? Was it possible for Elizabeth to wake up? Hell, if she did, there was little chance of Sherri taking out her checkbook. He’d assured her that his fiancée’s death was imminent.

  He needed time to consider a fallback position. He also had better watch what he said around Elizabeth. “Can you hear me, darling?”

  She spread her fingers, as if she were grasping for something. An alarm dinged from the direction of the monitors.

  Alan glanced over hi
s shoulder again, then grabbed her hand and pushed it back to the bed.

  She put up no resistance. Whatever strength she’d managed to dredge up appeared to desert her. Her hand went limp. Her body relaxed.

  So did his. By the time the door swung open behind him, the sounds from the monitors had reverted to their typical monotonous pattern. “Mr. Rashotte! What’s going on?”

  Alan blanked his expression before he looked at the nurse. It was Beryl tonight, one of the older ones. He didn’t like her. She was too rigid. She reminded him of a traffic cop. “Hello, Beryl. I didn’t see you when I came in. Is something wrong?”

  “There was a sudden increase in Miss Graye’s heart rate.” She went to the other side of the bed to take Elizabeth’s pulse. “Didn’t you hear the alarm?”

  “An alarm? No, I don’t think so. What’s wrong with her heart?”

  Beryl didn’t reply immediately. She frowned at the monitors. “Nothing, now. Her pulse rate appears to be back to normal.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Yes, it is. Didn’t you notice anything unusual a few minutes ago?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “Any agitation? Any movement?”

  “She was the same as always. Could those machines be malfunctioning?”

  Her frown deepened. “I’ll make a note to have the technician check the equipment in the morning.”

  “That’s reassuring. Elizabeth’s so dependent on them, I’d hate to think what could happen if they broke down.”

  “Are you certain you didn’t see any change in her?”

  “Sorry, no. Not a thing.”

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY