by Cindy Anstey
With elbows beneath him, Matt struggled to sit up, but a boot held him in place. About to toss said boot to the devil, Matt stilled. His eyes had gone past the boot, to the figure above him.
Kate had not fallen; she was still upright, being held tight, an arm wrapped around her waist pinching in her cloak. She was being used as a shield, protecting a fiend that held a knife to her throat.
“We meet again, Mr. Harlow,” Rolland said with an ugly grin.
chapter 18
In which sacrifices are required
Looking down her nose without moving her head, Kate watched the blood and all expression drain from Matt’s face until it resembled a mask—a death mask. She wanted to know if he was all right; he had gone down so fast and hard that she had heard the slap of the force on the ground. But she couldn’t ask, couldn’t say anything. The blade of Rolland’s knife was sharp and pressed against her vocal cords. She didn’t doubt for a moment that the villain would do her an injury, gleefully, if she gave him the excuse.
“I’d like to say well met,” Matt drawled, no longer straining to sit up. “But I would have preferred to never see you again.” His cap had been knocked off in the tumble; his hair tangled over his brow.
“You were destined for disappointment.”
“So it would seem.” Matt continued to stare, barely blinking, hardly moving.
A raucous echo of baying hounds filled the air, preventing any continued conversation—if they had even desired to do so—for several minutes, after which the knife at Kate’s throat loosened and she could feel Rolland shift. His voice, when he spoke, seemed to indicate a turned head.
“Those bloody dogs. I have doubled back, hidden in ditches, and jumped a brook, but they just keep coming.”
“Such a hardship,” Matt said with no inflection whatsoever.
Kate felt Rolland stiffen, and then he huffed into her ear; her hood had fallen when he had leapt at them, and it now hung down her back. It was no protection from the cold or Rolland’s proximity. She tried not to shudder, not to swallow in discomfort, not to push away. The blade was still at her throat.
Matt met her gaze, but his expression did not change. Kate watched his brows; his mouth, his chin. Nothing. No secret message. No indication of what he was thinking, or what he was planning … if he was planning. The possibilities were rather limited, positioned as they were … the first need was to get Matt up off the ground. But how to—
“What now?” Matt asked.
Rolland hummed as if in deep thought—Kate could hear it and feel it. And then he lifted the blade away from her neck—still at the ready but no longer pressed into her skin. Lifting his foot off Matt, Rolland stepped back a few paces, dragging Kate with him. When he stopped, they were partially behind a tree—another shield between him and Matt. Such a brave person.
“Get up slowly,” he said. “Too fast and we will see if Miss Darby’s blood matches her mitts.”
Swallowing while she had the chance, Kate tried to lean away from Rolland, away from his knife. But he felt the shift and yanked her back against his chest once more. Watching from where he sat, Matt exuded calm as he squatted and then rose to his feet. Kate knew it to be a facade, knew him well enough by now to see the signs of disquiet—but she doubted Rolland would recognize the lifted chin and flared nostrils as anything other than posturing.
“Excellent, excellent,” Rolland said, pulling Kate back another few feet. “Now stop. There. You, Mr. Harlow, are going to save the day.”
“Oh.” Matt glanced at Kate and then back to Rolland.
“Yes. You are going to stop the dogs.”
“And how might I do that?”
“You are going to walk in that direction…” Kate felt the jerk and movement as Rolland used his shoulder to gesture. “And keep walking until you find them. And then you will tell those … those addle-patted fools, that if they do not desist immediately, I will use my knife on Miss Darby here. I’ll give you five minutes. Go!”
Matt pursed his mouth and shook his head before answering. “They will not listen to me. I am a stranger and someone of little consequence. They will not end a search for a blackguard such as you on my say-so. Best take me hostage and let Miss Darby go. They will listen to her; they know her.”
Rolland snickered. It was oily and repugnant. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I would, indeed, otherwise I would not have suggested it.”
Unable to remain silent, Kate took issue with the proposal. “I would not like it.” She glared at Matt; it was a terrible idea, fraught with danger and disaster. Matt’s life would be forfeit. “Rolland,” she said, her voice staccato as she tried to breathe with the viselike grip across her gut. “You have. A better chance. To get away. On your own. If you go—now! Run.”
“I think not,” Rolland said, backing up farther, dragging Kate with him once again. It was most tiresome, being treated as a rag doll.
Matt stepped forward, keeping the distance constant.
“No!” Rolland shouted. “You stay where you are.”
Matt smiled. It was a gentle smile, genuine and caring. He was looking at Kate, and she smiled back. She wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but even if it only served to throw Rolland off, it was a lovely sight. Kate swallowed and breathed—tried to breathe …
“Rolland, loosen your grip. Allow my feet. Back on the ground. I will pass out. A dead weight.” Kate gasped dramatically. It was more than what was warranted, but it did the trick—Rolland eased his hold. She gulped at the air with great theatre. She could now see the knife out of the corner of her eye, and she wondered if she had the strength and speed to grab his arm—secure it just long enough for Matt—
“The dogs are closer, Rolland,” Matt said with undisguised triumph. “Soon you will have far more to contend with. Best—What are you doing?!”
Swiping downward, Rolland slashed his blade across Kate’s hand. Mrs. Gupta’s lovely warm mitt was rent across the top. Kate felt a sting and glanced down, watching a line of red form and then ooze into the wool. Fortunately, it was not deep and it did not hurt as much as it might—oh, bother, there it was … There was the pain.
“That was entirely unnecessary,” Matt sputtered, his hand outstretched toward Kate.
“I beg to differ.” In a deft move, Rolland released her waist, grabbed the ruined mitt off her fingers, and tossed it at Matt. It fell short, as one might expect of a flying woolen object, but while they watched it drop to the ground, Rolland grabbed Kate about the waist again. “Now,” he said, “unravel it.”
Kate suppressed a growl. She knew where this was going—but would he bind her or Matt? Kate’s answer was not long in coming. By the time Matt had unraveled all but the thumb, Rolland had placed the knife back on her neck and waved Matt closer.
“Tie her wrists,” he said, forcing Kate to her tiptoes when he pulled the knife higher.
Matt glanced at Kate, who once again could not speak for fear of a ravaged throat. She offered him an infinitesimally small nod. “I beg your pardon, Kate,” Matt said, with a visible swallow.
Kate put the palms of her hands together as if praying, one mitted and the other still bleeding but not as freely as it had been. She offered them to Matt as if it were of no consequence, but she could not control their shaking. He encased her hands with his for a moment, meeting her gaze—until Rolland protested by way of pressing the knife tighter. Kate involuntarily sniffed in distress. Rolland shouted, forcing Matt to bind her wrists tighter and to do so faster. Kate’s heart hammered against her chest; she wanted to scream. Being bound was so much worse than being hauled around.
Just as the job was complete, Rolland swung the knife and brought it down hilt-first onto the side of Matt’s head. Matt saw it coming and tried to duck, lifting his arm to ward it off, but the steel connected with his skull in a horrid thunk, and he dropped to his knees. Groaning, Matt shook his head and tried to stand, but Rolland shifted Kate, kicking out at the downed
figure. Matt slapped the ground, face-first.
“NO!” Kate screamed and thrashed, kicking back to no avail. Rolland evaded her every move. “Matt!” She lost sight of her danger, of the knife, in her frenzy of anguish. She dropped her weight, letting gravity pull her out of the fiend’s grasp, only to have him recover his balance and snatch her back just as she landed by Matt. In a practiced move, Rolland hoisted her up and over his shoulder, grabbing her flailing legs about the knees and holding them and her skirts tightly.
Had Kate been able to breathe, she might have been able to struggle longer, but the brute’s shoulder was pressed into her gut. Kate had barely enough air to survive let alone to fight.
Rolland snorted and started to make his way through the bushes. “Not as much weight as a wine barrel,” he said in a half whisper.
Kate dragged at the air, gasping and gulping as the irregular terrain bounced his shoulder deeper into her belly.
“Serves you right, Kate Darby. I would not be in this scrape were it not for you. So now you will be my insurance.”
Kate pushed her bound hands against Rolland’s back and lifted her head to look behind. The figure lying on the ground became smaller and was soon lost behind the snowy trees, but Kate no longer feared for Matt’s life. He would recover, would not be lying vulnerable to the elements for long. When Kate had landed beside him, he had croaked, “I’ll follow,” even as he had moaned in pain.
He was not unconscious, not mortally wounded. She repeated that mantra with every one of the fiend’s steps and added another—a truth only just realized. Matt was not unconscious, not mortally wounded, and she loved him. Her abject despair moments earlier had shown her just how much she cared—this was not a flirtation; this was love.
Kate swallowed, almost dazed by the awareness. She would not think beyond that, not now … She had to focus, concentrate, plan. She let her head drop, finding it hard to keep her neck arched, and stared at her hands, bound, tied messily, as the ends flapped and bits of wool broke off and floated away on the breeze. Red fluff. Bright and noticeable.
Kate smiled, used her free fingers to pull at the frayed strands of wool, and dropped a wad of bright red fluff onto the ground. And then she did it again, and again. Snow in some places, hard-packed earth in others—it mattered not; there was a trail of red to follow. Matt would find her; they would defeat this brute together.
* * *
MATT CURLED ON his side, snorting dirt and leaves from his nose as nausea kept him from jumping to his feet. He lay for a moment staring through the bracken and then shifted to a sitting position. He closed his eyes as dizziness threatened to overwhelm his senses and lifted his hand to gingerly touch the goose egg on the side of his head.
“The blighter!” Matt shouted to the trees, though they likely did not hear him. The forest was being inundated by a cacophony of echoes.
And yet, the baying hounds sounded no closer than they had before, and Matt wondered if the dogs had lost the trail—Rolland’s trail. It hardly mattered; they were taking much too long to get here. They would be of no help.
Grabbing at a branch beside him, Matt pulled himself upright and was pleased to find that, after a moment or two, the dizziness passed. Lumbering to the path where Kate had disappeared, he stared down at the footprints. They were clear enough in the thick layer of snow, but where the snow had failed to accumulate, there were no telltale signs of a person passing. Except … except …
Matt lifted one side of his mouth in a lopsided smile. Except Kate, fast-thinking, marvelous Kate, had left him a trail. Red bits of fluff stood out stark against the monochrome of the winter tableau. No slow, methodical scrutiny required, no fear of losing the path. It was clear and well marked.
Straightening, Matt stepped forward, snapping a twig as he did so. He felt it … but did not hear it. The dogs were making too much noise; they would mask his footfalls. With a deep breath and a conscious effort to ignore the throbbing in his head, Matt quickened his pace, following the trail of red, praying that the color was not an omen.
* * *
STRAINING TO SEE into the forest, Kate thought she saw a movement and jerked in her enthusiasm.
“Do that again, an’ I’ll drop you. Don’t think that I won’t,” Rolland snarled. He was panting now, overexerted … or panicked.
Naturally, there was only one answer to such a threat. Kate jerked again. She had the pleasure of feeling Rolland slip, catch himself, and then lose his footing again. However, in his falling, Kate was tossed to the ground as well … but lady luck was with her, for Kate landed on a small hazel and then rolled to the side. In a flash, she was on her feet, running back the way they’d come. “Matt!” she screamed until Rolland raced after her; she was yanked backward, nearly strangled by her own cloak.
She landed on Rolland, sending him sprawling and his horrid knife clattering as it dropped under an evergreen. But he held on to her cloak, and Kate was twisted up in the material. She could not get away again. She glared at him as they sat on the ground, chests heaving with effort and anger.
“I don’t intend to be caught, Kate Darby. Best you get used to the idea of my company. I’m not liable to set you free anytime soon…” And then he added, spittle hitting her face as he shouted, “if ever!”
Kate shrugged—not because she felt nonchalant about the prospect, but to cause as much irritation to this maggoty worm as possible. She had the pleasure of seeing his jaw tighten and his eyes squint. But he was more concerned about the dogs than spewing any more venom, for he glanced back over his shoulder toward the worst of the noise and jumped back to his feet, dragging her with him. And drag was the best descriptor, absolutely, for Kate refused to put her legs beneath her.
Undeterred, Rolland grabbed the cheerful red bindings tied around her wrists, lifted her arms above her head, and hauled—heels in the snow, collecting dead leaves and twigs, towed—until a particularly loud snap caught his attention. Wheeling around, Rolland stared into the woods for one blink, maybe two, and then he lunged at Kate, hoisting her back over his shoulder.
Had Kate been able, she would have mocked him for being so fearful that he left his knife behind, but as it was to her advantage—and his shoulder kept hitting her in the gut—the words remained unspoken. They had not gone much farther when a new hum was added to the mix, a sound that she was expecting, a noise that she welcomed.
Water. Fast-flowing water.
“Bloody Hell. God’s teeth! What now?” Rolland shouted to … well, no one in particular. He loosened his grasp on her knees, and she slid over his shoulder, down his front, to the ground … much, much too close to his person. Kate leaned back. “What is that?” He pointed behind her.
Kate lifted her brows. “What is what?” she asked as if she couldn’t hear the roar.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around.
They were standing on the bank at a significantly wider and higher spot in the stream than the one that she and Matt had crossed earlier. It looked quite daunting. There was no doubting the danger of crossing here.
“How did you get across?” Rolland shouted into her ear, and then he quickly pivoted, swinging Kate around with him, using her as a shield yet again. “What was that?”
Kate had heard nothing. She shrugged but scanned the woods as she did so, looking for a figure in brown: a handsome figure with a thoughtful character and gentlemanly manner—a very lovable young valet.
“What is that?” the fiend behind her repeated, but this time he pointed at the little bits of red trailing back into the woods.
Kate thought they looked rather pretty, festive even. “Yuletide decorations?” she asked innocently.
“Nothing to worry about, Rolland,” a voice called. Its echo masked where the sound originated … that and the dogs baying and the water roaring over the streambed rocks. It was not a tranquil place. “Actually, too late to worry, to be more precise.”
“Don’t come any closer,” Rolland warned. He g
rabbed at her shoulder with one hand, the other patting frantically at his coat, likely searching for the knife left under the evergreen … unless he had another knife. That thought sent Kate’s heart racing until Matt spoke again.
“Kate, look up!” he shouted.
It took a moment but only a moment for Kate to realize what he was asking her to do; it seemed an age since their discussion in the blacksmith’s shop. Kate buckled her knees and dropped like a stone, falling to the ground. A human projectile leapt over her head, slamming into Rolland. Knocked backward, the two young men tumbled down the streambank, rolling and skidding in a jumble of limbs.
Up in an instant, Kate ran to the bank’s edge in time to see Rolland punch Matt in the ribs once, and then twice. Matt grunted with the impact and swung at Rolland, giving him a glancing blow on the arm. It served to push the villain back enough that Matt’s next fist landed on his nose. As Rolland backed toward the stream, he reached forward, grabbing Matt’s coat lapels and pulling Matt with him.
Stumbling down the embankment, Kate scooped up a rock and raced to the water’s edge. She dropped to the ground to avoid flailing arms, and smashed the rock onto Rolland’s foot just as he dragged Matt into the frigid water. It did not stop him. She swung the rock, connecting with the fiend’s ribs, but again he was undeterred.
As the two grappled in the water, the current swirled around them, knocking them off their feet one moment, standing them up the next, and still they fought. It was messy and perilous; blood dripped into the water, and yet Rolland was unstoppable. A creature possessed. He tried again and again to push Matt’s head underwater, grabbing his face, clawing at his eyes.
Kate waded into the bitterly cold water, the current tugging at her skirts threatening to drag her under, sweep her away. She screamed Matt’s name, and in the instant their eyes met, she tossed the rock. It didn’t go far, not nearly far enough, but Matt leapt back and sideways and snatched the crude weapon out of the air. He turned and swung the rock down. Down on Rolland’s hand, pounding it into the boulder next to him.
