A Perfect Secret (Rogue Hearts)

by Hatch, Donna

  Grant went still and peered ahead, sending Christian’s nerves on high alert. Two men on horseback materialized out of the bushes. Grant relaxed and dashed to them. After speaking to them quietly, one rode to Cole, while another followed Grant.

  Grant gestured to Jared. “They’re moving Genevieve. A cart left the Marshall’s house with her in it.”

  Christian mounted. “Which way?”

  Grant gestured up the road but Christian couldn’t see anything. Grant motioned to Jared. “Ride double with me.”

  Jared glared at Christian. “I’m riding behind Grant while you take my horse—how is that fair?”

  “Quit mewling like a babe. Nothing’s fair.” Grant tore off the frockcoat and cravat and tossed them into the interior of the coach. “If I had more time, I’d change out of these infernal togs.” He gestured to his satin knee breeches and brocade waistcoat.

  “We don’t,” Christian snapped.

  Grant shot him a look normally reserved for the completely stupid, and mounted. Christian urged Jared’s horse forward. Christian, his brothers, and one of Grant’s men all galloped toward the Marshall’s house. He craned his neck, searching the road up in front of them as it wound among the hills. Far ahead, a governess cart bumped along the road. He urged the horse to a gallop. Grant and Jared, riding double, remained beside him. Grant’s man followed behind.

  “Steady,” Jared said. “Don’t get too close or they’ll know they’re being followed.”

  Christian reined a little, slowing the horse to a comfortable trot, all the while his instincts screaming at him to run. When they came to a crossroads, they paused. With the winding road and hilly countryside, the cart had vanished. Christian cursed. Grant peered up ahead with narrowed eyes.

  A glimmer caught Christian’s eye. “What’s that?” He pointed to a small metal object winking in the sunlight next to the road branching off to the left.

  Jared slid off the horse and picked it up. He held it out. “It’s a signet ring.”

  “It’s Jackson’s. He left us a breadcrumb trail.”

  Grant grunted and gave a brief nod. As Jared put on the ring, Christian surged forward. As they crossed over a small bridge and began climbing a hill, the hackles in Christian’s neck rose. An instant later, Grant held up his hand to halt them. They slowed, scanning for signs of danger.

  “Stay here.” Grant slid off his horse, and crept soundlessly forward.

  “Not on your life,” Christian muttered as he followed behind, careful to keep his footfalls quiet.

  How Grant managed to move like a phantom was beyond Christian. Usually it was sinister enough to raise the hackles on the back of Christian’s neck. Today, he was grateful for his brother’s uncanny ability. He tried to match Grant’s stride, mimicking his posture, the way he moved, the placing of his feet so soundlessly so as not to be discovered by Wickburgh’s lapdogs.

  Grant crouched as they approached the low hill and then flattened himself on the ground. Christian lowered himself to his stomach next to him. On their bellies, they inched forward and peered over the rim into a shallow dell. A small crofter’s cottage crouched next to a dry stream. The roof had collapsed and the shutters hung drunkenly over windows. The unoccupied governess cart waited behind an overgrown shrub.

  Grant watched silently, making a careful perusal of the cottage and area. Christian’s nerves strained until he thought they’d snap, and every muscle in his body urged him to leap up and race down the hill, burst into the cottage, and save Genevieve. He focused on slowing his breathing. They waited. Jackson’s tall, lean form moved in front of the window, stepped forward and looked out to survey the area, then he stepped away.

  A guard walked around from behind the cottage, gun held loosely in hand. A second guard appeared from the other side, exchanged glances with the first, turned, and strode back like a sentry. Two guards. Possibly more hidden in the trees. They couldn’t simply storm the structure. Besides, they didn’t dare risk Wickburgh killing his hostages. And Genevieve. No sound came from the cottage. Christian closed his eyes and battled back images that Wickburgh had already killed Genevieve. Jackson wouldn’t let her get hurt.

  Christian eyed his brother. Grant was a crack shot from his time serving as a sharpshooter in the war. Christian could probably match him, but now was not the time to test his skill; the stakes were too high.

  Christian whispered to Grant, “Can you get off a clean shot at that range?”

  “Only if my target happens to walk in front of the window. Jackson knows that; he’ll do what he can.”

  Grant inched backward. Christian kept up with him. Jared and the guard who’d come with them stood next to the horses, their posture poised for a fight. When they’d moved back out of sight, Grant took his rifle off the saddle, and sent the man who’d come with them back to guide Cole to them.

  Grant glanced at Christian. “Circle around and try to get in close while the guard is on the other side of the cottage.”

  At last! Christian hefted a second gun. Jared stood with a pair of pistols primed and ready. Moving low and swift, careful to tread lightly so as not to give away his presence, Christian darted from bush to boulder. Pausing, he peered around his cover, then ducked back as the guard circled around again. Wait. Breathe. Wait. Christian peeked out. The guard turned and headed back the other way. Christian dashed to a hedgerow and crouched behind it.

  “Who’s there?” a voice called.

  Heavy footsteps neared. Christian gripped his gun and prepared for a fight.

  CHAPTER 29

  Genevieve stood in the main room of the rundown cottage with her hands folded together and hoped Wickburgh didn’t see them shake. “I have come as you asked, husband,” she let derision drip off her words. “Now set my parents free.”

  “Of course, of course. They are safe, as you can see.” Wickburgh jerked his chin toward one of his men.

  Grant’s man, Connor Jackson, fully immersed in the role as one of Wickburgh’s cronies, strode to the door leading to a smaller room and opened it.

  Genevieve drew in a steadying breath. Surely Christian and the Amesbury brothers were on their way. She trusted them.

  “Bring them out,” Jackson said to someone inside.

  “On your feet, then,” said another voice.

  All other thoughts fled as first her mother, then her father walked out. Both looked calm and unruffled, as if being captured and held prisoner were a daily occurrence. Genevieve had feared the strain would have caused her mother’s heart to give out, but she seemed well enough. Serene, even. Perhaps Jackson had managed to assure them of his true allegiance and that rescue was on the way.

  Her father saw her first. His eyes opened wide and his mouth worked. “Genevieve!”

  Her mother stared at her in disbelief. “My dear! You’re well? When we’d heard you’d perished ….” Her eyes shimmered and her lip trembled.

  Genevieve rushed toward her parents but one of Wickburgh’s men grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

  “No, none of that,” Wickburgh said.

  Genevieve kept her focus on her mother. “I’m well, Mama. Are you ...?”

  Her mother offered a pained smile. “I’m unharmed, dearest.”

  “How dare you,” Papa said to Wickburgh. “How dare you keep us here! Release us at once.”

  Wickburgh made a tsking sound. “You forget yourself. I make the demands, not you.”

  Anger welled up inside Genevieve. “Free them.”

  “No need to be hasty. We all have unfinished business here. Please be seated.” He gestured toward three wooden chairs lined up in a row.

  One of the men gestured with his pistol toward the chairs in a clear directive. Genevieve exchanged glances with her parents who stared at her in mingled disbelief and relief. They sat on the hard chairs. One of the gunmen nearby scooped up ropes Genevieve hadn’t noticed were lying on one of the chairs and handed them to Jackson and one other man.

  Jackson stood behind Gene
vieve and tied the ropes loosely. Something cool and metallic slid into her hand. She closed a fist over it and schooled her features into submissive dejection. Jackson gave them a tug as if testing their strength. He moved to Papa sitting next to her and tested his bindings tied by the other guard.

  “All of you,” Wickburgh said. “Out. And keep your eyes open. This little whore’s lover will appear and try to cause trouble. He’s annoyingly tenacious.”

  Darkness twisted in her stomach and tied itself into a harder, tighter knot. All his torment, all those hours she’d cried and cowered. What a fool she’d been. She should have poisoned his food and saved her family and Christian. But then she’d be a murderer. The thought didn’t fill her with the horror that it should.

  As Jackson crossed in front of her, walking between her and Wickburgh, he mouthed the word ‘widow’ and made a meaningful look toward Wickburgh.

  Widow? What did that mean? She peered out of the window through the crookedly hanging shutters but saw only the countryside. Widow? What was he telling her? And why Wickburgh? She mulled it over as she kept her gaze focused on the floor as if afraid. She glanced up at Jackson. He looked pointedly at the window. Then he stepped out of the cottage with the other guard, leaving her and her parents alone in the cottage with Wickburgh.

  Not widow—window! Jackson wanted her to look out the window. But why? Maybe he wanted her to jump out the window. Or push Wickburgh out the window. But the fall wouldn’t hurt him. What was Jackson trying to tell her? Slowly, she fingered the cold metal in her palm. It was little longer than a nail file, and had the serrated edge of a tiny knife. She turned it over and began sawing at her bindings, careful not to let her shoulders make any motion.

  “So, my errant little wife finally returns to me.” Wickburgh’s shiny boots paced in front of her vision.

  She froze and hunched over as if cowering in fear.

  Window. Wickburgh. It came to her in a rush. Jackson wanted her to get Wickburgh to stand in front of the window. Christian was an excellent shot. Perhaps he hoped Christian could shoot Wickburgh through the window. Perhaps Jackson planned to shoot Wickburgh himself.

  “You’ve led me on a merry little chase, my dear,” Wickburgh added.

  Too bad Jackson couldn’t arrest Wickburgh now, but Wickburgh had too many men, and Jackson would be overwhelmed in an instant. Unless Christian and his brothers were already outside.

  Wickburgh’s voice changed timbre. “I despise merry little chases. And then you had the gall to shoot me. Most unladylike.”

  She looked up at him then, painting on a look of trepidation.

  He stood with one hand over his shoulder, his mouth twisted in pain. “The last time we were together, I’d only planned to kill you. But now, I find it necessary to make your punishment a bit more … elaborate.”

  He moved away and stopped in front of her father. Anger nudged away all other emotions. Christian was right; Wickburgh needed to be stopped, by any possible method. Genevieve continued sawing at her ropes. If only they hadn’t searched her at her parent’s house and taken her gun, she could shoot him herself. Again. And this time, not merely wound him. But she had nothing but the tiny knife Jackson had slipped her.

  “But where to start?” Wickburgh said, looking at her father. “No, not you; you must be taught a lesson, as well. I think I shall start first with the one you’ve all been protecting. It would be poetic justice for you to watch her die.” He looked pointedly at Mama.

  “No,” her father rasped, straining at his bindings.

  “Leave them out of this,” Genevieve gasped. “You promised!”

  Her bindings loosened. She must have sawed all the way through one loop. She worked desperately at the remaining ropes.

  Unmoved by their pleas, Wickburgh sauntered lazily toward her mother, his fingers twitching. He raised both hands and spread them, heading for her neck.

  With a cry of distress, Mother began gasping and she slumped over. Her heart!

  “No!” Genevieve screamed.

  “Someone’s coming!” Jackson shouted from outside.

  “You monster!” Her father’s body hurtled past her toward Wickburgh. Metal glinted in his hand as he raised his arm and brought it down in a savage thrust.

  Wickburgh stiffened and let out an inhuman scream. Papa wrenched a knife out of Wickburgh’s back and gripped it with white fingers. Wickburgh twisted around and lurched at Papa. As Papa brought down his arm to strike again, Wickburgh grabbed the weapon. They struggled, each straining to control the blade.

  “Jackson! Smith! Get in here!” Wickburgh yelled.

  Frantically, Genevieve sawed at her ropes with shaking fingers, her attention divided between her father fighting with Wickburgh, and Mother who slumped with her eyes closed.

  Sounds of combat exploded outside, the all-too-familiar sounds of fists hitting bodies. Jackson was probably battling Wickburgh’s men outside, preventing them from rushing to answer Wickburgh’s call.

  A gunshot roared through the air. Had Christian arrived, or had something gone wrong? Her ropes snapped apart and Genevieve’s arms sprang free. She leaped from her seat and flew at Wickburgh, her small knife in her hand. Still struggling, Wickburgh kneed her father in the groin in a most ungentlemanly move. Papa went down, coughing. As Genevieve threw herself upon Wickburgh and embedded her knife into his back, she wrapped both hands around the hilt and used her weight to try to steer him toward the window. He twisted around and threw her off. She staggered back. He backhanded her. Pain ripped through her face. The force of his blow slammed her against the floor.

  Outside, gunshots ripped through the air. Bullets splintered the wooden walls. The shutters blasted apart. Debris showered the room. Genevieve flattened herself against the floor to avoid lethal projectiles. Oblivious to the danger, Wickburgh kicked her father where he lay on the ground.

  Genevieve screamed. “Stop! Leave him alone!”

  “Oh, no, my dear,” he said calmly, oddly contrasting with the battle raging outside. “I will kill them both while you watch, starting with your dear Mama. Then when they are dead, I will kill you. Slowly. Very slowly. I give you my word.” His mouth twisted into a deranged smile.

  Genevieve scrambled to her feet and rushed at Wickburgh. The door flew open so hard that it banged against the wall. Jackson staggered in, his gun raised. Another gunshot rang out. Jackson jerked backward and collapsed on the floor.

  Genevieve screamed.

  “Genevieve!” Christian’s voice cut through the gunfire.

  CHAPTER 30

  With Genevieve’s scream echoing in his head, Christian took careful aim at one of Wickburgh’s minions racing toward the open door of the cottage. He squeezed the trigger. The thug who shot Jackson crumpled. Jackson lay unmoving in the open doorway of the cottage. With steady hands, Christian reloaded his guns. Bark exploded off the tree inches from Christian’s shoulder. All fell silent for a moment while opponents found cover and reloaded.

  Genevieve screamed again.

  “I’m going in!” Christian hefted a gun in each hand.

  “No!” Jared shouted.

  Christian propelled himself out from behind the tree. As he sprinted to the cottage, gunfire broke out all around him as Jared and Grant cleared a path for him. Christian reached the cottage, vaulted over Jackson’s inert form, and landed in a crouch. Genevieve, with wild panic in her eyes, was locked in a struggle with Wickburgh, each trying to control a small dagger. Dark blood oozed from multiple locations on Wickburgh’s tailored coat, and his breath dissolved into wheezing.

  Genevieve’s mouth was set into a grim line and a purple bruise spread over one of her flushed cheeks. That monster had hit her again. Calm fury turned Christian cold. Shaking with rage, he stowed his guns in the waistband of his breeches and put one hand over Genevieve’s and Wickburgh’s locked fists. He wrapped an arm around Genevieve’s waist.

  “Easy, Jen,” he said softly into her hair. “I have you.”

  Chris
tian steadied the knife in an upright and harmless position with one hand. She released her hold on the dagger and Christian pulled her back. With Genevieve safely out of the way, Christian gave the blade a sharp jerk. Wickburgh lost his grip on the weapon and it came away in Christian’s hand. Still locked in eye contact with Wickburgh, Christian tossed the knife behind him. It clattered on the floor. Outside, the gunfire halted. Smoke drifted through the air, burning his eyes and throat.

  Wickburgh turned a murderous glare on him. “Amesbury.” Loathing oozed from his voice.

  Christian pulled out both guns and trained them on Wickburgh. He should just shoot him now. Wickburgh was dangerous, violent. He didn’t deserve to live. If they took him to the magistrate, he risked Wickburgh being acquitted. And as long as Wickburgh lived, Genevieve would be in danger. Christian could take her to the continent, but he’d always be looking for signs that Wickburgh had found them. And if Wickburgh refused to grant her a divorce, he could never marry her and be a proper husband. Their children would grow up with the stigma of being illegitimate. And he’d be separated from his family.

  But he couldn’t kill the man—any man, even one such as this—in cold blood.

  “You’ve lost.” Christian’s quiet voice echoed eerily in the small cottage.

  Madness glinted in Wickburgh’s eyes and spittle dripped off his mouth as he roared, “Amesbury!”

  Christian held his guns steady. “If you make any move, I’ll shoot you.”

  Wickburgh’s eyes bulged and his face turned purple. “I’ll kill you both!” He lunged.

  Christian squeezed both triggers.

  Three gunshots roared through the air. Two holes blossomed in Wickburgh’s chest and one opened up in his forehead right between the eyes. Wickburgh fell backward with a thud and lay staring.

  Christian stared. He killed him. He’d never killed a man before. He felt oddly empty. Hollow. Numb. Wait ... three?

  Grant appeared next to him, his gun still smoking, and muttered a disparaging remark about Wickburgh’s parentage. “He died too quickly.”