Little White Lies

by Sara Ackerman

  Westby’s head tossed on the pillow, yet Tavis did not relent. Grabbing the older man by the edges of his tattered and bloody shirt, Tavis yanked him up and shook. “Tell me who he is!”

  “Tavis!” Wickes’s sharp voice cracked through the still room as he placed his hands on Tavis’s upper arm to prevent any further assaults on the injured man. “Enough! We’ll never get anything from him if you kill him before he can talk.”

  Westby moaned, his head slumping forward onto his chest. He began to mumble, “Hurry…hurry. Get the horse. The horse. Hurry.”

  “What are you saying?” Tavis commanded. “You’re not making any sense!” Tavis shook the man again, but when he only repeated the same phrases, Tavis dropped him back on the bed in disgust. “We’ll get nothing more from him now anyway.”

  Wickes gave Tavis a disapproving look and pushed past him to examine the older man, who lay pale and unconscious once more. Leaning over, he checked the older man’s pulse and assessed the bandage for new blood. “Fortunately, he’s still alive. You didn’t reopen the wound despite how hard you tried.” He straightened and walked to the door to motion in the maid who had been waiting outside. “But I think we had best seek out the cook, just in case.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” Tavis apologized.

  Catching sight of the maid, who had taken up her position by the side of Westby’s bed, Tavis groaned as he recognized the she-devil Margaret. Realizing now more than ever he needed to be discreet, Tavis held his tongue, though there was plenty more he wanted to say about his father-in-law’s cowardice and treachery. No one besides the two of them knew about Westby’s illegal activities. Until they could find out who Meeks was working with, today’s events needed to be seen as some sort of freak accident, which meant if he didn’t want anything getting back to his wife via Margaret he needed to remain silent.

  As Wickes finished giving instruction to the grim-faced Margaret, Tavis worked out a story to tell Amelia and her mother. He decided to tell Amelia it was a hunter who had come too close to the estate. As they left the room, the ever-disapproving Margaret said nothing to him, but the glare she shot him spoke more than words ever could. He nodded once in understanding of her silent warning, and the two men left the room to find the cook.

  Eager to see Amelia and offer his comfort, Tavis wasted no time in descending the stairs to the kitchen. At first, he saw nothing. Thick smoke poured from the great fireplace and obscured his view. Waving his hands in front of him, he shouldered his way through the haze to the doorway in the back hall and flung it open. The smoke poured out, thinning as it dissipated, allowing Tavis to see what had previously been concealed.

  Several maids rushed back and forth, carrying buckets of water to douse the flames at the fireplace. One maid carried clean cloths over to the battered and bruised figure of his cook, Mrs. Dowling, while another wrapped bandages around his injured cook’s arms. In a growing panic, he searched for Amelia’s familiar red head with the two footmen he had sent to protect her, but he saw only the bloody and beaten faces of William and Luke as they stood guard over his mother-in-law.

  Lady Anne was pale. She held herself around the middle, clutching what looked to be Amelia’s shawl around her as she rocked back and forth in her chair. He looked at his two footmen for some sort of explanation, but they turned their heads away, refusing to meet his eyes. An overpowering feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he regarded the hunched figure of Amelia’s mother. Bending down, Tavis grabbed one of her hands and asked, “Amelia?”

  “They’ve taken her,” she replied in a low broken voice. “Amelia is gone.” She buried her face in her hands, and her body shook as the tears she had so bravely fought against burst through.

  Chapter 21

  “Tie her up,” a gruff voice said. “Make sure it’s tight, too. I don’t want her escaping.” Heavy footsteps retreated into the distance, and as Amelia regained full consciousness, she heard the far-off sound of a door opening and then closing. In spite of her groggy state, she felt the rough scrape of rope against the skin on her wrists. Someone with blunt fingers yanked her arms and tied them behind her back and then moved lower to bind her legs together at the ankles. She blinked to get a better look at her surroundings and experienced a moment of true alarm when all she saw was darkness. It wasn’t until she felt a soft weight on her face that she realized a dark cloth covered it.

  Where am I? And who took me? A rising feeling of panic threatened to engulf her, but she tamped it down. Becoming hysterical would solve nothing. She needed to be calm and rational if she wanted to survive.

  Since sight eluded her, Amelia strained to catch any noise, no matter how faint. It took her several minutes of intense concentration, but she identified the muted footsteps of at least one other person besides the one who was tying her up. And what was that sound? Amelia listened more closely and heard a muffled roar breaking over and over again. Realizing she must be hearing the surf washing up on shore, Amelia deduced she was near the coast. Sniffing tentatively, her conclusion was confirmed by the briny smell of salt water on the air.

  What did Tavis tell me? Amelia tried to focus and remember what Tavis had said about Ballywith’s location in relation to the Atlantic Ocean. She thought he’d told her it was a half day’s ride to the west, so assuming she’d only been unconscious for several hours and not days, that’s where they must be.

  Her captor having finished tying his final knot, he stood; she felt a large presence near her right shoulder. When he yanked off the covering from her face, she craned her neck to see behind her. Blinking to accustom her eyes to the sudden light that illuminated the small space, it took her a moment to recognize the familiar countenance of Jeremy Michelson.

  “Jeremy!” she gasped. “It was you?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let that bastard Scot get away with taking what’s mine, did you? After all, your father promised you to me.”

  Amelia struggled in vain against her bindings. “He did no such thing, Jeremy. Besides, I told you I would rather die than marry you.”

  Rough fingers grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look into cold, calculating eyes. “He did promise, Amelia, and I mean to make him keep his word.”

  She jerked to free her chin from his fingers, but Jeremy held tight, bruising the delicate flesh of her face. “You lie!” she spat. “What reason could he possibly have for such an agreement?”

  Releasing her face, Jeremy placed his own fingers on his chin in pretended contemplation. “Hmmm, perhaps it’s because your father is a traitor and has been selling Crown secrets to the French since the beginning of the war.” He chuckled humorlessly at Amelia’s outraged expression. “We promised to keep his secret as long as you were given to me.” Placing one hand on the back of her chair, Jeremy leaned over until his face was mere inches from hers. “Didn’t you ever wonder why I was invited to live at your home? Why your father didn’t ask me to leave after our little misunderstanding?” he asked, referencing the time he’d almost raped her.

  “That’s not t-true,” she stammered but with less conviction than before. “My father is a good man. He would never betray his country.”

  This time Jeremy laughed long and hard. “Oh, but he did, Amelia. Willingly and repeatedly. He had his chance to do the honorable thing years ago, but your father was too eager to reap the rewards of our…venture.”

  “You must have tricked him, then,” she said, unable to reconcile the man who had raised her with this portrait Jeremy painted of a cold-hearted criminal.

  “It’s time to grow up,” he said as he stalked over to a small window to Amelia’s right. “Your father is nothing more than a common criminal who knew exactly what he was getting into when he signed up.”

  Tears welled in her eyes as she shook her head in disbelief. How had he lied to her family for all of these years? She closed her eyes and willed herself not to cry, refusing to give Jeremy the satisfaction of seeing how much his words hurt.
Breathing in deeply, she counted her breaths to still her pounding heartbeat. For several moments, she remained silent as she cleared her cluttered mind. Then a whispered voice echoed in her mind, startling her out of her misery. Then why did your father break his deal? Find out what happened, Amelia. Do not give up hope!

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured to herself. “If I was supposed to marry you, why did my father seek out someone else for me?”

  His handsome face distorted into a disgusted sneer at Amelia’s whispered question. “Because your father grew a conscience in his old age. Said he could no longer stomach getting rich off the blood of fallen English soldiers.” Jeremy’s sneer deepened. “We were willing to let him leave our organization so long as I became a part of his family. You, Amelia, were his collateral, his promise to us he would remain silent.”

  Returning to Amelia’s side, Jeremy wrapped his fingers around her throat and applied gentle pressure. Amelia shuddered at the soulless look he gave her as he watched his own fingers where they lay on her pale skin. His voice was mild while he explained, “As long as he remained silent, you were safe. The minute he revealed our secret was the moment you died.”

  Amelia gasped and struggled for breath as the fingers encircling her throat squeezed harder. “But when he secured you the hand of that bastard Tavis McGuire, he sealed his own death.”

  “Jeremy,” she gasped. “I…can’t…breathe.” An unholy light had entered his eyes, almost as if he enjoyed causing her physical pain. She thought for sure he would choke her to death. Her vision blackened at the edges, and just when she felt herself slipping into unconsciousness he abruptly let her go. Blessed air rushed back into her lungs, and she coughed and spluttered.

  She pulled in deep breaths of air, her mind trying to piece together what Jeremy had just revealed. If what he said was true, then her father had misgivings about his role as traitor. He also must have decided she was more important to him than saving his own skin, which is why he arranged an acquaintance between her and Tavis. That one selfless act instilled within her a small kernel of hope, a reason to continue fighting. But she needed to be calm, and she needed to stall until she thought of a way out of this mess.

  “Unfortunately, because of your husband and the stalwart Mr. Wickes, I did not have a clean shot at your father and was not able to kill him.” He sighed in regret. “Which means I will have to postpone killing you until after I am able to finish your father.” Trailing one smooth finger down the side of Amelia’s face, he said, “Or I could make him watch as I kill you and then end his life. That has a ring of justice about it.” Taking her bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, he pulled hard; Amelia winced. “Then your husband can watch, too, as I take your life before his eyes.”

  Oh, God, no! Amelia couldn’t allow Jeremy to go back to Ballywith. Not when her mother and her husband were still there, and her father, even though he might be a lying traitor. Jeremy was just crazy enough to kill them all. She had to protect them, but how? Lie, came that same whispered voice. Tell him a lie.

  Lie? Amelia thought. She had not had the chance to practice lying since her discussion with Mrs. Dowling that day in the garden. What had Mrs. Dowling said about belladonna? Every plant and animal has a way to protect itself. Why not her? Couldn’t she tell a lie to protect those she loved?

  Wetting her lips, Amelia croaked out past the pain and swelling in her throat, “He’s dead.”

  “What’s that?” Jeremy asked from where he stood again by the window.

  Not feeling the dizziness or pain in her stomach which usually accompanied a lie, she swallowed and tried again, louder this time. “I said he’s dead. You killed him.”

  Striding toward her, he boxed her in with his arms. “That’s impossible,” he said, his nostrils flaring with each agitated breath he took. “I am an excellent marksman, and I know when I’ve made a kill shot. That was not one.”

  Firming her jaw, she flashed her eyes at him in anger. “Believe me when I say you killed him.” She swallowed again, pushing past the rising bile from her churning stomach. “I saw the blood pour out of him and heard his last shuddering breath. He’s dead.” Biting her lip, she breathed in to relax her clenching stomach. Soon the beads of perspiration on her forehead disappeared, and Amelia held Jeremy’s stare without flinching.

  He is waiting to see if I’ll become ill from a lie.

  “You know I cannot tell a lie, Jeremy,” she said refusing to back down.

  Jeremy believed her, for he backed away and allowed Amelia to take in a deep, steadying breath.

  “Well,” Jeremy said, “that saves me the trip back to Stanton to finish him off, and it allows us more time to wed before we depart for France.”

  “Wed? I am a married woman, Jeremy, or have you forgotten?”

  “So little you know, Amelia. You may be legally wed here in Scotland”—he practically spat out the word ‘Scotland’—“but in England you are not. We will marry by a special license and then sail for France, where I will bed you first and then kill you.”

  The sound of the door opening signaled the return of the unknown man who had ordered her to be restrained. Once again, his heavy gait pounded on the wooden slats of the floor as he came ever nearer to where she sat trembling in fear. At least with Jeremy she knew where she stood—he would keep her alive long enough to marry her and rape her. Though frightening, it allowed her enough time to figure out how to escape. This stranger with the heavy steps and the raspy voice, he was unknown, and it was that element which scared Amelia most. For how could she protect herself against what she did not know?

  “Change of plans. I found a priest who’ll do the service here at dawn,” he said, his rough voice coming from behind Amelia and sending prickles of dread along her skin.

  “Will it be legal?” Jeremy questioned. “I want her to be mine when she dies, so McGuire knows it was I who took away what he loves the most.”

  “It’ll be legal. I found someone to forge a special license for me.”

  “In this backwater?”

  “Any job can be done for a price, Son. All you have to do is ask.”

  Son? A dreadful suspicion started to form in her mind. Loud footsteps approached, and Amelia swung her head to see who the other man was.

  “Time to cover her, Jeremy,” he ordered. Amelia was able to make out his profile from the corner of her eye. He was a large, beefy man with a bald head and a bulbous nose, yet she still could not make out the entirety of his features or recognize him from what little she saw. “I want her silent until dawn.” The man moved in front of Amelia with a black sack in his hands, and Amelia got her first good look at him, from the top of his shiny head to the familiar red, puckered scar running the length of his right cheek.

  “You!” she gasped as the man covered her face with the funny-smelling bag that made her so tired, plunging her once again into darkness. She felt the cords tighten around her neck, sealing in the dizzying fumes of the bag. A moment before she blacked out she wondered what Jeremy’s father was doing alive and in Scotland when he was supposed to be dead at the bottom of the sea…

  Chapter 22

  “Wait!” a feeble voice cried from the top of the stairs.

  Tavis turned and spied the ashen, strained face of Lord Westby. Margaret had her plump arms around the man’s waist to support him should he topple and fall. “I’m coming with you.”

  “The hell you are!” Tavis swore. “You’re no good to me like this. I’ll make better time on my own.”

  Westby made his way down the stairs, each step an obvious effort. His wife, Lady Anne, sped to his side, wrapping one of her own arms about his waist. “You don’t know where to look for her or even who has her.”

  Grabbing his pack bag and slinging it over his shoulder, Tavis glared at Westby. “I know they headed west. I’m going to ride that way until I find them, and when I do”—his eyes narrowed to small, furious slits—“I’ll cut their throats open and watch them die.” Tu
rning on a heel, he headed for the door with Wickes close behind him.

  “I know who has her and where they took her!” Westby’s desperate voice penetrated the thick fog of anger that had engulfed Tavis the moment he realized his wife was gone. Striding back to Westby, who now clutched the railing at the bottom of the steps, he demanded, “Where is my wife, Westby, and who took her?”

  “You already know Jeremy Michelson, better known to you as Jeremiah Meeks, was one of the men. The other”—Westby gulped, and his already ashen face went even grayer—“is his father, Henry Michelson, or Harry the Horse, as he is sometimes called.”

  Tavis stepped back from Westby and looked at Wickes in confusion. “That’s impossible. He was drowned at sea.”

  Wickes stared at Westby with a speculative gleam in his hawk eyes.

  Tavis asked, “Tom, you’re not surprised by this? You knew?”

  Without taking his eyes from the pasty, sallow face of Westby, Wickes replied, “With his lucrative shipping firm and his contacts across Europe, we have long suspected Henry Michelson of selling Crown secrets. When news came of his unfortunate death at sea, there were many who believed he had faked his own death, to let the suspicions die with him, but we never had any proof.” Wickes crossed his arms across his chest and ordered, “What do you know? Tell me everything.”

  “No,” Tavis cut into Wickes’s interrogation. “You can question him later. Right now, I need to find Amelia. Where did they take her? What are their plans for her?”

  “There is a village by the name of Oban on the bay of the Atlantic several hours west of here. It used to be nothing more than a few rundown cottages with poor fisherman living hand to mouth doing their best to survive. About twenty years back, all of that changed when an anonymous investor opened a distillery. Henry, ever the opportunist, started running ships out of the bay, carrying loads of whisky to England and beyond. At the time, he bought one of the cottages right on the bay, to better watch his investments. That’s where he’ll have taken her before he sets sail again for France.”