by Anne Stuart
Michael had vanished. Of the four men who'd surrounded him, two lay on the ground writhing in pain. The other two didn't move at all.
Francey tried to move, tried to push the dead weight off her, when suddenly that crushing burden came to life. And it was no dead weight at all; it was her murderous sister Caitlin, scrambling to her feet with insane fury, dragging Francey with her.
Francey reached beneath her for the knife Michael had slipped her, but she was hauled to her feet before her hand could connect with her one hope of salvation. "Looking for this?" Caitlin cackled, holding the knife aloft.
"Let me go, Caitlin. You don't really want to kill me. You know you don't."
"Of course I want to kill you," Caitlin said with mad cheeriness, dragging her away from the raging battle. "Since I was five years old and learned of your existence I've wanted to kill you. I'm not going to give up my last chance."
"You could escape. Everyone's busy…"
"I don't want to escape. Not if it means letting you live." She held the knife up to Francey's throat, and she was far, far stronger than her sister could have imagined. "Some things are worth dying for, and this is one of them. Come along, sister dear."
"Where are you taking me?"
"Out of the range of rescue. Not that the Cougar will waste his time. He's got more important things to do. I must admit, that was a bit of a disappointment. I thought he'd be more heartbroken at the thought of losing you. Take a bit of advice from me, dearie. Men aren't worth it."
"You're crazy, Caitlin," Francey said, trying not to stumble as Caitlin dragged her along. "You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, dearie. I know that."
Francey knew now that the rustling sound was the surf, crashing on the rocks. There were no trees around the old army barracks, only a rocky promontory with the pounding waves below. The battle raged onward, but they were moving farther and farther away, and no one would even notice they were gone.
A moon had risen, dancing through the angry clouds, and as it peeked out she could see the ocean, the sharp cliff. Francey tried to struggle, but Caitlin simply pushed the sharp blade of the knife against her neck, and she could feel the first traces of blood slide down her skin. "Are you going to die with me, Caitlin?" she asked when they finally reached the edge. "Are you going to throw yourself over with me?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she cackled. "I'm not defeated yet. You're going over the side alone, with my knife buried in your throat, and then I'm out of here. I have the money, I have the luck of the Irish, I have—"
"You have nothing, Caitlin." Michael's voice came from out of the darkness. "You're a dead woman."
"Michael," Francey whispered, and she felt Caitlin grow very still as she clutched Francey to her.
"Perhaps. But I'll take her with me."
In the darkness Francey could see him. He had a gun; she knew that. She also knew he was capable of shooting Caitlin, of killing her quickly and efficiently, before Caitlin could finish with her.
With sudden, sickening clarity she realized that she wasn't going to let that happen. She'd seen Michael's face when he'd killed Dex. She'd seen the bleak, soulless look of a killer, and she knew without a doubt that with each additional death more of the man she loved was lost. And if he killed the madwoman holding her, then he would be gone for good.
"Let her go, Caitlin." His voice was calm, but Francey could see his desperation, could feel it.
"Not on your life. I know about you, Cougar. Know that you won't kill me. You don't kill women, no matter how much they deserve it. It's your weakness, Cougar. And it's going to bring you down this time."
Francey saw the faint movement of the gun. The gun that would end Caitlin's life. And Michael's.
And then she didn't think at all. She kicked out, wrapping her foot beneath Caitlin's sticklike leg and pulling. Her sister collapsed, her hands clawing for support that wasn't there. And then she was gone, over the cliff, smashing onto the rocks below.
Francey turned and sank to her knees, sobbing. Caitlin's body lay on the jagged rocks, still and unmoving, and there was no doubt she was dead. Francey waited for Michael to come to her, to draw her into his arms and comfort her. But when she looked up, he was gone.
And in the distance, the battle raged on.
Chapter 19
« ^
"I don't like the idea of you going out there alone," Daniel fretted. "Can't you wait till I'm out of the hospital?"
Francey reached over and patted his frail hand. She'd spent the past two weeks by his hospital bed, the enforced quiet going a tiny way toward healing her own wounds, but she knew full well that Daniel wasn't going to be up and around for a long time. "I need some time alone, Daniel. Just peace and quiet and sunshine. Belle Reste will give me that. With the Cadre wiped out I'm in no danger. Even you admit that."
"I'm afraid it will bring back painful memories. He's gone, Francey. We both know it."
"I'm surprised you even admit he existed in the first place." The pain had become a constant companion now, almost a comfortable friend, and she scarcely noticed its intensity.
"I'm the only one who'll admit it."
"Cecil admitted it. When he brought me out of that inferno and left me here at the hospital. He's the one who told me he'd died."
"Buried with full military honors," Daniel said. "Just like that little rat Cardiff."
"But he wasn't really Charlie Bisselthwaite," Francey said, leaning against the hospital bed.
"He wasn't Michael Dowd, either. We've gone over this time and time again, Francey. I don't even know who he was. He'll rest just as easily in Charlie Bisselthwaite's grave as anyone else's."
"If he's dead."
"Don't fight it, Francey. Cecil wouldn't have lied to you."
"No one tells the truth," she said flatly. "He's not dead."
"Is that why you want to go back to St. Anne? Are you hoping he'll show up? I would have thought life had knocked such romantic notions out of your head."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" She didn't deny it.
Daniel shook his head wearily. "You're an enigma to me, Francey. You have that madwoman buried on Irish soil, at great expense, when the creature would have murdered you. I have my accountants go to a great deal of trouble to get your trust fund back from the Children of Eire, and you simply hand it over to another organization. At least this time it was a legitimate one, but you might consider that you need to earn a living."
"I have enough to tide me over."
"Francey, he's not coming back."
She took a deep, shaky breath and smiled at Daniel. "I know. I'm just not ready to accept it."
The tiny island of St. Anne was just as she remembered it, the climate temperate, the trade winds blowing. The car she rented was a sedate American station wagon with excellent brakes and air conditioning, and she experienced only a moment of overwhelming grief when she glanced over at the tarmac where she'd first seen the man who called himself Michael Dowd.
She drove directly to Belle Reste, using the brakes sparingly. It wasn't until she faced the reality of the empty house that she knew she'd been fooling herself. Some small, crazy part of her had dreamed that Michael would be there, waiting for her. But when she walked through the empty, closed-up house and found no trace of him, she finally lost the iron-hard composure she'd held on to for so long.
The deed arrived in the mail, notarized, witnessed, signed and sealed. With his usual magnanimity, Daniel had given her ownership of Belle Reste and its twenty acres of beautiful waterfront, with a short note.
"Don't refuse—it's the only thing I can do to assuage my conscience. I should have warned you. For old time's sake I'm sending you another wounded bird. I'm counting on you to heal him. All my love, Daniel."
Francey accepted the gift with apathy. Accepted the upcoming intrusion with the same numbness. She had no interest in wounded birds or in taking care of others. She was too busy searching in vain for her own healing.
&nb
sp; She was down at the beach when he arrived. She'd done her hostessly duties, making up a room at the opposite side of the house for him, arranging for a taxi to pick him up at the airport. She would cook for him and be unflaggingly polite until he finally left her in peace. But that was all.
She saw him from a distance, coming down the long set of wooden steps that led to the beach, and he couldn't have been more removed from Michael. The sunlight was blinding, but she could make out a tall, jeans-clad figure, with a rumpled khaki shirt and longish, curly blond hair and mirrored sunglasses. Just her luck, she thought. An aging hippie.
Her heart lurched to a sudden stop. There was something familiar about the way he held himself. Something heart-breakingly familiar about the set of his shoulders, the controlled grace of his walk. She didn't move as he approached her, too terrified to do anything but force herself to breathe.
He stopped in front of her, pushing his sunglasses up on his forehead, and he had the most beautiful green eyes she'd ever seen in her life. They were wary, watching her as if he wasn't quite sure of his reception.
"Who the hell are you?" she said.
"You aren't going to believe this," he said in a voice stripped of his faintly British accent and sounding more like Oklahoma, "but I was christened James Mackintosh Bond."
She shook her head. "And who are you today?"
"The same man I'm going to be for the rest of my life. Michael Cougar."
She considered it for a moment. "I like it. What do you do for a living?"
"I'm out of work, I'm afraid. I quit my last job, and my prospects aren't promising. I thought I'd take some time off, spend the next couple of years lying on a beach and finding out whether I really exist."
"That sounds like a good idea," she said carefully. "I happen to own a large section of beach."
"Convenient," he murmured. "What do you think of the name Francey Cougar?"
"Utterly ridiculous."
"I knew you'd like it."
She was in his arms, and he was solid and real and warm and there. She clung to him, fighting back the tears, and his arms were tight around her, holding her so fiercely that she had no more doubts. "I thought you didn't believe in happy endings?" she muttered against his warm chest.
He tipped her face up to his, and his beautiful green eyes were shining with love. "I'm counting on you to convince me."
"With babies and fights and old age?"
"With all those things," he said. "I love you, Francey. I always will."
And with his words, freely spoken, the last of her sorrow lifted and sunlight filled her soul. "Not happy endings," she said. "Happy beginnings. I just want to know one more thing."
"Are you certain you want the answer?"
"Positive." She cradled her head in his, pressing her nose against his. "What the hell color eyes are our children going to have?"
He grinned then, the first unshadowed smile she'd ever seen on his face. "Let's do our best to find out, shall we?" And scooping her up in his arms, he started up the winding wooden steps to the house.
^
