With Hain sitting against the wall all nicely chained up, we withdrew to the shadows and closed the shutter of Macfarlane's lantern.
'Now we wait.' I said. 'Now we wait for Findhorn.' I pulled back the hammer of my pistol and felt my excitement rise, and my fear. I fought the tears and remembered the nineteen-year-old girl I had been and the lost decade of my life. The image returned, Findhorn kneeling at my mercy. I could see his fear and taste the blood in the air as I pulled the trigger. I wanted that. Oh, God forgive me, but I wanted to kill that man.
A few hours ago the dark had been threatening. Now it was our friend. I remembered one time in Bengal, waiting in the night with a tethered goat. The animal, like Hain, was bait, and rather than two predatory lordlings, we waited for a leopard. The method was the same, the prey equally dangerous and the thrill of the hunt similar, except in this instance I could not keep the tears from my eyes or the feeling of sick hatred from corroding my soul.
The darkness folded around us, once again thick with menace, still except for the shuffling and mewling of Hain. I hoped he was suffering. I hoped that he suffered one-tenth of what I had experienced, I hoped he endured a fraction of the agony of fear which he and his type had put Marie and that little girl through.
I uncocked Joe Manton and cocked it again. I rubbed my hand over the butt. I took a deep breath, held it and released slowly. I uncocked the pistol. Mungo's hand crept to my arm. I shook it off. I did not want Mungo. I wanted Findhorn. I wanted him kneeling at my feet, crying for mercy as I blew out his brains.
'Where are you, little girls?' I recognised Findhorn's voice and stifled my fear. I was not proud of how I felt. I wished it were otherwise. I uncocked my pistol and cocked it again. I felt the perspiration coat my forehead and soak Mungo's shirt on my back.
'We're coming, Dorothea!' My name sounded obscene in Findhorn's mouth. 'Oh, Dorothea!'
I was never more grateful for Mungo's touch on my arm. I could feel myself trembling. I wanted to kill, to run, to cry, to curl into a ball and escape. I wanted to be anywhere except here, but most of all I wanted to kill Findhorn.
Mungo was close, his arm around me. I shook him off. I wanted him, and I wanted space. The past crowded into my head, chasing away the present. I was no longer Miss Flockhart, I was a nineteen-year-old girl again, full of hopes and dreams and love.
I grabbed that love and held it close. The love was real; only the object had altered.
'Oh, Dorothea, we want you!' laughter followed the cruel taunts.
Mungo reached across again. This time I allowed his touch.
Lantern light bobbed through the network of cellars, now glossing across a rack of wine bottles, now splashing on the stone slabs, or shining on the groined ceiling. Findhorn said something and McAra laughed. Unable to stop myself, I cocked the pistol, the sound metallic and loud in the dark.
'What was that? Who's there?' The lantern light swung around, bouncing from corner to corner. I remained still and silent. The light shone on Findhorn. Even in his white trousers and white shirt he looked the nemesis of an angel, a man with the soul of a devil and the bloated, pale face of the truly dissipated. He carried a lantern in his left hand and a long cane in his right.
'Probably a rat,' Lord Findhorn's voice raised the small hairs on the back of my neck.
'We could use the rats,' McAra said. 'Have the women hunt them, like ratting dogs.' He went into obscene details as they strolled past.
'My Lord!' Hain's voice cut through the darkness. 'They're waiting for you!'
'Damn it!' I had never heard Mungo swear before. 'He must have got the gag off.'
'Get me free!' Hain shouted.
'Now!' I gave the order without thinking and ran toward the lantern light. I expected the vicious swing of Findhorn's cane and ducked away, hearing the high-pitched whistle as it missed me by inches.
'Stand there!' I thrust my pistol into the lamplight so Findhorn could see it. 'Or I'll blow your head off.' Dick Turpin could not have said it better.
Unfortunately, Lord Findhorn was less than impressed. 'Is your powder still damp, Dorothea?' Lifting his cane, he slashed at me again. I stepped back, and he promptly threw the lantern in my direction. I ducked; it soared over my head to crash against the wall and fall to the floor, where it lay in a flickering circle of oil-fed light. Findhorn stepped backwards.
'Lord Findhorn! Show yourself! Face me, you coward!'
Findhorn had vanished in the dark. A second later McAra also extinguished his lantern and plunged the cellar into blackness. I stepped to the wall and stood still, holding my pistol ready, my finger on the trigger, waiting while the memories overcame the present.
The silence was deafening, overwhelming, like a physical force pressing down on me. I knew Findhorn and McAra were close by and my hatred and fear rose in equal measure, replacing all my love. I remembered waiting for the leopard and the shikari whispering the golden rule.
'Keep still and keep quiet. Patience.'
I had patience. For the past ten years, while most of me wanted only to avoid trouble and never see Findhorn or his type of man again, another small part knew that we would meet again. I had not planned this encounter, yet deep down I wanted it.
I had always wanted to kill Findhorn for the pain and horror he had caused me.
It was no dream, no vague possibility but a deep part of my being. That realisation shook me. I had considered myself to be a pacific, civilised and relatively educated woman, yet here I was admitting to animal feelings of revenge. I wanted retribution, no, more than that, I wanted to cleanse myself of the terror and agony, mental and physical, of that evening more than ten years ago.
All I had to do was wait, and Findhorn would move. He would make a mistake, and I could shoot him. I remembered Captain Rogers' words; a human head is a diminutive target. The widest target was hip to hip, the belly, the thighs and the groin. There would be an undoubted, savage satisfaction in shooting him there and watching him writhe in agony. I wanted him to suffer. I waited with my pistol cocked, and my mouth stretched into a smile although there was not a trace of humour in me.
'Can somebody get me free? Help me, my Lord!'
I had forgotten about Hain, who was shouting and rattling his chains. I tried to ignore him, listening for Findhorn's footsteps in the dark.
Something rattled of the wall nearby and rolled on the ground. A bottle? Who was throwing bottles? I flinched as something crashed near my head, and a splinter of smashed glass flicked my arm. Fighting my fear, I remained still. Findhorn or maybe McAra was trying to locate me.
'My Lord!' Hain was bellowing again. There were quick footsteps beside me, and somebody grabbed my arm. I jerked it free and swung sideways with the pistol, without any contact. A light flared a few feet away, and I saw McAra's pale face and staring blue eyes, and then the light died, and we were alone and wrestling desperately in the dark. I knew I was fighting for my life.
Bony fingers seized my throat, squeezing and without thinking I rammed up my knee, catching him shrewdly in the groin. He jerked forward, retching and somebody else arrived. I recognised the scent of heather and peat as Macfarlane grabbed hold of McAra and threw him to the ground. I could not forget McAra's sneering, pallid face and kicked out, catching him on the chest. The feeling of contact was pleasurable, so I kicked again. McAra yelped as I made contact with something soft.
'He's mine,' Macfarlane sounded as calm as if he was sitting in the drawing room in Thistle Street.
The light died, and I heard Macfarlane drag McAra away. There was a single loud cry and then silence.
I heard the scurry of footsteps running past. 'Who's that?'
'Not me!' Macfarlane said.
'Nor me!'Mungo had been standing only a few feet away.
'It's Findhorn,' I said. He's running!' I followed, listening for Findhorn's feet. The sound was sharp on the stone flags and echoed from the stone walls and the stone ceiling. 'Come back, you coward!'
Findhorn di
d not stop. He strode through the cellar and up the stairs, and I was a few steps behind all the way. I would not give up; I wanted that man more than anything I had wanted in my life. Nearly. I wanted my baby back.
Findhorn sprinted up the stairs from the cellar and onto the ground floor. I heard his gasping breath and knew his life of dissipation and drink had made him unfit. Still holding the pistol, I chased him. He glanced at me over his shoulder with his bloated face full of hatred. I heard somebody following behind me but did not stop.
'I'm coming for you, Findhorn,' I shouted.
He ducked through a double door and slammed it behind him.
I don't know what possessed me that night. I think it may have been the culmination of ten years of nightmares and fear, ten years of starting at every shadow and cringing every time I heard drawling tones that reminded me of Findhorn and his cronies. I do know that I had altered from the hunted to the hunter and the lust to kill was on me. I was the predator; I was Nimrod the mighty hunter, I was the nineteen-year-old girl returning to right the wrong. Was it some feminine instinct to destroy the man who had robbed me of my youth and happiness? Or was it more fundamental, a basic human desire for revenge? I don't know, and my attempts at self-analysis always end up with me twisting myself inside-out without reaching any conclusion.
I did not care what it was. I only knew that I must hunt down Findhorn.
Without hesitation, I kicked open that door and rushed into the room. Findhorn stood at a gun cabinet, struggling with the lock. He turned to face me, his eyes burning with hatred. The only time that I ever saw anything similar was when a wounded leopard turned pm us outside the village in Bengal, and it turned on us. Its eyes were like that, savage, untamed, a beast at bay.
The leopard had been pursuing its natural bent in hunting the villagers' goats. Perhaps Findhorn saw women as his natural prey, soft creatures to be hunted, tormented and used for his warped pleasure. Well, now one of his victims had turned the tables.
'Stand there,' I aimed my pistol at Findhorn's belly. In my mind's eye, I saw him falling, writhing in pain.
Findhorn must have read the determination on my face. Swearing, he threw his cane at me; it rattled against the wall behind my head. Some instinct had told me he would miss and I had not flinched. Findhorn ducked and ran out of a connecting door. I did not fire. I had only a single barrel, and I did not wish to miss. I followed, avoiding the chairs he strewed in his wake in his attempt to delay me.
Once more I heard somebody behind me. The doctor, perhaps? Or was it Macfarlane? I did not care. I only wished to end this.
'Dorothea! Be careful!' That was Mungo's voice. I was too intent on my prey to listen, yet I was glad he was there.
Findhorn ran into the corridor and stopped between two portraits. On his left was a smiling woman with a brood of children around her knees. On his right was a fine-featured man in a military uniform set against a background of battle and siege. In between these respectable people stood the poltroon.
I took deliberate aim at his groin, and he squealed and ran. I watched and followed.
'You coward!' I yelled. 'Running from a woman. You blackguard.'
The insults would not sting him. Men such as Findhorn were thick-skinned; they lived in their own world of self-indulgence, far from the real men's life of duty and honour, wife and family. I walked in his wake as he drew back the bolts of the side door and lunged into the night. Floating amongst drifting clouds, the moon was nearly full, Macfarlane's lantern providing ghostly light that gleamed on the boughs of trees and reflected on Findhorn's white clothes and the foul creature inside them.
I heard his gasping as he blundered across the grass and into the tangle of trees. I knew how he felt, for I had been in his position. I was there now, in my mind. I had never been away from that day, for time and distance do not remove memories. They always remain, sharp and searing to taunt and twist and torture.
'Run, Findhorn,' I called. 'Run you, scoundrel. I will catch you.'
I will catch you, however long it takes; I will always be here, Findhorn.
I followed My Lord Findhorn, seeing the twinkle of white breeches tight across his buttocks and the white flapping of his loose shirt. Lifting a stone, I threw it after him. 'Run, Findhorn, run!'
There were footsteps behind me. Mungo and Macfarlane I guessed. I did not look back. They were not part of this drama. Findhorn and I must finish this together; close the circle he had started ten years before when I had been a confused young woman who had dreamed of matrimony with a charming older Lord. I closed my mind to the future as I inverted my past.
I had no difficulty in walking between the trees, following Findhorn's blundering passage and the gleam of moonlight on his white clothes. I could see myself in his running form, feel his panic and blanked my elation. I knew I was wrong to enjoy this; I knew I was becoming as bad as the creature I hunted. I did not care.
'Run, Findhorn,' I pitched my voice to carry through the trees. 'I don't need a pack of dogs and half a dozen men to hunt you down. I know where you are you blackguard, you filthy, disgusting copy of a man, you bloated thing.'
The trees seemed to part before me, branches swaying as Findhorn staggered on. I heard him desperately swear as he snagged his shirt on a tangle of hawthorn, ripped himself free and ran on. I passed the shredded fragments of shirt without a smile. I knew where he was headed. This path led to a bramble patch, and although it was winter, the thorns remained, dry and tangled and sharp.
'Run, Findhorn, run!'
I saw his face as he peered over his shoulder at me, and then he plunged down a slope and into the massed ambush of brambles. I watched and said nothing as he yelled, dragging himself through the chest high bushes that hooked and tore at his breeches and shirt. I heard the ripping of material and heard Findhorn gasp with frustration and pain.
'Run, Findhorn, run!' Lifting a piece of rotted wood, I threw it at him, catching him on the back.
He squealed and pressed on, with the thorns tangling around his legs and waist, hooking into him, tearing his breeches, drawing blood with every step. I saw the flash of white flesh as the bramble thorns tore into his white breeches, I saw him rip himself free, so his breeches shredded from waist to calves.
I watched as Findhorn got himself more entangled and then I walked around the gulley and over to the far side, where Findhorn would have to emerge. Above me, the moon reached its zenith, a silver ball in a sky speckled with stars. It was serene up there, uncaring as Findhorn and I played out our little drama far beneath. If there are men on the moon, then our antics may have amused them that night. If there are not, then only the silver orb observed us, and nobody could see the thoughts inside my head.
I waited for Findhorn at the top of the slope as he struggled out with his shirt in shreds and blood from a score of scratches seeping through the remains of his breeches. He was gasping, his shoulders heaving as he neared me.
'Good evening my Lord,' I said.
When Findhorn looked up the expression of dismay on his face was as intense as anything I have ever seen. He stood with his chest heaving and brambles tangled around his legs and thighs. I aimed my pistol at his belly and pulled back the hammer.
He turned away, cowering from the threat of the muzzle. I watched without sympathy, noticing the blood on the bulge of his exposed buttocks, the deep scratches that ran from shoulders to waist and the trembling of his entire body.
'How does it feel to be the quarry, Findhorn? How does it feel to be in the same position as you put me and others? How many others? Do you even know? Face me, you coward, or I'll shoot you in the spine.'
He turned, shaking. I saw the gleam of tears in his eyes, and I did not care. I extended my arm, aiming at his belly. 'I hear that if I shoot you there, you will die slowly,' I said. 'You will suffer, but not as much as you have made me and others suffer for years.'
I heard people around me. I knew they were there although they were outside my world. I think I
was mad in those minutes, as the insanity that for years had been knocking at the door of my mind finally entered. I stood there forever and for a half-second, as my mind wandered from the terrifying past when this man and his cronies had raped me to the terrible present when I was on the cusp of becoming a murderess.
Findhorn was sobbing. He sank to his knees, begging forgiveness that I would not grant. 'You seek grace at a graceless face,' I misquoted the old Border Ballad, 'but there is none for your men and you.'
Findhorn broke and turned away into that confusion of thorns so the brambles wrapped around him. He tried to run, and fell face first over a bush with his torn breeches exposing flabby white buttocks, ripped and bloody. I extended my hand and aimed. Could anything be more humiliating for a man than to be shot in that position by a woman? Perhaps, but I wished to see his face. I wanted to see him grovel and plead. I wished to see his fear as he had seen mine.
'Get up,' I said. 'Get up, or by God, I'll shoot you as you are.'
Findhorn struggled to his feet, wincing and crying as the thorns ripped at tender flesh.
'Face me,' I ordered. 'Turn around and face me.'
He did so, and I saw the tears on his white face. I aimed the pistol at the centre of his forehead and thumbed back the hammer. Findhorn dropped to his knees amidst the brambles.
'Please,' he said. 'Please don't kill me.'
The circle was almost complete. All I had to do was squeeze the trigger to put a lead ball in Findhorn's head. I could imagine the sound, the kick of the pistol against my hand, the spurt of orange flame. I could imagine the back of Findhorn's head exploding in a mess of blood and bones and brains.
'Please, please,' Findhorn was sobbing, great tears rolling down his bloated face. 'No, please.'
I felt my lips stretch into a smile that exposed my teeth. There was no mirth in my expression as I put pressure on the trigger of Joe Manton.
'No! Please, don't!' Findhorn was grovelling, face down in the thorns, a broken, near-naked thing in the guise of a man. I looked at the pathetic wreck.
A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3) Page 23
