Sweet Release (47 page)

“Did you truly believe you’d get away with this, Crichton?” Alec walked slowly toward them, the pistol now raised and unwavering, his eyes as hard and cold as slate. “You must have known I would come for her as soon as I was able.”

“I’ve had dogs looking for you day and night. You should have made good your escape when you had the chance, convict. Now you’re a dead man.”

Dogs? Escape? Cassie did not understand, unless…Geoffrey had lied.

“There will be no bloodshed in the church!” cried Reverend Dinwiddie, suddenly rediscovering his tongue.

“Let her go, Crichton, or the good reverend will find himself with quite a mess.”

“You’d fire and take the risk of killing her? I think not.” Slowly Alec drew back on the hammer, training the pistol at Geoffrey’s head.

“My father took my education in firearms quite seriously. At this range I can crack your skull like a melon and not get a drop of blood on her gown.”

Cassie’s breath froze in her throat. She felt Geoffrey’s grip tighten, crushing her. Then she found herself stumbling forward as, with a shove, he released her. She caught her footing, lifted her skirts, and ran to Alec, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as she buried her face in his chest.

“I don’t blame you for wanting her, convict,” she heard Geoffrey say. “She does know how to please a man in bed, doesn’t she?” She felt Alec’s body grow rigid and started to tell him she was untouched, but was cut off.

“If I thought you had forced yourself on her, Crichton, you’d be dead where you stand.” The deep baritone of Alec’s voice rumbled in his chest, where Cassie’s head rested. He looked down at her. “Are you hurt, sweet?”

“No,” she whispered, looking up into his blue eyes, scarcely able to believe he was really there.

“Who are you, man?” Reverend Dinwiddie stepped forward, puffing himself up to his full size.

Alec pressed Cassie to safety behind him.

“He is a convict, one of Blakewell’s servants, Reverend,” Geoffrey answered. “Catherine fancies herself in love with him and even took the man to her bed.”

Reverend Dinwiddie looked horrified, appalled.

Cassie lifted her chin, unashamed. “Yes, Reverend, and it is his child, not Geoffrey’s, that I carry.”

Reverend Dinwiddie gasped.

Geoffrey looked stunned, then disgusted, his lips curling with contempt.

But Alec’s reaction so warmed Cassie’s heart, she nearly forgot about the other two. His gaze dropped in awe to her belly before coming to rest tenderly on her face.

“A baby?”

“Aye.”

“Take the little bitch!” Geoffrey shouted. “Leave while you can.” Alec’s face hardened.

“Cassie, listen carefully,” he said, speaking so only she could hear him. “Outside you’ll find Crichton’s horses unhitched and waiting for us. Ride for the island. I’ll be right behind you. If aught should go amiss, seek help from Robert Carter. He’s a man I think you can trust.”

“But—”

“Go. Now! I don’t want you to see this.”

“What—”

“Go!”

Cassie lifted her skirts and ran toward the door.

“You and I have a score to settle, Crichton,” she heard Alec say. Terrified of what Alec might do, Cassie found she could go no farther. She whirled around to see him walking menacingly toward Geoffrey, the pistol tucked in his breeches.

Geoffrey took several stumbling steps backward.

Alec lunged, then lifted Geoffrey by his throat until only his toes touched the ground.

“Lucky for you we’re in a church. But be warned: If you ever set foot on Blakewell’s land again or come anywhere near Cassie, I will kill you!”

The last four words were spoken slowly, ominously, their echo filling the little church.

Alec slammed his fist into Geoffrey’s face, knocking Geoffrey backward until he collided with the wall and sank to the floor, blood pouring from his nose onto the lace of his jabot.

Without a backward glance Alec turned and strode toward Cassie. He took her by the hand and led her out the door. “Don’t you ever do as you’re told?”

“I was afraid—”

“That I would kill him? I wish I had.”

Geoffrey’s horses stood tethered to a tree branch, their tails swishing nervously. The animals wore no saddles, but Cassie had ridden bareback before.

“Where’s the driver?” she asked, noticing the vacant carriage.

“Sleeping off a bump on the head.” Alec took the horses’ reins. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Cassie saw Geoffrey emerge from the church. He had something in his hand, something that gleamed silver in the sunlight. “Alec!”

Alec whirled about, then thrust Cassie behind him. Her father’s pistol magically appeared in his hand, and he fired.

Geoffrey staggered, a pistol falling from his grasp. Clutching with both hands at the gaping hole in his throat, he collapsed on the church steps, his eyes wide, his body arching, twisting in pain.

“Cath—” he choked, reaching for Cassie with one bloody hand.

He writhed for a moment. Then, with a jerk, he lay still.

Sickened, Cassie turned away to feel Alec’s arms enfold her, his hand pressing her against the warmth of his chest.

“We must ride. Do you have the strength?”

Cassie nodded.

“Let me help you mount.”

Cassie reached up and took a handful of the horse’s red mane. She felt Alec’s hands encircle her waist and lift her until she was able to swing one leg across the horse’s back.

The animal shifted nervously beneath her.

“There they are! Stop them!”

Cassie turned to find Reverend Dinwiddie pointing, three men running toward them, one of them struggling clumsily to load a musket as he ran.

“Ride, Cassie! Stop for nothing!” Alec slapped her horse hard on the rump.

The horse sprang forward at a gallop. Fighting to keep from falling, Cassie gripped its flanks tightly with her thighs and held fast to its mane.

“Alec!” She tried to look over her shoulder, struggling to keep her balance.

“Ride!”

A glimpse told her he had made it safely to his horse and was riding after her. Cassie fought to turn her mount’s head toward home, the ground passing in a blur beneath her.

She had not yet reached the bend in the road when the sickening crack of gunfire split the air, followed by the scream of a horse. Her heart pounding frantically in her breast, Cassie tried to jerk her mount to a stop, but it reared again, terrified, and she found herself holding on for dear life.

Then, over her shoulder, she saw him. “No!”

Alec lay in the dirt, fighting to free his leg from beneath his dying horse. Blood poured from the bullet hole in its neck. Not far behind him the man with the musket was reloading, Reverend Dinwiddie and the two others closing in.

Without thinking, Cassie turned her horse about, but she was too late.

No sooner had Alec pulled himself free than the men fell upon him, beating him and yanking him to his feet.

“Alec!”

“Go!” he shouted. “Ride!”

The horse stamped beneath her.

“I won’t go without you!”

“You must! Go!”

Through a fog she realized that the man with the musket was still reloading. Terror clutched at her heart. He was planning to shoot Alec on the spot! Then, as the man’s gaze met hers, she realized with a gasp that he meant to aim for her.

“Cassie, for God’s sake, ride!” For a moment Alec’s gaze locked fiercely with hers; then he turned and threw himself on the man with the musket, dragging his two captors with him.

Cassie spun the gelding about and kicked it to a gallop, tears streaming down her cheeks, Alec’s name on her lips. When the musket fired again, as she feared it would, a sob rose from her throat, leaving her bereft of all but heartrending grief. Alec was dead.

Chapter Thirty-one

London

Matthew tapped impatiently on the sturdy oaken door with his cane.

“Come in, please, Lieutenant,” said the bespectacled young clerk who opened it. “The magistrate will be here presently.”

Matthew entered to find a garishly appointed office. Ornate Oriental carpets covered the floor, their rich claret hues struggling violently with the purple of the velvet draperies and the pink and green of the gilt French chairs. Shelves on both sides of the room held a wealth of leather-bound books, their authors and titles spelled out in gold leaf: Aristotle, Cicero, Dante, Chaucer. Matthew retrieved one volume from the shelf, and realized it had never been opened, when its stiff spine creaked in protest as he turned back its cover. Likely the entire collection was for show. As were, no doubt, the oil paintings on the wall. One featured voluptuous naked women being carried off by rugged men in Roman dress, a poor copy of
The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus
by Reubens.

The other, a portrait, seemed to have been painted by the same awkward hand. It tried to be a Dutch masterpiece but wasn’t. It pictured an overdressed man staring with exaggerated severity at the viewer. These were the trappings, Matthew judged, of one who was new to wealth, and Matthew was fairly sure where the money had come from. One could grow very rich running a gaol. No doubt his visit today would cost Matthew a fistful of good coin.

“Ah, Lieutenant Hastings. I see you’ve discovered my book collection.”

Matthew turned to see the very man whose portrait hung on the wall emerging from a back room. He was portly, clad head to toe in silks, brocades, and lace. Though it was clear the man frequented a talented tailor, he had not learned which colors went with which.

“I was just admiring the paintings, Magistrate Woodhull.”

The magistrate swelled with pleasure, as Matthew expected he would.

“I’ve acquired an artist who can mimic any style, any masterpiece. As soon as I saw his work, I knew I simply had to patronize him.” He clasped his hands above his large belly. “One can never have too much refinement in one’s life.”

“Well said, Magistrate. Your library is worthy of any gentleman.”

Matthew handed the book he held back to its owner.

“Would you like a brandy?” Woodhull beamed at Matthew’s compliments.

“No, thank you. I make it a rule never to mix business and drink.”

“A wise rule.” Woodhull chuckled. “Though I’d have precious little to do if everyone were as prudent as yourself.”

Matthew sat in one of the ornate French chairs, ignoring Woodhull’s furtive glances at his wooden leg. He was used to curious looks and staring. “I’ve come for information about the old man who was brought in the morning after my brother-in-law’s murder.”

“Oh, there’s little to be said about him, Lieutenant. He died of fever within days.”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me uncover something that had been overlooked.” Without breaking eye contact, Matthew dropped several sovereigns on Woodhull’s desk.

“That was a very long time ago, Lieutenant. As much as I’d like to help an honorable gendeman such as—” Matthew dropped several more.

“I’ll send for the guard who was on watch when he came in.”

In short order Matthew stood face-to-face with one of the filthiest men he’d ever seen. Dressed in clothes that might have been decent had they been washed, the man’s hair—or what was left of it—was greasy and matted. His skin was scarred by pox and covered with grime, and his teeth were rotted so that his breath stank, even from a distance. Matthew was sorely tempted to ask for that brandy after all, just to mask the odor.

“It’s just as I told the constable, sir,” said the guard. “The ol’ codger said ‘e saw two blokes kill a man an’ take ‘is eyes.”

“Is that exactly how he explained it to you?”

The guard looked confused.

“Were those his exact words?”

“Well, sir,” began the guard, his eyes fixed on Matthew’s wooden limb. “Pardon me, sir, but doesn’t it ‘urt? Your leg?”

“Aye. It hurts every day.” Matthew struggled to be patient. “Why don’t you tell me everything the old man said from the beginning?”

When the guard was sent back to his duties nearly an hour later, Matthew found himself fighting off disappointment. He’d learned little new. Instead he had more unanswered questions. Why had the attackers only knocked Alec out to begin with if their purpose had been murder? They’d slit the driver’s throat on the spot. Why not Alec’s? Why had they carried his unconscious body into an alley? They had already committed one murder in the street. What made them seek privacy to kill Alec and mutilate his corpse? For months Matthew had had a feeling that not all was as it seemed regarding Alec’s murder. First there was the strange brutality of it. Then there was Matthew’s mysterious letter from the colonies that Socrates said he’d seen, which Philip had stolen. Though he had initially dismissed Socrates’ conclusion about the handwriting as nothing more than the grief and love of an aging servant, Matthew hadn’t been able to put the letter from his mind, nor Philip’s refusal to discuss it. He was not given to gaming, but he was willing to wager that Philip was at the center of this somehow. Matthew had paid a man to trail Philip, but the spy had learned little Matthew did not already know.