Taming the Barbarian (27 page)

“You made an adorable little widow. I must admit that I was not pleased to see my future property pawned off like pickled herring in the public market, but then you bought a carriage company and began showing a tidy profit. I was impressed. Truly. And you needed a friend.” He smiled. “Good old Stanford.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “Seven years I’ve waited, Fleurette. Seven years.”

Terror reached for her, spurred by the madness in his eyes, but she pushed it back, trying to think, to stall, to survive. “So it wasn’t Thomas,” she breathed. “In my bedchamber. In my garden.”

Stanford laughed, but the sound was raspy

“Nay, lass,” Killian rumbled, his voice low and steady against the baron’s maniacal chuckle. “Yer husband was long dead and buried in the woods beside the quarry. I found his grave some days past.”

Fleurette turned woodenly toward Stanford. ” ‘Twas the simplest way to dispose of the corpse. I visited him quite often. Tied his favorite cravat around a nearby tree, in fact.” His face twisted. “I couldn’t bear to lose my dearest friend. But I looked after his widow, and I was patient. Seven years passed. You could remarry, and I had you in the palm of my hand. Then you came.” He turned his sneer toward Killian. “And ruined all my lovely plans. You shall regret that.”

Fear made Fleur’s throat feel tight and raw, but she forced herself to speak, to search for the man she had thought he was. “Don’t do this, Stanford. I’m your friend. I’ll help you. We’ll tell the truth, go to magistrate. I’ll tell him of my abuse. That you were protecting me. That—”

His laughter stopped her words. “Little Fleurette. So clever. And kind.” His smile twisted. “I appreciate the offer. Truly. But forgive me. I do not care to be hanged for ending a worthless life. No. I believe I shall take my chances. I shall mourn the fact that you were murdered by this barbarian, of course. But I shall be brave. And there will be other women.” His smile brightened until it almost looked real. Almost looked sane. “Other heiresses.”

“So you will kill me,” she whispered, but it was Killian who answered.

“Nay, lass.” His voice was low in the darkening stillness. His eyes were as steady as the earth beneath his mincing stallion and the muscles in his arms hewn like ancient stone. “He is na,” he rumbled.

Stanford watched him, then threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Such chivalry. Such drama. ‘Tis just like the days of yore. The gallant knight come to save the lady fair.” He sobered, and his expression grew ugly. “But I fear you’re perfectly wrong, old chap. I shall kill her. But first, I fear, I must kill you,” he said, and raised the pistol.

Something snarled from the woods. Stanford twisted to the left, and in that second Killian spurred his stallion forward. The destrier struck the baron’s gelding head-on.

Fleur screamed, but the men were already falling, tumbling to the ground in each other’s arms, the pistol gripped in Stanford’s hand between them.

They twisted wildly, then rose, facing each other. The gun exploded, Killian jerked. He took one faltering step forward, then he fell. Slowly, like a toppled statue, Killian dropped to his knees.

Fleurette whimpered. He lifted his gaze to her, tried to recover, then felt silently onto his back.

“No!” Fleur shrieked, and suddenly she was ripped free from her trance. Leaping to the ground, she raced toward the Scotsman.

Stanford wiped his mouth with his hand and stumbled toward the fallen knight.

“Damn you!” he snarled, and loading the pistol, aimed again.

Rage and fear roared through Fleur like a flame. Unthinking, she leapt between them, straddling Killian’s legs, sheltering his body with her own.

“No! No!” she sobbed. Her hand was shaking as she held it with placating desperation toward Stanford. “Please. Let him be.”

Blood trickled down the baron’s forehead. His grin looked ghoulish. “I fear I can’t do that, my love.”

“Let him live,” she sobbed. “I’ll not tell anyone about Thomas. I swear it.”

He laughed.

“I’ll marry you,” she rasped.

He canted his head at her.

“I will. I’ll marry you and continue to make my company prosper. It’ll be worth even more in time.” Behind her, Killian rasped for breath. “Let him live,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “and it will all be yours.”

Stanford stared at her, then shook his head slowly. “I would like to accept your offer, but I don’t believe the barbarian here is the sort to stand idly by while I do so. I’ve seen how he looks at you. Indeed, I’ve seen him do much more than that,” he snarled and raised the pistol.

Fleur braced herself against the inevitable impact, but suddenly the world jerked. She tried to remain on her feet, tried to hold her position between the two, but Killian had swept her legs out from under her. She struck the earth with a gasp.

The gun exploded. She screamed, but when she’d twisted about, Stanford was already stumbling backward, his fingers splayed around the black hilt of a blade that protruded from his gut. The pistol drooped, then fell to the ground. His knees struck the earth a moment later, and he toppled onto his face.

Pivoting toward Killian, Fleur scrambled to him on hands and knees.

“Don’t die!” She was crying and pleading at the same time. “Please, don’t… You shouldn’t have come.” Blood was oozing into his tunic. She glanced frantically down the road, desperate for help, but they were alone. Yanking up her gown, she balled it in her fist and shoved it shakily against his chest.

He moaned a staccato grunt and forced his eyes open. A muscle jerked in his cheek.

Her free hand fluttered to his face. Her fingers were sticky with blood.

“Why did you come?” she whimpered.

“And what should I have done, lass?” His mouth twisted into the parody of a smile. “Leave ye to face the bastard alone?”

“Yes.” A tear tripped down her cheek and onto his chest. “Chivalry is dead. Don’t you know that?”

He chuckled. “Well, ‘tis surely dying,” he corrected, and let his eyes fall closed.

She tightened her grip desperately on the rag against his wound. “Killian!”

He dragged his eyes open again. “Aye, lass?”

“Please.” She was crying in earnest now. Her hands shook on his chest, parchment white against the crimson flood of his blood. “I would ask a favor.”

He closed his eyes.

“Scotsman!” she rasped.

His eyelids fluttered and opened.

She gripped the rag in desperate fingers, as if she held his very life in the palm of her hand. “You’re a knight, a man of honor, sworn to guard and protect.”

He scowled. “I’m a wee bit…” He drew a few ragged breaths, “Weary… just now.”

“Well…” She chuckled, feeling crazed, feeling lost. “That’s unfortunate, because I need your help.”

His fist tightened as it lay against the ground, but there was no weapon there, no hope. His eyes stuttered closed.

“Sir Killian!” she cried.

“What is it?” he asked, and managed to look at her once again.

“I need you,” she demanded, her voice strident, her hands atremble. ” ‘Tis your duty as a knight to come to my aid.”

His lips quirked slightly. His fingers curled against the earth as if he longed to touch her one last time, but he failed to lift his arm. “Methinks ye will be fine on yer own, lass.”

“No.” She clutched his shirt in bloody fingers. “No, I won’t. I need you to live. I beg you… please… Killian. It’s… it’s a long way to Briarburn. And… it’s growing dark.”

He found her eyes with his, though his gaze was unsteady. “Are ye saying yer afeared of the night, lass?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and nodded jerkily. Another pair of tears splattered onto his shirt. “I’m afraid, Killian.”

He sighed. His eyes fell closed. She leaned against him in abject panic.

“Very well then,” he said, “I shall accompany ye as far as yer gardens.”

“T
o my…” Fleurette’s heart fluttered wildly against her chest. “To my gardens?”

“Aye, lass. The Black Celt’s resting place,” he rasped, and groaned as pain wracked him. The cords in his broad throat contracted like living roots as he arched his head back into the dirt, then relaxed slowly. “And were I ye…” His words were barely audible, his breath came hard and fast. “I would na dringle.”

“But how will I get you there?”

A nerve ticked sharply in his cheek. “Yer a clever lass,” he said. “And braw.” He tried to smile, but the expression was lopsided. “Mayhap ye could carry me.”

She laughed. The sound echoed on the edge of hysteria. But he was all right. He was fine. Making jokes. Her hands quaked like autumn leaves. She glanced toward the stallion, who waited nearby. “I’ll get you on Treun. Can you stand?” she asked, but he didn’t respond. “Can you—” she began again and turned abruptly toward him. But he had gone completely limp. “Killian.” His eyes were closed, his hands lax.

“Please.” She grasped his shirt and leaned closer. “Please, Killian. Just this one thing. I’ll not ask another of you,” she vowed, but he failed to respond.

She glanced frantically at the horses.
Fille
tossed her head, flicking her ears nervously toward the woods even as a wolf stepped out of the trees.

Fleur gasped, but remained where she was. “Go away!” she ordered. “Go.”

The animal stopped, lifting his muzzle as he tested the scents.

“Leave!” she shouted, and digging up a handful of clay, heaved it at the beast.

It leapt sideways, then remained where it was, watching.

“Killian!” she gritted, but he didn’t stir. “Scotsman,” she rasped, then, in desperation, slapped her open palm against his wound.

He awoke with a raspy roar and jerked upright.

Fleur scrambled backward. He stumbled to his feet, following her, his eyes glazed with pain, his hands grasping.

“Killian…” She scooted away on her hands and feet. “Please. You must get on your horse.”

He reached drunkenly for her. She shot to her feet and dodged toward Treun, but he caught her easily, dragging her to his bloody chest. She hung in his fist and let her tears fall on his hand.

“Please,” she begged.

He scowled, then sagged as coherency shifted slowly into his feverish brain.

“Don’t. Don’t quit,” she ordered.

Their eyes met and held, then, nodding weakly, he stumbled toward his stallion. Grasping the pommel, he dragged himself shakily upward.

Fleurette heaved her weight against him until he was draped over the seat. Cursing and praying, she pushed harder. His hands moved slowly, grasping the mane in stiff fingers as he dragged his leg over the cantle. It seemed an eternity before he was astride, and once there he weaved like a drunken sot.

“Hold on. Hang on!” she ordered, and racing to
Fille
, loosed her reins from her bit. Running back, she strapped Killian to his saddle and put her foot in Treun’s stirrup. The saddle tilted toward her. Killian slumped to the left. Shaking and praying, she managed to prod him upright as she swung up behind him.

Once there, she braced an arm on each side of him and pushed Treun into a walk.

Killian’s head bobbed at the motion, and when he spoke his words were naught but a whisper.

“What?” she rasped, struggling to hold him upright. “What did you say?”

“Hurry,” was all he said.

Fleurette closed her eyes and prayed as she set her heels to the stallion’s barrel.

The horse leapt forward. Killian jerked in Fleur’s arms, but somehow she held him aloft.

Painful miles thundered beneath them. Fleur’s arms ached with the effort. But finally Briarburn appeared. Treun rounded the corner of his own accord. His hooves rang like death knells against the cobblestones.

She was yelling for help even before they slid to a halt. Mr. Smith burst out of the house.

“My lady—”

“Take him!” she rasped. Her arms quivered with the effort. Her chest ached with fear.

“My lady, where?” he asked, already reaching for the ties that held Killian in place. “Where shall I take him?”

And in that moment her gaze was drawn toward the Black Celt. He stood brave and solid, watching her from the serenity of his adoring roses.

“To the garden,” she whispered.

“The garden, my lady?”

Other servants rushed up from behind to give assistance.

Killian slid limply into their arms. They staggered dizzily under his weight.

“My lady…” Mr. Smith looked into Killian’s pallid face, then glanced up, his eyes worried. “I fear he is already—”

“No!” she snarled, and dropped to the ground to face him. “You’ll not say those words. Do you hear me?”

He nodded jerkily.

“Tessa, fetch blankets. Horace, drive to Mayfair and bring back the doctor. Do not return without him. You others…” She dared for the first time to glance into her warrior’s unconscious face. “Lay him in the shadow of the Celt.”

“My lady…” Dr. Simpson dipped his head in respect. “I have done all I can for him.”

Fleurette sat in Briarburn’s parlor with London’s premier physician. Tessa had served them tea. Etiquette, after all, must be observed, even if the world was shattering into a thousand irreparable shards.

Fleurette clasped her hands and remained perfectly still and upright. “And what is the prognosis, Doctor?”

His eyes looked weary and sad. He shifted them momentarily away. “I was able to retrieve the bullet.”

She knew that much, had heard it before, which meant he was avoiding the question. She twisted her hands together, but would not be weak. “You expect him to die.”

He shook his head. “My lady, I fear he is already—”

“He’s not dead,” she said, and straightened her back to look him full in the face. “You said yourself that you thought you felt a pulse.”

“Yes, but that was some hours ago, just after dawn when first I arrived.”

“Horace heard him moan.”

Simpson looked pained and shifted uncomfortably, holding his cup and saucer like a china shield before him. “Sometimes the body will make sounds even after—”

“Thank you.” She jerked to her feet and paced the few steps to his chair. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He looked troubled as he set his cup aside, but he rose to his feet and glanced out the window toward the shadow-shrouded garden. “You must, at the least, bring him inside.”