Texas Viscount (42 page)

      
The men ignored him as Josh jumped back inside and revved up the engine, which started with a swift lurch that sent their rear passenger tumbling against the plush leather squabs. They took off in a trail of dust, spraying gravel in their wake. “Tell me when we get close enough to worry about the noise carrying,” Josh said to Jamison.

      
“Deuced hard to judge. I've only been here twice, and one time was after dark. On horseback,” he added unnecessarily.

      
They bounced along for another quarter hour as Michael peered through the greenery and open fields ahead. The area was deserted except for a few badly frightened deer and small game that bounded as far from the noisy, evil-smelling vehicle as possible. Then they reached a level stretch where the dirt road was relatively smooth and free of large rocks. Josh shifted into higher gear...for a few hundred yards.

      
The horrible squeal of metal grating against metal began as a low whine and grew to an unbearable cacophony of clanking. Josh did not even bother changing gears. The whole engine locked up, and the automobile rolled to a halt.

      
“I was afraid of that,” he said, jumping out of the car. “How much farther? I'd reckon about a mile.”

      
Michael nodded.

      
Josh pulled his Winchester 76 rifle from the trunk and checked it, stuffing extra ammunition in his pockets.

      
Jamison did likewise with his Lee-Enfield. Both men were armed to the teeth.

      
“I say,” Edmund ventured timidly. “Might I—”

      
“No!” each of them chorused, and he subsided.

      
“Then what am I to do?”

      
“Guard the Mercedes,” Josh suggested.

      
“B-but it’s...dead,” he replied, hurrying to keep up with their long strides as Jamison led the way through a stand of trees toward the crest of a hill.

      
“Quiet. Voices carry,” Michael whispered as he neared the top.

      
“No way we leave him wandering loose. He'd likely set the woods on fire,” Josh whispered to Jamison, then turned to Sabrina's cousin. “Just stay behind us and do exactly what we say. Not one word of sass, you
comprende
—er, understand?”

      
Nodding, Edmund followed, picking his way very carefully through the high weeds. He positively hated snakes.

* * * *

      
It was nearly noon and both of the Russian servants were growing exceedingly jovial, slapping each other on the back and upending bottles of vodka, having given up the bother of pouring it into glasses. Sabrina had heard rumors of the Texas viscount's prodigious capacity for liquor, but surely he could not have kept up with these beastly men. Then again...

      
“All men are drunken sots,” Natasha said contemptuously.

      
And hypocritically, to Sabrina's way of thinking. She watched the ballerina take a dainty sip of tea, normally not her beverage of choice. Not understanding English and probably too inebriated to care, the servants did not respond to their mistress's insult. Natasha stood by the window, looking out at the isolated countryside, a bored expression marring the perfection of her features. One elegantly booted foot tapped impatiently on the rough planks of the floor.

      
Sabrina had waited for her opportunity, hoping the men would pass out, but they seemed to possess boundless tolerance and continued to throw dice and place wagers. She had no idea how much longer it would be before Zarenko and Valerian returned.

      
Time was running out. Steeling herself, she cleared her throat and said, “I drank too much tea. I need to go outside again.”

      
“I'm not a nursemaid,” her captor snapped, restless and impatient for the men to return, their mission accomplished, so they could sail for France. “Soon I shall dance in Paris...and you shall be dead,” she added maliciously.

      
“I shall burst before you can shoot me if I do not visit the necessary,” Sabrina replied, refusing to give the nasty witch the satisfaction of showing the terror she felt.

      
“Very well,” the Samsonov woman said angrily. “All I need in addition to smelling those filthy serfs is to have to endure you soiling yourself.” She led Sabrina to the rear door, saying something to the men in Russian. One fellow nodded, but his companion continued to toss the dice without looking in their direction. “When Nicki and the rest return, I shall kill these two serfs myself,” she muttered in French.

      
Sabrina did not doubt the woman was capable of it. The question now was whether or not she herself could be equally ruthless.
Think of Josh and his uncle, of the international diplomatic repercussions, the embarrassment to His Majesty's government.. the surety that you'll die.
She held on to those disconcerting thoughts as they walked toward the trees, feeling the heavy handle of the broken knife as she clamped her fingers tightly around it. There would be only one chance…

* * * *

      
Josh and Michael lay at the top of a small rise, studying the cabin below them. “I make out two men inside,” the Texan said, handing the binoculars to his friend, who focused them on the large window fronting the lodge.

      
“Difficult to tell if there are more. The men aren't familiar. They have the look of servants about them.”

      
“Drunk as hoot owls,” Josh noted.

      
“That will simplify our work.”

      
“Don't count on it. I've seen these Russians drink. Falling down, they're still cussed mean if you cross them. I only wish there was some sign of Sabrina.”

      
“Or La Samsonov,” Michael added.

      
Just then a loud scream followed by virulent cursing in French and Russian echoed from behind the lodge. The clear soprano of Sabrina's voice now blended with the guttural sounds of her antagonist. Uttering an oath of his own, Josh jumped up and started to run, with Michael right behind him.

      
“You take care of those drunks. I'm going after Sabrina,” Josh said as he veered around the log structure.

      
“I'm with you, m’lord,” Edmund said, panting heavily as he attempted to keep up with Josh.

      
The Texan far outran him, desperate to reach Sabrina, whose voice he could hear under the curses of the ballerina. Hell, that bitch was twice the size of his little darlin', feisty as she was. Natasha could break her neck! Keeping an eye out for any other Russian men who might burst upon the scene, he put on the brakes when he saw the bright colors of women's clothing writhing on the ground. The sight was so incredible that he had to blink twice before he could get a handle on what was happening.

      
Sabrina was straddling the much larger and stronger woman, holding the jagged rusty relic of a skinning knife to her throat. There was blood smeared over both of them, but it appeared to be all the Russian's, since she was the one cradling an arm against her chest. Sabrina's skirts were balled up around her hips, revealing the delectable curves of her slim, stocking-encased legs. Even a garter peeked out on one creamy thigh. Peering around the area and deciding that no enemies lurked in hiding, Josh leaned against a tree trunk and admired the view.

      
“Make one more sound and I swear my next cut will be to that pretty white throat...or perhaps your face,” Sabrina hissed through gritted teeth. She had intended to catch the larger woman off guard and place the knife to her throat, threatening to kill her if she did not turn around at once. Then all she would have had to do was cosh her over the head with the heavy handle of the knife.

      
However, things had not worked out quite so easily. The Russian had twisted away and nearly disarmed her—would have if not for the accidental slash of the knife across her arm when the two of them tumbled to the ground. Fortunately, the Russian had been taken in by Sabrina's feigned docility and had not even brought her pistol along.

      
The sudden spurt of her own blood had had a surprising effect on the woman, who enjoyed inflicting pain on others but became hysterical when it was she herself who bled. That was when Sabrina had seized on the notion of threatening disfigurement unless her foe quieted. It had worked, but not before they'd made enough noise to awaken the dead. Where were those two inebriated “serfs”? She dared not take her eyes from Natasha to see if the men were crashing through the brush to rescue their mistress. Then she heard a familiar drawling voice and jerked about in shock.

      
“Well, now, after all I sacrificed to get here, I reckon you don't even need my help.”

      
She looked up at Josh disbelievingly. As she suddenly became aware of the spectacle she must look, all thoughts of Natasha's cohorts fled from her thoughts. “How did you get here?” she asked idiotically.

      
“Darlin’, that's a long, sad story,” he said, holstering his Colt and reaching down to assist her so she could climb off the sobbing, cursing ballerina.

      
He pulled her into his arms, and she went willingly. “Oh, there are two men—”

      
He shushed her, brushing her tangled hair from her face. “Michael has them hogtied by now. Are you all right?” he asked, inspecting her to be certain the blood was indeed none of her own.

      
“I'm uninjured, but I suspect Madame Samsonov will require some medical attention,” she said with a bloodthirsty relish that immediately appalled her.

      
Josh laughed heartily, kissing her with a sudden surge of gratitude that made his eyes sting. How close he'd come to losing her forever! “Woman, I am never again letting you out of my sight,” he whispered as his lips brushed hers. Lordy, she tasted sweet.

      
The look in his eyes made her dizzy with longing. He acted as if...as if he loved her! But of course that could not be.
Should
not be. He was a viscount. “Josh,” she said softly, her blood-smeared hand daring to caress the bristly black beard growing on his jaw line.

      
The tender interlude was interrupted by a panting Edmund, who rushed toward them, calling out, “Coz, crikey, I'm that glad to see you're—” He pitched headlong over Natasha, who was trying to crawl on all fours into the brush to escape. She let out a curse and kicked him soundly in the ribs. With a moan, he rolled to Josh's and Sabrina's feet.

      
“Whoa, there, princess,” Josh said, giving the ballerina a meaningful look.

      
Natasha subsided, sullenly flopping onto the ground and cradling her bleeding arm as if it were a compound fracture instead of a superficial cut.

      
“I've tied up those two louts inside. Where are Zarenko and his companions?” Jamison asked as he arrived on the scene.

      
“Gone back to London,” Sabrina said with sudden alarm. What was she thinking, mooning over Josh while the fate of Anglo-Japanese relations hung in the balance? “They intend to assassinate Count Hayashi as he arrives at the Court of St. James's for a ceremonial dinner this evening!”

      
“Crikey, how can we make it in time with the automobile dead?” Edmund asked.

      
“The Mercedes? You rode it here?” Sabrina asked Josh.

      
“Rode it and shot it dead,” Michael said with more than a hint of relish in his voice.

      
“Shot it?” she echoed, puzzled.

      
“To vent the radiator so the bloody—er, my pardon, Miss Edgewater—so the engine wouldn't blow us to kingdom come,” Michael replied.

      
“Not the engine—the radiator. Then the engine finally locked up and quit on me. I was pushing her so hard her piston rods and cylinders plumb melted together from overheating,” Josh explained, although no one understood one word.

      
But Sabrina understood one thing. “Oh, Josh, you shot your Mercedes for me?” she exclaimed. Suddenly giddy, she flung her arms around his neck.

      
“Sabrina, darlin', I had to make a hard choice—you or my Mercedes. Now, she was a good ole gal, but I can buy me a dozen fancy automobiles. You're the one and only Miss Sabrina Edgewater.”

      
With that, he kissed her. Edmund turned away, uncomfortable watching his proper cousin's most improper behavior.

      
Michael rolled his eyes over Josh's Texas-sized flattery. “We will need horses for a hard ride to London, unless you've forgotten the mission your president sent you to England to accomplish,” he said dryly.

      
Flushed with embarrassment, Sabrina broke away from Josh’s embrace. “Oh! There is a stable of sorts down that way.” She pointed to a faint trail through the brush. “That awful Zarenko and his friends took the carriage, but I believe there are more horses inside.”