Behind the Mask (2 page)

Cameron stopped when the door came open and they were no longer alone. Hoping it was Georg, Cameron sighed as a young boy handed a folded paper to Boris. Only a moment later Georg burst through the door and breathlessly sat down to his waiting beer.

“You’re late,” Cameron said sternly.

Georg caught the underlying humor and chuckled. “It’ll keep you humble. Besides, I have a good excuse.”

Cameron gave a disinterested grunt and took a swallow of his drink.

“A foal was born this morning,” Georg added.

Cameron did his best to show interest, but his mind was elsewhere. “Do you remember,” he began with purpose, “what I told you about my plans to—” Interrupted again, Cameron wondered what kind of day this was going to be.

“It’s for you, sir.” Boris handed the message he’d just received to Cameron.

“Thank you.” Cameron took the paper and unfolded it absently.

Georg saw something significant change in Cameron’s eyes as he read the message and then crumpled the paper and threw it to the table.

“I have to go,” he said and rushed from the pub, leaving Georg a little dazed. From the window he saw the mare thundering away, and he couldn’t resist the urge to uncrumple the note and read it.
You must meet me at once. I’ll be waiting upstairs. I need to speak with you on a matter of great importance. All my love, Gwen.

Something about the wording of the note didn’t ring true in Georg’s mind. It wasn’t like Cameron’s wife to be so openly affectionate—or eager to see him. Uneasiness twitched at the back of his neck as he stuffed the note into his pocket and moved toward the door.

“Put it on my bill, Boris,” he called as he hurried out, riding the same direction Cameron had gone.

Georg had always been a man to trust his instincts, and he hated what they were telling him as he entered Cameron’s front door without knocking. He ran down the hallway and up the stairs, consumed with dread. His heart began to pound as he cautiously moved toward the bedroom, where he could hear some kind of commotion. Coming to the open doorway, his eye was first drawn to Gwen’s body on the floor, a bloodied knife lying close by. He looked up to meet Cameron’s gaze, and a part of him died. His friend’s eyes were stunned, his expression helpless as his wrists were bound in front of him by two officers of the Guard. Georg couldn’t miss the blood on Cameron’s hands, nor the silent desperation that pleaded for help. They exchanged no words as the Guard led him away, but Georg knew the significance of what rested on his shoulders.

Sheer exhaustion finally forced Abbi away from her day-long admiration of the wobbly legged foal and up to bed. But even then she was not free from thoughts of him. She knew Blaze would be the stallion she had always dreamed of, and she longed for the day when she could ride him.

Abbi contemplated digging out the family Bible and reading about Joseph, as Georg had suggested, but she was simply too tired. Just this side of sleep, she was startled by an urgent knock at her door.

“Who is it?” she called, knowing it was well past midnight.

The door opened then closed again. Abbi felt moonlight on her face and knew she was clearly visible, which left her at a stark disadvantage when she could only see the shadow of a man moving toward the bed. Her heart beat wildly as she came fully awake, retracting toward the headboard, holding the sheets tightly in her fists. She was about to scream when she heard an imperative whisper. “Abbi.”

“Father!” She relaxed with an audible sigh. “What are you doing here?”

“Abbi,” he repeated, going to his knees beside the bed. As he leaned into the column of moonlight, she caught the weary look of his eyes and the distressed lines in his face. “You must listen carefully,” he muttered, “to everything I say. There is no room for question. Do you understand?”

Abbi nodded. He took her hands one at a time and pressed them tightly around what felt like a thick letter.

“You keep this,” he whispered. “Don’t open it unless something happens to me. If you don’t see me again before the seventeenth of September, one month from today, I want you to meet me in the park at ten o’clock that morning. Come alone. If I’m not there, you come straight home and open this, then show the papers to the proper authorities. When you read them you’ll understand. You’ll know what to do. But under no circumstances do you open it if I’m still alive. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she replied. “But Father, I . . . what if . . . what do you mean if you’re still alive? How can—”

“You mustn’t ask questions, Princess. And you must never tell anyone about this.”

“How can I meet you if I—”

“Just don’t say anything about these documents. Keep them hidden. Tell no one. Lives are at stake.”

Abbi felt frightened. She wanted to protest that she was only fifteen. She could not be trusted with lives—especially her own father’s.

Eerily calm, he reached out to touch the little black pearl hanging on a chain around Abbi’s neck. It was small and oddly shaped, but it meant a great deal to Abbi and she never took it off.

“You still wear it,” he said, his voice tender.

“Always,” she whispered and put her hand over his while he fondled the pearl.

“Do you remember what I told you when I gave it to you?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Don’t you
ever
forget it, Abbi. Whatever happens to me, never forget what I told you.”

“I promise,” she said, and he eased away, letting the pearl fall back against her skin.

“Abbi,” his voice lowered and she heard it tremble, “I know I’ve not been the kind of father you deserve. But Papa has raised you well. You’re a good girl. Though I may not show it often, you
are
a princess to me—so much like your mother. Perhaps if she had lived, we could have . . .” His voice trailed off, but Abbi caught the tone of regret that crept through his unmistakable fear.

“I pray that I will see you before the seventeenth,” he said, coming to his feet. “With any luck it will all be over before then.”

Abbi wanted to ask what he meant exactly, but she knew he wouldn’t tell her.

“Good-bye, Abbi,” he murmured, moving toward the door.

“Be careful,” was all she could think to say, and then he was gone.

Abbi didn’t know how long she sat in her bed, gripping the papers while urgent phrases echoed through her mind.
If I’m still alive . . . Tell no one . . . Lives are at stake.

Finding the motivation to see what she held, Abbi lit a lamp and studied the papers in her hand. They were thick and sealed up tightly, without so much as a scribble of anything written on the outside. Recalling again her father’s urgency, Abbi felt a cold tremor rush over her. Unnerved by the sensation, she opened a bureau drawer and stuffed the documents beneath her nightclothes, praying as her father had that they would see each other before the seventeenth.

Cameron heard himself gasp as he came awake. It took a moment to become oriented to his surroundings before he decided that the horrid images of his dreams were preferable to the reality of his present circumstances. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and set his feet on the floor, catching a glimpse of the bloodstains on his shirt, a stark reminder of the reason for his nightmares. He groaned and pressed his hands through his hair before he focused his attention on the outline of bars shadowed in a distorted square on the floor. He looked up at the high, tiny window—the only source of light in the room—and he wondered what had happened to life on the other side of these walls. While he tried to convince himself that this would soon be over, that his innocence would be proven, a rancid smoldering in his stomach led him to believe otherwise.

Two sets of footsteps in the hallway preceded the noisy turning of a key in the lock. Cameron came to his feet, hardly daring to breathe as he wondered if this visit should be anticipated or dreaded. He settled firmly on the latter when Nikolaus du Woernig entered the room with Lieutenant Wurtzur at his side. They both looked smug, triumphant, and thoroughly pleased. Cameron had absolutely no doubt that this encounter wouldn’t be in his favor.

“His Grace wishes to have a word with you,” Wurtzur said snidely, gesturing to Nikolaus. He moved behind Cameron, binding his wrists together before Cameron could even think of protesting.

Nikolaus let out an evil laugh, clearly enjoying himself. Cameron had always hated that laugh. He bit his tongue against saying the words that came to mind, while his anger churned into a palpable sickness.

“Isn’t this quaint,” Nikolaus said, looking Cameron over carefully as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Who’d have thought that you, of all people, would do something so low? I know your marriage was less than pleasant, Cam, but did you have to kill her?”

Cameron’s face tightened and he strained against the ropes that bound his wrists. “And when might I expect a trial?”

Nikolaus gave a scoffing laugh. “A trial? It really doesn’t matter
when
, now does it? Any trial would be irrelevant when you are so obviously guilty. Now, if you will excuse me, I have ducal business to attend to.”

“You filthy . . .” Cameron couldn’t finish the intended insult. The only fitting words that came to mind were so vile that he hardly dared utter them. Nikolaus just laughed and left the room. “You’ll never get away with this,” Cameron shouted.

“I already have,” Nikolaus called back as the sound of his footsteps became distant.

Cameron was attempting to digest what this meant when a fist landed in his belly. Another immediately followed, connecting with his face. Wurtzur’s delighted laugh bordered on maniacal while Cameron pretended to be hurt worse than he was. He managed to kick Wurtzur good and hard, square in the chest, but it only took a moment for him to recover and retaliate with more fury than Cameron could ever hope to counteract with his hands tied.

“You’re a real brave man,” Cameron muttered as he spit blood. “Do you always tie a man up before you challenge him to a duel?”

Wurtzur laughed and forced Cameron to his knees before he kicked him hard in the belly and launched a final fist at his face. Consumed with unspeakable pain, Cameron collapsed on the cold floor and groaned.

“When I get out of here, you’re going to regret this,” Cameron muttered, seeing only Wurtzur’s boots move toward the door of the cell.

“You’ll never get out of here alive,” Wurtzur retorted before the door slammed and Cameron was left alone to try and accept the reality that his life was over. At best, only a matter of days stood between him and a firing squad.

Georg had to use bribery to see Cameron alone in his cell. He entered and held the lantern high enough to see the evidence on Cameron’s face that he’d endured a beating. The way he groaned as he sat up supported Georg’s belief that this was far worse than he’d wanted to imagine.

Cameron gazed at the man standing in the room until his foggy brain realized it was Georg. “How did you get in here?” he asked and touched the dried blood on his lip. He knew for a fact that other prisoners were given sufficient water to clean up once in a while. But
those
prisoners hadn’t likely received a pointless beating from Nikolaus du Woernig’s favorite thug.
Those
prisoners didn’t hold any threat to all that Nikolaus prized so dearly.