Mary Jo Putney (31 page)

As expected, the other boxes held powder and balls. She wished she could take them away so the cursed invaders would have no ammunition, but they were too heavy. From habit she’d brought her reticule, so she emptied it of comb and handkerchief. Then she scooped a large handful of powder into the bottom and piled as many balls on top as she could fit into the little pouch.

Would she have the courage to ignite the powder if she’d been carrying a tinderbox in her reticule instead of a handkerchief? She’d be blown to kingdom come, but so would the barbarians of Free Eire. She was glad she didn’t have the tinderbox so she didn’t have to make such a decision. She loved her new life too much to want to lose it.

Should she load this rifle now, or run and load it when she was away? The instinct to flight was strong, so she took off for the back door, carrying the rifle in both hands. She was almost to there when the door to the front room opened and in stepped O’Dwyer, the vilest of her captors.

His expression blazed with vicious delight when he saw her. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the prissy little fake duchess!” He set down the box he carried and closed the door behind him. “I’ll have a wee bit of fun with you before I call the others for their turn.”

She backed slowly away from him toward the door, wishing she’d taken the time to load the rifle. But she’d wanted so much to get away!

“So what’s the little girl going to do with her great big gun?” he jeered. “Even if you knew how to load it, it’s damned hard to point a gun at a man and shoot, at least the first time. All you’re good for is one thing, and I’m going to bloody well take that.”

As he closed the distance between them, she made swift calculations. She could try to club him with the unloaded rifle, but it was so heavy that she wouldn’t be able to move it quickly enough for a solid hit. He’d just take it away from her.

So let him.

“Aren’t you going to scream, little girl?” he said nastily. “I’d like it if you screamed, ’cept it would bring the others before I’m done.”

He made a grab for her and she swung the rifle hard at his head. But not so hard as to unbalance herself.

Laughing, he plucked the weapon out of the air with one hand. Sarah let him have it while she continued moving, spinning to her right. Half a dozen old tools were stacked in the corner and she grabbed the closest.

A rusty pitchfork. Terrified by O’Dwyer’s ugly laughter, she stabbed the pitchfork at him with every iota of speed and strength she possessed.

Unprepared for her second attack, he cursed and tried to raise the rifle to block the blow, but it was too heavy and he was too slow. The rusty tines of the pitchfork tore into his neck. Eyes wide with shock, O’Dwyer staggered and fell onto his back, gouts of blood gushing from his wounds as his cry was strangled in his ruined throat.

Fighting off hysterics, Sarah held the pitchfork ready, but O’Dwyer didn’t get up again. He moved once with a choked sound. Then . . . nothing. His eyes dulled and the blood slowed to a sluggish trickle. He wasn’t breathing.

Sarah stared at him, shaking violently.
I’ve killed a man!

This time she did throw up, folding to the ground and losing her delicate tea sandwiches and pastries into the musty straw.
Pull yourself together, Sarah! Go!

Grimly she lurched to her feet and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she grabbed the rifle and bolted from the barn.

The outside air cleared her head a little. O’Dwyer was right, striking another person with intent to injure was hard, but if someone had to die in that barn, she was glad it wasn’t her. She headed back to the castle ruins, wishing she’d worn stronger shoes.

She was at the far end of the village when she heard furious shouts behind. They’d found O’Dwyer’s body.

She kicked off her slippers and began to run.

B
ree was gasping for breath when she reached the picnic area. The peacefulness of dozing children and adults seemed unreal. She stumbled over to the three adult women, her great-grandmother and the two vicar’s wives.

Mrs. Broome saw her first. “Bree, is something wrong? Where is Sarah?”

“The kidnappers who took Sarah from Ralston Abbey are back!” Bree gulped for air before she could continue. “Irish rebels. They want to kill everyone in the village as a way of frightening the English. Mostly they want to kill Sarah and my father for causing them trouble before. Sarah sent me back to get everyone to safety.”

The women stared at her. Mrs. Holt hugged her baby, Stephen, closer. “Surely you’re joking! This . . . this isn’t a good joke, Bree!”

“It’s no joke,” the dowager said grimly. “She’s dead serious. Where is Sarah?”

Bree was better able to breathe now. “She wanted to listen to hear more of their plans, and maybe find a way to slow them down.”

“What could she possibly do?” Mrs. Broome said, aghast. “How many men are in the group?”

“I don’t know. We heard half a dozen or so.” Bree shrugged helplessly. “We saw their boat down in the cove. It wasn’t huge, but there could be half a dozen more men on board.” Above the constant sound of the surf crashing below the cliffs, she heard shouting from the direction of the raiders. “Bloody hell, the buggers are coming for us!”

“If they are, we’ll never get to safety before they reach us,” Mrs. Broome said, her voice calm but her eyes terrified as she looked at her daughter and the other children, who were now awake and staring.

“The tunnel.” Bree ran her tongue over her dry lips. “There’s a tunnel back in the ruins that runs toward the house. I’ve been through it often and it’s muddy but clear. Once we’re inside it, they won’t find us.” She bit her lip as she stared at the dowager. “It won’t be an easy trip, though.”

“I know that tunnel from my younger days,” the dowager said, eyes narrowed. “I can make my way through, but I’d best go last so as not to slow anyone else down.” She stood. “Come on, children. We’re going to have an adventure.”

Mrs. Holt carried her youngest and Mrs. Broome picked up the next smallest Holt child as Bree led the way into the ruins. The tunnel was hidden behind a partially collapsed wall in the old castle basement. When they reached the small entrance, she said, “Because I use it often, I keep candles and a tinderbox at both ends.”

“How very practical!” the dowager said approvingly. “Strike a light.”

Bree got to her hands and knees and reached inside the opening for her candles and tinderbox. Her hands were shaking so badly that it took half a dozen attempts to ignite the damp wick of one of the candles. She lit another candle from that so they’d have light at both ends of the procession.

Mrs. Broome said, “Alice, take one of the candles. Bree, you know the tunnel best so light another candle and run through fast as you can to summon help. Now
go
!”

Bree didn’t have to be told twice. Protecting the candle with one hand, she crawled through the entrance and straightened, grateful the tunnel was high enough for her to stand. Then she took off into the damp and dark, praying she’d find help in time.

If something happened to Sarah because Bree had been too slow, she’d never, ever forgive herself.

 

 

Rob had resigned himself to being a besotted bridegroom. A mere three days away and he missed Sarah like sin. But he did look forward to their reunions. Even more, he was looking forward to taking her and Bree to London in a few days. He wanted to show his daughter the sights, and to meet his old friends as an equal.

By starting very early, he reached home with enough time to join the end of the birthday picnic. On his way, he stopped by the stables, where Bree’s pony was waiting after spending the last few days in a tenant farmer’s stables. Jonas had groomed and saddled Riona and put a bow in the mare’s mane. Rob couldn’t wait to see Bree’s reaction when he led the pony to the picnic and presented her to his daughter.

Riona had a sweet face and an intelligent expression. Ponies could be wickedly clever, and he was sure that Bree would learn about horsemanship with this one.

Rob was halfway to the castle ruins when he saw movement by the old ice house, which was half buried in a hill. A small, muddy figure emerged and began running in his direction. He stared, astonished. Bree? Yes, it was his daughter, and she looked frantic.

Oblivious to the pony, she hurled herself into Rob’s arms, sobbing. “Papa, Papa!”

Would she be this upset from a fight with another child? Surely not. Wrapping his free arm around her, he asked, “Bree, what’s wrong?”

“The men who abducted Sarah have come back and they want to kill you and Sarah and everyone in the village!” she said, her words tumbling out. “They have a yawl in the cove and guns and they’re horrible!”

Dear God, who could have predicted such a thing? “Where is Sarah? And your grandmother and friends?”

“Sarah and I overheard the buggers talking—they’re in that barn at the far end of the old village. She stayed to listen more and sent me back to the others. They’re following in the tunnel.” She waved toward the ice house as she gulped for breath. Though her face was smudged with dirt and there were tearstains on her cheeks, she had a hold of herself again. “I was sent ahead to get help.”

“Good girl! Here’s your birthday pony.” He caught her around her waist and lifted her into the saddle. “Ride home and tell Jonas what’s happening so he can summon the local militia. He’s a sergeant in the troop and he’ll know who else to call out. Tell him to be fast and make sure everyone is armed. Do you have that?”

She nodded. For a brief moment, she registered the pony. “For
me
?”

“Yes, her name is Riona. Now
go
!”

Heart pounding, he set off for the castle ruins at his fastest run.
Please God, don’t let anything happen to Sarah! If someone has to die let it be me!

But if he had any choice in the matter, no one from Kellington would be harmed today.

 

 

By the time Sarah reached the picnic area, all the guests had vanished, leaving a scatter of blankets and picnic baskets and the dowager’s Windsor chair. She scanned the area but saw no one. Could they be escaping through the tunnel Rob had mentioned once? She hoped so.

She had no idea how to find it, but no matter since she wasn’t going to run away. She might not have the courage to blow herself up, but she could damn well establish herself on high ground and slow those murderous devils if they came this way.

She scrambled up the high, very steep mound of fallen earth and stone that backed up the tall wall behind their picnic area. The ground on the far side of the wall was fairly level and a wooden bench had been placed there so visitors could sit and enjoy the magnificent view of the sea.

Two empty windows gave Sarah a commanding view of the small headland in front of the ruins. Perfect for shooting and ducking. A skilled marksman could control the whole area below, including a good section of the cliff path—and Sarah was a very skilled marksman.

Panting from the climb, she opened her reticule and emptied balls and powder in neat piles on the bench. Then she studied the ground below. The villains would almost certainly follow the cliff path since it led right to the picnic area.

Though she’d never hunted game as a girl because she didn’t want to kill, she’d been able to best all her cousins at target shooting. Today was different. She felt a fierce, primitive fury. She was the Lady of Kellington, and she would use her skills to defend her friends, family, and land.

When the rebels reached the abandoned picnic area, they’d be within easy range, no more than fifty or so yards away. With a few well-placed shots, she could drive them onto the headland and corner them there for a while. Given the steepness of the slope, no one would be able to charge up fast enough to attack her without getting shot.

Tight-lipped, she practiced loading the rifle several times. She’d always been fast at reloading, and she’d need that skill today.

Should she fire to attract attention? No, anyone who came to investigate would be an unarmed villager walking into a death trap. Nor did she want to tip off Free Eire that she was here, she had a rifle, and she knew how to use it.

She loaded the rifle one last time. Then she waited.

It was only a few minutes till five men and a woman appeared. They walked with arrogance, sure there were no threats in this peaceful place. The men all carried rifles.

Georgiana Lawford strode beside the burly older man who was her lover and co-leader. When Sarah had met the woman socially the year before, she’d thought Georgiana rather tense and bad tempered, but she’d not seen hidden madness.

Now madness had emerged as a wild, dangerous kind of beauty. Georgiana was dressed all in black except for a blazing, blood red scarf that whipped behind her in the wind. She looked like the Morrigan, the Irish crow goddess of war, blood, and death.

Sarah waited until they were directly in front of her. Taking her time, she aimed the rifle at the weaselly man who’d wanted to slit the throats of the children.

O’Dwyer was right, it was hard to point a gun at another human being. But he’d also been right that the first killing was the hardest. She’d killed one man today, and if she was to try to kill another, she couldn’t think of a better target than someone eager to murder little girls.

Taking her time, she lined up the shot, resting the barrel of the rifle on the stone sill of the window. Allowing for gusty winds from the sea . . .

She squeezed the trigger.

Ka-booooooom!
The gunshot echoed across the water as the rifle kicked into her shoulder with bruising force.

The baby killer crumpled to the ground. As his comrades shouted and looked around for the source of the shot, Sarah swiftly reloaded.

Ferociously she tamped down her horror at this violence. All of the people below her were committed to killing innocents and they deserved to be shot.

She aimed at the man nearest to her. He moved as she squeezed the trigger so the shot only grazed him, but he cried out and dropped his rifle.

Grimly pleased with herself, Sarah reloaded and shot again. Another wounding.

Yes! As she’d hoped, the five still standing retreated onto the headland to take shelter behind the walls of ruined outbuildings. One of the men, Flannery, she thought, figured out her location and returned fire. His ball ricocheted off the wall above her.

She ducked and reloaded. There was another window a dozen feet down the wall. She shifted to it and shot again, once more ducking immediately.

More shots smashed into the wall in front of her. A stone on the upper edge of the wall toppled back and almost hit her. She dodged, snapped off another shot, ducked below the edge of the window. How long could she keep them pinned down?

As she finished reloading, she heard a sound behind her. Panicking at the knowledge that one of the rebels must have already crept up behind her, she swung around, rifle at the ready.

“You really should stop pointing firearms at me,” Rob said mildly, standing absolutely still. “It makes a man feel unwanted.”

“Rob!” Seeing him behind her, tall, calm, and utterly competent, made her dissolve into frantic relief that she was no longer alone. She dropped the rifle and tumbled into his arms. “Oh, Robin, I was afraid I’d never see you again!”

He gave her one hard kiss, then held her away from him, his gaze steadying. “I heard shooting and came in the back way. What’s the situation?”

She pulled herself together, wiping a grimy wrist across her eyes to stem incipient tears. “Adam’s Aunt Georgiana is behind this. She and her lover are the leaders of Free Eire. There’s a Frenchman with them who probably supplied the rifles and ammunition. It sounds like they want to spread terror in England by slaughtering innocent villagers, and Georgiana persuaded them to start here because of us.”

Rob swore under his breath. “I understood why Ashton didn’t want to turn her over to the law, but I wondered then if mercy might backfire on him.”

“I don’t think anyone could have predicted that she’d take such monstrous revenge,” Sarah said with a shudder.

He gave a sharp nod and peered out the window. A rifle ball struck the wall and Rob stepped back. “It looks like you’ve cornered them on the headland. Well done! How many?”

“Four armed men and Georgiana, I think. There must be men on their yawl below. I don’t know if others came up from the boat. My guess is no.” Suppressed panic spiked again. “I . . . I didn’t know how long I could hold them off.”

“You are truly amazing, princess.” He caught her hand, lending some of his warmth. “But you’re not alone now. Since there’s only one rifle, shall I take over?”

“Please!” Now that Rob was here, she was shaking with reaction and probably couldn’t even reload her weapon, much less shoot accurately. “Here, it’s loaded.”

He accepted the rifle and peered out a window. It took him only an instant to aim, shoot, and pull back to safety as several rifles fired back.

“Nice, accurate weapon the French produced.” As he reloaded, he raised his voice and shouted, “Surrender! You’re trapped and a militia troop is on the way!”

Georgiana Lawford shouted back, “Carmichael? I don’t see any militia coming!”

“I’ll be damned if I trust myself to English justice!” the gruff voice added in a bellow. “Show your head, boyo, so I can blast it off!”

“It’s a standoff,” Sarah said, her voice shaking. “It will take time for any militia men to arrive, and when they do, charging out onto the headland would be suicide.”

“Rifles may not be the answer.” Rob took a quick look out the window to survey the slope below that led out into the headland.