Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (39 page)

That lance went home. One of his long, sensitive hands
clenched hard, but he replied quietly, "Under any circumstances, ma'am."

She walked closer. "Diccon, I beg you. Give him a chance. A
five-minute start is all I ask."

"I am sorrier than I can say. But you ask the impossible."

Another step forward, and she pleaded, "You could claim that
he
stole Orpheus before you could stop him. You said no other horse could
touch him."

He shook his head, but a small pulse was beating at his
temple, and that betraying fist was very tight.

"Do I mean nothing to you?" she murmured. "I had begun to hope
there
was more between us than just—friendship. Diccon, dear Diccon—he is my
beloved
brother.
I
implore
you— don't send him to a
hideous death! It would break my father's heart. And poor little Arthur
adores him. Don't destroy my family. Don't hurt me so, my dear, I
beg
you."

He winced at that. He was paler than Eric now, perspiration
shone on
his brow, and his voice was strained. "You must rest that
responsibility on your brother's shoulders, Marietta. I am a serving
officer. The oath I took to serve my King and my country did not
contain a clause that said I could break it if I was personally
affected. Please—please do not ask it of me."

She blinked away tears and did more than ask. She stepped even
closer and sank to her knees, stretching up her hands to him while her
brother watched, awed and breathless.

Diccon groaned and shrank away. "No! Get up! For mercy's sake,
Marietta! Get up!"

She said brokenly, "You must know that I care for you. I know
you
loved another lady, my dearest, and—and that you might not have much
love left for me, but—"

Anguished, he leaned to her and took her beseeching hands in
his
cold clasp. "For the love of God! Stop! And try to understand. If I—if
I worshipped the ground you walk on. If I thought you the bravest,
purest, most beautiful lady I ever saw. If you held my whole heart and
soul in these lovely hands—oh, my dearest of the dear—I could
not!"

She knelt there, gazing up at him with the tears streaking her
face
and her pretty mouth trembling piteously. "Have you no mercy, Diccon?"

His own eyes dim, he said, "Your brother is a traitor. I can't
turn
away from that, even if it costs me my every hope of happiness."

"It will, you great fool!" shouted Eric wildly. "Think twice
before
you throw her love away! To my certain knowledge she has never loved
before!"

Diccon's eyes did not leave Marietta. In a strained, hoarse
voice he
said, "During the war, my closest friend was working behind enemy
lines. He was a splendid young fellow—clever, gallant, a man with a
brilliant future and—and a fiancee who adored him. He was betrayed by a
British traitor. The French took him and they tortured him… blinded
him. But he would not give away the man he was working with. Me.
Because of a conscienceless traitor he died in—the most frightful
agony. And because of his unshakeable loyalty and courage I am alive
today. I
cannot
do as you ask, my dearest girl.
Do you see? I 
cannot!"

Marietta did see. He was right. But no matter what Eric had
done she
still loved him. She bowed her face into her hands and wept.

Diccon bent to her. "Come. Get up, sweet soul. As soon as Mac
returns he'll take you home."

Still on her knees she looked up at him. "Mac is—is not here?"

"He was sent to the barracks to fetch a troop," said Eric
scornfully. "Your would-be suitor hadn't the backbone to take me in
himself!"

Diccon said, "My orders were that if I encountered the
fugitive I
was to keep him under house arrest and send for support. The General
feels that there are too many opportunities for ambush hereabouts.
Especially with Monteil and his bullies lurking about. And he wants the
men your brother works for."

Marietta thought dully, 'So he is alone here!'

Diccon was lifting her. She clung to him and he gazed down at
her for a moment, his eyes ineffably tender, ineffably sad.

"Don't just
look
at him!" screamed Eric
hysterically. "
Do
something, Etta! Help me!"

She must, of course. She must try. So she said, "I had hoped I
would
not have to resort to this. But—you leave me no choice, Diccon. You
told me once that you have never harmed any lady, least of all your
mama." He watched her steadily, but said nothing. She drew a deep
breath, and, feeling slightly sick, went on: "We can prove now that you
did harm the lady. Or even that you have probably d-done away with the
poor soul."

Eric gave a triumphant whoop. "Aha! The biter bit!"

Diccon said without expression, "I would be most interested in
knowing how you expect to prove such a thing."

"You were seen." Marietta's voice sounded faint and distant in
her own ears. "You and MacDougall wrapped the-the—"

"Corpse?" he supplied with the ironic lift of one eyebrow.

"Yes," she whispered. "You wrapped it in a blanket and put it
in a
carriage that another man drove off. And you't-told Mac that 'she' must
never be found. We-we have a witness."

Diccon stared at her, then said half to himself, "Arthur! The
young
scamp told me I was a murderer! So that's why he attacked me!"

Exultant, Eric howled, "We've got him, by George! Take off
these
shackles, you blasted hypocrite! Looking down your haughty nose and
calling me traitor, and all the while knowing you've murdered your own
mother! Jupiter! It defies belief!"

Diccon ignored him, and watching Marietta's drawn face said
gently,
"My poor girl. Knowing you, and your high moral code, I can guess how
hard it was for you to do this. But—I'm afraid it won't serve."

"Oh, yes it will!" cried Eric. "Only let me go, and you're
free. You have my word that Arthur will never speak against you!"

Diccon gave him a contemptuous glance. "And I am to take
your
word? I think not. Besides, Arthur will not speak against me."

"How do you know that?" Eric eyed him suspiciously. "The child
is
missing, and… ! My God! Etta! He's got the poor little fellow!"

"Try not to be so ridiculous," said Diccon. "The boy is too
young to give evidence, Marietta. He
cannot
testify against me."

"Untrue! Untrue!" Eric's voice rang shrilly. "Don't listen to
him,
Etta! He's killed his mama, what's to prevent him doing away with a
child who can name him the despicable murderer he is? Make him let me
go so that we can find my poor little brother! Don't listen—"

Marietta waved a hand, silencing his raving "No, Eric. He is
deeply fond of Arthur. He'd never hurt him."

"But he's eager to hurt me! Does that count for not/ring? Do
you
mean to let him drag me to public disgrace and dismemberment and
execution? It would kill Papa! You
know
that!
Do
something!"

She smiled wearily. "Yes, I'm afraid I must." She took the
pistol
from her pocket and levelled it at the man she loved. "I am not an
amateur," she said. "I know how to shoot. You must unlock the
handcuffs, Diccon."

He looked from the pistol in her delicate hand to her shadowed
eyes.
How sad she seemed. He said, "Can you reconcile this with your
conscience, my dear? It will make you as guilty. You'll have to leave
the country, you know."

"Much she cares for this miserable country," cried Eric. "I
will
take my darling sister to France and she'll live like a queen. Now get
these accursed manacles off me!"

The pistol in Marietta's hand was very steady. "Please do as
he says."

Diccon nodded, took the key from his pocket, and walked
towards
Eric. His hand flashed upward. Something glittered briefly and was
gone. They heard the faint clink as the key landed far down the dim
hall.

Eric uttered a howl of fury. "You miserable bastard! Shoot
him, Etta, and run quickly and find that key before—"

A roaring onslaught of wind against stone drowned his words.
The
house shuddered and the steps to the minstrel gallery creaked and
shifted ominously. A cloud of dust and debris rained down from the
ceiling, and upstairs something fell with a great thump.

"Hurry!" Eric shouted as the uproar faded. "Do you mean to
wait till
the troopers come? Or until this horrid old pile slides down the cliff?
Shoot him!
Shoot!"

Marietta's finger tightened around the trigger.

Sitting amidst the rubble Mrs. Cordova coughed and sputtered
and was
extremely disillusioned. The Mystical Window Through Time had warned
her that something wicked was coming—the horrid pastry man and his
accomplice, she'd thought—but it had said nothing about tycoons or
hurricanes or whatever they were called, or about walls falling in on
the heads of innocent ladies. She blinked tearfully, and wiped dust
from her face and eyes. Her hair must be thick with the beastly stuff,
and her head hurt quite nastily. She explored with caution, and felt a
lump that did not like to be touched. One of these horrid chunks of
stone must have struck her.

The thick clouds of dust were settling now, and she saw that a
section of the outer wall had collapsed and that she'd actually been
quite fortunate, because some of the chunks were really large and she
might very easily have been killed. Her right shin seemed to have
caught a rap, also. Investigating, she pushed away the slab of stone
that had fallen on her leg. Her stocking was torn and the skin was
scraped, and she would have a fine bruise. It was most unfair. She was
trespassing, of course. She'd crept up those very rickety stairs just
in time to avoid being caught by Diccon when he'd ridden in. She had
wandered about, through small rooms and large, searching for Arthur,
and then had been intrigued by the carving of a harp on the
chimney-piece of this great chamber that must at one time have been the
music room. The wind had made so much noise that she'd had little fear
of being discovered, and it was unkind of this piece of stone to have
hurt her poor leg when she had been doing nothing wrong.

"Nasty thing!" she exclaimed, kicking the slab in annoyance.
She
didn't kick very hard, because she had no wish to add a broken toe to
her injuries, and she was surprised when the slab shot across the
floor. It wasn't very thick, of course, but even a small piece of stone
is usually quite heavy. She sat and considered it. "Hmm," she said, and
getting up went to give the offending slab an exploratory prod. It
looked like a piece of stone, but it couldn't be, because it was—soft!
Intrigued, she bent and took it up. It weighed no more than five or six
pounds and for some most peculiar reason it had been wrapped up in
cloth or sacking. Now, why on earth would anyone want to wrap up a
piece of stone? She began to unpeel the wrapping, but the fabric was
rotted and thick with dust, and fell apart in her hands. The afternoon
was fading fast and the light was dim, but she caught a glimpse of
something shiny. Her bright eyes grew round with excitement, and she
pulled away the rest of the wrappings paying no heed to the rain
blowing in on her, or the shower of dust dislodged by another
thunderclap.

"Oh, my!" she whispered, staring down at what she held in
reverent hands. "Oh, my goodness, gracious, me!"

"Dammitall!" Eric Warrington's frenzied howl cut through the
voice
of the thunder. "Do not stand there like a statue! It's his life or
mine, girl!"

Diccon stepped forward. "Put it down, Marietta."

She was reminded of the way he had walked straight at the
pistol
when Blake Coville had threatened him. He was not an easy man to
intimidate. She would
have
to shoot! She thought
achingly,
'Oh, Lord! I love him! I cannot!' But for the sake of Eric and her
family, perhaps she could put a ball in his foot, or his leg, or—

"No! Don't shoot!"

Shocked, she glanced aside.

Blake Coville's entrance had been unheard because of the
storm. He
held a long-barrelled duelling pistol trained on Diccon and he moved
quickly to wrest away Marietta's weapon. "My apologies," he said. "But
I cannot let you kill my so loved kinsman, m'dear."

Eric groaned with frustration and lowered his head onto his
captive arms.

For once caught completely off-guard, Diccon kicked himself
mentally, and drawled, "You reserve that privilege for yourself, do
you?"

Coville grinned. "To attend your obsequies would not throw me
into a
decline, dear brother. On the other hand, your friend Smollet would
likely make England too hot to hold me, and I've no wish to leave this
green and pleasant land."

"More fool you," grunted Eric sourly.

Marietta said, "Blake—help my brother, I beg you."

Coville glanced at Eric. "I might. But first I'm here to
bargain for
myself." He stepped closer to his step-brother. "I have absolutely no
compunction about putting a bullet through your knee, Paisley, and as
you know, I'm a crack shot, so abandon any heroic impulses."

Diccon sighed. "We're back to that confounded treasure, are
we? I
don't know where it is. Not that I'd tell you if I did. Actually, I
don't believe it ever existed, but—"

"Yes you do! Blast your eyes, d'you take me for a flat? I know
why
you're down here! I saw your sketches. You mean to renovate this
hideous old pile. And you've not a louis to bless yourself with, so the
money's coming from somewhere!"

"If I ever—"

"Be still! I'm not here to
discuss
, dear
brother! I'm here to bargain. I have something you value. I'm willing
to make a trade."

Diccon's eyes narrowed. "You can have nothing of the slightest
interest to me, unless you refer to my mother's emeralds, and—"

"Fool! I got those years ago! I refer to something your so
admired lady would give anything to reclaim."