Pistols at Dawn (23 page)

He led her back inside. In the gloomy light, the place looked even more primitive than before. Eliza ventured a sidelong glance and saw that her captor's face was just as stripped of any civilizing veneer. She bit her lip. Her chances of escape were fast slipping away. She would have to make a move, and soon.

If only the earl were here to steady her trembling knees. If only it was his hands upon her, rather than the cold, reptilian touch of her captor. But if ever she wished to feel the warmth of his arms again—even it was only to have him shake her from here to Hades for being such a fool—she was going to have to keep her wits alert.

The sooty shadows did not quite dim the malevolent glint in his eye as Hastings indicated the only chair. "Have a seat. A pity I cannot offer you all the fine comforts of Killingworth's house. It is easy to grow used to the trappings of luxury, is it not Miss Kirtland? The fine china, the rich damasks, the aged brandy—" A nasty leer stretched across his mouth—"The carved four poster bed."

"I am merely a guest under His Lordship's roof for a short time, Mr. Hastings." Eliza sought to allay his bitter suspicions. "And will soon return to my modest cottage."

"On the contrary." The former steward gave her another little push. "I think you have other plans."

His grip slipped slightly, and she seized the moment to twist away, at the same time reaching for the hidden pistol. The trigger was cool and solid against her finger. Steadying her nerve, she raised the barrel and swung it around.

She had moved quickly, but so had Hastings. His arm shot out, knocking the barrel's aim up to the ceiling. A shot rang out and a bullet splintered one of the beams.

"She-bitch." He punched her, the snap of the blow sending her reeling into the table.

Stunned, Eliza fell back on the rough planking. Before she could gather her wits, he was upon her, wrenching her hands behind her back. He was much stronger than she had imagined, his crude power so very different from the Marcus's firm measure of control.

She blinked back tears. Indeed, there was no comparison between the two men. At the Black Cat's first touch, she had known he had not an ounce of evil in him, while this beast...

Reminding herself of what he had done to Meredith and Lucien, she determined not to give in to despair. Not when there was still a breath left in her body to fight for seeing the miscreant brought to justice.

Hastings gave a last, painful tug to the rope he had knotted around her wrists, and shoved her down in the chair. "You and your righteous meddling in things no female ought to poke her nose in. Always stirring up trouble with your newfangled ideas and damnable ledgers."

"I never intended any ill—"

A slap silenced her. "You think me a fool? You come to Killingworth Manor and suddenly I am turned out of a lucrative position!" Grabbing a handful of her hair, he yanked back her head. "You should have minded your own business, Miss Kirtland. Now you are going to pay for interfering with me."

"It doesn't matter what you do to me. The earl knows you are the one responsible for all these crimes."

"He may suspect it, but he can't prove it." Hastings flashed a wolfish smile. "I've been too clever to leave any evidence."

"You have been clever," she conceded. The words nearly stuck in her throat, but perhaps she might turn his own vanity against him. So far, she admitted, it seemed his only weakness. "Exceedingly so. I take it your original plan was to take advantage of the earl's rakish reputation to stir up suspicions that he—or someone in his household—was preying on local girls. You hoped the hue and cry might drive him back to London, leaving you to enjoy the bounty of his estate, as you had been doing for some time."

"Aren't you the clever one yourself, Miss Kirtland," he sneered. "Yes, that is precisely what I had in mind. Mr. Harkness proved an easy mark. A weak, blabbering fool. The fact that he and the earl despise each other made it child's play to manipulate him."

Eliza did not disabuse him of that notion.

"Then
you
came along and had your own idea on how to profit from Killingworth's penchant for bedding women."

She drew in a sharp breath.

"My arse gets tossed in the mud, while yours lands in a fine tester bed. It hardly seems fair, does it?"

"You are mistaken." Her voice was a taut whisper. "I assure you, the earl has no interest in me."

"Oh, I don't doubt that a shrewish country spinster has few charms to attract a notorious rake," agreed Hastings. "But as I made it my business to know his habits, I am aware that it has been a long time since His Lordship has had a woman in his bed. I imagine he would take his pleasure with anything that wore a skirt."

Argument seemed pointless.

"As I said, it doesn't seem fair."

"I have learned over the years that life is rarely fair, Mr. Hastings. One must learn to deal with disappointment."

"Why should I?" His face twisted in anger.

"Surely you've a handsome sum tucked away from your embezzlement. Why not take it and flee to some distant place where you can live to enjoy it," she asked.

"Be a sheep and meekly accept my fate? Not when I am smart enough to do something about it. I want more and I intend to get it."

"Perhaps you are not so smart as you think."

A nasty laugh echoed the slap of his palm on her cheek. "I'd watch my mouth if I were you. You are hardly in a position to comment on my intelligence, seeing as you blundered straight into my arms."

That was the one thing on which she and the devil saw eye to eye. "What do you intend to do with me? It won't be long before I am missed at the Manor."

Hastings took some time to consider the question. Stepping away from the chair, he circled the table, lips pursed in thought. After several turns, a slow grin indicated he had reached a decision. "The footpaths are notoriously unstable this times of year. A pity you chose to wander too close to the edge while looking for your blasted berries."

"Another accident?" Eliza tried to keep the tremor of fear from her voice. If push came to shove, she knew she didn't have the strength to fight him. "The earl will know it was foul play."

"But again, he won't be able to prove it." The former steward yanked her to her feet. "You have been a cursed nuisance, Miss Kirtland. With you out of the way, I can bide my time and pick the right moment for my next move against Killingworth. And this time, I'll make sure that my plans aren't spoiled by a nosy chit."

"You think he will stand by and wait for you to strike again? He will hunt you down."

"Let him try. So far, the Black Cat has been a toothless tabby."

Chapter 15

The tinge of red in the scudding clouds added a new shade of urgency to their search. The sun was setting fast, and if night came before they found Eliza, the earl didn't dare think of what might happen during the stretch of blackness between dusk and dawn.

He left off his survey of the horizon. "That is the last spot on these hills. What is left?"

"Two places," replied Meredith quickly. She, too, was eyeing the deepening colors of the sky. "But they are in opposite directions. There is no way we can get to both before darkness falls."

"Then we must split up," said Lucien decisively. Though his face was deathly pale beneath the dust and sweat, he had hung in gamely over the bruising ride. "Uncle Marcus?"

The earl nodded. Loath though he was to accept it, his nephew was right. "Which you do think he has chosen, Miss Meredith?"

She hesitated, but only for an instant. "The cliffs."

"Whitney, you and Robbie will check the caves, while we head on to the cliffs."

The two men listened intently to Meredith's description.

"I need not warn you to go carefully. If you have a clear shot, take it. But otherwise..." he didn't bother to finish. They all knew the alternative was prayer.

The freshening wind and the sound of the rising surf muffled their approach to the clearing. Still, Marcus signaled for them to dismount and continue on foot. Handing his rifle to Lucien, more as a crutch than anything else, he quickly checked the priming of his pistols. At close range, they would be far more effective weapons.

"Watch your step," he warned, tucking one in his coat pocket. At the first stumble, he meant to leave his nephew behind, even if it meant lashing him to the nearest oak.

The way was clear enough and they quickly crested the wooded slope. Half hidden in the lengthening shadows, the hut looked as if it hadn't been disturbed in ages.

Marcus eased back the hammer. "Wait here. I'll have a look."

The scuffed earth, the unlatched door—someone else had been here, and recently. Holding his breath, he nudged the door open a crack wider.

"Damnation."

The earl wasn't aware that he had spoken aloud until Lucien and Meredith, breathless from their headlong run, appeared at his shoulder.

"Too late," he added, stepping inside and surveying the tumbled basket and overturned chair.

"That is Eliza's basket," whispered Meredith.

He already knew that, for the staleness of the air could not quite overpower the lingering trace of verbena and lavender. "Damnation," he repeated. "Damn, damn, damn."

Lucien could not repress his own oath on catching sight of the pistol barrel under the bedstead. "It's been fired," he said, brushing the grains of powder from his fingertips. His eyes swept over the floor. "But," he was quick to add, "I see no sign of blood."

Thank God for small miracles, thought Marcus. An involuntary glance heavenward revealed the splintered wood and jagged hole. The scenario flashed before his eyes—she had managed to draw the pistol, only to be overpowered by the superior strength and size of a male opponent.

Oh, if only she had learned her lesson the first time around.

"They have not been gone long." Meredith held up a sprig of wild thyme from the tangle of herbs. "Look, the leaves have not yet wilted."

The earl prayed that the same could be said of Eliza. "We may have a chance to catch up with them if we hurry. There is only one way they could have gone."

The sea.

His insides were churning like a storm-tossed ocean, crosscurrents of emotions colliding in a tempest of hope and fear. He had always been calm in the face of danger before. The choices had been his and his alone. That he could live with. But this gut-wrenching worry was something he had never experienced before.

Perhaps because he had never been in love.

His past affairs had been fleeting—flesh touching flesh, nothing deeper. But Eliza Kirtland had gotten under his skin. Her fierce loyalty, her sharp intelligence, her gritty courage had slowly but surely won his heart. He couldn't quite imagine life without her there by his side, demanding he measure up to his own expectations.

Indeed, they made an odd couple, for he believed that he, too, had helped her to see another side of herself. There was passion beneath the rigid columns of numbers. That was part of life's equation, and judging from their first lesson, she was a quick study.

Work and play.
Killingworth Manor could be a real home, filled with countless possibilities for happiness, for a family, for a future. All the things he had never valued before.

Lord, let him find her.
He had never even told her of his feelings.

The evening mists had not yet floated up from the water, yet he moved as if in fog, finding it hard to breath, hard to think.

But think he must. Time enough later for regrets, recriminations.

"Uncle Marcus." Lucien's low call slowed his steps.

As he looked around, Marcus noticed that his hands were bleeding from scrabbling up the steep path that cut between the outcroppings of granite. He nodded and continued on at a more measured pace. Another twisting turn and they would be within a stone's throw of the cliff top.

* * *

If only.

The words seemed to crush against the inside of Eliza's head with the same incessant rhythm of the waves pounding the rocks below. She rarely indulged in pining over the past. The worries of the present and the future were usually daunting enough to keep her mind fully occupied.