My Fair Mistress (48 page)

The baby kicked, as if to protest their confinement. “I know, little one,” she murmured, comforting herself as much as her child. “I know.”

Willing herself to relax, she leaned fully back into the chair. As always, she tested the ropes in the unlikely hope she might find a millimeter of give. Her heart gave a double thump when her bindings moved, if only fractionally. To make certain she wasn’t letting desperation cause her to imagine things, she tugged again, and discovered definite movement in the rope.

Her pulse leapt with sudden hope and renewed determination. She had assumed her rash conversation with Middleton to be completely ineffective, but now she realized it had been more successful than she had imagined. Still, had she distracted him enough to make a real mistake, one that would allow her to gain her freedom?

Only time and effort would tell, and she knew she needed to hurry if she had any chance of success. He would be back soon, likely too soon, and if he found her on the verge of escape, heaven knows what he would do to her.

She quaked at the thought but pushed her fear aside. Straining against her bonds, she ignored the discomfort the ropes caused as they bit into her body, working to force as much slack into the bindings as possible. The gap wasn’t enough to slip through, not without some measure of genuine suffering involved. Realizing there was no other way, she gritted her teeth and concentrated on freeing her right hand.

The rough hemp dug into her tender flesh as she fought to yank her hand through the loop. Pain streaked up her arm, nearly unbearable as the rope scraped away the top layer of skin. Closing her eyes, she gave one last tremendous tug, knowing she would not be able to endure the agony for much longer.

Her hand popped free.

Ignoring her bleeding wrist, she lost no time loosening the rope from around her body, tearing frantically at the last knot that held her in place. The tips of three of her fingernails snapped off in the process, but she barely noticed, dumping the rope on the floor. Climbing to her feet, she hurried to the door, but stopped seconds shy of reaching for the knob. Prudently, she detoured to the window to check for Middleton. When she saw no sign of him, she wrenched open the door and ran out, racing across the yard as fast as her legs would carry her.

She hadn’t gone far when a pain stabbed through her middle, bringing her to a halt. Panting, she bent forward, arms wrapped around her swollen stomach. Almost immediately the agony began to subside, but the discomfort was a sharp reminder that she was in no condition to push her body too far or too hard, not without risking harm to herself or her child.

She was about to start forward again when her pulse leapt at the sound of horse’s hooves pounding in the near distance.

Is someone coming?
she wondered.
Oh, lord, please let them stop and help me. On second thought, since I’m praying, please let it be Rafe!

Moments later, a familiar dark-haired rider rounded a curve in the rutted country lane.

It is Rafe!

Her heart pounded fast as tears of joy stung her eyes. Beside him rode Ethan Andarton, the two men galloping toward her.

She met Rafe’s gaze, reading the relief in his intense green eyes. Smiling, she took a pair of steps forward.

Without warning, his expression changed, alarm flashing over his face. He opened his mouth and shouted something to her, but the erratic March wind swept his words away. Scowling, she fought to understand, intuiting an instant later what he must be trying to tell her.

Middleton!
How could she have forgotten about him, even for a second?

As she turned and tried to sprint away, an inflexible arm curved around her waist, locking her within his grasp. Straining, she fought to break his hold, but his arm clamped down tight, squeezing until pain shot through her ribs.

“It’ll hurt more if you don’t stay still,” he told her, his voice cruel with menace.

Fearing he might harm the baby, she ceased her struggles.

“Let her go, St. George!” Rafe shouted, he and Ethan bringing their mounts to a halt only a few feet away. Rafe moved to leap off his horse, but Middleton’s next words froze him in place.

“Stay where you are, Pendragon,” the viscount warned. “And don’t come any closer, not if you want her to live.”

A click sounded near her ear, the cold barrel of a primed pistol set against her temple. She trembled, closing her eyes for a long moment as she fought the urge to scream. Only when the need passed did she let herself look again.

“You know me well enough to realize I’ll shoot,” Middleton said. “You don’t want me to shoot, do you?”

Rafe shook his head. “No. Just tell me what you want.”

“You obviously received my note, so you know what I want. Twenty thousand pounds and the journals. Give them to me now.”

“I will, once you release Julianna.”

Middleton increased his grip. “Not until I have the items. You brought them, did you not?”

“Of course. Just as you outlined.”

“Then let’s see.”

Rafe shifted in the saddle. “You’ll forgive me, but I have reason not to trust you, St. George. I thought it wise to take precautions, so before my arrival I stopped and buried the money and the books.”

The viscount stiffened in obvious irritation. “Buried them where?”

“Not far. Let Julianna go and I’ll show you. You can keep the gun if you like.”

“Rafe, no!” she cried.

Both men ignored her, their interest focused squarely on each other.

A long moment passed while Middleton weighed his choices. “You.” He took the gun off her long enough to wave it at Ethan. “Get down from your horse. Before you do, though, give me your weapons. You too, Pendragon. Open your coats so I can see what you have.”

Ethan glanced toward Rafe. “Are you sure?”

“Do it,” Rafe ordered. “We’ve no other choice.”

“That’s right,” Middleton said. “You don’t have a choice unless Pendragon there would prefer becoming a widower.”

Slowly, both men withdrew the guns from their pockets, then unbuttoned their greatcoats, each revealing another brace of pistols a piece.

Julianna wanted to tell them not to comply, not to give up the only protection they had, but she stayed silent, knowing her pleas would be brushed aside as before.

“Vessey. The saddlebags, put the guns inside,” the viscount demanded.

Moving carefully, the marquis dismounted and did as he was instructed, opening the leather pouch on his mount and sliding the guns inside.

“Now, come forward and leave it. Close, but not too close, if you take my meaning.” Middleton renewed his threat by pointing the pistol at her again.

Ethan gave her an apologetic look, then walked forward as far as he dared and set down the bag.

“Move away.”

As soon as the marquis stood several feet distant, Middleton urged her forward, his fingers biting into her flesh in a bruising grip. Only when he drew close enough to touch the saddlebag did he act, giving her a rough shove to the right as he bent down to snatch up the pouch.

His push sent her staggering, feet hurrying as she fought not to lose her balance. A new pair of arms wrapped around her, catching her before she could fall. Steadying herself against Vessey’s reassuring strength, she glanced around to check on Rafe.

With a sinking heart, she saw that Middleton was already seated on the other horse, his weapon pointed straight at Rafe.

“Take care of her, Ethan,” Rafe said.

Turning their mounts, the men rode away.

“Oh, God, Rafe.” A shudder went through her, shock and fear making her whole body quake. “Middleton will kill him.”

“Rafe will be all right,” Ethan said, though by his tone she could tell he only half-believed his own words.

“We have to go after him.”

“I can’t leave you. Rafe would have my head.”

“Then don’t. There are horses in the stable and a coach. If we start now, we’ll only be a few minutes behind.”

“Out of the question.”

Pushing herself from his hold, she planted her hands on her hips. “Then I’ll do it myself.”

Turning on her heel, she headed toward the barn.

Behind her he uttered a low, muttered curse. “Women!”

Moments later, she heard him follow.

Chapter Twenty-five

H
OW MUCH FARTHER?” the viscount demanded, his weapon trained on Rafe as their horses proceeded up the road.

“Not much now,” Rafe said. “It’s just a little ways ahead.”

Of course, “a little ways” was as near or far as Rafe chose to make it, since his statement about having buried the money and journals was nothing but a ruse.

Knowing how imperative it had been to convince the viscount to release Julianna, Rafe had relied on deception to lure Burton away. Clearly, his improvised plan had flaws, such as the possibility of getting himself shot and killed, but at least St. George was no longer a danger to Julianna and the baby.

The truth was that Hannibal had the ransom, the funds and journals, stored safely inside a locked chest in a room at a nearby inn. But Rafe knew he would never have been able to talk St. George into releasing Julianna, then accompanying him to a public inn. The viscount, quite rightly, would have seen it as a trap.

Besides, Rafe had never had any intention of giving the money or the journals to St. George. He’d only brought them along as a kind of last-resort insurance policy in order to win Julianna’s release.

Now all he had to do was lead St. George to a likely-looking spot in the woods, then find some method of distracting him long enough to wrest the gun from his possession. Once he had the viscount under control, he would march him back so St. George could be turned over to the authorities.

Of course, excellent as that plan might seem, actually making it work was not going to be easy. He would, he knew, have to stay alert and think quickly.

Aware of St. George’s rapidly waning patience as the minutes passed, Rafe scanned the countryside for a stopping place. So long as the land wasn’t too muddy, he supposed any location would serve. As they rounded the next curve, Rafe saw a heavily wooded area that showed definite promise.

“Here, this is it.” Rafe pointed toward a large tree. “This oak is the one. I walked inland just there for several yards.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m not likely to forget where I buried twenty thousand pounds. You don’t mind if I dismount, do you?”

St. George motioned his agreement using the business end of his pistol. “Lead the way. But I’m warning you, Pendragon, no tricks or I’ll shoot.”

St. George would shoot anyway, he knew. Once the viscount had what he’d come for, St. George would make sure to rid himself any potential liabilities—namely him. Dead men, as the saying goes, tell no tales. Although considering Hurst’s journals, that wasn’t strictly true, he thought wryly. Hurst had told a considerable amount even from his grave.

Boots sinking lightly into the half-thawed spring ground, Rafe began walking into the woods, St. George close at his heels. Overhead, naked tree branches spread outward like thick gnarled fingers, green buds still held snug in their cocoons, nearly ready to unfurl.

Imperceptibly, Rafe drew a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, aware that he required all the calm he could muster. When the right moment came, he would have to recognize it and act without hesitation. If he failed in the first attempt to free himself, he would not be getting another.

“I’ve been wondering,” Rafe said, hoping a little conversation might divert St. George’s focus, “how did you know I had the journals?”

St. George gave a laugh. “I didn’t know for certain, but I decided to take a chance and assume you did. I figured even if it wasn’t you, kidnapping your wife would be good for squeezing money out of your pockets. Besides, who else could it have been? Who else bears me such a deep and abiding grudge?”

“Oh, I’m sure there must be several others. Eleanor Winthrop’s father, for one.”

“Annoying old fool. Even with the so-called proof he believes he has, his claim against me will come to naught in the end. Once I destroy the original journals, those copies will appear as nothing but a fraud, manufactured to disgrace me. The marquis will look like exactly what he is—a grieving father unable to let go of his loss.”

“And what of Hurst? Bow Street knows you poisoned him.”

“Do they? His death was ruled a spasm of the heart. If he was poisoned, it was by drinking far too much for far too long.”

“So you’re staying with that story, hmm? Why bother when we both know the truth? You are planning to kill me as well, are you not? Why bother with secrets now?”

“Keep walking, Pendragon.” St. George prodded the gun against Rafe’s shoulder.

“No, really. I’m just wondering why you feel so confident about getting away with murder.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve done it before.”

“Your wife, you mean?” Rafe questioned as he led the way down a small incline.

“Perhaps, but there’s another. In fact, since we’re sharing confidences, it’s someone near and dear to your heart.”

A chill ran through him. “What do you mean?”