Reynaud dragged himself from the bed, pulled on his old blue coat, and snatched up his knife before throwing open the door to his room. A young footman was stationed outside his room—presumably to keep him from running amok in his own house.
Reynaud glared at the fellow. “Tell Miss Corning I’d like a word with her.”
He started to close the door, but the man said, “Can’t.”
Reynaud paused. “What?”
“Can’t,” the footman said. “She’s not here.”
“Then when is she expected back?”
The footman stepped back nervously before catching himself and straightening. “Not too long, I expect, but I can’t say for sure. She’s visitin’ Mr. Oates, and sometimes she stays there a fair while.”
“Who,” Reynaud inquired gently, “is Mr. Oates?”
“Mr. Jeremy Oates, that is,” the man said, becoming chatty. “Of the Suffolk Oates. Family with quite a bit of money, or so I’m told. ’E and Miss Corning have known each other a long, long time, and she likes to visit ’im three or four times a week.”
“Then he’s an aging gentleman?” Reynaud asked.
The footman scratched his head. “Don’t think so. A young, ’andsome gentleman, so I hear.”
It occurred to Reynaud at this point that although he’d seen Miss Corning every day since his return to England, he didn’t actually know much about the woman. Was this Oates—this proper English gentleman—a beau? Or a fiancé? The thought spurred a primitive part of him, and he blurted the next question.
“Is she engaged to him?”
“Not yet,” the footman replied, winking cheerfully. “But can’t be long, can it, if she visits ’im so often? ’Course, there is the matter of ’is—”
But Reynaud wasn’t listening anymore. He pushed past the ass and started for the stairs.
“Oy!” the footman called from behind him. “Where’re you goin’?”
“To meet Miss Corning at the door,” Reynaud growled. His legs were shakier than he’d realized, and it only made him more irritable. He gripped the banister with one hand as he descended slowly. He moved like a goddamned old man.
“I’m not supposed to let you leave your room,” the footman said, suddenly beside him. He took Reynaud’s elbow to help him, and so weak was Reynaud that he didn’t even protest the familiarity.
“Who ordered you to keep me in my room?” Reynaud demanded.
“Miss Corning. She was worried you might injure yourself.” The footman glanced at him sideways. “Don’t suppose I can get you to go back, m’lord?”
“No,” Reynaud replied shortly. He was panting, dammit. Only a month ago, he’d walked all day without wearying, and now he panted descending a damned staircase!
“Didn’t think so,” the man said matter-of-factly. He didn’t say anything else until they made the entrance hall. “Would you like some water, m’lord, while you wait?”
“Please.” Reynaud leaned against the wall until the man disappeared in the direction of the kitchens. Then he went to the front doors and pulled them open.
The wind caught his breath as he went out on the step. The day was gray and cold, winter spreading her wings on London. There’d be snow on the ground north of Lake Michigan now, and the bears would be fat and slow, preparing for their winter sleep. He remembered how Gaho had loved to eat bear meat fried in its own fat. She would smile when he brought her a freshly killed sow or boar, the wrinkles in her brown cheeks deepening, her eyes nearly disappearing in her happiness. For a moment, his former life and his present merged and wavered in front of his eyes, and he forgot where he was. Who he was.
Then the Blanchard carriage pulled up in front of the town house.
The footman jumped down and set the step. Reynaud straightened and started for the carriage. The door opened and Miss Corning descended the steps.
Her brows snapped together when she saw him. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I’ve come to meet you,” Reynaud said, his voice hard. “Where have you been?”
She ignored his question. “I can’t believe you’re so silly as to stand outside in the cold. You must go in at once. Arthur”—she beckoned to the carriage footman—“please take Lord Hope in—”
“I’m not going to be taken anywhere,” Reynaud said with deadly calm. The carriage footman took one look at him and found a consuming interest in putting away the step. “I’m not a child or half-wit to be taken care of. I repeat, where have you been?”
“Then you must allow me to help you inside.” Miss Corning dismissed his growing anger with a wave of her hand.
He gripped her arms, making her end her sentence on a squeak. “Answer me.”
Something green flared within her eyes, a surprising spark of iron will. “Why should I answer to you?”
“Because.” His entire vision was filled with her eyes, sparkling gray and meadow green intermixed. The combination was absolutely fascinating.
She stared back at him and said, low, “And, anyway, why do you care where I’ve been?”
He’d faced capture and torture and the imminent prospect of his own death for years on end, but for the life of him, he hadn’t a clue how to reply to this small slip of a girl.
So it was perhaps just as well that the shot rang out at that moment.
Chapter Four
Longsword could find no reason this stranger might want a lock of his hair, even for a penny, but he could see no risk to himself, either. So thinking to humor the other man, he took his great sword, cut off a lock of hair, and gave it to the Goblin King.
The Goblin King smiled and held out the penny. But the moment Longsword grasped the coin, the ground opened in an enormous crack beneath him. The earth swallowed both Longsword and his sword, and he fell far, far below until he landed in the Goblin Kingdom.
There he looked up and saw the Goblin King throw off his velvet cloak. Now were revealed his orange glowing eyes, lank green hair, and yellow fangs.
“Who are you?” Longsword cried.
“I am the Goblin King,” replied the other. “When you accepted my coin for your lock of hair, you sold yourself into my power. For if I cannot have the sword alone, then I will have both you and the sword. . . .”
—from Longsword
Surrounded. The enemy on both sides, shooting from hidden positions, his men screaming as they were picked off. He couldn’t form a line of defense, couldn’t rally his troops. They were all going to die if he—
The second shot rang out. Reynaud found himself on the ground against a carriage, Miss Corning’s sweet, warm body under him. Her gray eyes stared up into his, no longer green with anger but only terrified.
And the screams—the screams were all around him.
“Descendez!” Reynaud roared to a soldier sitting in the carriage box looking stupidly around. “Form a line of defense!”
“What—” Miss Corning began.
But he ignored her. A man had been hit and was writhing on the top steps of the town house, his blood staining the white stone. It was the young soldier, the one who’d been walking with him. Dammit. It was his man.
And he was still exposed.
“Stay with Miss Corning,” he ordered a nearby soldier.
The soldier in the box had finally dropped down and lay beside them as well. Where was the sergeant? Where were the other officers? They’d all be killed here in the open, caught between the cross fire. Reynaud’s temples throbbed with pain; his heart thundered. He had to save his men.
“Do you understand?” he yelled at the soldier near him.
The soldier blinked at him, dazed.
Reynaud took the man by the shoulder and shook him. “Stay with Miss Corning. I’m counting on you.”
Something in the soldier’s face cleared. His gaze locked on Reynaud’s, just as they always did, and he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good man.” Reynaud eyed the soldier on the steps, judging the distance. It had been at least a minut
e since the last shot. Were the Indians still lurking in the woods? Or had they crept away again, silent as ghosts?
“What are you going to do?” Miss Corning asked.
Reynaud looked into her clear gray eyes. “Get my man. Stay here. Take this.” He pressed the hilt of his knife into her palm. “Don’t move until I tell you.”
And he kissed her hard, feeling life—his and hers—coursing through his veins. Dear God, he had to get her away from here.
He got up before she could voice her protest and ran to the steps, keeping his upper body low. He paused by the moaning soldier only long enough to grab the man under the arms. The boy screamed as Reynaud pulled him to the front door, the sound high and animal, a cry of primeval agony. So many were in agony. So many were dead. And all so young.
The third bullet hit the door frame as Reynaud yanked his man through, splinters of wood exploding against his cheek.
Reynaud was panting, but the boy was out of the line of fire at least. The bastard couldn’t shoot him again, couldn’t scalp him as he lay dying. Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. Reynaud shook his head, wishing he could think through the blinding pain. Something… something wasn’t right.
“What is this?” Reginald St. Aubyn, the earldom thief, cried, his face red. He started for the door.
Reynaud shot out his arm, barring the way. “Snipers in the woods. Don’t go out.”
St. Aubyn jerked back his head, staring at him as if he were insane. “What are you babbling about?”
“I haven’t time for this,” Reynaud growled. “There’s a shooter, man.”
“But… but, my niece is out there!”
“She’s safe at the moment, sheltered by the carriage.”
Reynaud assessed the crowd of soldiers gathered by the commotion in the entry hall. Except… except they didn’t look like soldiers. Something was wrong. His head was splitting with pain, and he hadn’t the time to figure it out now. His back crawled with the knowledge that the Indians were still out there, waiting. The lad moaned at his feet.
“You.” He pointed at the oldest. ”Are there any guns in the house? Dueling pistols, birding pieces, hunting rifles?”
The man blinked and came to attention. “There’s a pair of dueling pistols in his lordship’s study.”
“Good. Get them.”
The man whirled and ran down the back passage.
“You two”—Reynaud indicated two practical-looking women—“fetch some clean cloth, linens, anything we can use for bandages.”
“Yes, sir.” They went without a word.
Reynaud turned to the boy but was stayed by a hand on his arm.
“Now, see here,” St. Aubyn said. “I won’t let my servants be ordered about by a raving lunatic. This is my house. You can’t just—”
Reynaud spun and in the same motion took the older man by the throat and shoved him into the wall. He looked into watery brown eyes, suddenly widened, and leaned close.
“My house, my men,” he breathed into the other man’s face. “Help me or get out of my way, I care not, but never question my authority again—and don’t ever lay a hand on me.” There was no question in his tone.
St. Aubyn swallowed and nodded his head.
“Good.” Reynaud let him go and glanced at the sergeant. “Look out the door—quickly—and check that Miss Corning and the others are still by the carriage.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Reynaud knelt by the wounded man. The boy’s face was greasy with sweat, his eyes narrowed in pain. The wound was on his left hip. Reynaud took off his coat and found the small thin knife he kept in a pocket. Then he bundled the coat and placed it beneath the boy’s head.
“Am I dying, my lord?” the lad whispered.
“No, not at all.” Reynaud sliced open the boy’s breeches from waist to knee and spread the bloody fabric. “What’s your name?”
“Henry, my lord.” The lad swallowed. “Henry Carter.”
“I don’t like my men dying, Henry,” Reynaud said. There was no exit wound. The bullet would need to be dug out of the boy’s hip—a tricky operation, as sometimes the hip bled badly. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” The boy’s eyebrows rose questioningly.
“So you’re not to die,” Reynaud stated with finality.
The boy nodded, his face smoothing. “Yes, my lord.”
“The pistols, sir.” The older soldier was back, panting, with a flat box in his hands.
Reynaud rose. “Good man.”
The women had returned as well with the linens, and one immediately knelt and began bandaging Henry. “I had Cook send for a doctor, my lord. I hope that was right.”
Cook? That feeling that something wasn’t right made his head spin again, but Reynaud kept his face calm. An officer never showed fear in battle.
“Very smart.” Reynaud nodded at the woman, and a flush of pleasure spread over her plain face. He turned to the sergeant. “What’s happening outside?”
The sergeant straightened from the door crack. “Miss Corning is still by the carriage, my lord, along with the coachman and two footmen. A small crowd has gathered across the street, but other than that, it seems just as usual.”
“Good. And your name?”
The sergeant threw back his shoulders. “Hurley, my lord.”
Reynaud nodded. He placed the dueling-pistols box on a side table and opened it. The pistols within looked like they might be from his grandfather’s time, but they had been properly oiled and maintained. Reynaud took them out, checked to see if they were loaded, and stepped to the door.
“Keep away from the doorway,” he instructed the sergeant. “The Indians might still be out there.”
“Dear God, he’s insane,” St. Aubyn muttered.
Reynaud ignored him and ducked out the door.
The street was strangely quiet—or perhaps it just seemed so after the chaos of the shooting. Reynaud didn’t pause but ran swiftly down the steps and dropped to the ground by Miss Corning, who was nearly underneath the carriage.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes. Quite.” She frowned and touched a finger to his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He took her hand and licked his blood from her fingertip, making her gray eyes widen. “You still have my knife?”
“Yes.” She showed him his knife, hidden among her skirts.
“Good girl.” He looked at the soldiers… except now they were a coachman and two footmen. Reynaud blinked fiercely. Concentrate. “Did you see where the shots were coming from?”
The coachman shook his head, but one of the footmen, a tall fellow with a missing front tooth, said, “A black carriage pulled away very fast just after you dragged Henry into the house, my lord. I think the shots may’ve come from inside the carriage.”
Reynaud nodded. “That makes sense. But we’ll take Miss Corning in with all precaution just in case. Mr. Coachman, please go first. I’ll follow with Miss Corning while the footmen come behind.” He handed one of the pistols to the footman who had spoken. “Don’t shoot, but make sure anyone watching can see that you’re armed.”
The men nodded, and Reynaud rose with his little company. He wrapped one arm about Miss Corning, covering as much of her body with his as he could. “Go.”
The coachman ran to the steps, and Reynaud followed with Miss Corning, damnably aware of how exposed they were. Her form was warm next to his, small and delicate. It seemed to take minutes, but they were within the house again in seconds. No more shots rang out, and Reynaud slammed the door behind him.
“Dear God.” Miss Corning was looking at Henry, the wounded soldier.
But he wasn’t a soldier, Reynaud realized all at once. Henry was the footman who’d been guarding his bedroom door. His head spun as burning bile backed up into his throat. The sergeant was the butler, the women the maids, and there were no soldiers, only footmen staring at him warily. And the India
ns? In London? Reynaud shook his head, feeling as if his brain would explode from the pain.
Dear God, maybe he was mad.
BEATRICE BENT OVER a small prayer book, picking apart the binding. She found it easier to think when her hands were busy. So after Henry had been seen to, after Lord Hope had retired to his room, after she’d calmed the servants and sent them back to work, after all had been restored to order in her home, she’d retreated here to her own rooms to contemplate the events of this afternoon.
Although, she’d not come to any firm conclusions when a knock sounded at her door. She sighed and looked up at a second tap.
“Beatrice?”
It was Uncle Reggie’s voice, which was odd, because he hardly ever visited her in her rooms, but then this had been a very odd day. She set the book down on the little table she worked at and rose from her chair to let him in.
“I wanted to make sure that you were unharmed, m’dear,” he said once he’d entered. He glanced vaguely around the room.
Beatrice felt a pang of remorse. In all the excitement of the shooting, she’d not had a chance to talk to her uncle. “I’m quite all right—not even a scratch. And you? How do you feel?”
“Oh, nothing can hurt an old man like me,” he blustered. “’Course, that impostor did knock me against the wall a bit.” He peered at her from under his bushy eyebrows as if waiting for a reaction.
Beatrice frowned. “He did? But why?”
“Bloody arrogance, if you ask me,” her uncle replied heatedly. “He was raving about Indians in the woods. Started ordering the servants about and told me to get out of the way. I think the man is mad.”
“He did save me.” Beatrice looked down at her slippers. Lord Hope’s sanity was the very subject she’d been grappling with when Uncle Reggie had interrupted her. “Perhaps he was merely confused by the suddenness of the events. Perhaps he spoke in haste when he talked of Indians.”
“Or perhaps he’s mad.” Uncle Reggie’s voice softened at her look. “I know he saved your life, and don’t think I’m not grateful the bastard risked his life for you. But is it safe to have him in the house? What if he wakes one morning and decides I’m an Indian—or you?”