Her father saw her first. His eyes opened wide and his mouth worked. “Genevieve!”
Her mother stared at her in disbelief. “My dear! You’re well? When we’d heard you’d perished ….” Her eyes shimmered and her lip trembled.
Genevieve rushed toward her parents but one of Wickburgh’s men grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“No, none of that,” Wickburgh said.
Genevieve kept her focus on her mother. “I’m well, Mama. Are you ...?”
Her mother offered a pained smile. “I’m unharmed, dearest.”
“How dare you,” Papa said to Wickburgh. “How dare you keep us here! Release us at once.”
Wickburgh made a tsking sound. “You forget yourself. I make the demands, not you.”
Anger welled up inside Genevieve. “Free them.”
“No need to be hasty. We all have unfinished business here. Please be seated.” He gestured toward three wooden chairs lined up in a row.
One of the men gestured with his pistol toward the chairs in a clear directive. Genevieve exchanged glances with her parents who stared at her in mingled disbelief and relief. They sat on the hard chairs. One of the gunmen nearby scooped up ropes Genevieve hadn’t noticed were lying on one of the chairs and handed them to Jackson and one other man.
Jackson stood behind Genevieve and tied the ropes loosely. Something cool and metallic slid into her hand. She closed a fist over it and schooled her features into submissive dejection. Jackson gave them a tug as if testing their strength. He moved to Papa sitting next to her and tested his bindings tied by the other guard.
“All of you,” Wickburgh said. “Out. And keep your eyes open. This little whore’s lover will appear and try to cause trouble. He’s annoyingly tenacious.”
Darkness twisted in her stomach and tied itself into a harder, tighter knot. All his torment, all those hours she’d cried and cowered. What a fool she’d been. She should have poisoned his food and saved her family and Christian. But then she’d be a murderer. The thought didn’t fill her with the horror that it should.
As Jackson crossed in front of her, walking between her and Wickburgh, he mouthed the word ‘widow’ and made a meaningful look toward Wickburgh.
Widow? What did that mean? She peered out of the window through the crookedly hanging shutters but saw only the countryside. Widow? What was he telling her? And why Wickburgh? She mulled it over as she kept her gaze focused on the floor as if afraid. She glanced up at Jackson. He looked pointedly at the window. Then he stepped out of the cottage with the other guard, leaving her and her parents alone in the cottage with Wickburgh.
Not widow—window! Jackson wanted her to look out the window. But why? Maybe he wanted her to jump out the window. Or push Wickburgh out the window. But the fall wouldn’t hurt him. What was Jackson trying to tell her? Slowly, she fingered the cold metal in her palm. It was little longer than a nail file, and had the serrated edge of a tiny knife. She turned it over and began sawing at her bindings, careful not to let her shoulders make any motion.
“So, my errant little wife finally returns to me.” Wickburgh’s shiny boots paced in front of her vision.
She froze and hunched over as if cowering in fear.
Window. Wickburgh. It came to her in a rush. Jackson wanted her to get Wickburgh to stand in front of the window. Christian was an excellent shot. Perhaps he hoped Christian could shoot Wickburgh through the window. Perhaps Jackson planned to shoot Wickburgh himself.
“You’ve led me on a merry little chase, my dear,” Wickburgh added.
Too bad Jackson couldn’t arrest Wickburgh now, but Wickburgh had too many men, and Jackson would be overwhelmed in an instant. Unless Christian and his brothers were already outside.
Wickburgh’s voice changed timbre. “I despise merry little chases. And then you had the gall to shoot me. Most unladylike.”
She looked up at him then, painting on a look of trepidation.
He stood with one hand over his shoulder, his mouth twisted in pain. “The last time we were together, I’d only planned to kill you. But now, I find it necessary to make your punishment a bit more … elaborate.”
He moved away and stopped in front of her father. Anger nudged away all other emotions. Christian was right; Wickburgh needed to be stopped, by any possible method. Genevieve continued sawing at her ropes. If only they hadn’t searched her at her parent’s house and taken her gun, she could shoot him herself. Again. And this time, not merely wound him. But she had nothing but the tiny knife Jackson had slipped her.
“But where to start?” Wickburgh said, looking at her father. “No, not you; you must be taught a lesson, as well. I think I shall start first with the one you’ve all been protecting. It would be poetic justice for you to watch her die.” He looked pointedly at Mama.
“No,” her father rasped, straining at his bindings.
“Leave them out of this,” Genevieve gasped. “You promised!”
Her bindings loosened. She must have sawed all the way through one loop. She worked desperately at the remaining ropes.
Unmoved by their pleas, Wickburgh sauntered lazily toward her mother, his fingers twitching. He raised both hands and spread them, heading for her neck.
With a cry of distress, Mother began gasping and she slumped over. Her heart!
“No!” Genevieve screamed.
“Someone’s coming!” Jackson shouted from outside.
“You monster!” Her father’s body hurtled past her toward Wickburgh. Metal glinted in his hand as he raised his arm and brought it down in a savage thrust.
Wickburgh stiffened and let out an inhuman scream. Papa wrenched a knife out of Wickburgh’s back and gripped it with white fingers. Wickburgh twisted around and lurched at Papa. As Papa brought down his arm to strike again, Wickburgh grabbed the weapon. They struggled, each straining to control the blade.
“Jackson! Smith! Get in here!” Wickburgh yelled.
Frantically, Genevieve sawed at her ropes with shaking fingers, her attention divided between her father fighting with Wickburgh, and Mother who slumped with her eyes closed.
Sounds of combat exploded outside, the all-too-familiar sounds of fists hitting bodies. Jackson was probably battling Wickburgh’s men outside, preventing them from rushing to answer Wickburgh’s call.
A gunshot roared through the air. Had Christian arrived, or had something gone wrong? Her ropes snapped apart and Genevieve’s arms sprang free. She leaped from her seat and flew at Wickburgh, her small knife in her hand. Still struggling, Wickburgh kneed her father in the groin in a most ungentlemanly move. Papa went down, coughing. As Genevieve threw herself upon Wickburgh and embedded her knife into his back, she wrapped both hands around the hilt and used her weight to try to steer him toward the window. He twisted around and threw her off. She staggered back. He backhanded her. Pain ripped through her face. The force of his blow slammed her against the floor.
Outside, gunshots ripped through the air. Bullets splintered the wooden walls. The shutters blasted apart. Debris showered the room. Genevieve flattened herself against the floor to avoid lethal projectiles. Oblivious to the danger, Wickburgh kicked her father where he lay on the ground.
Genevieve screamed. “Stop! Leave him alone!”
“Oh, no, my dear,” he said calmly, oddly contrasting with the battle raging outside. “I will kill them both while you watch, starting with your dear Mama. Then when they are dead, I will kill you. Slowly. Very slowly. I give you my word.” His mouth twisted into a deranged smile.
Genevieve scrambled to her feet and rushed at Wickburgh. The door flew open so hard that it banged against the wall. Jackson staggered in, his gun raised. Another gunshot rang out. Jackson jerked backward and collapsed on the floor.
Genevieve screamed.
“Genevieve!” Christian’s voice cut through the gunfire.
CHAPTER 30
With Genevieve’s scream echoing in his head, Christian took careful aim at one of Wickburgh’s minions racing toward the open door of the cottage. He squeezed the trigger. The thug who shot Jackson crumpled. Jackson lay unmoving in the open doorway of the cottage. With steady hands, Christian reloaded his guns. Bark exploded off the tree inches from Christian’s shoulder. All fell silent for a moment while opponents found cover and reloaded.
Genevieve screamed again.
“I’m going in!” Christian hefted a gun in each hand.
“No!” Jared shouted.
Christian propelled himself out from behind the tree. As he sprinted to the cottage, gunfire broke out all around him as Jared and Grant cleared a path for him. Christian reached the cottage, vaulted over Jackson’s inert form, and landed in a crouch. Genevieve, with wild panic in her eyes, was locked in a struggle with Wickburgh, each trying to control a small dagger. Dark blood oozed from multiple locations on Wickburgh’s tailored coat, and his breath dissolved into wheezing.
Genevieve’s mouth was set into a grim line and a purple bruise spread over one of her flushed cheeks. That monster had hit her again. Calm fury turned Christian cold. Shaking with rage, he stowed his guns in the waistband of his breeches and put one hand over Genevieve’s and Wickburgh’s locked fists. He wrapped an arm around Genevieve’s waist.
“Easy, Jen,” he said softly into her hair. “I have you.”
Christian steadied the knife in an upright and harmless position with one hand. She released her hold on the dagger and Christian pulled her back. With Genevieve safely out of the way, Christian gave the blade a sharp jerk. Wickburgh lost his grip on the weapon and it came away in Christian’s hand. Still locked in eye contact with Wickburgh, Christian tossed the knife behind him. It clattered on the floor. Outside, the gunfire halted. Smoke drifted through the air, burning his eyes and throat.
Wickburgh turned a murderous glare on him. “Amesbury.” Loathing oozed from his voice.
Christian pulled out both guns and trained them on Wickburgh. He should just shoot him now. Wickburgh was dangerous, violent. He didn’t deserve to live. If they took him to the magistrate, he risked Wickburgh being acquitted. And as long as Wickburgh lived, Genevieve would be in danger. Christian could take her to the continent, but he’d always be looking for signs that Wickburgh had found them. And if Wickburgh refused to grant her a divorce, he could never marry her and be a proper husband. Their children would grow up with the stigma of being illegitimate. And he’d be separated from his family.
But he couldn’t kill the man—any man, even one such as this—in cold blood.
“You’ve lost.” Christian’s quiet voice echoed eerily in the small cottage.
Madness glinted in Wickburgh’s eyes and spittle dripped off his mouth as he roared, “Amesbury!”
Christian held his guns steady. “If you make any move, I’ll shoot you.”
Wickburgh’s eyes bulged and his face turned purple. “I’ll kill you both!” He lunged.
Christian squeezed both triggers.
Three gunshots roared through the air. Two holes blossomed in Wickburgh’s chest and one opened up in his forehead right between the eyes. Wickburgh fell backward with a thud and lay staring.
Christian stared. He killed him. He’d never killed a man before. He felt oddly empty. Hollow. Numb. Wait ... three?
Grant appeared next to him, his gun still smoking, and muttered a disparaging remark about Wickburgh’s parentage. “He died too quickly.”
Christian stared at the savagery in Grant’s tone. But he agreed. Labored breathing behind him caught his attention and he turned to Genevieve.
Clutching her chest as if her heart pained her, she met his gaze with wide, horrified eyes. A second later, she turned to her parents. “Mama ...?”
Mrs. Marshall, tied to a chair, averted her gaze from Wickburgh’s prostrate form and looked at her husband who was slowly pushing himself to a seated position on the floor. Christian tucked his guns away, offered Captain Marshall a hand, and pulled him to a stand.
Genevieve stumbled to her mother. “Mama?”
Mrs. Marshall smiled gently. “I’m unharmed, dearest.”
Genevieve let out a sob. “I thought you were having a heart attack.”
Her mother smiled. “Yes, well, I thought perhaps you and your father needed a diversion so you could finish breaking free. And buying myself a bit more time could be beneficial as well.”
Genevieve smiled wanly and shook her head. “You scared me. But that was good thinking.” She retrieved the knife from the floor and cut her mother’s ropes.
Captain Marshall pulled Mrs. Marshall into his arms and held her. Genevieve gave them a searching gaze as if to reassure herself they were well. They wrapped their arms around her as well and all three of them enjoyed a family embrace. They were safe. At last, they were free from Wickburgh’s threats. And Genevieve was free.
Christian stood alone, strangely disjointed and out of place. Remembering Jackson, he moved to the Runner and felt for a pulse. When he found one, he let out his breath in relief. A dark stain spread from Jackson’s shoulder down his arm.
Jackson moaned and squinted up at him. “I guess I’m not dead.” He spoke with the strong tones of a fighter, not the weak rattle of a man moments from death.
Elated his injuries didn’t appear serious, Christian grinned. “No, just a teeny tiny hole in your shoulder.”
As Jackson turned his head, he hissed in his breath. “What did you do, hit me while I was unconscious?”
Someone let out his breath in disgust. “Ah! I knew I’d miss all the fun!” Cole strode in and looked around. His eyes fell on Wickburgh and his lip curled in disgust. “Messy, that.”
Christian made no attempt to reply as he gently probed Jackson’s head. Jackson gritted his teeth and grunted when Christian’s fingers found a sizable bump. “I think you hit your head when you fell. Probably what knocked you out.”
Jackson sat up, wincing and holding his shoulder. He was pale, but not deathly gray.
Christian eyed him in concern. “Perhaps you should lie back down.”
Jackson waved him off. “I’m fine. Don’t coddle.”
Christian stood and glanced at Genevieve to reassure himself she was well.
Pulling away from her parents, she looked into Christian’s eyes somberly. Then her lips curved upward. “You really are my white knight.” She ran to him then and threw herself against him. He wrapped her up tight and closed his eyes. She was safe. Safe at last.