If You Dare (40 page)

Fiona said with obvious reluctance, “I will, but no' until Anna leaves. He's been most affected by the curse and, unfortunately, he'd think badly of her before he believed the babe was Court's. But Hugh I'll tell at the first opportunity.”

“He should think badly of me regardless! I'm ruined. Courtland never asked me to marry him.”

“Because he loves you and dinna want to see you hurt. After the attack he would have felt responsible. But he said words to you, words that you doona say to anyone but the one you want for the rest of your life.”

“That's all well and good, Lady Fiona. And I appreciate the sentiment—it means much that he has said these things to me. But some Gaelic love words aren't going to give my—
Mare de Déu
—my baby a last name.”

Fates
were
inescapable.
Look on the bright side,
she told herself, nearly laughing out loud.
At least I can no longer look down on my mother.

•  •  •

“A little more efficiently, then,” Court advised Llorente as the third guard dropped, though he wasn't completely unim-pressed.

“Go to hell, MacCarrick,” Llorente snapped.

“Give it time,” Court mused. “Now move fast. We need to get there before Hugh sets up.”

They entered the building, treading down the dimly lit halls that Olivia had mapped for them. Just as she'd predicted, they heard Pascal inside the manor's office.

At the end of the adjoining hall, they set up against opposite walls, Llorente with two pistols and Court with his rifle and pistol.

Court said in a low voice, “The men with him will believe the explosion is the arsenal blowing from an attack. When they run out, pick them off. Doona hesitate.”

Soon after the manor quaked as the massive detonation sounded outside. Dust from the roof timbers and plaster ceiling rained on them, coating their shoulders and hair. “Andorran construction,” Court said under his breath. Llorente cast him a black look.

At the explosion, the door flew open, and as predicted, four men ran outside. Court began shooting, Llorente followed, and the men dropped. But another four, this time Rechazados, had lined up, stealing glances at the doorway. Court exhaled. They were going to be here all night. This was what he'd always hated about the job. The bloody downtime—

Wait . . .
“Llorente,” he hissed in whisper, “shoot through the wall.
Now.”

Taking out the Rechazados behind the walls required more bullets, but eventually they saw through a cloud of white dust and ricocheted stone that they'd fallen. “As I said, Andorran construction,” Court mumbled as they advanced past the bodies. He swung his empty rifle to his back, then handed Llorente a handful of bullets. “Put one in each of their skulls to make sure they're dead.”

He heard Llorente shooting behind him as he made his way to the doorway to the office. Inside, Court found the Rechazado leader armed with only a knife and scowled. Too easy.

He raised his pistol to fire, but his weight left the ground as he was wrenched from his feet. One of the fallen Rechazados had not been dispatched. Court scrambled up, swinging the gun around, and shot twice, killing the man, using two of his three remaining bullets. He spied Llorente grappling with another.
He had the advantage, but Court couldn't risk it. “God damn it, Llorente.”

“They won't
die!”
he responded wildly just before Court fired.

That's why I told you to shoot them.

Now Court faced the Rechazado leader with an empty pistol, knowing he'd never be able to reload in time. When the man tossed his knife back and forth, taunting him, Court understood what he had to do. “If you're goin' to play with it, let me know, but I'd thought you might get the urge to throw it.” The man had no emotion on his face, even as he flipped up the blade to pinch the tip.

He flung it; Court dodged but caught it deep in his left shoulder. He'd known he'd catch it somewhere at this range. “My thanks,” he hissed as he tore the knife from his shoulder.

Movement to his right. Court threw the knife blindly.

The last thing he saw before the Rechazado soundlessly plowed into him was Pascal levering the blade out from his collar area.

He and the Rechazado hurled toward the room's main window, crashing through the glass onto the street below. Court landed on his back, taking both their weights against his rifle, his pistol knocked from his hand. He scrabbled to his feet, struggling for breath. The man drew another knife from an arm sheath.

Court's lips curled into a sneer. He nodded at the Rechazado, then daubed at his neck, as though indicating to him that he missed a spot shaving or nicked himself. The man lifted his hand and felt the protrusion of glass jutting from where it was buried in his neck. Court would give him five minutes. Fewer if he removed it. Court doubtless had a similar wound that he'd been incapable of feeling and willed himself not to look down.

The man stumbled, but his knife stayed poised. Court
ventured a look in the window and saw Llorente and Pascal in a pistol-to-pistol standoff. Though blood had spread across his shirt, Pascal began speaking to Llorente, just as Court had known he would. The Rechazado lunged and Court skipped back, but all the while he could hear. . . .

“Surprising that my daughter chose a life with you over one with me,” he said, his tone even and mild despite the injury. “And I'm not often surprised.”

“I'm sure she had other reasons to leave you.”

“Yes, I believe she found out that, sadly, the odds are against my being her father.”

Court heard it all, but remarkably the Rechazado was still prowling. Court glanced up and saw Llorente's brows drawing together.
Don't get dragged in,
he wanted to yell, but knew if he distracted Llorente for a second he'd get him killed.

He began digging for a bullet, but the Rechazado flicked the blade up, readying to throw. Court put his hands up. They continued to circle.

“She didn't tell you?” Pascal made a tsking sound. “That's not very forthcoming of her, and I do apologize in the case that she actually is mine.” He smiled a sheepish smile, looking so . . . sane, then added, “If you do happen to get out of this alive, please tell her that her dubious parentage is all her mother's fault.”

The Rechazado lunged and Court dodged.

“I will never tell her that her mother was impure,” Llorente grated.

“Did I say she was impure? It was her very purity that attracted us. Not only a devout widow, but beautiful as well. How could we not have her that night?”

At that Court had to glance up. Llorente's face was twisted with fury, his hand shaking just as Pascal intended. Court
faced the Rechazado with an irritated look. “Be quick about this, man. I doona have all night.”

Finally, he gurgled blood, and his knife hand drooped. Court strode up, knocked the knife down, and without slowing, he twisted the man's neck until it broke. Below the window, he collected the rifle, taking time only to load it with one bullet. He ratcheted his arms up, and set his shoulders.

Court drew a bead on Pascal and fired.

Pascal fired and fell.

Immediately sounding from inside: “God damn it, MacCarrick!” Then more weakly: “You got me shot. . . .”

S
top your caterwauling,” Court snapped. “Your sister's was as bad as this, and it dinna stop her from glaring at me with hatred for even a second. She never shed a single tear.”

Truth was that Llorente's wound was a wee bit worse. The bullet had torn past his side leaving a sizable gash. Court himself had collected a good-sized shard of glass, and since it was wedged into his calf, sitting seemed much preferable to walking, even if he had to do it with Llorente. Hugh had found the two of them propped up against separate walls, drinking whisky and sniping at each other. He'd sent Liam to fetch a physician, then stood guard as they waited.

“She really dinna cry?” Hugh asked as he pressed his shirt to the ragged slashes on his face caused by the splintering rock. Though successful, Hugh had returned, shaking his head and mumbling,
“Slate. Who knew?”

Court sounded proud when he said, “Bravest lass I've ever known.” Of course he was proud, but he didn't get to be. She
wasn't his any longer. His head fell back against the wall, and he stared at the ceiling.

“God damn it, Court”—Hugh kicked his good leg—“I'll no' tell you again to keep pressure on your shoulder.”

“How could you do that?” Llorente bit out the question for the fifteenth time. “Make him shoot me?”

“I figured my aim was better than his. Looks about right to me.”

“He bloody shot me!”

“If you had killed the others we would no' be in this situation.”

“That one had a gaping hole in his stomach. How did he live through that?” Llorente set his bottle down as if he'd just comprehended something. “You've now done everything you bloody could to wreck my life.”

Court swigged, then said, “I swear to you, man, Anna is no' the one who should wear skirts in this family.”

Finally, Llorente appeared furious.

“Hugh, tell him what Pascal would've done if I had no' shot.”

“He would've pulled the trigger soon. He was baiting you, and his aim would've been colder.”

“Did you hear what he said about Olivia?” Llorente's words were a touch slurred.

“Aye,” Court admitted.

“I'd wondered about her loyalties, could never quite see why she'd do this to her father.” He added to himself, “She'd been loyal all along to her mother,” then frowned. “Think I love her.” He winced when he tried to move.

Court shook his head at Llorente's wound. That one truly needed to get sewn.

He could hear Niall and the others yelling and laughing in the distance as the shots became fewer and fewer. They were
going to tear apart this place tonight looking for Pascal's stash of goods and coin.

Court figured they liked playing the heroes because they'd decided almost to a man to restore everything to its rightful owners before Andorra's typically harsh winter came to these people. Lucrative bounties made it easy to be a hero, he supposed.

“I'm going to contact Ethan now,” Llorente said. “Ask him to send them home with escorts.”

“What for?”

“Your brother said to leave it to him—not to you—when the time came. Now that we've won, is there any reason I shouldn't be bringing my sister and Olivia here?”

Both Llorente and Hugh waited for his answer. “No. No reason no' to. Ethan will make sure they're safe.”

“You'll ride before then?”

Court felt a muscle in his cheek twitch.

•  •  •

Each hour that had passed on the way home was agony, but at least during the trip Annalía had stopped throwing up everything she ate. With every mile closer in that coach, she and Olivia had bickered, even after Olivia had said, “As far as spoiled heiresses go, you're not too bad,” and Annalía had responded, “As far as conniving witches go, I've met worse.” But truly, if they hadn't bickered, what else would there have been to do?

And though Olivia seemed unaffected by the news of her father's death, Annalía had kept her occupied in any event. “I keep replaying the scene we'll have when we ride into the courtyard,” Annalía had told her. “I'll rush to MacCarrick. Aleix will push you into the lake. It will be
perfect.”

“Keep up your teasing. I don't care,” Olivia had responded. “But after I tell Aleix how nasty you've been to me, what incentive will he have to be civil to
your
unsuitable mate?”

She'd had a point, but fortunately she suspected Olivia wouldn't tell Aleix anything.

And now, today, they were finally here. When the coach stopped and Ethan's guards deemed it safe to clear room, Annalía tumbled out and ran to the house. She tripped in breathless and hugged Aleix, who'd come to greet them.

He smiled down at her and then at Olivia when she entered. A peculiar smile for Olivia. A
loving
smile? She'd never really seen them together. Oh, Olivia did
not
just blush?

Annalía waved her hand in front of him. “Where's MacCarrick?”

He faced her, his expression turning grave. “Annalía, he's . . . well, he's ridden from here. He went north, I believe.”

A wheezing sound passed her lips as she sank down onto an ottoman. “I don't understand. Why would he do that? Didn't he know we were returning?”

Olivia walked up behind her. “Did he say anything?”

“He wished Annalía well.”

“Wished me well?”
Her voice was strident. She hadn't stopped throwing up. She believed she would right now.