In the Brief Eternal Silence (66 page)

With that he secured his two pistols, one
drawn, one taken back from Steven (and if he had a moment of
renewed confidence that he at least had his most prized and, to his
way of thinking, most accurate weapons back as a set in his
possession again, he had no time to consider it) which with the
pistol he had taken from the man bound on the ground replacing the
one he had given to Steven meant he now had three in his waist
band, and he jumped at the wall of the warehouse and managed to get
the fingers of his left hand over the edge of the slate roof of the
low slung building. His right hand slipped, and he felt a piercing
of pain in his chest and knew that at least half of Lizzie's
stitches had just broken open. Then Tyler was beneath him, shoving
him up by the ass, and St. James kicked off from Tyler's shoulders
and was up on the roof. He had a clear sight of the house and it
was burning furiously, smoke pouring out from it in great cloudy
plumes. The street below was filling with women and children as
they poured out from neighboring houses, for the fire would no
doubt spread in just a moment's time to its close neighbors. But
the milling crowd proved no deterrent in keeping any one from
shooting again for another shot rang out from just on the further
side of the warehouse.

St. James scrambled up the pitch of the roof
to the top and he filled both hands with weapons as he went. He
tripped going over the peak and was hard pressed to control his
fall. He landed hard on his knees, sprawled face down arrowing down
the slant of it, nearly lost one pistol but managed to retain it,
his chest screaming pain, and he skidded with more luck than
precision to just to the edge of the roof, where he clawed to a
stop before falling off the further side. He looked down, his right
hand pointing his pistol in that direction and was just in time to
see a startled, grizzled face look up with surprised shock into the
barrel of his gun.

And Dante released the hammer and blew that
man's face from his head.

The man flung back, his own weapon going off
as he had held it at the ready to shoot the occupants of the
burning house.

St. James rolled around, slid from the roof
and landed awkwardly on the ground, catching himself hard with one
elbow as he still had a pistol in either hand. He rose, pocketed
the one he had just fired and took the third from his waist band.
He ran from the corner of the warehouse to the burning home. A
bullet skidded just below one of his flying heels, and he gritted
his teeth, for he had suspected there would be more than the two
now neutralized, but he dared not try for another when he had no
clear idea where they may be and no further time to waste
looking.

He only hoped that with no help from their
accomplices, that those left were not skilled enough shots and had
not enough ready weapons to do the job themselves.

Then he was at the door, and he slammed his
shoulder into it without slowing, and it flung open with a bang and
he landed into the midst of the small room sliding on his side and
with both pistols pointed out the open door in case a third
aggressor should be so bold as to follow him.

And Bertie said, coughs punctuating his words
from the swirling smoke in the room, “Damn it, St. James! I nearly
shot you!”

The heat was intolerable, and Bertie had to
shout to even make these words heard for the noise of the
clapboards burning above their heads was an endless din, and there
was a great bawling from a child. “Lizzie!” St. James bellowed, and
she was there beside him, crawling on her hands and knees. He
pulled himself around, put his feet beneath him and into a crouch.
“Hang onto my coat, and stay close, do you understand?”

“What about the others?”

“Bertie, wait as long as you can after we
leave, do you hear me? As long as you possibly can! Then get them
out through the front door!”

“No worry,” Bertie replied. “Go!”

“No!” Miss Murdock protested. “I won't be so
cowardly as to leave them in here! Damn it, Dante—!”

St. James, with one fluid motion, turned his
gun to the interior of the room, aimed it at the first face that
was discernible in the smoke, a young lad of a boy about seven
years old, and told Miss Murdock in a ruthless, furious voice,
“You'll come now, or I'll relieve you of the cause of your
reluctance immediately!”

“Bastard!” But her hands found his coat, and
without further delay, he moved forward with her behind him, and
kept his body between her and where he had judged the shots to be
coming from.

The street was a melee of people, but even so
another shot was fired, and the people fled, screaming, in either
direction, and he and Miss Murdock were left quite alone to run
toward the mew and Tyler. St. James held his two pistols at the
ready, but he saw Tyler leaning from the corner of the warehouse,
and that man's gun went off, spooking back whomever he had caught
sight of who had been shooting at them. Then Steven was there
beside Tyler and he had loosed Tyler's mount from the back of the
curricle, and with a slap on its flank, sent it toward them. St.
James cursed, thrust one of his guns at Miss Murdock, who had the
presence of mind to take it, and he grabbed one rein as the horse
went to go by, turned it, and then he had it between the shooters
and he and Miss Murdock, and in this manner, they made it to the
mouth of the mew.

She was furious and frightened, and as soon
as they made cover she turned with a great deal of agitation, and
he was forced to yell, “Tyler! Get her, or the little fool will go
back!” for he still had a gun in one hand and the horse he dared
not let go of in the other, as it was so spooked he would never get
it back.

And Miss Murdock turned with sudden ferocity
and lifted the gun that he had handed her and pointed it at him.
“Damn you! St. James. Would you let them die then for my sake!” she
asked him.

Tyler grabbed the gun from her hand and St.
James secured his pistol back into his waist band, and he snagged
her arm and pulled her forward. “Up!” he told her, and threw her
with roughness into the saddle, grabbed his other still loaded
pistol from Tyler. “Tyler, stay and see that all goes well with
them. Use the curricle once they're out! Cover us as long as you
can from here!” and then he thrust his foot into the iron, swung
onto the horse behind Lizzie even as he shouted at it, so that it
was startled and running before he even made his way into the
portion of saddle he could find behind Lizzie's disarrayed riding
habit.

She picked up the reins, but as she went to
draw in the mount, still furious at his abandoning his friend and a
woman with two small children to the flames, he goaded her, “Go,
damn it! They will come out all right, for those that are shooting
will be after us, not them.” He filled his hands once again with
his pistols, and she, still with no clear understanding of his
reasoning, at least perceived that it was not his intention to see
Bertie or Steven's family die, loosed the reins and urged the horse
forward with its double load.

Then Dante brought his knees to rest over
Lizzie's stockinged legs, for her habit was not made for riding
astride and had pulled up far higher than was decent. Before she
could protest or question, he was speaking into her ear, “Turn
right, here, Lizzie, and that's the last I am going to be able to
tell you, for I fear I am going to be busy. Have you ever ridden a
mount that took leg signals?”

“Yes. Of course,” she answered, for she knew
he referred to a horse that could be directed into turning by
pressure of one knee or the other rather than by reining.

“Then you are going to pretend to be that
horse, my dear. If you feel pressure from one of my knees or the
other, rein in that direction and keep reining until I let the
pressure up. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good lass.” He said nothing more but turned
as far as he could in his position behind her to see what may be
occurring to their rear. And he was not surprised to see two riders
now following. Even from a distance he could see that one had a
very red face, and reddish blonde hair, and that his eyes seemed
very blue, and from Steven's description to him when questioned
about his meeting of the night before in Red's pub, he gathered
this must be Red himself.

The other was the one remaining assassin
hired through Red, he surmised, and that left one assassin, besides
Steven's father, dead, and the other trussed and in the warehouse.
Which meant that unless Red had hired more, they were all accounted
for and Bertie should have no problem getting the Crockner's from
their home, merely leaving through the door as they should have
been able to from the beginning, without anyone shooting at
them.

No. Only he and Miss Murdock had any worry at
this point.

Even as he thought this, Red's hired man
pointed his pistol at him and fired, and the bullet skimmed past
and ricocheted from the brick of the building to the side of them.
He felt Lizzie flinch, and he could feel her legs shaking, and he
pressed his left knee against hers with insistent pressure and was
relieved to see that she still had enough nerve to rein the horse
in that direction. And as he did not let up pressure, she kept it
turning, until they were going in a small, sharp circle back onto
their foe. Still he kept pressure on her knee, not wanting her to
be a target instead of himself, and he aimed and fired from over
her shoulder as the horse charged back in direct line at their
pursuers. He could not tell if he had done any damage, but it did
have the effect of making their pursuers drop back with abruptness
and he could hear their loud cursing even from this distance. Then
the horse was turned in completion of its tight-haunched circle,
and Miss Murdock needed no instruction to urge it again into as
quick a pace as it could possibly go.

“Where?” she panted.

“Can you find the North road from here?”

“I—I think so!”

“Find it, and put as many buildings as you
can between ourselves and them as you do so, for I have but one
bullet at the ready until I am able to reload.”

She directed the horse around a corner of a
building and they came out into a market, and if it were not
Piccadilly, it was still fashionable enough for her to cringe
wondering if they should be recognized, but it did have the
advantage of many wagons and carts and conveyances, and she
threaded them through as adeptly as she could, screening their
route from their pursuers, and all the while, she was aware of
Dante at her back, reloading powder and ball into his spent
pistols.

And that is how, Miss Murdock thought, one
came to have a reputation for being a rake. For in all their
powdered and protected existence, few of the peerage would view
their antics as anything but a bit of scandalous misbehavior on
their part.

Then Dante turned once again, scanning behind
them, and he secured his pistols, leaned up against her back and
his hands came around her to take the reins. “I think that has done
it for now,” he said, “and perhaps we should get off this stage
before any one further recognizes us. I am afraid, Miss Murdock,
that your reputation will be quite ruined after this little
escapade.”

“Oh, it no longer even matters,” she
exclaimed, close to tears as he directed them down another mew and
they left the raucous cries for fish and fruit behind. “I assume
that we are just supposed to die in a respectable manner rather
than do what is necessary to save our own lives!”

“Why yes, Miss Murdock,” he replied with dry
amusement. “You understand precisely.” And then he pressed his lips
to the back of her neck that he found through her half undone hair
before adding, “But do not fret too much, for this is all going to
be finished very shortly.”

And rather than filling her with relief, his
words only made her all the more frightened.

“You know then?” she asked over the drum of
the horse's hooves. His arms tightened about her as he reined down
yet another street, followed it for a short distance and threaded
into another mew that was taking them north and east.

“Yes,” he told her. “I have been a great
fool, and I have put you in danger because of my foolishness, and
the only thing that keeps me from turning this horse back now and
taking care of the two knaves in pursuit of us is the fact that you
are with me.”

“So you are taking me to Chestershire after
all,” she perceived.

And he hesitated, filling her with even more
unease before saying, “Yes. After a brief but necessary trip to
Gretna Green, my dear.”

And she stiffened and flushed with sudden
anger, nearly as much anger as she had felt when he had pointed a
gun at a seven year old in order to gain his way with her, and she
could only say, “Damn you, Dante! Damn you!”

But he said nothing to regain her trust, and
she realized that perhaps there was nothing he could say to regain
her trust. And his silent admissions were damning.

The longer the silence stretched between
them, the more irrevocable it seemed his actions were. Her thoughts
shut down, and for hours she was only aware of the horse moving
beneath her, slowed to a trot and laboring now, and of St. James'
hard body pressed up against her back; the strength in his elegant,
pale hands as they controlled their mount, and the arms that were
wrapped about her. His breath enveloped her hair and her neck, and
every so often, as though he could not stop himself, he leaned his
head against hers and smelled her hair, or whispered his lips along
the lobe of her ear.

And she fought the tears that threatened to
come from her eyes, first in frustration and anger and then as she
realized that they had in fact left London well behind and were
traveling the North road, and that he had, if not relaxed, at least
seemed to have lost some of that dreadful, tightly wound tautness,
she cried in hopelessness.