He’d been given his leave. He was his own man again. And wasn’t that better? Wasn’t that what he’d wanted from the beginning? To strip himself of every obligation? And, by God, he’d managed that right enough.
Aye. It would be better for Kate, too. She was off to dine on gold plate and drink from crystal goblets. Tonight she would be dressed in silk, and her eyes would sparkle like black diamonds, and her skin would glow beneath the light of a thousand candles. She would smile and grow warm with the exertions of the dance and her cheeks would flush, and the marquis, unable to resist her, would come and tell her she was beautiful. But he would never know how truly beautiful she was because he would never see her eyes still black with passion, her skin damp, her hair wild about her shoulders— Or maybe he would.
Kit spurred Doran into a canter, as though he could outdistance his thoughts, and the big gelding’s long legs effortlessly ate up the miles. Nothing kept him here any longer. He had thanked the marquis for his generosity and once more been forced to accept his gratitude for bringing him Kate. He’d stood, listening politely to the marquis’s plans to introduce her at some house party and murmuring appropriately over the marquis’s concern that Merry was staying back. And he had held his tongue because it was none of his concern, none of it, not Merry, not the marquis, not Kate.
The sound of the surf mingled with the wind rushing in his ears, and still it did not drown out the sound of her voice: “Can you think of any reason why I should not stay?”
A thousand. None of them good enough.
He’d fulfilled his obligation to Colonel Nash’s daughter, and he was free to pursue his own inclination, to repay that final debt, to find his betrayer and Douglas’s murderer. And then he could …What?
Rejoin his regiment, he supposed. He was a soldier, a good tactician and a canny judge of a battlefield. With luck in a few years he might make major.
But why? Toward what end? So that he could live out his life independent, separate in heart and soul from all others. That was, after all, the promise he’d made himself after their betrayal at Le Mons.
But he wasn’t. He never could be. Not ever again. No matter whether he’d done his duty by her, fulfilled his vow, discharged his obligation, he would always be tied to Kate Nash Blackburn by bonds stronger than oaths and duty and intent and purpose. He loved her. He always would—
“Halt!”
Four men stepped out from behind boulders on either side of the road, two in front and two behind. They had pikes. One held a primed pistol. Kit hauled back on Doran’s mouth, grabbing the hilt of the claymore sheathed between his shoulder blades. With a steely hiss it slid halfway from the scabbard before he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Ye never learn, do you, lad?”
Kit turned as Callum Lamont strode up, a musket leveled at his belly. There was murder in his face and an unholy excitement in the faces of his men.
“You’d think after being gulled in France, you’d be a mite more careful who you trust.”
There was no hope of running. But that didn’t mean he had to cringe.
“For God’s sake, Callum,” Kit drawled, letting the blade slip back into its sheath. “Speak up, lad. You sound like a half-wrung pullet.”
Callum made a chopping motion with his hand, and Kit’s head exploded in pain.
And then there was nothing.
TWENTY-FOUR
DEALING WITH PHYSICAL DISCOMFORT
THE THIRD BUCKET of snow thrown in his face revived Kit. He gasped for breath, shivering and retching, the burning in his arms and shoulders obliterating the pain of broken ribs. They’d thrown a rope over a hook suspended from the croft’s low ceiling and bound his wrists at each end, and then …then Callum had had a bit of fun, but he still didn’t have the information he wanted.
He was good at beating a man, Callum was. Better than Kit would have suspected of a buggering, trumped-up sod of a Scottish whoreson. Through the red veil of pain threatening to drown him, Kit tallied the damage: a couple of broken ribs, one eye closed, a tooth knocked out, and two fingers of his right hand aligned into a symmetry God never meant.
“I know you came for the treasure,” Callum said, pacing back and forth in front of Kit. “But you won’t have it. It’s mine. I killed before for that treasure, and I’ll kill you now for it. You’re only choice is whether you want to die fast or slow. Either way, you’ll tell me where it’s hid.”
“I don’t know.” He’d already told them a dozen times, and each time won another beating. Soon he wouldn’t be answering at all.
“You do.” With a savage snarl, Callum jerked Kit up by his shirt collar, splitting the abused material down the back. Behind, one of Callum’s men whistled.
“Sweet Jesus. The bastard’s been branded,” the one called Ben whispered.
“Impressed?” Kit sneered thickly. “Maybe you’d like one. Or maybe you’d rather taste the whip? Callum here always enjoyed the tickler.”
“What’s he mean?”
“Callum and I are old mates, aren’t we, Callum? Saved my life in prison.”
“That true?” one of the men asked.
Kit kept talking, because as long as they were listening, Callum’s men weren’t beating him. “There’s something I been meaning to ask you, Callum.”
“You’re here to answer questions, not ask ’em.”
He ignored that. “Who betrayed us, Callum? Me and Ram and Dand and Douglas? Do you know?”
“I knew it!” he crowed, grinning broadly. “I knew you never tumbled to it! Ha! That’s rich, that is! Lovely, even.”
“Who was it?”
Callum’s smiled thinned. He leaned down, bringing his face within inches of Kit’s. “Tell me what I want to know, and as soon as I have the treasure, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Kit ground his teeth. “I don’t know.”
Callum straightened, thwarted. “A right fine piece of work the Frogs done on him, eh, lads? But I’ll wager I can do as good.”
Kit met his glare through a haze of agony. He’d be damned to hell if he showed a shred of fear to the likes of Callum Lamont. “You’re sure you’re up to the task, Callum? You sound a bit hoarse. Maybe you’re coming down—ah!”
Callum’s fist slammed against Kit’s jaw, snapping his head back. “We’ll see how quick ye are with a quip by nightfall. Get me the reins from your horse, Ben.”
“Dinna think you should, Callum?” Ben asked.
“What?”
“It’s just that it was hard to wake him last time, and if ye lay on too hard, he’ll not be able to tell us where Murdoch and his wife stored the gold.”
“Lad has a point,” Kit said.
“Shut up.”
“Yer sure he knows where it is, Callum?” another asked. “We been at him, and he swears he don’t know nothing. And I’m thinkin’ maybe he don’t.”
“Thinkin’?” Callum shouted. He impaled each of his men with a challenging glare. “Well, they say there’s a first for everything.”
Kit waited, trying to gather what strength he had. He knew men like these, had trained them, led them, and fought beside them. They respected but one thing: strength. Right now Callum had pitted his will against Kit’s, and the smuggler understood well enough that to fail to get the information he sought would undermine his power.
Kit would have smiled if his face hadn’t hurt so. Callum could beat him until the marrow ran like jelly from his bones—he didn’t know where any “treasure” was.
“Why do you think he knows something, Callum? She tell you?”
She. Merry.
“Nah. I had it direct from our partner. He’s proved oft times enough that he knows what’s what and, more important, what’s where, hasn’t he, now?”
“Aye,” a couple agreed.
“I thought he was in France,” Ben said.
“Not no more. He didn’t want to lose his part of that last wreck any more than we did, lads. King’s ransom, it’s worth. We been working on it, him at the castle and me here in Clyth.”
At the castle?
Callum was boasting now, trying to impress his men with his cleverness and his partner’s usefulness. “He found out that Murdoch’s wife sent her cousin a letter telling where the loot was hid, and that the widow and lover here come to fetch it for themselves.”
Someone grabbed a hank of Kit’s hair and lifted his head. “That true, Cap? You come here to steal our booty?”
“Yours? You’re wreckers.” Kit did not keep the sneer from his voice. Wreckers were worse than pirates, who at least met their victims on level ground. Wreckers waited for storms to bring in ships looking for safety, using lanterns and shore fires to lure them onto reefs where the sea and surf would batter them to bits. Then they collected the ship’s cargo from the beaches, murdering any survivors who made it to shore so they couldn’t carry tales. “Murderers.”
The backhanded blow caught Kit on the temple, snapping his head back.“Where is my gold?!”
“If you wanted the letter Grace Murdoch wrote to Mrs. Blackburn, why didn’t you just have your bride steal it when she ransacked Mrs. Blackburn’s room at the tavern?” he asked scornfully. “Why? Because there isn’t a letter. Where is the fair Mrs. Lamont anyway? Outside, waiting in the carriage? I wouldn’t have taken her for a squeamish lass.”
“Mrs. Lamont?” Callum stared at him.
“Surprised I know?” Kit asked, hoping for a brief respite to gather his wits. “I found her in the stables, hiding her luggage in anticipation of going off with you. It’s why she stayed home, isn’t it?”
Something was wrong. Callum had stepped back, blinking rapidly, his expression dumbfounded. Shocked. And suddenly Kit understood. “She set you up.” He laughed. “We’ve both been set up.”
“What’s he talking about?”
“Shut up.”
Sensing Callum’s thickening anxiety, a worry that hung over him like the stink on a peat bog, Ben edged forward. “What’s he mean?”
“Look outside,” Kit ordered. “Is the militia here yet? Nah. He’d wait a while to be certain you’ve killed me first. You still have time to escape, Callum. Best take it.”
“The militia!”
“Shut up!” Callum bellowed.
“I thought she meant she’d eloped with you, but she meant Captain Watters. Your partner,” Kit said. “I should know. Nothing in the army is quick, and the replacement for the dead captain arrived right quick. Watters killed Captain Greene, didn’t he? Then he lay low. Probably in this very croft. That’s why he told you to take me here, so he’d know exactly where to send the militia.”
“What militia?” Panic had entered Ben’s voice.
Kit ignored him, musing through it. “He kills Greene, dons the dead man’s own tunic and sash, rides to the castle and takes over the militia, marries the girl, collects a fortune, kills the witnesses—and the partners—and rides out. Cocky bastard. But brilliant.” He didn’t bother hiding his admiration.
Callum closed the distance between them, slamming his fist into Kit’s gut. “Shut yer hole!”
Kit gasped, fighting the clouds dimming his vision. “She’s leaving with him, Callum,” he croaked. “Maybe already left.
“Think about it! She was with the marquis when he received word that Kate Blackburn had arrived in Clyth. She rode to the inn that afternoon and searched her room, looking for whatever it was that told where Grace had hid the treasure.
“She found it. Don’t you see? They already have the treasure. They set this up to get rid of everyone who knows that she conspired at Grace’s murder, everyone who knows that Captain Watters doesn’t exist, everyone who might want a piece of that treasure. That’s you, Callum!
“You fool, they set us up. She rides off with Watters or whatever the hell his name is and the treasure and you and I and all your men are killed, surrounded by Greene’s militia—”
A door banged open, and Callum spun around as Ben raced out of the croft. “Ben!” he shouted. “Get the hell back here! He’s trying to save his own neck! It’s lies!”
“Easy enough to find out!” Ben shouted back. “You said Merry Benny went to MacPhersons’. I’ll just ride to the castle and see.”
Before Callum could stop him, he’d vanished.
“Bloody bastard!” Callum exploded. The blow to his gut took Kit out at the knees. The weight of his falling body nearly pulled his arms from their sockets, but he did nothing to regain his feet, feigning unconsciousness. He hung a long, long time.
The other men kept mum. Through the slit of his remaining good eye, Kit watched Callum swear, pace, pour half a skin of wine down his throat, and pace some more. The minutes dragged by, the men sullen and wary, Callum pacing the croft like a caged beast. He muttered to himself as he walked, “She wouldn’t dare,” “She knows I’d kill her if I found out,” “She loves me,” and worse, once, a broken sound of panic and fury, “She knows how much I love her!”
Kit’s strength faded with each minute. If Ben didn’t return soon, he wouldn’t be conscious to take advantage of whatever edge the resultant confusion might create. Finally, when the pain had become nearly unbearable, he heard the sound of an approaching horse. Callum swung the door wide and shouted, “I told you it was a pack of lies!”
“She’s at the castle!” Ben came breathless into the room. “She’s there, and what’s more I seen her packing them bags he talked about with me own eyes. She’s getting ready to fly, Callum, and if you didn’t know about it, I want to know why—”
“Get out of my way!” With a roar of rage, Callum shouldered his way through the group of men at the door and rushed out into the fading afternoon light, the sounds of hoofbeats following.
“Do you think the Cap here was telling the truth about the militia, too?” one man finally asked.
“Do you want to stay and find out?” Ben sneered.
“What about Callum?”
“What about Callum?” Ben shot back. “He’s gone to deal with his woman.” His voice dropped. “I wouldn’t want to be that little bitch for any money on earth. It’s terrible and wonderful the things a man in love is capable of doing,” he finished solemnly. “He’ll kill her sure, and if the widow tries to stop him, he’ll kill her, too.”
Kit’s breath caught. Kate had gone to the MacPhersons. He had seen her leaving himself.
“The widow? She was supposed to be with the marquis. You sure she’s there?” someone asked.
“Aye. Saw her standing at a window, staring out to sea. “
Dear God. Watters had already murdered to keep his involvement a secret. If Kate found him with Merry…
“I don’t like none of this no more. I say we clear out, back to Clyth,” Ben said.
“What aboot him?”
“We kill him. Slit his throat.”
He couldn’t die. He had to protect Kate, and no act of man or God, no failure of flesh or spirit, was going to keep him from doing just that. Every muscle within him tensed. He waited, his head lolling, until a pair of boots appeared before him.
The man sighed and grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking Kit’s head back. Only Kit’s head didn’t yank. Using every bit of strength he owned, he drove upright, kneeing the man hard in the groin. His knife clattered to the ground as the pain sent the bastard to his knees and Kit leapt atop his back, flicking the rope binding his wrists free of the hook.
Before anyone had moved, he dropped to the floor and scooped up the fallen dagger. Ben reached for his pistol, and Kit threw the dagger, impaling him in the throat. The other two men scrambled for their swords as Kit launched himself toward the great claymore in the croft’s corner.
“His sword hand is all smashed!” someone cried. “He’s crippled. Kill him!”
But Kit had learned to fight as well with one hand as the other. With a roar, Kit pivoted on his knees, swinging the blade in a lethal arc. Not high where they expected it, but low, the steel edge slashing through thigh muscles and sinew, biting bone before swinging on. The men screamed and grabbed at their legs, blood pulsing between their fingers as they collapsed.
They weren’t a threat any longer. He faced the man he’d kneed and saw that the bastard had recovered sufficiently to begin crawling toward the door. Kit turned the heavy sword in his hand and brought the hilt crashing down on the back of his head, dropping him flat on his face in the dirt.
Staggering, his vision blurred and his limbs shaking, Kit kicked the weapons out of his way and retrieved the claymore’s scabbard. He jerked off his ruined shirt and with his teeth tore a strip from it, binding his broken fingers tightly together. His ribs would have to wait. Then, with a growl of pain, he strapped the leather sheath in place and headed outside. Doran stood tied to a post rail. They’d taken off his saddle but not his bridle.
Grinding his teeth, Kit grabbed a handful of mane and dragged himself astride. He looked behind him. One, probably two, dead, two more grievously hurt. Ben had been right. Terrible and wonderful were the things a man in love was capable of.
He dug his heels into Doran’s flanks and rode.
He had more “terrible things” yet to do.