Once an Innocent (30 page)

“Good thing we brought the axe,” Henri said, his mouth fixed in a grim line. He retrieved the blade from his sack and fitted his hands around the handle.

“What do you mean to do?” she asked.

“Break through the lock, of course,” he said. Without further explanation, he lifted the ax over his head and brought it crashing down into the wood beside the ring.

He wiggled the blade free and lifted it again.

“There’s no lock, Henri,” Naomi pointed out. “It’s just the ring.”

Henri’s eyes were wild. “Then, why won’t it open?” he bellowed.

“It’s sealed shut from all the soil and plants grown up around it. Help me clear it.”

Determined to put his tool to use, Henri used the axe to hack at the grass and other weeds encroaching on the wood while Naomi clawed at the soil. In no time, her nails were black.

“There,” she said after they’d managed to remove the bulk of the debris. “Let’s try again.”

They grabbed the rusted, old ring and heaved. They pulled until her hands burned from the friction of the metal against her skin. Beneath them, Naomi felt the smallest response.

“It’s moving!” Henri’s voice was jubilant.

Slowly, the door gave way. Inch by inch, the wood creaked its way into the air. A cold breeze whooshed out of the cellar. Henri gripped the door itself while Naomi continued to pull on the ring.

The sound of hoofbeats drew her attention. A horse whinnied. Naomi squinted and exhaled a sigh of relief when she recognized the dismounting rider. “It’s Mr. Ditman,” she said. For once, she was glad to see the man. She raised her hand high and waved to catch his attention.

That’s when Fitzhugh Ditman lifted his arm, trained a pistol on them, and fired.

• • •

The shot might as well have gone through Jordan’s heart. Naomi didn’t have a gun, which meant someone had fired
at
her. Someone was trying to kill her. He dug his heels into Phantom’s sides, urging the great stallion to speeds reckless on the narrow, woodland path. In the damp earth, he’d spotted the fresh prints of a lady’s and a man’s boots — Naomi and Enrique.

After the fighting in the entry hall, he knew they’d run. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one looking for them.

He rounded the bend and saw the gunman hastily reloading. Jordan’s blood ran cold at the sickening betrayal. Before Phantom had stopped, Jordan was out of the saddle and barreling down on Fitzhugh Ditman.

With a guttural roar, he tackled the man around the middle, sending them both flying down the hillside stairs. As they fell, Jordan grasped the front of his onetime-friend’s coat and maneuvered so he landed on top. The impact stunned him for only a fraction of a second, and then his fist struck his foe across the jaw.

“You son of a bitch!” he bellowed. Naomi hadn’t trusted the man, but Jordan had insisted on his value to the mission. He should have listened to her. “I’ll kill you myself, you worthless traitor.”

He glanced up, dreading the vision awaiting him. She wasn’t there. Oh, God, had the bullet struck home?

Fitz’s eyes were dazed. He made no move to fight back. Instead, he lifted his hands in surrender. “Pocket,” he groaned.

Turning around, Jordan knelt on Ditman’s arms to pin them while he searched the man’s coat. He fished out a document, which he unfolded and read. Reading was slower going, as it was written in French. As the meaning became clear, Jordan’s stomach plummeted.

“No,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “This can’t be right.”

“Came off their courier,” Ditman said. “He tried to tell me he was just a tutor.”

“Is he … ?”

“I killed him.”

“Good,” Jordan said. He scrambled up and gave Fitz a hand to his feet. “Where did they go?”

Blood dripped from his split bottom lip. He swiped it with the back of his hand, spat, then pointed to a spot twenty yards from the old chapel. “Down a hole, like a couple of rats.”

Jordan started forward, his only thought on getting Naomi out of there safely.

“Wait.” Fitz Ditman’s small eyes burned with malice. “That girl of yours. You know she’s one of them. As much time as she spent snooping around, she must be.”

Naomi? A traitor? Jordan’s mind recoiled. “That’s not possible.” He gestured emphatically. “There’s not a duplicitous bone in her body.”

“Well, that’s just what she’d want you to think, isn’t it?” His scar puckered at his mirthless smile. “Just be ready, Freese. Be ready for anything.”

• • •

“I knew it!” Naomi sputtered dirt out of her mouth as she picked herself up off the floor of a very old, and amazingly dry, cellar. “I knew that man was a snake in the grass.” She made a frustrated sound. “I told Jordan, but would he listen to me? Of course not.”

Henri was likewise brushing dust from his clothes as they examined the small chamber.

The only illumination came from the overhead door. Thank goodness it was daytime, Naomi thought. A shaft of light showed the narrow, stone steps they’d tumbled down when they’d dived into the cellar to escape Mr. Ditman’s assassination attempt. The walls were lined with shelves carved into the bedrock. There were some stoneware basins stacked beside the stairs, and a pail in the far corner.

“I suppose we have to close the door,” Naomi said. She was loath to do so, as they’d be plunged into blackness. “There’s another handle on the underside of the door. Maybe we can put something through it, so the door can’t be opened again.”

“What’s going on out there?” The nobleman’s voice wavered as he spoke.

Naomi looked at him over her shoulder and gave a sympathetic smile. “It will be all right, Henri.”

She crept up the stairs and peeked across the grass. Mr. Ditman’s horse still stood at the top of the hill and had been joined by another horse. “Phantom?” she murmured. Jordan must have been nearby. But where?

Finally, she spotted the two men conversing in the shadow of one of the church pillars. Jordan didn’t know Mr. Ditman was a traitor. Otherwise, he would have taken him down by now. “Henri,” she hissed to her companion, “help me close the door.”

“Come ’ere first,” he said in a low voice. “I found something that might ’elp.”

Turning back into the gloomy interior robbed Naomi of her sight. She held a hand in front of her as she ducked down the stairs. Suddenly, Henri grabbed her hand and pulled her close. In his other hand, he held a knife. The dim light glinted off the long, wicked blade. She shivered. That thing could do some serious harm. “Did you find that here?” she asked.

Henri’s chin trembled. “I brought it from the kitchen.”

“Good thinking,” she commended, “but I don’t think it will do for barring the door. Maybe the axe handle.”

Naomi tried to tug her hand free so she could retrieve the tool, but Henri would not relinquish his grip. His hold was surprisingly strong. “I’m sorry,” he said regretfully. “I really did like ’aving you for a friend.”

“What are you talking about?”

He swung her around, so her back was pressed against his front. She yelped. “Henri! What are you doing?”

The sharp edge of the knife touched her throat. “I really am sorry.”

Naomi’s mind froze. It was last summer, and she was in her brother’s greenhouse, with a gun pressed to her temple by a madwoman.
This is not happening,
she insisted to herself.
It’s a waking nightmare. Marshall warned there might be bad experiences after such a trauma, and I’m finally having one.
Why her brain had chosen to cast Henri in the villainous role, she had no idea. It was, however, patently absurd, which helped her keep a grip on reality.
Not. Happening.

That was, until Jordan and Mr. Ditman appeared.

The stark look of horror in Jordan’s eyes was something she’d never seen, nor could she have imagined it. Jordan wasn’t afraid of anything … but he was afraid of this.

God help me
, she thought as a sob welled in her throat.
It’s happening again.

• • •

Even though the letter Ditman had showed him had prepared Jordan for something like this, actually seeing the Duc d’Artagne holding a knife to Naomi’s ivory throat peeled years off his life. Her eyes were wide and wild with fear. Her loose hair covered her captor’s forearm. Her plaintive cry galvanized him to action. He reached for a pistol.

“My dear Lord Freese, please do not do that,” Henri pleaded.

The young duke had attained a man’s height. His shoulders were broad. He wore the finest apparel, befitting a nobleman of his station. Yet, a hint of childish roundness still clung to the apples of his cheeks — cheeks he’d only begun shaving in the last six months. In many ways, Henri was still just a child.

Slowly, Jordan raised his hands and waved at Ditman to do the same. He eased forward a step. “Henri, put the knife down. Lady Naomi has been your friend. This is no way to treat a friend.”

“I know,” the boy whined. “But this is the only way you’ll let me go.”

“Why do you want to leave?” Jordan asked. “You’re protected at Lintern Abbey. Your uncle, His Majesty, wants you to remain here until it’s safe for you to return to France.”

Henri straightened. The knife pressed harder to Naomi’s neck. A thin, red line welled along the blade’s edge. “And when will that be?” he demanded. “I hate it here! I hate this stupid country. I ’ave to pretend to be Spanish. You won’t let me do anything. I’m
bored.”

If the situation weren’t so dire, Jordan might have laughed at hearing his own sentiments echoed in this young man. He, too, had found life at Lintern Abbey debilitatingly dull — until Naomi had made it the only place he wanted to be.

Above ground, the sound of horses thundered toward the open, cellar door. Gunshots popped. Henri’s gaze flicked to the square of space.

“There’s nothing for you to gain by leaving,” Ditman contributed. “You’re putting yourself in Bonaparte’s hands. At best, you’ll be his hostage. More likely, he’ll have you killed.”

Henri blew his lips out in a juvenile scoff. “The Emperor needs me, I’ll ’ave you know. When the people see his royal supporters, they will fight to bring him back. I will never sit upon the throne of France, but in exchange for my support, His Imperial Majesty ’as promised me the crown of Prussia.”

The shouts and sounds of fighting were loud. Jordan heard more French than English, which worried him. “You’re a fool if you believe Bonaparte will give you a crown! He’s using you, Henri. All of my men up there came to defend you,” Jordan said. “Englishmen have died protecting
you
. Does that mean nothing?”

A Gallic shrug dismissed the matter like so much piffle. “They shouldn’t ’ave come. Better if you had just let me go with my friends.”

He felt Naomi’s eyes on him. He met her gaze and understood her wordless plea. She had been held hostage once before. He couldn’t imagine how terrified she must be right now. And he was impotent to do anything about it.

There was a joyous whoop, and then a man called down into the cellar — in French.

“I must go now. After you,
s’il vous plait
.” Henri jerked his chin to the door.

Jordan turned to see two pistols pointed at him from above. He kept his hands raised at his sides while he ascended the stairs.

The scene that met him on the surface was grim. He counted five bodies strewn around the abbey, and recognized three of them as his own men. The remainder of his force was on their knees in a line, hands clasped behind their heads. They were surrounded by armed Frenchmen.

He was prodded to join his men. Rough hands patted his body and removed his pistols. Ditman received the same treatment. It was a cold comfort knowing Fitz hadn’t been a traitor, after all, although Jordan could happily strangle the bastard for shooting at Naomi.

Henri emerged from the cellar. Naomi still had a knife to her throat, and that threat was now augmented by pistols.

Jordan watched helplessly as her wrists were bound behind her back. When a Frenchman in a blue frock coat touched her ankles to tie them and made a crass remark, Jordan snarled.

“No, please,” Naomi begged her captors. “Please, don’t do this to me. Jordan!”

He tensed to lunge.

“Don’t do it, man,” Ditman warned. “Wait.”

It took everything in Jordan to watch while the woman he loved called for him. While she was trussed up and tossed over the back of a horse, her eyes stayed on his. Her loose hair fell down the side of the horse and dangled past the stirrup.

Henri swung up onto the saddle behind her. “I’m not ready to part ways with my Lady Naomi just yet,” he said jovially. Now that he had his gang of thugs keeping him safe, the boy was full of bravado. “I thank you for your ’ospitality all these years, Lord Freese. Now I bid you a fond
adieu.”

With that, he wheeled his mount around and carried Naomi up the hillside and out of his sight.

“Do you s’pose they’re going to kill us now?” Mr. Perry asked.

One of the French soldiers snorted and spit phlegm in Perry’s face. “Not all of them,” he said in heavily accented English. “Just you.”

The rapport of the gun was accompanied by a spray of hot blood and shards of Perry’s skull.

Shocked by the fluids splashed on his cheek, Jordan gaped at the Frenchman. The guard sneered. He pulled another pistol from his waistband and leveled it in Jordan’s face. “Per’aps you as well,
monsieur
.”

Oddly, when she was tossed across the horse’s withers, in front of the saddle, Naomi’s first concern was for the animal’s welfare. Would she put too much weight on the roan creature’s shoulders and cause it pain?

When Henri mounted, her next concern was her hair. “Ow!” she yelped as his boot yanked on a lock that had fallen into the stirrup.

“I do not wish to hurt you, Naomi,” Henri said as the horse carried them up the hillside. “You must remember the knife. My men are also armed.”

“What’s happening to Jordan and the others?” she demanded over her shoulder. “Please don’t let your men hurt them.”

The adolescent kicked the horse into a trot. “Lord Freese was not very good to me, but his uncle was. For Sir Randell’s sake, I ’ave spared Freese. I make no promise for the others.”