Scandal in the Night (42 page)

“Really, it’s quite touchin’, your naïveté,” Birkstead said evenly, as he twisted her around, back and forth, looking for Thomas, as if he might be behind him. “We used to think it was the little mousie, here, who was naïve—that’s what Lettice thought. But the Scots chit is the one who’s played everyone for fools. Haven’t you, mousie? She’s more conniving and ruthless and ambitious than even poor Lettice. You really ought to know. Show yourself and I’ll tell you.”

There came back no response. No sound but the creaking of the stair beneath their feet as Birkstead edged upward with his back pressed firmly to the solid stone walls, and his gun wedged ruthlessly into Catriona’s flesh. “Tell him, mousie,” His shout echoed down the tower. “Or shall I?”

She tried to be brave. She tried to think and be clever. “If I tell him,” she said in a voice choked and cracked with fear, “then he won’t give a good goddamn about me, or what you do to me. He’ll just shoot us both where we stand.” She craned her head against the pressure and pain of the gun at her throat, and imagined Thomas, standing like a highwayman across the stair, with his hands full of metal. “He’s bound to have at least three guns.”

“Four.” Thomas’s voice came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. “And I aim to empty all of them.”

“Plus he’s got two good hands.” She was shaking now, barely in control of herself. But she kept on. “And his guns are fitted with percussion caps. Much more reliable than flintlock. So.” She slid her gaze as far as she could into the corners of her eyes to measure Birkstead’s expression. “I rather think it’s best we just stay mum on that topic if we hope to survive, don’t you?”

The nonsensical nature of her stream of conversation momentarily put Birkstead off just enough—the pressure of the gun under her chin eased slightly. Enough. Enough so she could move her head to see from the corner of her eye Birkstead lick his dry lips.

“There is no ‘we,’ mousie. I’m going to kill you both.”

Birkstead must not have had a decent governess, for he hadn’t done the maths—two beings to shoot, and only one gun, with two shots in all. One of which
she
had already kept from firing. And the other wasn’t yet cocked. Unless he had another gun she hadn’t seen, or felt pressing into her back—

Oh, God, she hadn’t thought of that.

So there they were. Thomas somewhere below with his long, lethal-looking horseman’s pistol, and Birkstead nestling his double-barreled carriage gun in the soft underside of Catriona’s chin. And Catriona with one hand on the bell rope and the other wrapped around Birkstead’s gunlock.

And then she slipped on the step, and jerked downward for just a moment. But a moment was all it took.

The roar that enveloped her was so massive, both she and Birkstead were slammed back into the wall. For a sickening moment, Catriona felt a distant, numbing sort of pain, as if she’d been kicked in the chest by a horse. And she could smell the sulfuric stench of black powder wafting through the air.

And then Birkstead let out an animal hiss of deep, mortal pain.

But he didn’t let go of her. He clung to her, pulling her closer instead of pushing her away, using her as a shield. She could feel the warm sludge of his life’s blood soaking into the back of her gown.

“If you shoot again, I’ll make sure you hit her.” Birkstead’s voice was raw with the ragged edge of tight pain.

From somewhere below, Thomas made no answer, while Catriona and Birkstead were stuck ten feet from the top of the bell tower. Thomas lurked below, and Birkstead was hit and seemed unable to move higher. There was nowhere else to go.

The time was now. Now. Before Birkstead said anything else, or thought of his next move, or Thomas acted on his.

Catriona sent up a hasty prayer—although why a God to whom she had long since given up praying should pay her any attention at this point was beyond her—and spoke. “Thomas.”

His answer came back instantly, low and sure, and somehow, exactly what she needed to hear. “I know.”

And she stopped thinking. She trusted.

Catriona tightened her grip upon both the rope and the barrel of the gun, and said to Birkstead, “I misfired your gun.”

Birkstead reacted with an audible hiss that steamed filthy invective into her ear. And then his hand tensed hard under her grip as he pulled back the trigger.

When nothing happened, not even the click of the mechanism moving, he stupidly, vainly tried again, and again yanking back the trigger until he lost his hold upon her.

It was enough to give her room. Room to jump.

Catriona pushed away from him, and dove over the rail, clinging to the rope like a macaque in a tree, swinging across the space until she crashed hard against the edge of the stairway opposite.

Behind the railing, Birkstead was cursing her with a vile Anglo-Saxon epithet. He jerked the gun away, as if he would fling it out of his hand. But he didn’t.

And she was stupid, so stupid. Because she had taken the chance that he would forgot about the other barrel of the double-barreled pistol. She had gambled her life on the chance that he wouldn’t be able to recock the gun, and shoot her. Or worse, Thomas.

Birkstead steadied himself on the railing. “I’m sending you to hell, mousie.”

But the light was going out of him—his eyes were growing glassy and dark. Thomas’s ball had found its mark in Birkstead’s upper chest, just below his shoulder, and the jackal had too little left of strength.

And it came to her—a moment of perfect, almost serene clarity and calm.

She didn’t have to do anything. Thomas was there. Thomas would protect her. She wasn’t alone.

She wrapped her feet around the rope, loosened her hands, and followed her heart. And let gravity pull her downward.

And she was falling. Suspended in the air for one sickening moment with Birkstead’s livid, horrified face only yards above hers. The deafening report of a gun exploded into the air. And she closed her eyes and consigned herself to the void.

*   *   *

It was the tangle of her skirts that saved her.

As she was falling down the length of the bell rope, her palms blistering with the ropey friction, the air turned thick and heavy and liquid, and she felt almost as if she were buoyed up, swimming through space like the acrobats in the park in Paris, catching up a trapeze. The full length of her skirts and petticoats had ridden up and tangled themselves around the rope, slowing her descent.

And then the air thinned, and everything sped up. The rope pitched her sideways, and she went sailing toward the cross-rail, which knocked the breath out of her lungs. Everything went red and dark—she could only see the color of blood behind her eyes.

She let go, and gave in to the numbing pain engulfing her chest. And then her lungs expanded and she was choking, because the neck of her gown—her plain, sturdy, durable day dress—was pulled tight against her throat.

But that was because someone was gripping the back of her dress—fisting the fabric tight to haul her over the railing and into his arms.

Thomas.

He was clutching her against his chest, one fist twisted in the fabric at her back, and the other cradling her head tight against his throat. He collapsed backward, slumping into the wall before the two of them slid into an ungainly heap upon the wooden stair.

Catriona was still all topsy-turvy. Every bone and sinew in her body was nursing some private, individual ache, and her ears were ringing as if she were on the inside of the church bell. All she could feel was a distant wave of weary pain—but she was fine. She was alive.

It was over.

Something too unsteady to be relief landed heavy in her gut, and Catriona closed her eyes and concentrated upon breathing.

Voices rose and reverberated up the stone stairwell—more than she would have expected. Viscount Jeffrey, giving orders in a cold voice, and Mr. Peters, the steward, giving calm, practical advice. The coachman, Broad Ham, and other men from the stable talking about getting a door off its hinges for the purpose of moving the body.

The body. Birkstead.

But no one came near them. Thank God.

She opened her eyes to the sight of two long legs encased in soft, travel-worn but beautifully polished boots twisted in her skirts. Braided together, the two of them were. For better or for worse.

He eased his grip on her, and peered down at her through the veil of her fallen hair. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Yes.” Catriona shook her head, but couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “But I think I might be sick.”

He tipped her over so her head was between her knees. “Are you hit?”

“No,” she managed to gasp out. A momentary inventory of her aches revealed nothing more substantial. “No.”

“Good. Just breathe.” He didn’t say anything more. But she could hear his heavy, controlled breathing, and then he pushed her hair that had come out of its bun—what with being dragged across the manor and having a gun shoved into her face and all—out of the way, and rubbed the back of her neck a bit, which seemed sweet and kind. And very much like him, like Tanvir Singh. Or at least like the Tanvir Singh she had fallen in love with.

But they were one and the same. One man. The man who had come to help her, just as she had hoped he would.

Her belly slowly began to unclench. Relief sagged through her, taking the last of her strength. Her bones felt as if they had turned to pudding. But they were all safe. Thomas must have shot Birkstead. He had done what he was supposed to do. And she had done what she was supposed to do. It was over.

But it wasn’t, really. There was more still to be done. “I need to tell you something.”

“Birkstead is dead, Cat. He can’t hurt you anymore. Whatever you have to say isn’t important anymore.” His hand gently probed along the underside of her jaw, as if he needed to assure himself that she was indeed whole.

“Birkstead might be dead, but he certainly still has the power to hurt. You heard him.” Her mind was too full of blame for any kind of denial. Full of the hard, unforgiving shame, the cold stone of guilt that had wedged itself deep into the cracks in her soul. The ugly truth she had spent years and years trying to outrun.

She had always known it would catch up with her one day.

And today was that day.

But not here, with the smell of gunpowder and death, and the cold stone walls closing in on her. “I need to get outside. I need air.”

He granted her wish by the simple expediency of picking her up, and carrying her down the steep stairs and out of the church until they were in the quiet of the garden, where he found a bench to simply sit, with her in his lap.

She made an uncertain start of it. “Some time ago—in Saharanpur—Birkstead said he had discovered something that was not to my credit in Scotland.” Catriona shut her eyes. “And he said if I didn’t marry him, he’d put it about that I was wanted for murder in Scotland.”

“Hush, Cat.” Thomas tucked her more tightly against his chest. “He was an out-and-out bastard. He certainly had murder on his own mind. If you think I would believe anything that came from his twisted brain … He would have said anything to malign you, and spread lies—”

“No.” She did not look at him—she couldn’t yet bring herself to—but she could picture him above her, next to her, shoving his hand through his hair in that endearing gesture of rumpled frustration. He was being kind. He had almost always been so kind.

“They are not lies.” She could barely hear herself speak—her voice was as thin and dry as the endless western desert. Nothing would ever slake it again.

Because when she steeled herself, and screwed down her courage to raise her eyes, the look Thomas gave her was something past incredulous. Past betrayal. Past despair, into some other place—a circle of hell, perhaps, reserved for people like her who so recklessly threw away such a love as he had offered her.

He looked away from her, into the bright sunlight breaking through the clouds, squinting his eyes against the glare as if even that pain were preferable to looking at her.

But she did not look away. She could only stare at him, now that she had the freedom to do so, now that no other eyes were watching, and his own demanding gaze was turned away. He was so strange and so familiar all at once, this handsome Englishman who looked and laughed and kissed like Tanvir Singh.

She nearly closed her eyes against the devastating power of the moment—the moment when he would finally see her for what she really was. But she didn’t. She kept her eyes open to take his palpable hit. Because she deserved it. And because she had to finally admit it. “It’s true. I am a murderer. I killed my father.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Cat started to shake, either from the shock of Birkstead’s death—although Thomas’s own shot had hit its mark, it was her action that sent the man to his death—or from the weight of what she had just confessed, Thomas couldn’t tell.

He took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, and pulled her to him. “It’s all right, Cat. He can’t hurt you now. He’s dead.”

She shifted under his hands, as if she wouldn’t allow herself even that small comfort. “It’s not all right. He’s dead.”

Thomas didn’t know what to say to refute that particular piece of illogic, but he continued to hold her anyway, his big, horseman’s hand ranging over her small, tense back, trying to rub some warmth into her arms, waiting patiently for the terror to subside. “You’ll be all right, Cat. You will.”

“No.” She pushed out of his embrace, and tried to draw a deeper breath, but she looked done in, as pale and off balance as she had when he had dragged her through the hedge. When she raised her gaze and looked at him fully, her soft eyes had gone hard and dark with something beyond fright. Something he recognized as self-loathing.

God help them. If she was going to confess to murder, she was going to need a drink. Hell,
he
needed a drink.

“Broad Ham?” He called back to the orchard gate to the huge coachman, who, he noticed, had kindly taken a stance across the entrance, blocking others’ ability to venture any closer with his massive back. “Miss Rowan is in dire need of a bit of a wet.”