“Fenwick!” Perry shouted. She landed a kick squarely on the man’s injured jaw. “Lord Shaldon lives,” she shouted.
He grabbed her foot and wrenched it, and Fox drove the dagger into thick sinew.
Sir Richard writhed and threw Fox back, injured but not beaten. Perry landed another solid boot jab into his face and he howled. She spun off the bed, fumbling with her boot and another dagger flashed into view.
Fenwick raised his head, bleeding from one eye, cornered between the two blades.
“You failed, Fenwick,” she shouted hoarsely. “Shaldon lives. You’ll die.”
“Do you want to do the honors, my love, or shall I?” Fox asked.
Voices outside drew their attention.
“Father wants you alive,” she said, “and then you will hang.”
Fenwick threw back his head and laughed. “Shaldon is dead. I’ve an army out there.”
“Those are our men,” Fox said.
He hoped.
Sir Richard’s lip curled up. “Your dragoons are no match for hardened smugglers.”
Doors slammed below, and footsteps pounded through the house.
“Maybe,” Fox said. “And maybe we have some hardened smugglers on our side.”
The bedchamber latch rattled and a fist hammered the door.
“We’re in here,” Perry yelled. She waggled her blade at the villain. “Care to wager, Sir Richard?”
There was no reply from the corridor, but Farnsworth would be too cagey to speak. Better to keep the villain nervous and guessing. Fox edged toward the door. The key was not in the lock.
“You bitch. I’d get away from the door if I were you, Goodfellow,” Fenwick said. “Bound to catch splinters.”
“We’ll see.” Fox nodded to Perry.
A connecting door hidden in the grimy wainscoting opened. Farnsworth and the MacEwens strolled in.
The MacEwens’ stunned gazes glanced over Perry’s nakedness and quickly away. Farnsworth had a rifle trained on the Squire.
Perry’s knife hand trembled. Fox saw it, Farnsworth saw it. Fenwick would see it also.
The squire’s lunge was his last-ditch attempt at survival. Perry tossed the knife and scrambled up higher on the bed.
And Farnsworth fired.
In the drawingroom of Gorse Cottage, Perry pulled her dressing gown closed and took another sip of tea, watching the military surgeon the dragoon captain had brought in bind the cuts on Fox’s arms.
The late summer day had slipped away behind rolling pillows of fog, casting shadows over this gathering.
Father lolled in an armchair, Lady Jane fussing over him, shushing his slurred interjections. Kinkaid was trussed up in a sling, but his free hand flew across a paper, and Farnsworth worked at another one. She and Fox would write their statements soon.
His gaze met hers and he smiled, and hope bloomed in her. After all that had happened, they still hadn’t had time to talk about marriage.
“That should do it,” the surgeon said. He was a brusque young fellow, quite handsome enough to give MacEwen a run for his money. Jenny had been very solicitous.
And Fox had insisted on being in the room when the surgeon had examined her injuries. Another incident that gave her hope.
