“You never saw it, did you?” he said with sharp triumph. “Edmund fancied himself a guardian of scholarly purity, as though his credentials gave him the right to challenge me and threaten years of progress and reputation.”
Marcus’s voice remained steady, though Catherine heard the rage beneath it.
“He was not trying to shame you,” he said. “He was trying to protect collectors from being exploited by criminals.”
Harold snorted, not unlike a hungry pig.
“By me,” he hissed. “Say it plainly, my lord. From the man with the nerve to uncover the truth and use it well. He stood in the way. Just like they all did. Just like your clever little wife. Always watching. Always noticing too much.”
Catherine kept her face neutral, her eyes fixed ahead. The knife trembled ever so slightly against her skin.
“He would have exposed everything,” he said, pacing now behind her back, dragging her with him step for step. “Do you comprehend how long it took to build the network? The aliases? The cyphers? I have outmanoeuvred curators from Manchester to Kent. And he would have brought it all to ruin. That I could not allow. Which is why Lady Penwood here shall bear the blame for the thefts—and for your murder.”
He paused, giving Catherine enough time to shudder once more. “A pity she must die today. She might have served as a convenient scapegoat for some time yet. But there will be another. There is always another.”
Her wrists twisted. One loop slipped free. Her fingertips scraped the final knot loose.
With all her strength, Catherine drove her elbow backwards into Harold’s ribs. The contact was sharp and jarring. She felt the breath leave his lungs as he staggered. She wrenched free at last.
The blade grazed her collar as she ducked and stumbled forward, the rope trailing from one wrist.
She did not scream despite the pain and sudden influx of fear. But Marcus was already moving, which helped her combat her terror with relief.
Harold’s roar followed her. Footsteps pounded after hers. Marcus collided with him before Harold could reach her.
The sound of impact was sickening, the weight of two bodies slamming into the mill’s rusted gearworks with enough force to jolt the structure. Dust exploded from the rafters.
The men hit the ground hard.
Catherine whirled, gripping the support beam with one trembling hand. Her breath came ragged and shallow.
They were on the floor now with Harold on top, his blade raised high, his arm shaking with effort and madness alike. Marcus grunted, blocking the strike with both hands, his wrists straining as he shoved upward.
Harold was stronger than he looked. Desperation made him wild, unpredictable, impossible to dislodge. He fought not like a man defending himself, but like one cornered by truth. But Marcus would not let go.
Catherine saw it in every taut muscle and every grim line of his face.
He will die before he lets Harold reach me again,she realised with both love and horror. But if Harold landed the blow…
No,she thought, mustering the last of her willpower and resolve.I will not let that happen.
Chapter Twenty-five
Catherine stumbled backwards as the two men collided; limbs tangled in a vicious, wordless struggle that sent dust spiralling from the mill’s rafters. Harold’s blade flashed in the dimness—Marcus caught his wrist, twisting hard, but the weapon remained dangerously close.
She scanned the floor.
There—beneath the rusted axle of an abandoned grain press, half-buried in straw and grime—lay a broken cogwheel, its iron spokes corroded yet still solid. She dropped to her knees and grasped it, the chill of the metal biting into her palms. Her wrists throbbed in protest, raw from the cords, but she tightened her hold and rose.
I must help him,she thought, her gaze darting for some desperate advantage. Marcus had strength, yet Harold fought with a frenzy sharpened bydissolution. He had nothing left to lose, and that gave him a dreadful power. Catherine circled the edge of the conflict, eyes fixed on the arc of Harold’s shoulders, the erratic movement of the knife.
A moment later, an unexpected sound split the air. Hoofbeats, pounding toward the mill from the open yard beyond. Several horses. Catherine’s breath caught. Marcus heard them too. Harold turned, his eyes darting toward the broken door and the sudden arrival beyond. Voices followed, accompanied by the rustle of urgently dismounting men.
In that instant, as Harold’s attention wavered, Marcus struck, seizing his arm with sudden force. The knife jarred loose, clattering across the stone floor before vanishing into the shadows beneath the old gears.
Harold snarled, wild with panic, and lunged after it—but Marcus was swifter. He drove forward, shoulder braced, and bore Harold down with full force. Catherine longed to feel relief now that aid was so near, yet dread only deepened. Harold fought with a desperate fury; if he should gain the advantage over Marcus before the men reached them, what then?
***
