A rueful smile crossed his split lips. “Quickly then. If I tell you to turn back, you’ll heed me, won’t you?”
I gave him a lopsided smile to reassure him, even though my pulse beat wildly thanks to the surge of strength coursing through my veins.
“And you’ll do the same for me, no doubt, should I spy trouble first.”
He snatched my hand, his strong fingers curling around mine as we dashed into the great hall and raced up the magnificent staircase as the abbey groaned. How many fires had someone started inside?
Meanwhile, Mr. Whittle shouted orders, and I glimpsed Lucy staggering below on the main level, her arms lugging a sloshing bucket as well.
God bless the men and women of the abbey who stood beside Rafe no matter what happened.
Rafe and I ran down the hall to his chamber, past the dusty tapestries and walnut paneling. As we entered Rafe’s room, I gasped. There, amidst a growing pile of linen-clad records and ledgers, stood Mr. Barron. His candle’s flame flickered wildly in the smoky gloom, casting eerie shadows on his round face. Under one arm, a stack of records threatened to topple, and in his other hand, the rusted handle of a lockbox.
With a roar, Rafe hurled himself at the form. Startled, Mr. Barron whirled just as Rafe engulfed him. The innkeeper dropped the beeswax candle on the floor, which I rushed to kick at with my slippers, stomping out the flame.
A crack of a fist against a jaw, a man’s shout, the clatter of the lockbox as both men collapsed to the floor with Rafe straddling Mr. Barron while the books slid away.
“Quick, Bridget. My pistol’s in the desk.”
I dashed to the desk and yanked on the nearest drawer. My cry at spying the pistols was all the encouragement Rafe needed. He pressed his hands against Mr. Barron’s throat.
“Yield!”
Mr. Barron gurgled a response, bucking wildly beneath Rafe, but Rafe’s huge frame easily overpowered the smaller man. I aimed the pistol at Mr. Barron and cocked it.
“Stop your thrashing, Mr. Barron. You resemble a fish out of water.”
With his trachea under pressure and his mouth gaping open, he most certainly gulped for air.
Rafe eyed me with some alarm, but I handed him the gun before I smelled the horrible scent of fabric burning.
“Dash it all!” I cried in the most unladylike language. Snatching a handful of the dusty bed-curtains, I yanked on them with all my might and threw them to the ground, stomping on the flames while holding my skirts up to my calves.
Only when I finished did I realize both men watched me with startled eyes.
“I could hardly let your bed burn down,” I muttered as I dropped my stained gown to cover my ankles.
Rafe grabbed Mr. Barron by the cravat and pulled the man to his feet. I snatched the lockbox. How heavy it felt within my shaking grasp.
“I have a constable who will be eager to chat with you,” Rafe warned Mr. Barron. “But before he does, I have questions of my own. I understand that you and I have the misfortune of being related.” He grasped Mr. Barron by the cravat and shirt collar and shook him. “You tried to kill us, Barron. You’ve sabotaged everything from the start. Releasing my sheep and horses, digging on my land, sneaking through the halls, intercepting the letters to themagistrate, and endangering Miss Littleton with that bur under her saddle.”
Mr. Barron gurgled until at last Rafe let go, allowing the man to collapse onto the floor with a thud.
“I deserve the Hawthorn name just as much as you do,” Mr. Barron wheezed. “Randall Hawthorn abused my mother, a tavern maid, at an inn. When her husband caught him in the act, he killed Randall without hesitation. And he hung for it, I might add. Your family owes me, Lord Hawthorn, for each sin they committed. Your payment was to be whatever hides in this lockbox—the ring, I suspect, not to mention the farmland and your title.”
Rafe’s jaw slackened with the torrid admission. “Your father was... the stable hand who killed Randall Hawthorn? The man tried and hung for the murder?”
Mr. Barron closed his eyes as if utterly spent as he lay sprawled across the hardwood floor. “Yes.”
Rafe shot me an anguished look. He lowered the gun to his side. “You have my sympathies. My mother fled for her life. A pity yours could not escape.”
The tavern owner fingered his throat, his cravat mussed and ridiculous. Emotions played across his face as his lip curled back to reveal a pair of crooked teeth. His hand slid into his pocket.
No matter how awful the story, I could not forget that this man had used Abigail, murdered Mr. Cobb, and would have killed Rafe and me.
Rafe must have sensed the danger too, and he leveled the pistol once again at his half brother. “Enough games. You will leave with us before you burn to death. A fate you wished upon us. Instead, your future will be decided through the courts. Consider mercy your payment. I am nothing like my father, even if I bear his name and likeness. Let the past go instead of allowing it to poison you.”
My heart swelled for the man before me who chose forgiveness and refused to be tainted by his family’s past.
