Page 16 of Lord of Mistrust

So, where had he gone? If he’d kept to his plan, he should be sleeping in the hayloft above the stables. She flew to the window and stared down. There was, indeed, a faint yellow light emanating from the stables. Surely, if he meant to sleep with a weapon to hand, he’d have taken both his guns?

She was still fully dressed and shod. No one else was around to whom she could turn for help. A weapon was available to her, even if she had no idea how to use it. And the sense that something was amiss had increased dramatically during the past few minutes. She couldn’t just pace about and worry—she had to act.

Licking her lips, she extracted the gun and stole softly toward the door.

She could hear no sound outside it and was soon making her way along the passageway and down the stairs. By the time she opened the door onto the stable yard, all she could hear was her own labored breathing and the blood pounding in her ears.

There was no need to panic. This feeling of peril was in her imagination, an effect of too much sun and too much beer at an early hour of the day. Besides, what had she to fear with a firearm in her hand? Even if she had absolutely no idea how to use it.

Keeping to the shadows, she slipped across to the stables, eased open the door, then froze in shock.

Standing with his back to her was the man she recognized by his garb as Weasel Face. Before him, on hands and knees in the straw, was Sir Robert. Just out of reach was a weapon the twin of Chloe’s, but another firearm was in play. It was clutched in the hands of Weasel Face and pointed unwaveringly at Sir Robert’s head.

Chapter Thirteen

Robert’s lantern flickered, and he glanced up in horror to see Chloe Emmerson standing in the doorway. Foolish wench—did she want to get herself killed? Or was she already in league with this ditch-bred scum who now held him hostage?

Suddenly, his enemy’s gun was pointed at Chloe’s breast. Wasting not one instant, Robert leaped up, caught the fellow by the shoulders, and bought into the ground, flinging the dag out of reach. He immediately seized his own useless gun, reversed it, and aimed a savage blow at his enemy’s head. The man crashed down into the straw.

Robert squatted astride his fallen foe, shook his dag, and let out a colorful curse.

“Oh, forgive me, Mistress Emmerson. What’s wrong with the benighted thing? Of all the moments to misfire.”

He knocked the barrel sharply against the plank dividing wall between the stalls, then shook it. Out came the ball and its wadding. He grabbed the former before it could roll out of sight.

“Of all the infuriating things. They expect me to risk my life and give me naught but a piece of fancy wood and scrap iron with which to protect myself.”

Hopefully, the other dag would work properly, the one which now dangled from Chloe’s fingers. She swayed dangerously toward him.

He was on his feet immediately, carefully removing the weapon before clasping her against his chest.

“Nay, no fainting, I pray. Are you all right, Mistress? I believe I may owe you my life.” And a groveling apology for having distrusted her, and searched her so intimately.

She made no effort to fight off his embrace, so he simply stood and held her, waiting for her frantic breathing to calm.

He was still in one piece, his foe was insensible, and this woman had saved him. The traitor—who’d been trying to steal a horse and vanish into the night—had been ready to shoot her without compunction. There could not have been any collusion between these two.

Guilt swamped him as she rested in his arms, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. He must see her safe before doing anything else.

Stroking the back of her neck, he murmured words of comfort into her ear. “It’s over. You’re unhurt, and the danger is past. You’ve been courageous, Mistress—no screaming, no hysterics. Not even when that blackguard pointed his gun at you. Now, sit on that stool yonder while I sort out the catch we’ve netted.”

It was the work of a moment to find some rope with which to truss up the ugly-looking villain. Then Robert felt it safe to search the man’s bag and person.

Heaven be thanked! He pulled out a familiar packet from inside the man’s shirt. “I have my paper safe again and—apparently—unopened.” He waved the package at a puzzled-looking Chloe.

“This knave stole a vital document from me. I cannot divulge the story behind it but I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. For now, I must busy myself. The local constable should be roused to incarcerate yonder piece of filth until he can be questioned. Then I have an urgent message to send. Until I’m done, I need you to return to your room and lock the door. Open it to none but me. Do you understand?”

Wide-eyed, she nodded, then stood and held his lantern aloft as he hefted the limp body of his prize onto the back of the horse that the man had been saddling up. Ensuring he was secure, Robert mounted up behind his captive, then leaned down to the fair damsel who’d rescued him in his hour of need.

“An exchange of firearms might be a good idea. I could use one that actually works when needed.”

As she passed him the gun, he caught her wrist, bent low in the saddle, and kissed the back of her hand.

“Adieu, Mistress. I cannot thank you enough for your timely intervention. We must talk when I return. Now, do as I say and lock yourself in your chamber. I’ll come to you as soon as I may.”

Mistress Chloe Emmerson must be exonerated of all guilt. She’d had ample opportunity to put a ball right between his eyes and hadn’t taken it. She wasn’t in league with his foes.

He chewed on his lip as he turned his mount’s head and trotted toward the road. If Chloe was blameless and was not an occupant of Mistress Riviere’s bawdy house, he had been taking advantage of a gently bred lady.