Page 107

Rafe saw it then—the bulge of a flintlock pistol, tucked into the waist of Chenoweth’s trousers.

“God bless you, oh, bless you, old fellow. Say—what’s happened? Why’re you covered in dust?” Rafe was posing the question to Chenoweth’s boots now, for the man was inching under the bed with aggravated grunts. Sound traveled with ease between the floors, and they were making a damned lot of it. Rafe eyed the open door, asking, as he felt the first tug on his hands, “Did you knock him out? Ought we to be more quiet?”

His right arm fell free, wiping his thoughts blank. He groaned aloud, seized by needling pain—and sheer ecstasy. The left one followed a moment later. “Bless you, Chenoweth. Holy God.”

Rafe pushed himself to a sitting position. The action demanded the muscles of his core; he might be unbound, but his arms were gelatin. It’s all right. It’ll only last a moment. He moved them slowly, deliberately, willing his strength to return. His fingers fumbled with the buckles that held his lower half fast against the bed.

“I don’t know as to how long we got.” Chenoweth scooted to the wall and leant his back against it, legs stretched out before him. He tilted his chin back and breathed loudly. “T’were a risky trick I pulled.”

The first buckle sprang free. Something small and pure and desperate rejoiced in Rafe.

“I turned the horses loose, set ’em all to runnin’. Tossed me self in the dirt so as to look rough-like, and when Russ come runnin’, I told ’im I’d not been able to fasten the gate wi’ these shackles on, an’ that they’d run me down.”

It took all the strength in Rafe’s hands, but another buckle popped free.

“I played real hurt like. Told him I’d chase after the lot of ’em, but o’ course he’d have none of that. They’ll come back fir me easy enough, but they’ll no be comin’ to him. He’s coarse like wi’ animals.” Chenoweth raised his arms and surveyed the leather linking his wrists. “I’ll need you to cut me loose, lad. We mightn’t have much time. He’ll no catch ’em, but he might grow suspect.”

The final strap came unfastened. Rafe rubbed his hands roughly down his knees and shins; he’d been stripped to naught but his shirtsleeves and drawers. He looked pale, somehow thinner than when he’d left London.

He swung his legs over the bedside and weakness assailed him, rippling through his unused muscles in undulating waves. The room shifted, jerking left to right in short, violent motions. He swallowed hard, crouching beside Chenoweth and fiddling with the knots of leather around his ankles.

“Curst—hands—” Rafe spoke through clenched teeth. “Is there a blade anywhere?” The weakness would go away. It had to. But right now, they hadn’t the time to wait for that.

“He’s scarce givin’ us drink, I don’t ’spect he’s left a weapon behind.”

Rafe’s cheeks began to burn. All Chenoweth’s scuffling seemed to have only tightened the knots. He hadn’t made a centimeter of progress, and his hands trembled as he worked.

“You can go out about the coach,” Chenoweth said. “I keep a parin’ knife in the box.”

“Very well.” He hated to admit defeat, but pride had no place here. Time was against them.

Wordlessly, Chenoweth bent his wrists at an unnatural angle to retrieve the pistol from his waist. Rafe took it, the wooden grip heavy in his grasp.

He wasn’t surprised his father owned one, though he’d never seen it used. Amazingly, it wasn’t a showpiece. No special escutcheon or engraving marked its frame. Just unvarnished walnut and dull steel. It did not parade itself about as an ornament, but communicated plainly what it was: a killing tool.

“’Tis already loaded, I believe.” The coachman sniffed. “If not, powder’s in the coach.”

Rafe scanned the room’s dark corners for his clothes and did not find them. “I’ll return directly.”

He braced himself against the cool stone wall as he descended the stairs, muscles afire. The cottage became recognizable around him: an insensibly large hearth, two modest windows on the east wall (now clogged with cobwebs), remnants of a threadbare rug he knew had once been blue and green.

Chills ran up his arms. It was bloody cold, and reminiscing on the years he’d spent in this place only heightened the effect. He pushed open the front door.

The yard was quiet. Wind swept over the ground, dallying with spent blooms from the hawthorn tree. The pen’s sagging wooden gate was half open, its latch thumping in the breeze. Not a horse—or devilish man—in sight.

He hurried to the lone coach parked beside the stable. The ground was prickly against the bare soles of his feet, and the sun, a foreign object in recent days, bright enough to pain his eyes. But he could breathe, he could move. The most precarious part of his and Chenoweth’s plan was behind them. All that was left was preparing the pistol and waiting in the loft. Waiting for the moment that must come.

Rafe had considered what it would be like to kill a man. The prospect crossed his mind at odd intervals, often at his lowest, weakest points, when he dreamt of sleeping in a room without caring for the bolt, of eating in solitude, of having a day that was just … his. Not punctuated by fear, or stifled by waiting for the next critique, the next issuance of orders. But he’d never thought to really do it.

He found the small paring knife up front. “Damn, Chenoweth. Not sharp enough to cut butter with.”

The coach door opened with a low creak, and the invading sunlight revealed his clothes crumpled inside. “Glorious.”

He set aside the knife and pistol, reaching first for his breeches. Christ, they were still damp, even after all these days. It would still be a credit to be clothed. How long might it take to reach London, if they managed to leave this very evening? How many hours until I see her again?

That was surely his own sun. The thought, the promise, that drove away the hungry pit in his stomach, the squalling pain in his muscles, the dust of his throat and the very real likelihood of death dealt and threatened. He was a man who made choices now, and Sophie, she was the decision he’d make every day for the rest of his life. If … she’d have him.

He shook out the breeches, a smile curving his lips. Maybe he was a fool. But he thought she might.