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Breanna walked slowly through the thatch of trees on the south side of the estate.
Her instincts told her that Crompton would use this avenue to escape. Stacie's had concurred.
If anyone knew the grounds of Medford Manor better than Wells, it was they. They were the ones who had played here as children, found hiding spots, climbed trees. And they were the ones who kne
w the densest areas in which to conceal oneself.
They'd intentionally left their hoods down. Their hair—a bright, burnished auburn—guttered in the moonlight, highly visible even in the darkness of night.
Gripping the handle of her pistol, Breanna placed one foot before the other, her heart hammering as she surveyed the deserted grounds. Every shivering leaf, every whoosh of wind made her jump, her stomach dotting as she contemplated what she was walking
Worse, what she'd talked Stacie into walking into.
Her cousin was with child. What if this plan went wrong? What if Crompton was no longer exacting, in control? What if he went wild, shot them both? What if...?
No. She clenched her teeth, forced herself to stop dunking that way. Stacie's babe was in danger whether or not they enacted this plan, and it would continue to be in danger as long as Crompton lived.
They had to stop him.
A twig snapped behind her, and everything inside Breanna went numb. A sort of sickening, fatalistic awareness came over her, and she knew.
The moment of reckoning had arrived.
As if in a dream, she turned, not the least surprised to find the Viscount Crompton leaning against a tree, eyeing her calmly.
“You've made this far too easy,” he commented, adjusting his gloves and watching dispassionately as she raised her pistol with a trembling hand. “Don't be absurd. You can scarcely hold that weapon, much less fire it.” His arm snapped up, and the glint of his pistol flashed as he aimed it at her heart. “Whereas I...” A biting smile, and Breanna could see the madness in his eyes. “I'm a perfect shot.”
He watched her frantically scrutinize the area beside him, and easily read her thoughts. “You're searching for Maurelle. Did you propose to hold her at gunpoint in the hopes of bringing me to my knees? Don't bother. You'd be dead before you finished aiming. Besides, she's off the estate. I made sure she was safely ensconced in my carriage before I came back to get you and Lady Breanna.” His features hardened. “Now put down the pistol. Or I'll make your execution so painful, so prolonged, you'll beg for death.”
His middle finger hovered over the trigger. “You can die quickly. Or you can die with agonizing slowness. The choice is yours. Make it.”
Breanna sized up her options, which were nil. She could try to shoot him, but it would be suicide. He could elude her bullet by simply stepping behind the tree, whereas she was utterly exposed, and standing before an expert marksman. Her only hope was to throw down her gun and keep him talking until Stacie arrived.
“Very well.” She tossed her pistol to the grass.
“A wise choice,” Crompton informed her dryly. “You would have failed, and died a horrible death doing it. Whereas I never fail.”
“You did last August,” Breanna reminded him, careful to use Stacie's voice. “My uncle hired you to shoot me, and you didn't.”
Hatred twisted Crompton's features. “That was because of your wretched cousin. By the way, where is she?” he added, his middle finger pressing closer to the trigger. “Wherever you are, she can't be far behind. And I'm determined she should watch this.”
As if in answer to his own question, his head jerked around, and he stepped backward, shifting to aim his pistol to the left, while keeping Breanna in his sight. “Come out, Lady Breanna,” he invited icily, angling his head to survey the area from which Stacie was obviously approaching. “I can hear you. Ah, now I can see you,” he determined with great satisfaction. “Therefore, I'll coax you out in a more convincing manner.” With that, he fired—one shot—and Breanna jumped, stifling her shriek. Dear God—Stacie.
What had he done?
A cry of surprise and a thud followed the shot, and Crompton smiled cruelly, beckoning Stacie forward. “See?” he taunted with a vicious glare. “I can do it without mutilating your finger the way you did mine.” His jaw clenched. “Now get out here and join your cousin.”
Anastasia stepped out, her eyes wide with stunned apprehension, her hands unscathed, but devoid of a weapon.
Crompton's shot had sent it hurtling to the ground.
Which left both women unarmed.
Despite that fact, Breanna nearly collapsed with relief when she saw that Stacie was unharmed. T hey were in trouble. But they were alive.
Someone had to have heard that shot, she told herself. Wherever the men were, they would rush to Stacie's and her aid.
Crompton was too obsessed with lolling them to consider that fact. So, it was up to them to keep him occupied until help arrived.
