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Chapter Thirty-Seven
If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbablefiction.
—Shakespeare,Twelfth Night
Nicholas blinked. Theman had catapulted through a bush, disappearing beyond. Nicholas lowered his pistol, moving toward the large shrub.
“Careful, Walford. I don’t hear crashing in the woods beyond. He may be waiting. He could be armed.” Thornwood was right. Nicholas had not survived the war to be ambushed by some rogue on his own property. They both moved cautiously forward through the brush, their pistols ready.
“Christ’s blood!” He couldn’t believe his eyes. The popinjay held Catherine tight to his chest, the muzzle of an older flintlock denting the soft flesh of her neck.
“Are you all right, Catherine?” Years of training kicked in, and he managed to keep his voice calm, despite the surging rage that rippled over his body. Her mantle was filthy, and her breathing was clearly labored. She nodded, her eyes glassy with pain.
“Put the gun down, Isaac,” he said.
“You know this man, Walford?” Thornwood asked.
Isaac looked frantically from Nicholas to Thornwood, then back to Nicholas. “Walford is dead. Damn you! He’s dead. You are not Walford. You are not Daniel.” He choked on the name.
Nicholas took a step forward. “You are right, Isaac. I am not Daniel. I never wished to be. You know that. Now give me your weapon.” He held out his hand.
“Stay where you are!” Isaac cried. “I killed Daniel. I’ll not hesitate to kill your lady.”
Nicholas froze, stunned by the confession, but Isaac’s wavering hand drew him back into the moment. Fear slid down his spine. The pistol was cocked, and the valet’s hands shook, his finger closing dangerously around the trigger. He held his own pistol ready but could not fire with Catherine in the way. Thornwood was subtly shifting to the side, where he might get a clear shot. Nicholas must keep Isaac’s attention from the movement.
“Why would you want to harm Lady Walford, Isaac?” Nicholas asked. “She has been nothing but kindness. You said it yourself in your letters.”
Isaac’s eyes shimmered with tears. “How could you allow her to be here today? What kind of a man would so endanger his wife? None of you deserve her.” His hands vibrated with emotion, the pistol digging deeper into Catherine’s neck.
Nicholas held his gaze steady on Isaac, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Thornwood was almost clear. A few more feet.
“You are right. I don’t deserve Catherine. Let her go and take me. I am the one who deserves your anger, not her.” He held his arms out wide, letting the pistol hang limply in his open palm. He kept his gaze on Isaac, knowing Thornwood must be about ready to make his shot. Thank the Lord Nicholas knew him to be an excellent marksman. Catherine’s life depended on his accuracy.
A sudden noise from the woods drew Nicholas’s attention, and he quickly raised his pistol again. Fredericks rushed forward, placing himself in the direct line of Thornwood’s weapon.
“Don’t shoot, my lord. I beg of you.” Fredericks turned to Nicholas. “For love of me and mine, don’t shoot.”
Nicholas hesitated. What the hell was happening? Was Fredericks party to Daniel’s death, to this seizing of Catherine? The old man stood his ground, his pale eyes a window to his pain.
“Walford?” Thornwood’s voice was placid, quiet, awaiting direction.
“Bloody hell, Thornwood, I don’t know.”
Beyond Fredericks, Isaac still pressed his gun to Catherine’s neck. She shook her head slightly, her eyes begging him to listen to Fredericks. Nicholas stared at her a long moment, then lowered his weapon.
Fredericks faced Isaac, his hand extended. “Give me the gun, son. It’s done. You must face the consequences of your actions. Lord help me, but I can protect you no more.”
Tears rolled down Isaac’s cheeks as he looked from his grandfather’s outstretched hand to his face. He threw Catherine from him. She stumbled, falling to the ground, scrambling backward toward Nicholas. He jumped forward, kneeling, pulling her into the safety of his arms. She cried out as his heart pounded its relief.
He glowered at the man who’d dared threaten her, the man who had killed his brother. Nicholas’s composed battle demeanor slipped away, red anger in its place, fury flowing through his veins. He stood, pulling Catherine up, pushing her behind him. “Thornwood, take her to safety.”
He raised his pistol, cocking the hammer, grasping the trigger firmly. The old man stood frozen, hand still stretched, waiting for the young valet’s pistol. He was not in the way of Nicholas’s aim.
“No, Nicholas! No!” Catherine’s voice softened as she placed her hand on his. “There has been enough death. Enough loss. No more. I beg of you.”
Her face was deathly pale, her eyes luminous with unshed tears, and her breathing labored. The sight of her, pleading on behalf of a murderer, only made him angrier.
“Daniel would expect nothing less than your mercy.” Her smooth palm caressed his calloused one. “Let pity stay your hand.”
