“He’s down there somewhere, but that’s all right. As long as he knows I’ve killed her, I still win. And then I’ll kill him.” He hauled her with him as he edged around the huge circular stone. “I’ll get into position, shoot her, then I’ll have to grab the gangplank and swing it to this side-he’ll be shocked, he won’t be expecting that, I can have it done by the time she hits the ground.”
His whispered words tripped over themselves as he frantically rehearsed. “Then I’ll reload-and shoot him when he comes for me…”
She felt him look up; she looked where he did-at the big beams forming the heavy structure supporting the waterwheel.
“With the gangplank gone, he’ll have to come that way. He might not love her, but he won’t let me get away with killing his duchess. So he’ll come for me-and I’ll have more than enough time to reload and shoot him before he can reach me.”
She sensed welling triumph in his tone.
“Yes! That’s what I’ll do. So first, I get in place.” Renewed confidence infused him. He tightened his arm, lifted her from her feet, and walked forward-toward the upper end of the gangplank.
She’d run out of time, but with her arms locked to her body there was nothing she could do.
Above her head, Phillip muttered, so low she could barely hear him. “Close enough to the plank ropes, close enough to my powder and shot.”
He moved her forward. And she saw the powder horn and shot canister he’d left on the flat top railing, a few feet left of the gangplank.
She couldn’t use her arms, but could she possibly raise her feet high enough to kick powder or shot away? Either would do-then he’d have only one shot. Only one person he could kill.
If he shot her, he couldn’t kill Royce. Phillip slowed as he maneuvered into position; she was gauging the distance, tensing to try to kick up-
Something flashed across in front of them, right to left-and hit the powder horn and canister, sending both spinning.
The powder horn spun off the railing and fell into the race.
Something clattered on the wooden floor. Both she and Phillip instinctively looked.
And saw a knife. Royce’s knife.
Like most gentlemen, he always had one somewhere about him-but she’d only known him ever to have one.
A thump had their heads snapping around-
Royce had leapt onto the lower end of the gangplank.
He stood directly before them, his gaze locked on Phillip’s face. “Let her go, Phillip-it’s me you want.”
Phillip snarled; backing quickly, he pressed the muzzle of the cocked pistol to Minerva’s temple. “I’m going to kill her-and you’re going to watch.”
“You’ve only got one shot, Phillip-who are you going to kill? Her…or me?”
Phillip halted. He rocked back and forth, heels to toes, indecisive, undecided.
Then his chest swelled; with a roar, he flung Minerva to the side, and swung his pistol up to aim at Royce. “You!” he screamed. “I’m going to kill you!”
“Run, Minerva!” Royce didn’t even glance at her. “Through the doors. The others are outside.”
Then he charged up the gangplank.
Having landed on her side on the millstone, she was frantically hauling up her skirts.
She sat up-saw Phillip brace his pistol arm with his other hand. His face aglow with maniacal joy, laughing, he aimed for Royce’s chest.
Her fingers closed about the hilt of her knife. She didn’t think, didn’t blink, just threw it.
The hilt appeared on the side of Phillip’s neck.
He choked, pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out, filling the enclosed space.
Phillip started to crumple.
Minerva scrambled off the millstone. Her eyes locked on Royce as he halted before Phillip, looking down on his cousin as he slumped to the floor. Her gaze raced over Royce, seeking the wound…she nearly swooned with relief when she finally accepted that there wasn’t one. Phillip’s shot had gone wide.
Her gaze returned to Royce’s face; behind his mask, he was stunned. In that instant she knew he hadn’t expected to survive.
He could have run for cover, but he’d run toward Phillip to give her time to get away, to make sure Phillip shot at him, and not her.
Dragging in a deep breath, she went to join him.
Just as the doors at both ends of the mill swung open, and Christian and Miles appeared at the lower end of the gangplank.
Reaching Royce, she laid a hand on his arm. He looked at her then, met her eyes, then he looked down at the knife in Phillip’s throat, and didn’t say anything.
The others gathered around; what expressions were discernable were unrelentingly grim. She glimpsed pistols being slipped back into pockets, the flash of knives being put away.
Royce drew in a breath-almost unable to believe he could. Almost unable to believe that Minerva stood, shaken but otherwise well, beside him-that he could sense her there, steady and sure, that he was still alive to feel her comforting warmth, her vital presence.
The emotions churning inside him were staggeringly strong, but he battened them down, left them for later. There was one more thing he had to do.
Something only he could.
The others had formed a rough circle about them. Phillip lay sprawled, twisted half on his back, his head not far from Royce’s right shoe. The knife wound would eventually kill him, but he wasn’t dead yet.
He shifted to his right, crouched down. “Phillip-can you hear me?”
Phillip’s lips twisted. “Almost got you. Almost…did it.”
The words were barely a whisper, but in the intent silence, they were audible enough.
“You were the traitor, weren’t you, Phillip? The one in the War Office. The one who sent God knows how many Englishmen to their deaths, and who the French paid in a treasure most of which lies at the bottom of the Channel.”
Although his eyes remained closed, Phillip’s lips curved in an unholy smile. “You’ll never know how successful I was.”
“No.” Royce curved one hand about Phillip’s chin, with his other hand grasped the top of his skull. “We won’t.”
He sensed Minerva draw close, from the corner of his eye glimpsed the ivory lace of her gown. He turned his head her way. “Look away.”
Phillip dragged in a hissing breath. He frowned. “Hurts.”
Royce looked down at him. “Sadly nowhere near as much as you deserve.” With an abrupt twist, he snapped Phillip’s neck.
He released him. The features so like his own eased, fell slack.
He reached for the knife hilt, jerked the blade free. With Phillip’s heart already stopped, the wound bled only slightly. He wiped the blade on Phillip’s lapel, then rose, sliding the knife into his pocket.
Minerva’s hand slipped into his, her fingers twining, gripping.
Christian stepped forward; so did Miles and Devil Cynster.
“Leave this to us,” Christian said.
“You’ve tidied up after us often enough,” Charles said. “Allow us to return the favor.”
There was a growl of agreement from the other Bastion Club members.
“I hate to sound like a grande dame,” Devil said, “but you need to get back to your wedding celebration.”
Miles glanced at Rupert and Gerald. “Gerald and I will stay and help-we know the estate fairly well. Enough, at least, to help stage a fatal accident-I presume that’s what we need?”
“Yes,” Rupert, Devil, and Christian answered as one.
Rupert caught Royce eye. “You and Minerva need to get back.”
They took over and, for once, Royce let them. Devil, Rupert, Christian, Tony, and both Jacks accompanied him and Minerva back to the house, leaving the others to stage Phillip’s accident. Royce knew what they would do; the gorge was both close and convenient, and disguising the knife wound as a wound from a sharp stick wouldn’t be hard-but he appreciated their tact in not discussing the details in front of Minerva.