Jacqueline bounced on his shoulder. Unconsciousness threatened; she fought it off, managed to raise her arms and brace them against Jordan’s back.
He was swearing continuously. As he bounded down the last section of path, she glimpsed figures above, some stopping by Eleanor, others streaming on. There were two paths that led to Cyclops, but the other, along the southern ridge, was longer.
Gauging the distance, Jacqueline accepted that Jordan, even carrying her, would reach Cyclops before any rescuers could reach them.
She’d done her best. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, smelled the salty tang of the sea-thought of Gerrard; she knew he’d come for her. Reaching deep, she marshaled her reserves. Whatever came next, she was going to need them.
Gerrard and Barnaby came to a precipitous halt on the path above the cove. Behind them, a group of gardeners was untangling a sobbing Eleanor Fritham from a bed of cacti.
Before them, high on top of Cyclops, Jordan Fritham stood, holding Jacqueline teetering on the edge of the blowhole.
Everyone else had gathered on the path, staying off the rock itself. In the center of the group, his neighbors supporting him, Lord Tregonning stood, leaning heavily on his cane; even from this distance his face was ashen.
Lord Fritham’s pallor was even worse.
The bend in the path screened Gerrard and Barnaby from Jordan’s sight. Through breaks in the foliage, they watched as he bargained with Jacqueline’s life.
Higher up the garden, Mitchel Cunningham had passed them, racing back to the house for pen and paper. Sent back by Lord Tregonning in response to Jordan’s demand, Mitchel had rapidly filled them in.
Jordan had threatened to disfigure Jacqueline, to put out her eyes then and there if they didn’t meet his demands. If any rushed him, he’d drop her into Cyclops.
He’d asked for a deed to be written and signed by Lord Tregonning, and witnessed by everyone there, ceding Hellebore Hall and the estate to him outright, giving Jacqueline to him in marriage, and absolving him of all and any crimes they might think to lay at his door.
Gerrard was beyond swearing; Barnaby wasn’t.
“Shush,” Gerrard said. “Listen.”
Lord Fritham was pleading with his son. “There’s no need for any of this.”
“Need?” Jordan’s contempt-laden sneer reached them, carried on the sea breeze. “This can all be laid at your feet, old man-thanks to you, all I have is need. You and Mama have squandered what little inheritance I might have had, what with your entertainments, always trying to pretend you were as wealthy as your neighbors. The Manor is mortgaged to the hilt-don’t you think I know? So what’s left for me? I had to take steps to find myself a future. With Jacqueline’s money, Eleanor and I will live in London-where we always should have stayed. No more being buried in the country. We’ll live like kings in the capital, and leave you damned down here.”
The last words rang with furious resentment.
Gulls wheeled; the swoosh of the waves on the rocky shore of the cove lent an eerie backdrop to the fraught scene.
The tide was coming in; Cyclops had yet to start gushing in earnest, but the hem of Jacqueline’s gown was wet. The blowhole chamber emitted a low, steadily building grumble, more definite with every set of waves that rolled in.
“I wonder how much time we have before Cyclops really blows,” Barnaby whispered.
“In about half an hour it’ll start to gush.”
It was Matthew who’d spoken; Gerrard turned as he and Sir Vincent joined them. The older man was panting heavily.
Matthew’s eyes had locked on the unfolding drama. “It’ll be an hour before Cyclops reaches full strength. Regardless, if he drops her in now, there’s no way she’ll escape. She’ll either drown, or be battered to death.”
On Cyclops, Jordan was speaking again. “As soon as that fool Cunningham brings paper and pen, all you have to do is write what I tell you, and sign it.” A smile curved his lips. “I know you all-you’re ‘men of their word.’ You’ll do exactly as I ask so I won’t be forced to let go.” Jordan eased the arm about Jacqueline’s waist-her feet immediately started to slip inward on the sloping side of Cyclop’s funnel-like hole.
Everyone gasped, started forward, then stopped as Jordan laughed and hoisted her up again. “Just so.” He brandished the knife close to her cheek. “Don’t forget-stay back. I’m sure Cunningham will be here soon.”
No one moved. No one said anything.
“Is Jordan insane?” Barnaby asked. “No one’s going to feel obliged to honor a promise given under such duress.”
“He’s not insane.” Sir Vincent looked grim. “Just think of the scandal fighting a written and fully witnessed deed will cause-for everyone.”
“Oh, God!” Matthew grabbed Gerrard’s arm; he pointed out to sea. “Look!”
A summer squall was sweeping in. A stormy, churning dark gray curtain, it steadily advanced, eating up the previously blue sky, the waves changing to slate before it, white crests rising, kicked up by the winds running before the front.
“It’s coming this way.” Matthew’s voice was rising. “It’ll drive the waves before it.” He looked at the two figures on Cyclops, their backs to the approaching danger. “Jordan doesn’t know. Cyclops will blow much sooner than he expects, and much harder. What if he loses his grip?”
Sir Vincent swore. “We’ll have to tell him-”
“No.” Barnaby was staring at Jordan. “If you force him to move away from Cyclops…It’s his weapon. Without it, with just that little knife and a threat, he’ll be vulnerable. He’s liable to panic.”
“He’ll panic anyway,” Matthew said. “I know what happens in storms. Cyclops erupts suddenly, without any gradual build-”
Gerrard clamped a hand on Matthew’s arm, enjoining silence while his mind raced. “While Jordan holds Jacqueline over Cyclops, we can’t do anything, so we’re going to do something to change that-something Jordan won’t expect.”
“What?” Barnaby asked.
Gerrard met his eyes. “I need you and Sir Vincent to go out there and support Lord Tregonning, but not in silence. Jordan is vain-he thinks he’s the victor here. Ask him about the previous deaths, get him to tell you how clever he’s been-you know how to lead men like him to fill the time.” Gerrard glanced at Sir Vincent. “Most importantly, between you, I need you to keep Jordan’s eyes on you-on your faces. Don’t let him look at the others.”
Barnaby frowned. “Why?” Suspicion laced his tone.
Gerrard held up a hand. He looked back up the path, beckoned to one of the men surrounding Eleanor.
It was the senior undergardener. He came quickly. “Sir?”
“We need you to keep Miss Fritham there, and keep her down-we don’t want her seeing what goes on out on Cyclops.”
The man glanced at the rock, then saluted, and hurried back up the path.
Gerrard turned to Matthew. “Can we get from here to the cove without Jordan seeing us?”
Matthew frowned. He pointed to the right. “There’s a gardener’s track that swings around that way-it ends at the cove. Because of the dip where the stream runs down, there’s cover all the way.” He looked at Gerrard. “Why?”
His gaze fixing on the figures out on the rock, Gerrard drew a determined breath. “Because I’m going to do the last thing Jordan will expect. I’m going to climb Cyclops from the seaward side.”
“No. You can’t,” Matthew said. “It’s not possible.”
Sir Vincent was shaking his head. “’Fraid he’s right-it’d be suicide.”
Gerrard turned his head and met Barnaby’s eyes. “You often rib me about my county of origin-tell them.”
Barnaby held his gaze, read his resolution, then sighed and glanced at the others. “Peak District. He’s right. If anyone can climb the seaward side of Cyclops, it’s him.”