“No!” she cried, trying to writhe away from him, but the arm that was curled about her tightened, holding her securely, as he laughed.
A delaying tactic, my dear. A wager, Sir Roderick’s voice said in her mind. A game of chess.
Anthea’s heart leaped to know she was not alone, though she blushed with shame at the thought of Lord Roderick’s witnessing her disgrace, and knew there was little he could do. But it was even as he said—the longer she could postpone the inevitable, the less inevitable it might become. “A wager, my lord! A game of chess! If you win, I shall not resist you—indeed, I shall surrender myself to the passions you claim to detect!”
“A wager?” Delbert drew back with a gleam in his eye. “That might add spice to the encounter. Chess, d’ye say? Foolish child, do you think you could best me?”
“It might heighten the pleasure, as you say,” Anthea said, her voice trembling.
Delbert heard; his grin widened. “And my forfeit, if—ha, ha!—I should lose?”
“Then you will let me go, my lord, unharmed and intact, and will say nothing of this night’s doings to anyone.”
Delbert frowned, but the gleam remained in his eye. “High stakes, but why not? I’ve played for higher. Where are your chess pieces?”
They were in her portmanteau, and she had them out in a trice, managing to rebutton her bodice as she did. She laid out the pieces, then began the longest game of her life—not merely because of the suspense or the stakes, but because, as Sir Roderick’s voice pointed out to her:
He will never let you go unmolested, even should you win. Your only hope is to prolong the game—the longer, the greater the possibility of rescue.
She saw the truth of it in the anger that flashed in Delbert’s eye when she took a pawn. Thereafter, she was careful to lose steadily, never taking a piece of his unless she had lost two of her own, but prolonging each capture as much as possible. Meantime, she tried to ignore the caresses of his voice as he described the pleasures she would experience when this opening game was over, and tried to fight against her body’s longing to surrender. Yet when she grew too distracted, Sir Roderick’s voice was ever there, counseling, pawn to queen’s knight six ... king’s bishop to queen’ s rook five... Beware of pawn take at queen’ s bishop four ...
Three hours passed, and Lord Delbert began to frown. In fear, Anthea sacrificed two pawns and a knight, though she had to call his attention to the latter. “This game tires me,” he growled ominously, and Anthea’s heart thudded, for she knew she dared not lose. She began to win, and Delbert to grow darker and darker of mood. Then, when he had only a rook and a knight left to his king, while she had two rooks and won her queen back, he snarled and threw over the board. “Witch! You could not have brought that to pass! Come here, and I will show you the glories of the path to your master!” And he surged toward her, hands outstretched.
Anthea screamed and threw herself at the coach door, knowing it was futile, that she could never wrench the latch open in time—but Sir Roderick had been at work, and the panel gave way. Delbert’s rush carried them both tumbling out of the carriage. Anthea fell clear and bruised her head, but Sir Roderick’s voice beat through her brain, and she found her body lifting from the ground. Run, child! As far and as fast as you can!
She had a brief glimpse of Lord Delbert, half in and half out of the coach, cursing and thrashing. Then she found her feet and was off, tripping and stumbling over the uneven ground of a springtime field. There were woods to her right, and the road, but she knew she dared not run on it, for he would surely be faster than she. Ahead rose low hills, and she dashed for their cover. If she could only last till dawn! Surely he would give over the chase when there was fear of discovery!
But she heard the pounding of his feet behind her, his snarling rage, then his sudden howl of fright. Glancing back, she saw the glowing suit of armor with sword uplifted, and heard Delbert yelling in horror. Roderick had made himself visible to Delbert. She saw no more, for she turned away and ran for her life. He might give over, daunted by the specter, but she doubted it; his passion and anger were such that he might very well overcome his fear, and seek her out still, defying the ghost.
Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and she was more hobbling than running, when she finally came among the low hills. She stopped, swaying, seeking a hiding place, tempted to merely sink down against the nearest slope—but she heard Lord Delbert’s howls of anger, then his maniacal laugh of triumph. “Spirit of battle or spirit from bottle, what matter? You cannot harm me in either case!”
Then she heard the pounding of hoofbeats and a cry in the night—Delbert’s voice, in rage. She risked a look back and saw a horse and rider swooping out of the darkness, blocking her pursuer, the man leaning down to cuff Delbert aside.
“Crafter!” Delbert shouted furiously. “What in hell do you think you’re doing!”
“Punishing a rogue and a scoundrel,” Roman Crafter snapped.
Anthea was amazed at the cold hardness of his voice. “Get back to your coach and wait for your horses, Delbert, or you may not live to regret it!”
“Remember your station, you oaf!” Delbert roared. “Do you dare touch a man of the blood?”
“Station? You forget, Delbert—I’m American. We don’t believe in such things. Show me your quality with your deeds, not your birth.”
“That I will, in a trice!” Delbert bellowed. “Just get down off that damned horse, Crafter, and I’ll show you your place!”
Roman gave a low laugh that raised chills along Anthea’s spine—and leaped down from the horse.
With a roar of triumph, Delbert pulled a pistol from his belt and leveled it at Crafter’s head.
Then Anthea could not believe her eyes, for suddenly the pistol began to glow, a glow that brightened into a streak of white light that surged down Delbert’s arm toward his heart. He screamed and threw the pistol away, but the white light still clung to his arm, and a voice from nowhere rang out: Shall I kill him, young Roman?
Run, girl! Sir Roderick’s voice rang through her head. He has bought you time, but may yet pay with his blood! Flee!
Anthea did, turning and running, suddenly as frightened of Roman Crafter and whatever spirit accompanied him, as she was of Lord Delbert.
She knew that one or the other of them would be after her, no matter who won. In a panic, she looked about and saw a patch of deeper darkness against one of the hillsides. She hobbled to it with ragged, sobbing breaths, reached out—and felt the hillside give way into a low cave. Weeping with relief, she dropped to hands and knees and crawled in. There was still a chance Delbert might find her, but it was less than before.
Something glowed in the dark, something that stretched upward into a tall and glittering form.
Anthea cried out, and shrank back against the wall of the cave.
He stood in silhouette against an eldritch glow that seemed to come from the walls of the cavern itself, a tall, unnaturally thin man with silvered hair.
Anthea crouched rigid, staring up at him.
He lifted an arm in a bell-sleeve with a gold-embroidered cuff, beckoning.