A Reckless Encounter

Colter beckoned him forward. “You’ll ride my horse for now. I’ve no intention of letting you out of my sight.” He loosened his neckcloth and shook it out. “Neither do I intend to leave you unbound. You’re a wily old fox, and full of tricks. Sir John was meant to lure me far afield, I assume, so that you could escape. Why didn’t you?”

“I believe you must know why—do you mind? If I’m to ride a horse, I’d just as soon not freeze. My coat is in the gig.”

“I’ll get your coat. You stand there.” Colter moved to the side of the gig and reached inside, feeling for the coat without taking his eyes from his uncle.

Christ, he was an old man, silvery hair pale under the sheen of moonlight, his bearing still straight and tall for a man of his years, but the evidence of time stamped upon his features for all to see.

Colter snagged the coat and felt along it for possible weapons then tossed it to his uncle, who caught it deftly.

“Well, my boy, what would you have me do now,” he said as he shrugged into the coat, “march back to Harmony afoot?”

“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll revise my earlier suggestion. We’ll go together in the gig. It seems to be the favored transport for hostages—Who wore this?”

He held up a length of green velvet ribbon and saw the sudden wariness in Easton’s posture. “Where is she, Philip?” There was menace in his voice, and danger in his eyes as he moved toward the older man. “Tell me where she is, or by God, I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

“Shoot an unarmed man? Hardly fair, do you think? Give me a pistol and we’ll settle this at twenty paces.” Philip watched him closely. “It’s better than dangling at the end of a rope for the amusement of the excise men.”

Cold anger made him consider it; he’d like nothing better than to shoot him, but that would hardly help Celia.

“Tell me where she is,” he said softly, “or I’ll show you a few tricks I picked up from a tribe known as Apache. They’re quite inventive, have ways of making a man say things that not even the Spanish Inquisitors could imagine. It’s barren out here, and you wouldn’t be found for days…”

“You really are a savage, aren’t you.” Philip’s voice held thick contempt. “Your father was right.”

“My father was an utter bastard. Now, tell me where you left her.”

“Very well. Since you’re so insistent…”

He lifted his arms as if to gesture, and there was a brief glitter of moonlight on metal that warned Colter. He threw himself to one side, brought up his pistol in a smooth motion, his thumb snapping down to release the latch that fired it. Two explosions sounded simultaneously, the acrid smell of gunpowder sharp and strong.

Philip Worth stood for an instant, a shocked look on his face, then he crumpled soundlessly to the ground near the wheel of the gig. The horses snorted and stomped, but the brake held them from bolting as Colter moved to his uncle.

The shot had been true; a stain spread on his white shirt, an obscene red flower. Kneeling, Colter knew that his uncle was dead. Damn him. It had been too easy.

His head lifted, and he stared into the world of black and silver, saw tall grasses bending in the wind, heard nothing but the sound of the endless sea.

Where was she?

32

Celia rolled over painfully, trying to get her bearings. It sounded like thunder, but the night sky was clear, with many stars. The vast bowl of sparkling points against deep blue reminded her of his eyes…pitiless blue at times, and at others, blazing with raw desire. Where was he?

It was cold, the wind wet and fierce, blowing the tall grasses, dampening her face and clothes. She had to move or she’d die here, left to the uncertain mercy of the elements.

Left to the certain brutality of Lord Easton.

Groaning, she struggled to sit up, hands sinking into sand and grass, the rough edges of the blades slicing soft skin. It was wet here, residue of tidal flow, no doubt. As she got clumsily to her feet, she sank softly into the ground.

It was hard work trudging through clinging sand, and she hiked up her skirts above the clumps of grass, careful not to step in a hole hollowed out by wind and sea. Ahead in the distance, faint lights flickered on a point of land. If she could reach them before Easton found her, there may be someone to help her. She may be able to escape.

Shivering almost uncontrollably, she forged on, though her legs cramped with strain, the muscles shrieking protests at the abuse. Her own breath was loud, a rasping sound, and the sea washing up to the sand was a rolling echo of her own pounding blood in her ears.

Then, behind her, she heard another pounding, a hard thud of feet that sparked panic. A glance over her shoulder was enough to show her a tall figure in pursuit.

Oh God…At any moment she expected to hear the loud report of a pistol and be slammed to the earth by the impact of a ball in her back. She began to weave this way and that over the sand, running, feet digging into the sand with a spurt of fear pressing her onward, even when she lost a shoe.

He was getting closer, for she could almost feel the earth shudder beneath her, but the sea was so loud, the blood pounding in her ears and her breath a harsh, raking sob in her throat so that she could scarcely breathe now, could only keep running.

It was inevitable, an inexorable tide that finally caught her. As the hand snatched her by the back of her dress to stop her, she swung around in the grasp, swinging fiercely, fists pummeling him with all the force she could manage, over and over, no breath left to scream or cry out, only enough strength to resist.