The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“You're right,” Royce concurred. He went to Brean­na, gripped her shoulders. “You and Anastasia go upstairs to my chambers. Tell two of the guards to stand outside the door. Stay put. That's just to be on the safe side, since Crompton assumes you're in the library. But he's thinking of Maurelle right now, not you. So he'll be heading away from the manor, not to­ward it.”

“Very well,” Breanna murmured.

Stacie couldn't bear her passive role another in­stant. She jumped up from her chair. “But, Royce, I want to—”

“Stacie.” Breanna's quiet admonishment silenced her. “ L et the men do what they have to. Otherwise, Crompton will escape.” She met her cousin's gaze, and a current of communication ran between them. “It's best this way.”

“All right.” Stacie ceased her protests.

Breanna rose up, kissed Royce gently. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Soberly, Breanna watched her future husband walk away, along with three men who meant the world to her.

She waited only until she and Stacie were alone. Then, she whirled about to face her cousin. “What are you planning?” Stacie hissed.

“I’m planning to stop Crompton and protect the men we love.” “How?”

“By doing what we do best.” Breanna heard the front door shut, and she grasped Stacie's arm. “Come on. We must work quickly.”

She hurried into the heft, snatching the two dark mantles that belonged to her and Stacie. “Put this on,” she instructed Stacie, tossing her one of the wraps and shrugging into the other. “After that well...'' Abruptly, she stopped, a self-depreciating expression darting across her face. “What was I thinking?” she murmured, her gaze falling to Stacie's abdomen. “Your babe. I won't endanger your child.” She gave an adamant shake of her head. “I'll manage this alone.” That done, she reached up, began tugging pins out of her hair, releasing the upswept knot and letting it tumble free.

“No, you won't.” Stacie yanked on her own mantle, realization mingling with fierce determination. “We're switching places,” she said, a statement of fact more than conjecture.

Breanna hesitated.

“Breanna, you need me for whatever it is you're planning. Besides ...” Stacie laid a protective palm over her abdomen, “my going after Crompton won't mean endangering my babe. It will mean saving it Destroying that, man is the only true protection I can offer my child. Right now he—or she—is at risk. It's my responsibility to eliminate that risk. In short, you need me, and I need to do this. So, tell me, shall I put up my heft? We are switching places, right?”

“Yes and no,” Breanna told her, relenting. “We're each being both of us.”

Stacie paused in the midst of buttoning her mantle. “Y ou've lost me.”

Breanna faced her, drew a slow breath. “Crompton will never leave Medford for good. Not as long as we're alive. So if he flees with Maurelle, well go right back to living in perpetual fear and uncertainty. I can't bear that thought. Nor can I bear the thought of what he'll do to Royce and Damen if he finds them before they find him. We have to eliminate that possibility.”

“How?”

Another pause. “Stacie, this plan borders on reck­less.”

“Not as reckless as letting Crompton escape. That would be akin to a death sentence—for us and my babe.”

“Y ou're sure you want to—?”

“I’m sure.”

Breanna nodded, knowing there was no changing Stacie's mind, equally sure that, were it she who was pregnant, she would make the same choice—for her child's sake. “We're going to lure him back. We're going to provide the viscount with exactly what he wants: us. The only problem is, he won't know which of us is which. And that will pose a major obstacle to that consummate plan of his. Remember, he means to kill you first. With one bullet. No mistakes.”

“True,” Stacie concurred, understanding dawning on her face. “And he can't very well do that—not with utter certainty—unless he's sure it's me he's firing at. Why, he could be undermining his entire plan, killing you first. It would reverse his order and deny him the sick pleasure of torturing you further, making you watch me die. That would be unthinkable after all his meticulous planning.”

“Exactly. To a man like Crompton, certainty is everything. And how can he be certain? He'll see two Anastasia's: you,” Breanna altered her voice, dropped her clipped accent in favor of Stacie's Americanized tones, “and me.” She finished shaking out her tresses, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, loose and unin­hibited like Stacie's. “It's risky, but it's the only way we can protect the men we love, and be sure Cromp­ton doesn't vanish, only to keep terrorizing us.”

“I agree.” Stacie nodded, her mind racing. “We 'll have to stay far enough apart so Crompton believes we're each alone, yet nearby enough to appear at a moment's notice—so that whichever one of us Cromp­ton spots first can be quickly joined by the other.”

“Right.” Breanna finished her preparations. “Once we've done that, we'll have to challenge his pride without pushing him over the edge. We'll simply re­mind him that if he were truly the master shot he claims to be, he'd know which of us was which. We 'll point out that to fulfill his plan, he has to shoot Ana­stasia first with Breanna watching—and that he has to kill us with only one bullet apiece.” She raised her chin. “We'll each take a pistol. The minute Crompton turns away from one of us and provides the other with a clear shot, that Anastasia will fire.” Breanna's gaze grew intense. “Stacie, I asked myself this ques­tion days ago, and answered it. Now I'm asking you—can you shoot to kill? Because I can.”

Stacie's palm strayed back to her abdomen, ca­ressed her unborn child. “Oh, yes, Breanna. When it comes to the Viscount Crompton, I can shoot to kill.”

29