Fellows stared at him for the longest time, his eyes growing wide, fearful. Lord Fernall was not a particularly handsome man but his countenance hardly proved terrifying.
“What is that?” Fellows cried, continually blinking as though attempting to clear his vision after waking from slumber.
Lord Fernall appeared most affronted. “Are you referring to me?” He stomped around the bush as though ready to unleash a torrent of abuse and came to stand at Tristan’s side.
It was then they noticed that Mr. Fellows was not looking at anyone in particular. One minute he was squinting, the next his eyes were wide again.
“What do you want with me?” Fellows thrust Isabella forward, using her body as a shield.
“We want you to let Lady Fernall go,” Tristan replied, though he had some doubt as to whether the gentleman was speaking to him. With Mr. Fellows somewhat distracted, Tristan waited for the right moment to wrestle him to the ground. He turned to Lord Fernall. “The man appears to have lost his mind.”
Lord Fernall frowned. “What is he staring at?”
With a sudden gasp, Fellows pushed Isabella to one side and pointed the pistol at the Dead Man’s Tree. His hand shook so violently he was liable to shoot any one of them.
As he waved the pistol back and forth, they all ducked and scrambled out of the line of fire.
Isabella rushed to stand at Tristan’s side. He clutched her hand briefly, resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and apologise for his terrible miscalculation. “Find some way to distract him,” he whispered.
She replied with a confident nod. “What is that over there? I see it … a tall,
black shadow … it is coming towards us.”
Mr. Fellows’ frantic gaze flitted left and right.
Tristan took the opportunity to charge at him. He grabbed Fellows around the waist and took him down to the ground.
A loud crack echoed through the air.
Isabella screamed.
Tristan waited for the pain, for the draining feeling that accompanied a heavy loss of blood. He patted his chest, checked his palm fearing the skin would be stained red.
In a state of panic, Mr. Fellows scrambled to his feet. With one more glance at the tree, he raced towards the gate and disappeared into the mist.
“The ball hit the tree,” Blackwood said helping Tristan to his feet. “Quick. Mr. Fellows is getting away.”
Sucking in a ragged breath, Tristan took Isabella’s hand and made for the gate with Blackwood and Lord Fernall in tow.
“I shall be glad to be away from this place,” Lord Fernall panted as he glanced at the tree. “I am telling you there was someone behind me whilst I was hiding back there.”
Unable to suppress a smirk, Tristan said, “What do you mean? Are you saying that a ghost attacked you?”
Fernall grunted as they passed through the gate. “You may mock—”
The horses’ high-pitched squeals and a coachman’s gruff, masculine curse overpowered the sound of the peddlers’ carts rattling along the street. Numerous shrieks and cries were interspersed with what Tristan suspected was the crunch of breaking bones.
The sight of Mr. Fellows’ crumpled body sprawled across the road stopped them dead in their tracks.
Chapter 23
Tristan pulled Isabella closer. “Don’t look. It is not a pretty sight.”
She buried her head in his chest. “Oh, it is so terrible.”
“He got trampled by the horses and crushed by the carriage wheels,” someone shouted from the small crowd that had stopped to observe the horrific scene. “His neck’s broken.”
Tristan sighed. The irony was not lost on him.