The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

He got off her, rising slowly to his feet. “Well, you tried to take me down, Duchess. I like that. It proves you’re of my blood, not cowards, either of you. But the time has come to finish this. I will make it quick, I promise you. I’m not cruel. All you have to do is drink a bit more, and you’ll fall asleep just as you did last night. Only this time you won’t wake up. I’m going to tie each of you to your horses. Unfortunately they will both go off the rather dramatic cliff just to the east of Trellisian Valley. I don’t want to have to kill Stanley, he’s a good mount, and as the earl of Chase, I would like to ride him now and again, but I must make it believable. I’ll untie you once you’re dead at the bottom of the cliff and drive back to London. I’ll be there in the bosom of my family when we receive word of your tragic deaths.”

“Why did you wake us up?” Marcus asked. “You could have given us enough and killed us without this charming scene you’ve played out. Ah, that’s it, isn’t it, Trevor? You wanted us to know it was you all along. You wanted to bray and brag and gloat.”

Trevor rose, the gun raised, his face flushed, then it seemed he got control of himself again. Slowly, he sat down again on the crate. “Think what you will,” he said, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The outcome will be the same. You’ll be dead and I’ll be the earl of Chase.”

He looked from one to the other of them. “Life is so terribly uncertain, isn’t it?”

Suddenly the Duchess began to laugh. It bubbled out of her, tears pooled in her eyes and she was nearly losing her breath she was laughing so hard.

He jumped to his feet, waving his pistol toward her. “Damn you, shut up!”

“Ah, but it’s so very funny,” she said and went into gales of laughter, full-bodied laughter that made Marcus so afraid he thought he’d choke on it. What the hell was she doing?

“What the hell is so funny? Shut up, I tell you!”

“You, Trevor.” She hiccuped and laughed more. “You. You’re so very funny. Actually, what you are is pathetic. You, the next earl of Chase? You? You’re a bloody madman, that’s what you are, insignificant, not really there as a man, just a shadow, yes, a madman, that’s what you are. Yes, you’re sad really, a loudmouthed preening cock, an ass braying like a man, a real man. You’re nothing but a dismal excuse for a man, nothing more, just an excuse.”

And she laughed and laughed until Trevor, his face blood-red now, fury roiling through him, roared to his feet, raised the pistol, and came over her. He had the pistol in his hand and he would strike her with it, hard and again and again, she saw it in his eyes, eyes she’d believed once so warm and filled with intelligence and humor. Now they just held death and his loss of control.

Just as he was coming down over her, she drew her legs back to her chest to give her leverage and power and she kicked him in the groin. She kicked him so hard that for an endlessly long moment, he just hung there over her, poised to strike her with that pistol butt, doing nothing at all now, not breathing, just staring down at her disbelieving, then he screamed and screamed, falling backward onto his back, clutching his groin, crying now, wailing really, the agony ripping him apart, and in those moments he was behind them, not even aware that they were there and that they were his enemies.

“Well done, Duchess.” She saw Marcus roll over on top of Trevor, grab the pistol, and toss it to her, for his hands were tied behind his back and hers were tied in front. She caught it and held it in front of her.

“Get off him, Marcus. Let him suffer, then we’ll see.”

He rolled off Trevor and came up onto his feet. Slowly, he hobbled to her and sat down beside her. “Untie me if you can,” he said.

She’d released his wrists when Trevor, finally enduring the worst of the nausea and the tearing pain, managed to sit up. He looked into the barrel of the pistol that Marcus now pointed at him.

He cursed very softly.

The Duchess wasn’t laughing now, but her voice was calm, not the detached, dispassionate calm of the old Duchess, but a determined calm, a nearly ferocious calm. “My wrists are nearly free, Marcus. Don’t bother with me, just keep that gun pointed at him. Just another moment. Yes, now I’m all right. Hold still and I’ll untie your ankles.”

When they were both free, Marcus stood slowly, the pistol never wavering from Trevor’s face. He stomped his feet up and down to get the feeling back.

“Where are we?” he asked.

Trevor, still struggling with the grinding pain in his groin, was silent for a few more moments, then he shrugged. “I hadn’t expected you to ask me that just yet.”

“Why the hell not? There’s nothing else to ask you. You’ve carried on about how brilliant you are, you the head of the Wyndham family, you the one who believes it his right to kill with impunity all in the cause of

your damned duty, your responsibility to your mother and brother and sister. All right, tell me, cousin. Do they truly have no idea what you’ve done?”

“Perhaps. My mother hates both of you, naturally. Does she know? And Ursula, so sweet, at least she seems so, doesn’t she? You’ve gotten to know James, an honorable boy, don’t you think? He worships me. You’ll never know for sure now, Marcus, will you?”

“You’re quite mad, cousin. More important, you’re sane in your madness and that is surely worse. Now you can tell me. Where are we?”

“I’ll see you in hell before I tell you.”

“You know something, cousin? It doesn’t really matter, because you’ll be in hell a long time before I will.”

He raised the pistol, looked in that strong face that held too much resemblance to his own, and for that brief moment, he thought, dear God, he’s my cousin, he’s of my flesh, and he faltered. It was all Trevor needed. He kicked out at Marcus, sending grinding pain through his thigh, then lunged for the gun. Marcus wasn’t quite fast enough. He felt Trevor’s hands close around his wrist, squeezing it tightly, shaking his hand to free the gun, but he held tight.

Their struggle was a silent one, save for the grunts and heavy, ugly breathing. The Duchess was now on her feet, her hands free of the ropes, looking for a weapon, anything. She felt no fear for herself, just this nearly deadening fear for Marcus, and knew, knew somewhere deep down, that she had to tamp down on that fear. She managed it, flooding herself with savage frenzy and urgency.

They were on the hay-strewn floor now, still struggling for the gun, rolling over and over, panting more deeply now, sweating with exertion. She saw it then, a pitchfork, rusted with age, leaning crookedly against the far wall of the barn, looking none too sturdy, but no matter. She grabbed it—damn but it was heavy—and ran to stand over them.

But they were rolling over and over, first Marcus with the advantage, then Trevor, evenly matched. She saw that Marcus still held the gun, but Trevor was keeping well clear of it. She was terrified of striking Marcus. She circled them, waiting, waiting, wanting to scream each time it looked like Trevor would win.