He smiled at Gillian, then began moving closer. “What? No kiss for your long-lost husband? No greeting? No words of love?”
Gillian raised her chin a bit higher. “You are not Colin Fox. And you are not my husband. I may not know your true name, but I know what you are,” she told him. “The only thing I have to say to you is get out of my house.” She glared at Lavery, who moved to stand by his side. “And if you engineered this reunion by letting him in, you may go with him.”
“Gillian, Gillian,” he taunted. “That’s no way to talk to my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Joel Lavery, at your service.” He gave her a mocking bow. “But my English friends call me Joel Holder.” He chuckled. “You, of course, know me as Colin Fox, a name I chose from the myriad payment vouchers that crossed my desk during my brief tenure as a clerk at Scofield’s Haberdashery. I thought it apropos as I was, so to speak, a fox in the henhouse.” He chuckled once again. “A very rich henhouse. And you were such a pleasant little hen.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid my sister doesn’t take orders from you. She takes her orders from our beloved Emperor Napoleon and me.” He grinned at Gillian, allowing her to see, for the first time, the pistol he held in his hand. “And so, Lady Grantham, do you.” He jerked Gillian up against him and shoved the barrel of the pistol against her ribs. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m taking you back to Scotland, where you’ll stay until my sister and I receive our ransom.” He tried pulling her along behind him, but Gillian lifted her feet off the floor. He dragged her as far as the stairs. “Walk, my lady,” he ordered. “Or I’ll shoot you where you sit.”
“Then shoot me and be done with it,” Gillian told him, “because I’m not leaving this house.” She had promised Colin she’d be waiting, and that was a promise she intended to keep. “I made the mistake of going to Scotland with you one time, and I refuse to go back.”
Holder pulled the hammer on the pistol and prepared to fire.
“No!” his sister shouted. “She’s no good to us dead. Think of the money and the ships. We must have the ships.”
Holder eased his thumb off the hammer. “Did you take care of the staff?” he asked his sister.
She nodded. “They are all indisposed.’’ She looked at Gillian as she emphasized the word. “From the medicinal I slipped into the ale at the noon meal.”
“And the butler?”
“He met with an iron in the butler’s pantry.” She smiled. “He won’t bother us.”
“Can we make our way out the front door?”
She nodded. “The coach is waiting out front.”
“Good-bye, Sister,” Holder said, “I’ll meet you in Scotland. Come, Gillian, let us away.” He cuffed Gillian on the side of her head with the pistol and half-dragged, half-carried her out to the waiting coach. He snatched open the door of the coach and shoved her inside.
“Go! Go! Go!” came the shout from within as soon as the door slammed.
The driver obeyed, whipping the horses into a gallop as the coach pulled away from the sidewalk and raced south.
“Gillian, my love, are you all right?” Colin scooped her into his arms and cradled her next to his heart.
Gillian recognized his voice, smelled the intoxicating scent of his sandalwood soap, and knew she was safe. She opened her eyes, saw her husband’s dear face, darkened with concern, and began to cry. “I thought you were gone,” she sobbed. “I thought you’d gone back to Scotland or France or wherever it was you had to go.”
“I told you I’d be back.” He gazed down into her shining eyes. “Galahad always returns. And I kept my promise.”
“So did I,” Gillian told him. “I promised I’d be waiting for you, and I was.”
“And I was never more glad to be home with you than in this moment,” Colin told her. “I thought I had lost you, Gillian.” He hugged her closer. “Dear God, how I love you!”
“And I love you, my Sir Galahad.”
* * *
“Wait!” Holder shouted as he watched the coach tear away. “Wait! You left me!”
“Indeed, they did,” the Marquess of Shepherdston commented, dryly. “For they have a honeymoon to finish. And three’s a crowd on a honeymoon.”
Holder turned to find himself surrounded by several men brandishing shiny pistols. “Shepherdston.”
“At your service.”
“And so am I,” the Duke of Sussex said, pointing his own weapon at Holder. “Drop the pistol!”