On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

"But… first…" He drew back, looked into her face. "I have to tell you something — something I should have told you long ago." His lips twisted. "Two somethings, if truth be told. And they are the truth — the real truth." He drew in a breath; his eyes held hers. "I—"

"Hroo-hroo! Hroo!"

Luc turned; they both stared. "Damn!" Releasing her, he faced the path; a steady crashing and rhythmic thudding were rolling toward them. "They've let the dogs out."

On the disbelieving words, hounds came bounding up, a veritable tide, joyous and excited, thoroughly delighted to have found their master. It wasn't just a few dogs, however, but the entire pack. Luc stood before Amelia; clutching the back of his coat, she pressed close, not frightened but in danger of being batted off her feet by so many whipping tails and bumptiously overjoyed canines.

"Down!" Luc thundered. "Sit!"

Eventually, they did, but clearly believed they were due a great deal more thanks for having acquitted themselves so well.

Luc had just restored some semblance of order when the human tide descended. Portia and Penelope, more familiar with the woods, led the way, running and ducking branches ahead of Lucifer, Martin, Sugden, and a disgusted Simon.

They were

all out of breath when they piled into the clearing.

"You got him!" wheezed Portia, one hand clutching her side.

Luc glanced briefly at Kirby, then Amelia, then he looked at his sister. "We did." He continued to look at Portia. "Who let out the pack?"

"We did, of course." Penelope's tone stated that the decision had been fully evaluated and only a fool would dare challenge it. "They all reached the first fork, and didn't know which way you'd gone. The dogs were the only way to trace you."

Luc looked at her, then sighed. Patsy pressed close, pushing her nose into his hand, whining with quiet joy.

"What's the story, then?" Arm braced against a tree while he struggled to catch his breath, Martin nodded at Kirby's slumped form.

Luc looked down, then shook his head. "As to that, I'm not sure — but his name's Jonathon Kirby… and I understand he's acquainted with Edward."

Which, of course, told Amelia just how much of her tirade Luc had heard — all of it. She was still wincing at the thought when, hours later, she finally climbed the main stairs and headed down the short corridor to their rooms.

Dawn could not be far off.

Getting back to the house had proved an unexpected effort, not least because, with the villain caught and answers to all their questions doubtless to come, the determination that had fueled them all night abruptly waned. They slumped. Their feet dragged.

Luc dispatched Sugden, Portia, and Penelope to return the pack to the kennels. They went ahead, the hounds still alert, ready to dash off after anything at the slightest excuse.

Kirby, roused ungently, was too groggy to walk unsupported. Martin, Lucifer, and Simon took turns chivying him along in Luc and Amelia's wake; Luc was the only one who could lead them unerringly through the woods back to the Chase.

They'd arrived half an hour earlier to questions and exclamations. Portia and Penelope had said only that all was well before continuing to the kennels to help Sugden quarter the pack.

It was Helena who, in matriarchal fashion, eventually took charge. She pointed out that Luc himself was the local magistrate, that apparently there was a perfectly sound cellar below stairs in which Kirby — unanimously referred to as "the felon" — could be incarcerated for the time being, until they wished to question him further, and that, meanwhile, they all needed their rest.

As usual, Helena was indubitably right, yet Amelia hoped that before she and Luc fell asleep…

She didn't actually know what he wanted to tell her. Not absolutely. Yet entering her private sitting room, she was all but floating on her hopes and dreams. Two things, he'd said. In her heart, she knew what one of those things was.

The ultimate victory in her long and tireless campaign beckoned.

Triumph was a powerful drug. It seeped through her veins as she undressed and got ready for bed. She started brushing her hair, impatience escalating; to distract herself — she didn't know how long it would take Luc to organize the cellar and lock Kirby in — she tried to fathom what else — what other secret — Luc might wish to confess to her.

It couldn't be very serious, surely.

But why now? What had Kirby said to precipitate…

Her hand slowed, then lowered. She stared unseeing at her mirror. She and Kirby had discussed only two points. Whether or not Luc loved her enough to pay well for her return.

And whether Luc was, or was not, rich.