The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Frowning, Breanna shoved at the wood, only to be met with the same resistance. Finally, she threw her weight against it, jarring the door until it shifted enough to let her squeeze through.

A blast of cold air accosted her from the open win­dow in the far corner of the room.

She shivered, drew her mantle more tightly around herself as she stepped inside.

A scream froze in her throat.

Wilkens's body lay on the floor, a stream of blood trickling from his chest, pooling on the floor beneath him.

He was dead.

“Dear God,” she whispered, pressing her fist to her mouth. “Oh, dear God.” She backed away, unable to stop staring at the man's lifeless form as she inched toward the hall.

Powerful hands grabbed her from behind.

This time her scream broke free, and she began struggling violently against whoever held her captive.

“Breanna, if s me.” Royce swung her around, seized her shoulders in his hands. His eyes were nearly black with anger, his features taut with worry. “Are you all right?”

“Royce.” She sagged toward him, happier to see him than she'd ever been to see anyone in her life.

“Reckless little fool,” he muttered, dragging her against him and holding her with arms that shook. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She gripped the lapels of Royce's coat. “He's dead,” she managed, gesturing toward the sitting room. “Shot like the others.”

Keeping one arm snaked tightly around Breanna's waist, Royce leaned past her, peered inside. Frown­ing, he released Breanna long enough to check Wilkens, verify he was dead.

“That son of a bitch beat us here,” he pronounced, rising to his feet, noting the open window. “And not by much. Wilkens couldn't have been shot more than a half hour ago, judging from the body. Somehow that bastard knew where you were headed. He used the window to escape.”

Breanna was trying to steady her breathing, to clear her head. “How could he know my destination? He didn't read Rogers's letter. It was sealed when Ma­honey delivered it. He must have seen through my story about pursuing the messenger.” Her voice qua­vered. “It's my fault this man is dead.”

“No.” Royce drew her against him, stroked her hair. “Wilkens was doomed the minute Rogers's note was delivered to Medford. Had I received it first, I would have done precisely what you did—ridden to Maid­stone to question Wilkens. The assassin is smart. He knew I was checking into the gunsmith who crafted his pistol. He'd have seen where I was headed, and put two and two together. He'd have dashed on ahead of me, killed Wilkens before I had the chance to talk to him. Just as he did with you. The only difference is, I would have been the one in danger. Which is low it should have been.”

Royce buried his lips in her hair. “Dammit, Breanna, don't do that to me ever again. I was terrified.” He paused, realized she was trembling. “Let's go home. Anastasia is probably frantic by now.”

That had the desired effect.

“Stacie knows where I've gone?” Breanna asked, worry supplanting shock.

“By now, yes. I told Mahoney. The whole house­hold is probably in turmoil. And the guards must be scouring Kent looking for you.”

Breanna's grip on his coat tightened. “If so, they won't be guarding Stacie.”

“Yes they will.” Royce eased her worry, his knuck­les gently stroking her cheek. “Damen and Wells are with her. They're both armed. I had Mahoney post guards outside her room, as well. No one will get by them.”

“We've got to go.” Breanna was already heading for the door.

Royce escorted her to the phaeton, stopping only to harness his mount to the front, alongside the horse who'd guided her here. “I rode here on horseback. It's the only way I could gain the time I needed. We'll ride back together. I'll hail a local constable along the way, tell him about Wilkens's body.”

Breanna nodded mutely, sitting in a numbed state as Royce turned the phaeton around, headed for home.

An icy premonition began forming deep in her gut

It spread, crawling up her spine, intensifying as their carriage neared Medford Manor.

She'd known that premonition before. It had struck last August, an instant before the assassin stepped out of the shadows, took a shot at Stacie.

He was closing in, nearing the moment when he'd complete his unfinished execution.