Chapter Twenty-Five
Terror seemed a living thing, a beast digging its talons into Evelyn’s chest. Each breath came harder than the last. Fighting to remain calm, she slipped back inside the house and quietly made her way to her chamber. Steadying her quaking hands, she opened the small traveling case atop her trunk. Removing a few crumpled garments, she located the secret pocket at the bottom of the satchel.
She retrieved the oracle card. The dragon stared up at her. Menacing. Taunting. The blasted card—coveted by both MacMasters and the scoundrel who held Sally prisoner—had brought only grief. If she’d had any idea of the heartache centered around this hideous scrap of paper, she might’ve tossed it into the fire and watched it burn to ash.
A sudden swell of emotion washed over her. Steeling herself, she choked it back. There was no time to think, no time to debate. Sally’s life depended on her ability to keep her wits about her. She had no choice but to follow the cur’s demands and pray that she could distract Sally’s captor long enough for her to escape.
Opening her bodice, she tucked the card between her chemise and corset, refastened the buttons, and rushed from the room.
Descending the stairs at a brisk pace, each step more urgent than the last, the truth echoed in her thoughts. No one could protect her now. She had to face this threat on her own.
Sally’s life depended on it.
Backed against a wall in a crofter’s cottage mere yards from the Witch’s Hearth, Evelyn fought the instinctive urge to flee Westbrook’s accusing stare. Behind her, Sally sat in a shadowed corner, her wrists bound, her ankles tied with heavy cord. Her eyes had gone wide with fear, but she held her chin high and defiant. Evelyn slanted her a reassuring glance.
Westbrook paced the room, his agitation appearing to build with each step. The door to the cabin squeaked open, and a woman entered.
She might have been Evelyn’s age, perhaps a bit older. Her brown hair had been secured in a severe bun. A bandage had been wrapped around the woman’s left hand. The white cloth stood out in stark relief against the black ensemble she wore.
The woman had been wounded. Quite recently, from the looks of it.
A peculiar sense of familiarity overwhelmed Evelyn. Was it the woman’s walk? Her penetrating stare? Or the way she cocked her head, just so, as if she was silently assessing Evelyn?
Dear God. Was this the killer she’d seen draped in widow’s weeds?
As if she’d read Evelyn’s thoughts, the woman’s lips peeled into a thin travesty of a smile.
“Your suspicion is correct, Lady Evelyn.” Standing before her now, the woman in black took another step closer. “I regret we did not have time to become acquainted in Graham’s shop. I would have enjoyed putting my new blade to use.”
“Enough of the theatrics,” Westbrook said. His rapier-sharp gaze pierced Evelyn’s courage. “What have you told MacMasters about the card?”
“Nothing,” she said, forcing a steadiness to her voice. “I told him nothing.”
“Do not try my patience. Your abrupt decision to leave forced my hand. I’d intended to trick you into producing the card and leave the task of silencing you to Mrs. Smythe after I was long gone from this place. But I could not allow you to leave without ensuring you had not passed the card to that Scottish cur.”
Evelyn’s heart pounded. She could not deny her fear. But she would not give in to it.
“If you think to intimidate me, sir, you are mistaken.” Amazing how the words flowed, despite the thudding of her pulse.
“You are a rational woman. I suspect you know what I am capable of—I will ask you again—and this time, I want the truth. What did you tell MacMasters?”
“I told him nothing. I have no reason to lie to you.”
The assassin smiled, an evil tilt of her lips. A blood-red stone in the hilt of the dagger in her hand shimmered in the sunlight.
Of the two, the woman was the more cold-blooded. That much was clear in her icy visage. She would not hesitate to wound. To kill.
Evelyn’s mind raced. She had to find a weapon, some means of defense. She would not cower in this place, meekly waiting for her own blood to be shed.
Careful to avoid betraying her train of thought, she swept her attention around the small, dank cottage. Traces of a family’s previous existence remained, covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. A stew pot hung on a hook in the corner. Crudely fashioned plates were piled on a table that leaned crookedly against a wall. A cast iron skillet hung on a peg by the hearth. On the other side of the fireplace, a poker rested against the stones.
The skillet would serve as an effective bludgeon. The heavy poker would put a dent in a skull. Even the pot and plates might function as cudgels. While not as deadly as the weapon the assassin wielded, the curs’ arrogance might work in Evelyn’s favor.
The assassin stalked toward her. “I’ll need you to give me that oracle card. Now.”
“I will give you the card. But I must ask Mr. Westbrook to avert his eyes,” Evelyn said. If she convinced the bastard to look away, she might be able to snatch up the poker and smash it against his skull.
“Oh, you’ve stashed it someplace naughty.” Mrs. Smythe laughed as if they were enjoying a witty joke. “How very cheeky. I do believe I like you.”
“This is not a bloody admiration society.” Westbrook clipped the words between his teeth. “Get on with it.”
“You’re rather surly tonight, aren’t you?” Mrs. Smythe’s eyes flashed cold anger. “I’ve half a mind to take your prize and leave you to deal with Mr. MacMasters. That might teach you to respect a lady.”
Westbrook scowled. “I’ve no patience for this. Get the card and we will end this.”
“Ah, men…” Mrs. Smythe sighed. “At times, I do so want to put a bullet right between his lovely gray eyes.” Her shoulders lifted and fell in a little shrug. “But given the fee he will pay, that would hardly be prudent.”
“Why are you doing this?” Sally spoke up, a slight quiver marking her voice.
“Why do we do anything, dear?” Mrs. Smythe replied. “I suppose you might say greed. My vocation is extremely lucrative. And I’m quite good at it. There is something most satisfying about a job well done.”
The woman was mad. Entirely so. If only she would drop her guard. Though she acted as coolly as if they sat sipping tea and nibbling scones, Mrs. Smythe kept a razor-eyed focus on her quarry.
“I need that card, Lady Evelyn. Now,” Westbrook demanded. “I do not give a damn about your modesty.”
“Very well,” Evelyn murmured. Her fingers went to her blouse, releasing the closures. Her skin crawling beneath Westbrook’s leering gaze, she fished the card from its hiding place.
Westbrook took the card from her hand. “Graham was a cagey fellow. We need to be sure this is the dragon’s oracle.”
Resisting the urge to claw the man with her nails, she refastened her bodice.
Her captor studied the card, holding it to the light. “It is genuine. The notations will lead us to the treasure.”
Evelyn put herself out of his reach. “What could possibly be worth all of this?”
“A fortune.” Westbrook tucked the card into his vest pocket. “And power, far more than the unenlightened could hope to imagine. With the Dragon’s Eyes in my possession, even the Queen’s agents will not stand in my way.”
“Well, well, I’d say this concludes our business…with the two of you, that is. There’s the matter of the MacMasters brothers to attend to, but that can wait. I intend to take my time ending their miserable existences,” said Mrs. Smythe.
“They do not know you are here. Take what you want and leave us in peace.”
“You think I came after that bloody card?” Mrs. Smythe’s arched brows quirked. “I suspected you would try to protect him.”
Evelyn clasped her fingers together to still their trembling. “I have no cause to protect the man.”
“You really should not attempt to deceive me. A child could see through your lies. But I rather respect your attempt to shield him.” She tapped the tip of the blade with one finger, her expression momentarily distant. “If you really must know, I intend to gut him.”
The sickening image weakened Evelyn’s knees, but she steadied herself against the fear. “Go now, while you can. If you do not, he will kill you.”
“He may try.” Mrs. Smythe drummed a finger against her middle. A dull, metallic sound rang out. “The latest thing, you see—an armored corset. Perhaps they will catch on in London.”
“Now that you’ve managed to flaunt that contraption you’re so proud of, shall we get down to business?” Westbrook asked with a scowl.
“Always so impatient. I have waited a long time for this opportunity. I intend to savor the feel of my blade sinking between his ribs.” Flashing the dagger, Mrs. Smythe stalked toward Evelyn. “But, first things first.”
Evelyn retreated a step, then another. “Let Sally go. She had no part in this.”
“You brought her into this—you made me chase you here.”
Mrs. Smythe thrust the knife, a quick, jagged motion. Evelyn darted back, out of reach. She bit back a scream.
“Pity you wandered into that shop. If you hadn’t, I would not have to do this. But you’ve left me no choice.” The assassin’s lips curled in derision. “Now, I need you to scream. It’s not personal. I merely want him to hear you.”
With a quick flick of her wrist, she sliced Evelyn’s sleeve.
The blade caught flesh.
Searing pain ripped through Evelyn’s arm. A peculiar warmth trickled over her skin. Biting her lip, she held back a cry.
“That was only the beginning,” Mrs. Smythe taunted.
Light flashed off steel. Wielding the dagger with practiced ease, the assassin slashed a crimson path over Evelyn’s forearm. A shallow wound. Designed to inflict misery rather than death. Evelyn choked back another sound of pain and fear.
“Not the screaming type?” the assassin taunted. “I’ll have to change that.”
The dagger sliced through the air. Evelyn dodged the blade. Mrs. Smythe’s eyes gleamed with malicious excitement. “Very good. I hadn’t anticipated you’d present a challenge.”
The assassin thrust the knife. Not quite connecting with flesh and bone. Toying with Evelyn. Savoring her torment.
“I am quite impressed, Lady Evelyn,” Mrs. Smythe said. “This is all rather amusing. Sadly, you are making this harder on yourself. Just one scream—that’s all I need.”
Blood streamed down Evelyn’s hand, a sickening sensation. The room seemed to tilt beneath her. She fought to steady herself.
Desperate, she eyed the skillet on the wall. Could she reach it? She took a step in retreat, edging toward the iron pan. Another few inches. Closer.
Closer.
And still, Mrs. Smythe taunted her with small, threatening slashes of the dagger. Once again, the blade’s tip drew blood, a superficial cut. As cruel delight flashed in the assassin’s eyes, Evelyn gritted her teeth and held back her moan.
Behind her, Sally screamed, her terror palpable.
“That’s more like it,” Mrs. Smythe said with an evil smile.
“My fiancé will see you hanged,” Sally said, her voice shaking. “Hurt her again, and you will not live to see another sunrise.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Smythe turned to Sally. “Shall we see what we can do with the bride?”
Defenseless, Sally held her chin high. “You don’t frighten me.”
The assassin regarded Sally with cool hatred. “You’re a liar.”
Terror filled Evelyn’s heart. She had to act. Now.
Time slowed.
Evelyn snatched the skillet from the wall.
Trembling against her bonds, Sally eyed the assassin with contempt. “Soon, the hawks will pick the flesh from your scrawny—”
“You little bitch—”
Evelyn whipped around.
Iron collided with bone.
A sickening crack rang out.
Mrs. Smythe raised her hand to her head. She sank to her knees. Unnaturally still, she stared at Evelyn with eyes that did not seem to comprehend what they were seeing.
Evelyn’s stomach roiled. Pulling in a sharp breath, she raised the frying pan, steadied herself to strike the dazed woman again.
“Drop it.” A gunshot roared in her ears. A bullet slammed into the ground inches from her feet. Westbrook raised the pistol to her heart. “I’ll kill you—you treacherous little shrew.”