Chapter Twenty-Nine
The clouds cleaved open, dropping rain like a bucket pouring out. Grey twisted when he heard Evelyn scream. The anguish on her face shot fury through him, but what turned him to ice was how Philip grabbed her around the waist, yanking her back to throw her into the carriage. There was no concern for her in the brutal movements.
Cross smiled down at Evelyn’s brother as blood seeped through his white shirt. Damn. Evelyn’s brother would bleed out. At the top of the steps, a woman screamed, and Cat and Scarlet ran forward.
“Stay back,” Cross yelled, but Cat continued, throwing herself down over Nathaniel, her fingers plucking away his shirt.
Behind him, the carriage moved in a circle, Philip’s driver swinging the horses through the curtain of rain toward the open gates. Suspicion and instinct slammed together inside Grey. Philip was working with Cross. They wanted Finlarig for their plot against Charles. Grey’s hand grasped the hilt of his sword, and the steel blade sang as he slid it free.
“Aim,” Cross yelled, and Burdock, with his two men, raised their muskets straight at Grey.
Grey kept his eyes open, sword raised to the angry sky. Regret felt like a cold, wet blanket. How could he get to Evelyn if he were frozen in death? Please Lord! Evelyn.
“Fire!”
He heard the clicks of the triggers and then…rain, the rush of heavy rain.
“Fire!” Cross yelled again over the torrent, his smile washing into a vicious frown.
“The match is wet,” called one of the English soldiers as he cupped his hand over the once-lit rope on the back of the weapon.
His words, yelled with an uneven pitch of annoyance, also held a hint of fear. Rain was the fiercest enemy to the matchlock musket. The uncovered bit of rope, or match, must remain lit to ignite the gunpowder. Otherwise, a dead firearm, in the hands of a muscle-weak, untrained man, was merely an awkward club.
Without firepower, Grey had the advantage, even if the numbers were against him. A dark grin spread slowly across his dripping face as he met Cross’s gaze. Grey stretched his massive shoulders, slicing his lethal long sword in the air as he advanced through the wet curtain of blessed rain. His gaze moved between Burdock, Cross, and the two others who held their useless muskets tightly as if the match would suddenly relight and save their bloody necks. Behind him shouts filled the bailey, and Campbells rushed inside to find the few other English soldiers who had accompanied Philip, bloody Aiden at the lead despite Grey’s earlier order.
Grey held his long sword, glossy with rain, before him as he strode toward Cross. One of the captain’s soldiers yelled, hurling toward Grey, swinging his musket. Grey easily spun out of the way, delivering a slash down low to cut through the man’s hamstrings. He dropped to the ground, screaming, as Grey parried against the bayonet jutting out of the second soldier’s useless musket. Cumbersome, it was hardly an attack, and Grey sunk his sword into the man’s chest. He used his boot to kick the body off his blade and spun in time to see Burdock running toward the wall. Grey would follow, but Cross remained. And even though Burdock had destroyed Finlarig with fire and shattering force, Cross was the man who’d ordered it, the bastard who had plotted against his family, leading to the deaths of his parents.
Cross drew the sword that he had strapped to his side.
“How much blood has that brittle piece of steel drawn?” Grey called and slashed his sword through the air, making it sing. “My claymore has slaughtered those who’ve tried to take Finlarig from Clan Campbell over the last two centuries. It sings for English blood.”
Cross kept his gaze on Grey while Grey circled around him. “I am an officer of King Charles. If you kill me, England will destroy your clan.”
“Not after I send your bloody king the letter proving your traitorous plans for him.” Grey slashed forward, and Cross jumped back, but not before the tip of Grey’s blade sliced through the sash and braiding on his long red coat. The man gasped.
Cross spun away from Grey’s next thrust, his curved hat flying off in the wind that tore through the bailey like a living creature joining the battle. “Sotheby will retrieve the letter,” Cross yelled, water flying off his beaklike nose. “He’ll tear it from your woman.” Cross’s words spat from his mouth, confirming Grey’s instincts about Philip. He must get to Evelyn.
From the corner of his eye, Grey saw his horse, Adhar, standing outside the barn. Evelyn’s groom, James, had the beast tacked and ready to ride. Adhar pawed the ground, his nostrils flaring. He was used to being in the thick of battle, not watching from the side.
Grey took two long steps to meet Cross. His long sword crossed into an X with Cross’s paltry dress sword. Cross spit the rain from his mouth and pressed back against Grey’s strength. “Finlarig will burn,” Cross yelled. “Your whole family will die, Grey Campbell.” With a grunt he shoved his weight against the braced swords, but Grey didn’t give up an inch. “You will die along with your whorish woman and eventually an unjust, popish king.”
Grey stared into the dark eyes of the devil. The rain lessened, giving the feel that the world had hushed and the very walls of Finlarig watched. With a sudden surge of power, Grey shoved forward, putting his whole weight into the thrust. Cross stumbled backward, unbalanced, but before he could right himself, Grey’s right arm shot forward, the sword an extension of his might. The Campbell claymore pierced the bright red coat, the white shirt, the pale skin, straight into Captain Cross’s black heart. Overhead, thunder rumbled as it moved away.
Shock widened Cross’s eyes, his jaw going slack. Grey followed him, his blade still embedded. Grey leaned forward, his face inches from Cross’s face. “I’ve never meant this as much as I do now,” Grey said, his words seething from his teeth as his lips pulled back. “Captain William Cross… Go. To. Hell.” Bracing his boot against the bastard, Grey jerked back the sword, twisting it to dislodge Cross, who fell into a heap of expensive red wool in the mud.
Without another word, Grey ran to Adhar, his sword slick with the devil’s blood.
…
Evelyn leaned against the far wall of the carriage, tears streaming down her cheeks. Nathaniel. Dead. Shot by Captain Cross. Had Grey been executed next? “We must go back,” she said, her gaze fastening onto Philip as he sat across from her, fixing the lace on his ornate cuffs. His wig was frizzed from the damp air, the plume limp. He didn’t respond.
Evelyn sat up in her seat. “I said, we must go back.”
Philip’s gaze rose, sliding from her waist, over her breasts and neck to her face. “Not until Cross finishes.”
His words tore into Evelyn, sharp hooks grasping onto her heart. “You’re working with Cross,” she whispered.
“For an intelligent girl, I thought you would have worked it out by now.” He tsked.
Her breath stuttered on a silent sob. “Where are we going?” she asked, her fingers curling into the seat.
Philip smiled, his brown teeth like a row of rotted corn between thin lips. “To consummate our marriage at a private little inn just south of here.”
“We aren’t married,” Evelyn said, her stomach recoiling at the thought of him touching her.
Philip chuckled, the sound plucking a chill to run along Evelyn’s spine. “That lovely lass,” he said with a mock Scottish accent. “The one who got you out of the keep. She will swear that you agreed to be my wife before her and God. Charles will see her name on a fabricated marriage document, although I could just forge that as well.”
“Kirstin?”
“She was quite easy to manipulate last night when I happened upon her. She’d do just about anything to save her town.”
Philip’s gaze raked over Evelyn, and she tried to control her wildly beating heart. He wiped one finger along the corner of his lips where a bit of spittle glistened. He leaned across the space, and Evelyn fought the urge to retreat, not that there was anywhere to go. Courage.
Philip’s smile became a leer. “As much as I’d love to seek out all your hidden treasures now, even sullied as they are, I will wait until the inn.” His grin faded to something dark. “Although you will certainly be punished for your whorish behavior with that Highlander.” He tipped his head to the side as if considering her. “Do you, by chance, like pain with your pleasure?”
Her aghast expression made him laugh, pointing at her as if she’d told a witty tale. “Never mind, my dear, it doesn’t matter. There will be pain either way.”
“You’re a monster,” Evelyn said, her words breathless as panic rose like a fist in her throat.
He tipped his head side to side as if halfway agreeing with her and sucked along his front teeth. “I suppose some would say that. I’m actually called The Surgeon by my colleagues.” He made a slashing motion in the air with one pointed finger, the nail overly long and filed. “A bit of blood drawn by my shiny knives, and people will tell me anything to end their torment with a quicker death.”
Evelyn stared at him, her mouth unhinged as her courage turned to ash. She squeezed back into the corner of the seat, seeking the farthest distance she could from the man. He’d always been so quiet, lurking in the background. “You’re a traitor and a murderer.”
“That depends on which side of government you stand,” he said, glancing out the window at the lessening rain. “I work with people who want to depose the monarchy in favor of a parliamentary rule for the people. Charles and his ridiculous expenditures are driving England to ruin. We are the laughingstock of Europe, and Charles is a blatant Catholic, as is his brother. Any moment, Charles might sign away Protestant lives.” Philip looked back at Evelyn. “I wouldn’t expect a woman to understand any of that, although your father certainly thought you were bright enough.”
Benjamin Worthington? Had Scarlet been correct about Father respecting her views even if he railed against them.
Philip smiled as if he were a benevolent ruler on his throne. “Yes, Evelyn. Your brutal, red-faced papa thought very highly of your intelligence. Enough that he decided to grant your request not to marry me. I’d kept my more radical ideas silent, perhaps too silent, for he let you convince him that I was an apathetic bore. When he threatened to end our marriage contract, I had to act quickly.” His lips quirked upward. “The man was known for his temper. All it took was a little foxglove in his coffee and…” Philip stuck his tongue halfway out in an exaggeration of death.
Philip righted his head, and Evelyn braced herself as the coach rocked up and down through a large rut. “It wasn’t difficult to forge his signature on his altered will, giving you no other option but to wed me.” He shrugged. “Next, I would have killed your brother,” Philip said. “But Cross took care of him.”
“Why marry me?” Evelyn asked, the quiver in her voice hopefully lost in the crunch of pebbles as the wheels rolled.
“Planning an assassination requires an intricate strategy, and you, my dear Evelyn, were the easiest route to securing a place for parliamentarians to act. All would have been fine for you had you just married me, but you had to run to Finlarig before we wed. I would have brought you here after the wedding and invited Charles for a visit. A secluded castle with hostile Scots surrounding it. A perfect place for an assassination to be blamed on the Campbells.”
He twisted a large gold ring on his finger. “It will still happen. My plans always have subsequent routes if the first goes astray. Unfortunately, you may need to be a casualty. Can’t have you wagging your tongue about treason. Although I could cut off your tongue,” he said, looking up at the ceiling as if contemplating. “And your fingers, since you know how to write. You will be the sad victim of a maniacal Highlander whom Captain Cross shot after the deed. No tongue, no fingers.” His eyes moved down her body in a way that made Evelyn feel stripped of clothing. “But the rest of you intact for my needs.”
“You’ll go to hell for certain,” she said, her stomach rolling with nausea and barely controlled panic. “Torture and murder, killing my whole family?”
“Scarlet can stay alive long enough to entice Charles up here. He’s quite lustful for her. I’ve already sent a missive saying that she wishes him to visit to comfort her after her family’s death, but she will either have to die or lose her tongue and fingers, too.” He chuckled. “What a pair of quiet sisters you two would be. Charles will likely find her grotesque, but we will kill him so…” He tipped his head casually.
Evelyn couldn’t believe the horrors that were rolling out of Philip’s mouth. A monster of torture and treason, hidden behind a flopping plume and apathetic silence. In truth, he was brother to Satan in vileness.
With deep breaths, she tried to push back the horrid vision of Philip cutting off her fingers. To survive this, she needed to use her clever mind and the self-defense techniques Grey had taught her. Grey. Gracious God, please let him live.
Philip didn’t seem to have any blades on himself. The only weapon in the carriage was the musket he had propped by the door, its long barrel too cumbersome to wield in the cramped interior. She’d realized that he was strong as he threw her into the carriage, but she was desperate, and desperation could give one strength.
Evelyn’s mind churned out plans that bordered on insane. The best she had was to try to throw herself out the window and hope to die upon impact. The trees flashed by as they raced toward the inn. Yes, she would surely die at this speed. She leaned back against the seat, clenching and unclenching her fingers to rid them of numbness.
Philip shifted in his seat, his hand going between his legs. Evelyn’s breath stopped as she watched him openly stroke himself, his eyelids lowering halfway. “Now that I consider it, we do have time before the inn for me to take a look at the prize I’ve won.” He chuckled lightly. “Take a better look at what is under those skirts.”
“Don’t come near me,” she said, her words hissing. Philip sat straight in his seat, a cruel grin on his face.
“Rider,” called the coachman above. “Rider from behind.”
“Damnation,” Philip said, leaning his head out the window over the door. “Shoot him,” he yelled up.
Evelyn threw herself toward the opposite window, her fingers curling over the ledge to peer out. Her heart flooded with hope. Grey! Grey was alive. He rode on his gray stallion, his body poised in flight. He was close enough that she could see the fury etched into his face.
“The match is wet,” yelled the other driver.
Philip huffed in annoyance. “I have to do everything myself,” he murmured and grabbed his matchlock musket beside the door. He flipped open a small box near his feet, and smoke puffed out. Evelyn watched as he lit a taper from inside and brought it up to the match on the musket.
“No,” she yelled and lunged toward him, striking the lit taper away. Like a feral cat, caught among savage dogs, Evelyn shrieked, her arms flying, claws raking against every part of Philip she could reach. His wig came off in her hands, and she threw it aside to scratch the skin of his bare neck.
“You little bitch,” he said, throwing his arm back, striking her along the side of her head.
Pain erupted. Evelyn blinked against the jarring pain, so much like her father’s cuffing that for a brief moment she was back in his study. She gasped, retreating to the shadows.
Philip lit the match and lifted the musket to rest on the frame of the window over the door. No. Grey! Love smashed against her fear, and Evelyn surged forward again to curl fingers into Philip’s pale flesh. She scratched down his face as he yelled. Curling her fists tight, she battered him, her arms wild. She kicked him, wishing she wore the trousers instead of a tangle of skirts.
“Get back, you shrew!” He twisted, dropping the musket. With a balled fist, he punched Evelyn straight in the cheek. She cried out as the force slammed her against the back wall.
“Stay still,” Philip said, the words gritted out from his bared teeth. He wiped a palm over his cheek and looked at the streak of blood across it before narrowing his eyes at her. “You will pay for this, and my knives leave more than scratches.”
Sparks swam in Evelyn’s sight where the edges of her vision began to grow dim. No. She absolutely could not faint. Deep breaths. With aching muscles, Evelyn pushed away from the wall. She would stop him or die trying. Philip braced himself before her, without his wig and plume, scratches all over his exposed skin. He cursed and steadied the musket at the window.
“Evelyn!” Grey’s voice called to her through her fog, and she blinked. He was close enough for her to hear the pounding of his horse’s hooves, close enough for Philip to kill him with one blast.
Her hair had come undone, falling around her shoulders. The six-inch steel hairpin slid down to her lap, and she grasped its cool, twisted length, her fingers curling around it desperately. Pressing forward, she forced herself to squat between the seats, bracing herself as the carriage flew along the rutted road.
Use the power in your legs. Grey’s words came back in a flood of detail. His tumbling accent, the fresh smell of pine and leather, the love she’d seen in his eyes before she was dragged from him in the bailey. Thrust upward if you are lower. Use your legs. They are the strongest of your muscles.
The carriage pitched toward Philip, and Evelyn’s thighs contracted as she rammed her clasped hands upward toward the back of his head, the tip of the hairpin stabbing up through the hollow in the base of his skull.