High in the rigging, Alasdair watched Bridget halt outside the large aft cabin. Her blonde locks danced in the sea breeze, tinged orange by the sun’s low light. He read defiance in her squared shoulders, her set lips. He wondered when, and if, he could expect assistance to arrive. He’d sent the harbormaster’s lad off with a message, to a tavern he knew was a cover for the Crown’s men. He only hoped the lad was as reliable as he thought, and as quick.
Once Bridget crossed the threshold, undoubtedly to meet her father, Alasdair made his way down to the deck, a shadow that slipped silently amongst the creaking ropes and rails. Invisible as mist on a moonless night, he made a circuit of the Maiden’s Honor. Few of the twenty-eight men on the ship saw him before he struck. None had time to oppose him.
He left the footman outside the aft cabin for last. With the rest of the crew disposed of, Alasdair had the luxury of time to plot his final moves with precision. Even the cook was accounted for, gagged and bound. There was no one left to aid the baron, save the single, lonely footman outside the aft cabin.
A length of rope in hand, Alasdair climbed to the bridge. A few strides brought him to the rail, to look down at the footman on the main deck, guarding the lone entrance to the baron’s cabin.
Alasdair had employed stealth with the others, stalking them in the depths of the ship, or drawing them there one by one. The footman below hadn’t seen or heard any of his work. Despite that, the man shifted from foot to foot. He jerked his head left, then right, and back again. Obviously, the strange quiet made him uneasy.
As well he should be. Alasdair swung over the railing. He dropped down beside the footman. Grabbing the man’s face, Alasdair used the back of the footman’s head as a doorknocker. The man lashed out with one booted foot. Alasdair leapt over the well-aimed blow. He pulled his hand from the man’s face and replaced his open palm with a fist. The footman collapsed to the deck. Movements quick, Alasdair bound him.
“I assume you’re coming in, Lord Alasdair?” The baron’s voice carried through the wood-plank door. “I assure you, there is no other entrance. You have my word.”
For what little that was worth. Alasdair stood. He dusted off his black trousers and rolled up the sleeves of his similarly dark shirt. He tugged his vest straight and ran a hand through his hair to neaten the wind-tossed locks. The baron would respect precision, and Alasdair meant to look as unaffected by the events of the day as possible. It was a shame about his ruined coat and abandoned, too-bright cravat.
He drew free the well-balanced blade he’d used in the forest. There’d been opportunities to secure a pistol. Quite a few now littered the seabed. Alasdair found the weapons too unpredictable, especially with Bridget in the cabin. He had more faith in his arm and a good knife.
He pushed the door open. A lazy-seeming glance took in every detail of the many-windowed space, right down to Bridget’s scored fingertips. She stood behind her father, before a large cot, against which rested his dragon-handled cane. Her hands were clasped before her. Her green eyes were wide and locked on Alasdair’s face, but her mien was submissive. Alasdair didn’t believe that meekness for a moment.
Her gaze darted down, toward her father, then back up to meet Alasdair’s. He gave no indication he’d noticed. He did appreciate her attempt to tell him the baron held a loaded pistol in his lap, though. He flipped the knife he held into the air and deftly caught the blade, then flipped it again. The baron didn’t watch the knife. His attention stayed on Alasdair’s face.
“If I’d realized you were joining us, I would have ordered refreshments made ready,” the baron said in a dry voice.
“That would be difficult, what with your entire crew subdued.” Alasdair was certain the baron had already guessed that tactic.
“I hope you didn’t render them incapable of manning this ship. I would be rather angry.”
Alasdair shook his head. He stepped into the room and closed the door. He slid the latch home, the action smooth even though he didn’t turn from Bridget and Sollier, didn’t cease tossing the dagger. “They’re well enough.”
The baron’s gaze narrowed. “You’ve lost your edge, Lochgeal.”
Alasdair raised an eyebrow. “Have I?”
“How many of my men are alive?”
Aware of Bridget’s intent scrutiny, Alasdair replied with the truth. “I left them all alive.”
Sollier’s lips curled in disgust. “It’s a good thing they pulled you from the field. An assassin who won’t kill is a liability. You should be shot.”
Alasdair shrugged. “Perhaps. I daresay that’s not for you to decide, my lord.”
The baron brought his hands up to the desk. One slammed the pistol down on the pitted wood. The other rested beside the weapon, fingers drumming.
“So, you believe you do get to decide.” Alasdair didn’t look at the pistol, didn’t take his gaze from the baron’s face.
“Yes. I do.” Sollier’s agate eyes narrowed a fraction. “Bridget, shall I invite your husband to join us, or kill him?”
She drew in a hissing breath, but kept her full lips pressed closed.
“What do you take her silence to mean, Lochgeal?” Sollier’s tone was wry. “That she loves you, or never wishes to set eyes on you again?”
“I wouldn’t presume to speak for my wife, my lord.” Alasdair permitted a nervousness he didn’t feel to creep into his tone. Let the baron believe he held an advantage.
“Then permit me to speak for her.” Sollier’s fingers maintained steady rhythm on the desk. “She’s fallen quite in love with you, foolish as that may be. She believes you’re a good man, and have come here to rescue her. She has no idea what you really are.”
Alasdair listened, flipping and catching the knife. A true stab of worry cut into him, of which he gave no indication. He didn’t seek Bridget’s reaction to her father’s words.
“She has no idea how many men you’ve shot, stabbed, or strangled to death,” Sollier continued. “Women as well, I shouldn’t doubt. How many of them did you seduce first, to gain their secrets and trust?” Sollier’s gaze narrowed. “Are there any depths to which you have not gone for the British Crown?”
Though he tried to fight the feeling, a harsh wave of despair hit Alasdair. He knew that prompting the emotion was a tactic, that he was responding as Sollier wished, but the baron was right. Alasdair had done those things. He was that man.
He risked a glance at Bridget. The disgust and horror in her eyes slammed into Alasdair harder than any fist. He rocked back on his heels.
“You’re very quiet, Lochgeal.” The baron nodded to the knife Alasdair held.
He realized he’d stopped flipping the blade. He’d let his disquiet show. The baron had scored a deep blow, and he knew he had.
“Do you really want Bridget to be shackled to you for the remainder of her days?” Sollier asked, his tone almost kind. “When she wed you, she didn’t know who you are.”
No, she hadn’t known. She might have had a notion, suspicions, but she hadn’t known the depth of Alasdair’s evils. Who was he to bind her to him? He couldn’t ask her to live beside the man he was. A murderer. He had more than blood on his hands. He stood knee deep in a river of red. Bridget deserved so much more than him, but an annulment now, with her father a traitor, would leave her with nothing. Better to be the widow of a duke.
The baron stopped drumming his fingers. He took up the pistol. “I offer a way out. Salvation, of sorts. Turn away from the Crown, Lochgeal. Turn your back on the man they helped you become. I’m not going up against them. Simply leaving this all behind to start anew. A new life for us, for our family.” Sollier’s craggy features molded into the semblance of a smile. “You are family now, son. Come with us.”
Alasdair took in the pistol aimed at him. Unuttered was the price of declining, but he could never accept. A killer he might be, but a loyal one…and one who would set Bridget free. His only sorrow was that he couldn’t live out his days beside her.
His fingers tensed on the blade he held. He knew the baron would shoot in the same moment he launched the knife. He raised his gaze to Bridget, hoping with a look to tell her he was sorry.
She slammed the dragon-handle of her father’s cane down on the back of the baron’s head. Sollier sprawled across the desk. The report of the pistol was deafening in the enclosed cabin. Pain ripped through Alasdair’s left shoulder. The force of the bullet slammed him backward into the door. He nearly dropped the knife.
“Alasdair is not the monster, Father. You are.”
Alasdair blinked to clear his swirling vision. Bridget tossed her father’s cane aside. She ran around the desk. Behind her, Sollier levered himself upward. He pawed at the front of his desk.
Alasdair pushed off the door. Bridget came hurtling toward him. He stepped around her, swaying on his feet. She caught his injured arm. Pain slashed through him. Sollier brought up a second pistol. Alasdair launched the knife.
The blade slammed into Sollier’s wrist. His arm knocked back. The pistol discharged. A bullet lodged in the wall over Bridget’s head.
She gasped, her face white. The baron roared in pain. He clawed at the knife, blade so deep, the tip protruded through the back of his arm.
Something slammed into the cabin door. Alasdair dove at Bridget. He caught her and twisted, pulling her down atop him as the cabin door burst open. Agony lanced out from his shoulder, dimming his vision.
“Fiona,” Bridget gasped, squirming free of his grip.
Alasdair levered up on his good arm. He shook his head, clearing his vision enough to see Fiona and several other familiar, trusted faces. Pain rendering body and mind numb, he collapsed in relief.
“Alasdair?”
Footsteps and shouting surrounded them, but that worried, love-laced tone belonged to Bridget. A soft hand brushed hair from his forehead. Alasdair’s mind slid further toward nothingness. Gentle fingers stroked his face, the sensation offering delight even through the numbness and pain. The peace of Bridget’s touch brought a smile to his lips. Alasdair let out a long breath and permitted the darkness to take him.