Stephanie Laurens - On a Wicked Dawn

He smothered a curse — an expression of sheer horror Anne didn't need to hear. Amelia might not intend to catch the man, but he might catch her. He pushed Anne toward the house. "Go inside — tell the others."

His mind was already with Amelia. Turning, he raced for the wood.

Amelia slipped along beneath the trees, increasingly cautious. While the wood at first had felt, if not comfortable, then at least familiar, the trees had grown progressively denser, older, the paths beneath their gnarled branches more dark, the air more weighted with age. Ahead, she could hear the regular thud of the man's boots; he wasn't trying to skulk but was steadily tramping on. A quick mental survey had suggested he intended keeping to the wood to where it ended on the rise above Lyddington.

He was clever enough to recognize the unwisdom of rushing — one trip over a tree root could incapacitate him and leave him waiting for his pursuers to rescue him. Also clever enough to take the least exposed route to see him safe home, assuming he was staying somewhere about Lyddington.

The more she thought of how clever he was proving, the more uneasy, the more wary she became. But the thought of the Cynster necklace, the notion of following him to his lair, and then waiting to point the way to Luc and the others who she was sure must be close on her heels kept her putting one foot in front of the other.

Then the ground started to rise. She glimpsed the man ahead and above; she craned her head, trying to fix his direction — her foot hit an exposed root. She stumbled. Swallowing a curse, she fetched up against a nearby bole — and snapped off a dry twig.

The sound cut through the heavy air like a pistol shot.

She froze.

About her, the forest seemed to stir, menacingly breathe. She waited — only then remembered that her gown, the walking gown she'd changed into, was primrose yellow. If she was visible from where he was…

Then his footfalls started again. The same steady rhythm, in the same direction.

She drew breath, waited for her pulse to slow, then went on, even more cautiously than before.

He was following a rough track that led up a short rise, then dipped into a heavily wooded dell. She was deep in the trees before she realized she'd lost the repetitive tramp of his footsteps. She stopped. Strained her ears, but heard nothing beyond the usual woodland night sounds. A distant hoot here, a furtive rustling there, the creak of branches rubbing high above. Nothing that signified man.

Yet… she couldn't see how she'd lost him.

Ahead, the track widened; stepping even more warily, she went on. The track opened into a small natural clearing closely ringed by trees.

Again she paused and listened; hearing nothing, she walked forward, her slippers whispering on the soft leaves.

She was almost across the clearing when sensation swept her spine.

She glanced back.

Gasped.

Whirled to face the man she'd been following.

His bulk blocked the path between her and the Chase. He was tall and wide, with close-cropped dark hair… her mouth dropped open as she recognized the man she and Portia had met near the kennels.

He smiled — evilly. "Well, well — how helpful."

Her heart thumped, but she snapped her lips shut and lifted her chin. "Don't be daft! I have no intention whatever of helping you in any way."

Her only hope was to keep him talking — here and as loudly as possible — for as long as she could.

He took a swaggering step forward, eyes narrowing when she only tilted her chin higher; she'd had years of dealing with men who sought to intimidate with sheer size. Apparently accepting she was not about to make a bolt for it — into the dense woods — she knew how far she would get — he halted and looked down at her, lip curling with contempt.

"Ah, but you will help me, you see — to a nice slice of your husband's wealth. I don't know what happened back there" — with his head, he indicated the Chase—"but I'm experienced enough to know when to cut my losses." His chilling smile returned. "And when to seize an opportunity fate throws my way."

He tensed to step forward and grasp her arm; she stopped him with an utterly patronizing look. "If you really are clever enough to know when to cut and run, then you'd better start running. There's absolutely no possibility my husband will pay very much for my safe return, if that's the direction your mind is taking."

His smile didn't waver; he nodded. "That's my tack, right enough, but you can save your breath — I've seen the way he looks at you."

She blinked. "You have? How?"

The look he gave her suggested he wasn't sure what her tack was. "Like he'd cut off his right arm before he'd let you go."

She fought not to grin delightedly. "No." Lips pinched, she stuck her nose in the air. "You're quite wrong you know — he never did love me. Our marriage was arranged."

He gave a disgusted snort. "You can stow the guff. If it'd been Edward, I might have believed you, but that brother of his always was a painfully straight dealer. Arranged or not, he'll pay, and pay well, to have you back unharmed — without any public fuss."

His eyes narrowed to mean and heartless shards as he emphasized the last words. He went to step forward.

Again she stopped him, this time with an abject sigh. "I can see I'm going to have to tell you the truth."

She glanced up through her lashes, could see the urge to get on, get away, taking her with him, war with the need to know why she thought his plan doomed. He knew better than to argue, but…

"What truth?"

It came out as a growl, a warning to be quick.

She hesitated, then asked, "What's your name?"

His eyes glittered. "Jonathon Kirby, although what that's got to do with—"

"I do like to know to whom I'm confessing."

"So tell me — and make it quick. We don't have all night."

She lifted her head. "Very well, Mr. Kirby. The truth I apparently need to confess to you concerns the how and why of my marriage. Which is also the reason my husband won't pay any great sum for my return."

She rushed on, speaking the words as fast as they came into her head, knowing she had to keep him there for just a little longer — Luc and the others couldn't be far away. "I said our marriage was arranged, and it was — for money. He doesn't have much — well, that's an understatement — he doesn't really have any, not… well, what one might call cash as such. Land he has, but you can't eat land, can you? — and you certainly can't gown girls for their comeouts in hay — so you see, it was imperative he marry for money, and so we did, so he got my dowry, but with all the urgent bills and the repairs and so on — well, if you've been about here for more than a day, you must have seen the working gangs — so what I'm trying to say is that there's hardly any left, and he won't pay you much because he can't."

She had to pause for breath.

Kirby stepped menacingly nearer. "I've heard enough." He leaned close, thrust his face close to hers. "What sort of fool do you take me for? I checked — of course, I did!" His voice dripped scorn. "As soon as I realized the possibility might arise to cozen one of his sweet little sisters. No joy there, but his wife's an even better mark. I don't even have to try to charm you, and you won't be on my hands for long. The man's as rich as bloody Croesus and he worships the ground you walk on — he'll pay a small fortune for you, and that's precisely what I'm going to demand."

His features had contorted with some ugly emotion; Amelia set her jaw and stared him down, her belligerence fueled by desperate necessity, and the irrational irritation of knowing she was half-right and he was half-wrong. "You're the fool if you believe that!" Eyes narrowing, she planted her fists on her hips and glared. "We didn't marry for love — he does not love me." A complete and utter lie, but she could put her heart and soul into her next declaration: "And he's next kin to a pauper — he hasn't a coin to bless himself with. I'm his wife, for heaven's sake! Don't you think I'd know?"