Page 26 of Lord of Mistrust

There was a great yell, and the heavy body collapsed down the steps. Robert’s shot was instantly followed by another from above—fired without skill, as all it did was remove a chunk of plaster from the wall behind him.

He slipped silently underneath the steps, reached up as high as he could, and as soon as the man who’d fired the gun trod on the top step, he caught his foot. The fellow lost his balance and tumbled down on top of his fallen comrade.

Before he could regain his feet, Robert fell upon him, dagger in hand, but the rogue threw up a powerful arm to deflect the blow. The man’s gun went spinning across the floorboards, but he was up instantly, a narrow-bladed dagger in his hand. There was a second firearm tucked into his belt.

Robert glared at this new opponent, who was so quick on his feet and formidably armed. He was expensively dressed and sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes were dark and his complexion swarthy. He gave Robert a mocking smile.

“Sir Robert Mallory. We meet at last.” The man’s accent had a Spanish lilt to it. He glanced at the body lying by the foot of the steps. “I see you are not averse to the destruction of your own countrymen. Mayhap if King Philip was to wait a little longer, all you English heretics would destroy one another and save us the trouble.”

“I didn’t come here to talk. Where’s Mistress Emmerson?” Robert’s fingers clenched on the handle of his dagger. He wasn’t happy about that second gun.

“The pretty lady? Oh, she’s quite well. And now I have two fine, fat pigeons for the making of bargains.” As he said this, Robert saw the man’s hand move toward his belt, and launched himself at the Spaniard’s feet.

The ball went wide, but the report of the gun elicited a shriek from above. Robert froze—Chloe! Before he could move, the Spaniard had slipped out of reach and spun around, tossing his dagger from hand to hand and grinning evilly.

Wasting no time, Robert closed with his foe but was too late to prevent a blow that sliced agonizingly across his upper arm. He gritted his teeth, white fury now raging within him. If he had to die to save Chloe, so be it, but he’d damned well take that swine Spaniard with him. He flung himself forward with a yell, but his bad foot caught on the uneven floor and he went down with a crash.

This was the saving of him. His opponent hadn’t expected him to fall and was unprepared for Robert’s savage thrust below his ribcage. With a cough and a groan, the Spaniard toppled slowly backward, his eyes glazing over. The mocking smile was gone.

Robert pushed himself upright, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. He kicked at the body on the ground to reassure himself he’d have no more trouble from that quarter. Then, his foot aching like the devil, he limped up the last flight of steps.

He prayed there were no more of the villains remaining aloft. If there were, in all likelihood, Chloe was already dead.

Chapter Twenty

Chloe’s gaze was glued to the hatchway in the floor. Something calamitous was happening in the mill—she’d heard the sounds of a struggle below, and the sharp crack of a firearm. Her pulse pounded and her mind was in agony, fearing a ball to the head at any moment. She’d heard her captors threatening it.

“Chloe! Odd’s blood—I’m so sorry!”

“Robert.” Her voice was a mere whisper, her relief overwhelming.

There was such warmth in his eyes, she expected him to embrace her, but he hung back, his eyes roving over her. He mustn’t look too closely—she hadn’t been treated gently and must look like a scarecrow.

Her rescuer seemed to have fared little better. His hair was stuck to his forehead and his damp shirt clung to him as if glued. His face was covered in cobwebs and smuts, and his bare feet were black with mud.

What did one say under such circumstances? She was as close to fainting now as she had been when they first took her. “You look a mess,” was all she could manage.

“I’ve seen you looking better, too, my sweeting.” He shot her a brief smile. “Did they harm you?” He knelt behind her, sawing at her bonds.

“Just a slap when I protested at their abuse of the litter’s driver. Have you seen him? Is he all right? How did you find me?”

“Too many questions.” Robert helped her to her feet, but they were numb and she could barely stand. Holding her by one elbow, he pressed his thumb gently to the corner of her mouth. It came away red.

The heat in his eyes had been replaced by a chilling anger. “I’faith! I shall return to them what they have given to you, and more. Assuming any remain alive.” He shifted his gaze from hers.

Chloe chafed at her wrists, trying to rub some feeling back into them. She felt as though all her joints were painfully frozen.

Robert flung her bonds into a corner of the room, then sheathed his knife. It was then that she saw a pink stain slowly spreading out from a slash in his sleeve.

“Merciful heaven—you’re wounded!” She staggered across to inspect his injury but instead found herself enfolded in his arms, pressed hard against his chest.

“It’s all right, sweeting.” His voice was a soft murmur. “You’re safe now—that’s all that matters. Don’t worry about me.”

She clung to him, accepting the safe haven of his embrace, the soothing sound of his voice, and the hand gently stroking her back. It would be all too easy to collapse in a welter of tears now, prolonging that comforting—but stirring—embrace.

Nay, there was no time for passion. He must have much to attend to, and he’d need her help, particularly now that he was wounded. Forcing back both tears and temptation, she lifted her head to look at him, hoping her gratitude showed.

He gazed back at her, his eyes skimming over her brow, her hair, her lips. Then he released her and smoothed the hair back from her face before cupping it in both hands.