Page 134 of A Story of Love

The other man hadn’t called him by his nickname since they’d set foot on English soil last year. It was a sign of his agitation that he did so now.

“She very well might be, but I can’t take the risk.” he said quietly.

“Christ, but you’re a stubborn bastard!”

Fast grinned. “Thank you old friend. Now, I must get going.” He narrowed his eyes. “Nobody is to follow me, Gregg.”

“I don’t like it, but I’ll do as you say. I took the liberty of bringing Cnut, my lord. He’s rested and ready and waiting for you below.”

Fast smiled his first genuine smile in hours. “If any horse can get me there, it’s Cnut. Take the others back to The King’s Purse.”

Gregg nodded. “Any word for Miss Fontenot?”

Fast grimaced, recalling what he’d told Lorelei about having dinner with her tonight. At the time, he’d had no idea that Moreland would drag this business out for almost twenty-four hours. By God tonight would be the end of it!

“Tell her I’m sorry about tonight—about missing dinner and our…talk.” And he was sorry about that. Regardless of what happened in the next few hours at least he’d finally be able to tell her the truth about Moreland and the whole bloody mess. Whether it was the last thing he said to her before boarding his ship and leaving England forever, or whether—Fast put the thoughts out of his mind and met Gregg’s curious gaze, “Just ask her to be patient for one more day.”

“I’ll tell her, my lord.”

Fast slapped his friend’s shoulder and jogged down the rickety steps, his mind already on the journey ahead.

The big roan stallion was pawing the cobbles when Fast arrived in the courtyard, one of the inn grooms holding his bridle and eyeing the huge beast with obvious trepidation. Fast tossed the lad a coin and relieved him of his burden.

He took a road that led him a bit out of his way but would avoid the more heavily trafficked areas. For the next hour, all Fast thought about was getting clear of the city. Not until he was two miles from the Crown and Thistle did he give serious consideration to the trap he was riding into.

Fast had one pistol—one built especially to fit in his boot—and five knives, more than he’d worn since his early years at sea.

He wasn’t the handiest man with a knife, but he could do some damage before a bullet brought him down.

Fast knew that Moreland would not be satisfied with the letter Gregg had expertly forged. His old friend would certainly try to kill him.

Whatever he had planned, Fast’s death had to look so convincingly like an accident that nobody would ever gainsay it.

He smiled unpleasantly when he thought about how surprised Bevil would be to realize that Fast was thinking exactly the same thing.

***

Fast waited for four hours in the Crown and Thistle before the message came.

Come to the graveyard behind the abbey. If any of your minions follows you, the girl will die. If you aren’t there in two hours, the girl will die.

Fast sighed, threw back his ale, tossed some coins onto the table, and headed out to the stables, glad that Cnut had had a few hours rest because this next journey would be even harder.

The abbey in question was only a few miles from Grandon Castle, which was also the vicinity of Moreland’s father’s estate. Or at least what was left of it.

Fast, Percy, and Bevil had used the cemetery for any number of antics as young men. Indeed, Fast now recalled that he and Bevil, when they’d been fifteen or so, had taken two village wenches there together once, reveling in the taboo sensation of fucking in another man’s presence.

It made him sick to think of it now. Not because he was ashamed of his mild voyeurism, but because he now wondered if Moreland had ever raped a woman just because she’d been one of Fast’s lovers.

How could he had been such good friends with a man so rotten inside? Was he rotten, as well? There must be something wrong with him never to have seen Bevil’s true nature. As much as he’d like to blame it on youthful ignorance, he simply couldn’t forgive himself for being so blind.

And what about Percy? Poor Percy. Fast hated to think of his brother’s last moments on earth. Jensen’s brother’s confession had mentioned how Percy had looked up at the sound of his approach, his expression amiable if rather surprised that it wasn’t Bevil.

At what point had Percy recognized one of his own dueling pistols in Albert Jensen’s hand? What must he have thought?

Bevil Norman wasn’t just a killer, he was sadistic and cruel and cowardly to have sent a man to death without the decency of facing him.

Fast suspected Bevil would do the same to him if he could only be sure that such an act wouldn’t leave loose ends that would lead back to him.