Page 58

Waller recovered, grabbed Lucy, and jammed his pistol against her side.

Behind them, blocking the passageway, Adam flailed and cried out.

Waller yelled at him. “You fool, move.”

Adam swung his fist in a wide arc, and Waller inched Lucy farther into the room.

“Nobody takes what’s mine. Least of all you. Fool, you should have run, instead of standing like a blinking idiot, staring at your betters. You deserved to have your damned eyes poked.”

* * * *

Harry looked across the common room at the raging man holding a pistol to Lucy’s side and ruled out reasoning with him. Geoffrey Radcliffe had the eyes of a cornered rat. Keeping his gaze on Lucy, willing her to understand him, Harry wrapped his coat around his elbow, smashed the glass of the Waterloo case at his side, and pulled his sword from the display. He drew the blade from the scabbard with a satisfying scrape of metal on metal. The grip felt right in his hand, the sword an extension of his arm and his will.

He stepped down into the common room, moving purposefully. Ajax Lynley cast him a rueful glance, his arms full of a sobbing girl. Nate Wilde nodded, standing at Lynley’s side, shielding Miranda behind him, his shoulder bandaged. Harry saw no sign that Radcliffe had accomplices, a troubling lack since it meant the man’s desperation would be greater.

“Geoffrey Radcliffe,” he said. He saw Lucy’s eyes widen as she realized who her captor was. “Look around you at this piece of England that men fought for, and bled for, and died for.”

Radcliffe’s gray face contorted in contempt.

“Men you betrayed when you sold England’s secrets to her enemies.”

“England’s still here. His royal fatness is still on the throne.”

On Harry’s orders Hazelwood had gone to the back of the inn, while Blackstone watched the front door. Harry just needed a little time. Adam was moaning now, still waving his fists. Time to call Adam back to the present.

“Adam,” he called. “It’s Captain Clare. Lucy needs your help.”

Harry waited for the words to reach Adam to snap him out of the past. “Can you drop to your knees when I say so?”

Radcliffe laughed. “You think the fool can help you? What’s he good for? What has he ever been good for? Stroking the cat and polishing boots? Let me tell you what a fine help he was, blubbering and crying and letting the Frog have his mistress until the Frenchie poked his eyes out.”

Harry’s hand tightened on his sword, but he kept his concentration on Adam. He had the old man’s attention now. Tremors shook him, but he cocked his head, listening. Lucy stood still and proud in Radcliffe’s hold, her golden head held high. Harry’s gaze narrowed briefly to her, nothing else. She was his England.

“Sweet on the girl, are you, Captain?” Radcliffe taunted. “I’m taking her. If anyone tries to stop me, she dies.”

Harry shook his head. Behind him the inn door opened again. A cold stir of March air passed through the room. Radcliffe glanced up, startled by whatever he saw behind Harry.

Heavy footsteps crunched the broken glass of the Waterloo case. A deep rumbling voice called out, “Radcliffe, you dog. You’ll hang for treason.”

The pistol in Radcliffe’s hand wobbled, and he steadied it, shoving the muzzle deeper against Lucy’s side.

Harry’s fist clenched the sword grip. He moved forward at an unhurried pace, drawing Radcliffe’s gaze back to him. “You have one shot, Radcliffe. You’d best hit me, or you die here.”

Again Radcliffe’s pistol hand wavered. He edged back, dragging Lucy with him. Behind them in the shadowy passageway Adam stood like a blasted tree.

“Drop, Adam,” Harry yelled.

Adam dropped. Radcliffe stumbled back, falling as the backs of his knees collided with Adam’s bulk. Radcliffe’s arm jerked away from Lucy. She slid to the floor in the instant the pistol discharged.

The ball grazed Harry’s ribs as he lunged, caught in the detachment of battle, neither hatred nor fury, but clarity, the smell of powder and blood filling his senses. Momentum drove his sword through Radcliffe’s chest. He pulled back as Radcliffe crumpled, curling around the wound, in his eyes the knowledge of death. Then he fell.

* * * *

Lucy scrambled to her feet and went to Harry. He dropped the bloody sword with a clang and took her in his arms, nestling her head under his chin. Around them there seemed to be a great deal of movement and shouting. He was warm and solid and breathing. His lips brushed her forehead. “I couldn’t lose you,” he said.

“He shot you,” she said, lifting her head from his chest.

“Grazed me. I’ll have a bruised rib is all.” His eyes had an absurdly joyful look.