Sebastian laughed.
“Or to kill your father’s man?” Justin said. “Did he see you do it? It must have seemed a nice touchto put all the blame on the relatively poor man whohas spoiled your plan to prey upon your sister’s husband. Where are they hidden?”
“In a secret place that only I know of,” Sebastian said. He looked down at the inert form of his sister.“Now that Margaret is dead.”
“Then they will remain forever hidden,” Justin said. “I am going to kill you.”
Sebastian laughed again. “Why not?” he said. “They can hang you only once, after all.”
Daphne watched as both men raised their swords and began to fence in deadly earnest, Margaret’s bodyand the guttering candle between them. The advantage should have been all Justin’s since he was aboveSebastian and looked to be by far the fitter of thetwo. And indeed, it seemed after a minute or two asif he would edge past Margaret and finish off hisweaker, less skilled foe. But Sebastian fought withmore than physical strength and skill.
“Ha!” he shouted, just when it seemed that he would overbalance and be forced to drop his guard.“Margaret is stirring.”
Justin glanced down involuntarily at her prone body, and in the instant of his inattention, Sebastian’ssword flashed beneath his guard and pierced his heart.Daphne watched from above, powerless either to intervene or to close her eyes. She watched him falldead beside Margaret, slumped against her, on thenarrower inner part of the stair.
And then suddenly she felt pain and cold, and she was staring upward from the stairs, Justin’s body halfacross hers. She knew he was dead. And she was gladagain that she was dying, that after all they were notto be separated. She closed her eyes.
“Foolish Margaret,” Sebastian said from above her. “You could have been my salvation if you had notbeen so selfish. As it is you have died with your lover.History will not be kind to the two of you.” Helaughed softly.
He was standing on the step below her. Her feet were brushing against his leg. He had killed Justin.And blackened his name for all eternity. She wasdying. She would not have the strength during theminutes that remained to her to uncover the jewelsfrom their hiding place behind the fireplace in hisroom and to return them to her father.
“Good-bye, Margaret,” he said. “Sweet dreams.” But whatever his inner feelings might have been, therewas no remorse in his voice, only a gloating kind oftriumph.
She did not know how she found the strength. Perhaps it was the strength of love, the need to strike one small blow for the husband and the lover he hadjust killed. As he turned to step out into the passageway, she managed to stretch out one foot and hookit about his leg. She felt him lose his balance. Sheheard the sound of fingernails trying to claw a holdagainst the door frame and the wall. And the clattering of a sword bouncing downward from stair to stair.And then there was one long, blood-curdling screamas he fell backward and hurtled downward. It wasfollowed by silence. He was lying at the bottom witha broken neck, she knew.
She tried to push one arm beneath Justin’s body so that she could cradle him until she died. But she didnot have the strength. She turned her head so thather cheek rested against his shoulder. The pain wasgoing away again. She was very cold. But she washappy. Almost excited. Soon they were going to betogether again. Together for always.
Perhaps it was a fanciful idea for a dying woman to have. Perhaps it was the way the dying consoledthemselves and prepared to face the inevitable. Buthowever it was, she knew that they would be togetheragain. A love like theirs could not die, could not besnuffed out almost before it had blossomed.
They would be together again. In this world or the next. It did not matter which. They would be togetheragain.
“Until then, my love,” she whispered. “Good night until then.”
Daphne was above them again. The candle had burned low. Even as she watched, numb with grief, itshivered and went out, to be replaced by total darkness. At last she was able to close her eyes. At lastshe had hands with which to cover them.
She held her hands over her eyes for a long, long time. When she finally removed them and opened hereyes, she was staring upward at the canopy of herbed. The blankets, drawn up beneath her arms, weregradually warming her chilled body.
She did not try to move. Or sleep.
Mr. and Miss Tweedsmuir talked with some enthusiasm throughout breakfast about the probable return of the Earl of Everett to Everett Park that day. If hearrived home early enough, Miss Tweedsmuir suggested, nodding encouragingly at Daphne, perhaps hewould make his call during the afternoon and not waitfor tomorrow. It was very unlikely, Mr. Tweedsmuirsaid, since the countess would inform him that he wasnot expected until the morrow.
Daphne did not join in the conversation, though she tried to look as if she were a part of it. She tried tosmile. She tried to appear as if she were anticipatingthe earl’s visit with some pleasure.
In reality she felt worse than wretched. She had died the night before and so had her husband, herdearest love. She had killed her brother. It had allhappened a hundred years ago. All sense of humorhad temporarily deserted her. She could not even appreciate the utter absurdity of her thoughts. In reality,of course, she was merely a maiden with a vivid imagination, who was prone to vivid dreams. But that wasnot right either. It really had happened. Lady Everetthad described at least a part of it. And she, Daphne,had seen it all happen. More than that—she had livedit.
She grieved deeply for both of them. For Margaret and Justin. But more for Justin. Margaret seemedsomehow to have been resurrected in herself. But nowshe was separated by a hundred years and all eternityfrom the man she loved passionately and totally. Itwas not absurd. Had she described it all to anyone,of course it would have seemed so. Worse. Anyonelistening to her story would think her quite mad. Butshe was not mad, and her feelings were not absurd.
“I am surprised you have anything left to discover, my dear Miss Borland,” Miss Tweedsmuir said afterbreakfast when Daphne announced her intention ofspending the morning exploring again. “These roomsare so chilly unless one is seated almost on top of thefire.” She shivered delicately and rubbed her handstogether.
Daphne took the hint and assured her companion that she did not expect to be accompanied.
Sebastian’s room, she thought. How was she to know which one of the numerous bedchambers hadbeen his a hundred years ago? It would take hermonths to examine the fireplace of every room in thecastle. But Margaret, when she had thought of thejewels and the hiding place, which apparently only sheand Sebastian knew of, had briefly visualized aroom—a room at one end of a passageway. She hadeven turned her mind for one moment in the directionof the open door. Was it on that passageway, then,the same one as she herself had occupied? It madesense, Daphne supposed, for brother and sister to occupy rooms on the same floor and in the same wingof the castle. Her room was at one end of the passage.Was Sebastian’s at the other end?
It was decidedly silly to go treasure hunting on such slight evidence, of course, and one hundred years afterthe event. But she had to do something. And shefound herself this morning almost obsessed with theneed to clear Justin’s name. No one remembered himdirectly—except her—and very few even rememberedthe story about him. The chances were that no onewould be at all interested if she were suddenly to proclaim his innocence and declare that she had foundproof of it. There would be a great deal of interest inthe discovery of a box of jewels, of course. Theywould be hers, she supposed—or the earl’s soon if shemarried him. Some unknown American relative’s ifshe did not.
Daphne suddenly felt a deep and unreasoned hatred for that unknown relative. Roscoe Castle washers.Justin was there. All that remained of him lingered inthe sealed tower. Oh, not bones. She did not doubtthat his body had been given burial. But he was there.She would do anything in the world, she realized—anything—to keep the castle. She would beg andgrovel if she had to to persuade the earl to marryher—how she hated him, too! Certainly she woulddress with greater care tomorrow than she had everdone. And she would wear her very best smile.
The room at the beginning of the passage was cold. But then most of the rooms were. Daphne was growing accustomed to the discomfort. She wore a warmwoolen dress and a thick shawl. Besides, mingled feelings of grief and excitement and dread of the morrowcombined to make her largely unaware of her physicalcomfort or discomfort.
