Chapter 23
Amelia
“It’s Xanthe,” Connor said, standing by a window as tires crunched to a halt outside.
“What the blazes is she doing here?” Duncan picked up the rifle. He drew something from inside his jacket—a fresh magazine. Next to Amelia, Tom groaned.
“No idea,” Connor said. “She thinks I’m still in London, or she’s supposed to. I drove straight here this morning.”
Duncan clipped the magazine in. “Get out there and get rid of her.”
Connor stared at his father, wide-eyed. “What?”
“Feed her a story and send her away. Bloody hell, Connor, I didn’t mean… And give me that knife.”
Connor wasted no time sliding it along the floor to his father, with a wary look at Tom and Amelia.
Duncan slung the rifle over his shoulder, picked up the knife, and grabbed Amelia’s arm, yanking her to her feet. She gasped. “Either of you move or say a word, and I’ll finish her off like a lame sheep.” He pressed the knife to her throat.
If ever there was a time to freeze… Amelia found herself staring up at the tapestry. The countess held her gaze, andAmelia stopped breathing altogether. Her epiphany about the tapestry—she remembered it! Life-changing, indeed. And it would be all for nothing unless they could get out of this.
“Tell Xanthe to go to the police,” Duncan said, as Connor went to open the door.
Connor halted, confused. Amelia looked down at Tom, awkwardly, without moving her head. He shrugged.
“Get her to say these two have been into the brandy again and lost the plot and wandered off. Tell them we’re out looking and there’s no need to raise the alarm just yet. Tell them we’re worried about Tom’s mental state.”
Connor nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
“Duncan, look,” Tom said quietly. “Whatever happened in the past, this would make it so much worse. Don’t do this to Connor.”
“Shut up, Tom.” Amelia felt a sting, and then warm liquid trickled down her neck. Tom’s stormy gaze darted to the blade at her throat. “Duncan…” he said, in warning.
“Be. Quiet.”
Tom’s jaw clamped shut. Blue veins stood out on his temples. He met Amelia’s eyes, and she stared straight back, welcoming the connection as if it were physical. She breathed just deeply enough to avoid passing out. The conversation outside became audible. Just like in the robbery, she was helpless, her life in some psycho’s hands.
“… I said she must have got your car mixed up with someone else’s, because there was no way my Connor would have come back from London without telling me. But then here you are!”
“I just got here. Some paperwork we overlooked. I was going to come and see you as soon as I was done. I didn’t get a chance to call—Xanthe, no, you can’t go inside.”
“Why ever not? It’s freezing out here.”
“Tom’s sprayed in there. For bugs. It’d be bad for the baby. Why don’t you go back to the village, and I’ll call in when I’m done here. It?—”
“Babe, I need to talk to you, before you do anything more with any paperwork. I’ve been calling you and calling you.”
“Can it wait, because I’m?—”
“No! Look! Look, Connor!” Amelia heard paper shuffling. “I’ve found proof.”
“You’ve what?” Connor’s tone was panicked.
“You’re the heir! You’re the true heir!”
Tom’s head jerked slightly.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Connor said.
