“Not dead, is she?” Fury asked in a dispassionate tone. He must have signaled to the coachman, for the carriage lumbered off again.
Mercy’s hope of rescue faded with it. No one would find her here in the middle of nowhere. She smelt whiskey on Sir Ewan’s breath as he leaned down to her. “No. Pretty young woman.”
“Don’t get any ideas, there’s no time.”
“What do you think of me, sir? I am not such a scoundrel!” Sir Ewan stumbled as he carried her. “I don’t like this, I tell you.” His voice broke into a sob as he lay her gently on the ground.
The cold seeped up from the damp ground. Mercy wondered if she could appeal to Sir Ewan for help. Would he stand aside and watch this man Fury murder her in cold blood? When she heard them move away, she opened her eyes. Fury carried a lantern. Sir Ewan was pleading with him, waving his hands about. Fury had turned away to survey a field and the woods beyond.
Her fingers worked at her reticule. Opening it, she discovered her mirror had broken when she’d fallen. She drew it out, the sharp edge giving her courage. She quickly removed the top of the perfume bottle.
Fury was pointing somewhere over the moors with Sir Ewan nodding. With the mirror in one hand, the open perfume bottle in the other, Mercy staggered to her feet and ran. Somewhere ahead there must be a road. If only she could reach it, someone might come along. Even as she thought it she didn’t believe it, but she kept going, her skirts slowing her down.
She’d gone a few yards when with a yell, Fury’s feet pounded behind her over the ground. He was upon her in an instant. With foul curses, his cruel hands gripped her arms.
“Think you can outsmart me?”
He shook her so hard she feared her head would fall off. Mercy threw up her arm with the perfume bottle in her hand. The floral spray made with liquor, hit Fury in the eyes.
“What the…” He released her, his hands clutching at his eyes. “You little witch!”
Mercy fell to her knees.
When he bent over her, fists clenched, she sliced his face with the mirror. He fell back as a welt of blood ran down his forehead into his watering eyes. “Aah!”
Not knowing where Sir Ewan was, Mercy stood and ran full pelt down the path.
Ahead, as if out of nowhere, two horsemen galloped toward her. She stopped with a gasp, afraid to believe her eyes.
* * *
Terror had struck Grant’s heart. He feared they’d lost Fury’s carriage, but then it trundled toward them from the lane leading to Fury’s estate. The coachman confessed he’d left the two gentlemen with a young lady. “Nothin’ to do with me, sirs,” he’d said. “Follow the road apace, there’s a lane off to the right. That’s where they are. And up to no good I’ll wager. I’m to pick them up again in an hour.”
“You’ll get along home, if you know what’s good for you,” Grant said.
“The coachman touched his hat. Right you are, guvnor. Never wanted no part of that smoky business.”
Grant galloped up the road with Strathairn behind him, fearing what he would find.
When he saw Mercy, his heart almost stopped. Fury was running behind her, a knife in his hand.
Grant jumped from his horse and shoved Mercy behind him where Strathairn grabbed her and drew her away to safety.
With a snarl, Fury punched the knife in the air. “I can take you both. Did a lot more in Badajoz.”
“I’ll wager you did,” Strathairn said. “You would have been one of those soldiers who behaved like a pack of hell hounds after the siege of Badajoz. Made me ashamed I was British. They should have hanged you.”
“I’ll deal with Fury,” Grant said through clenched teeth.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Strathairn said.
As Strathairn ran off in search of Snowdon who had disappeared into the trees, Grant assessed the enraged man before him. All menace Fury advanced toward him, the moonlight flashing off the blade. But with his spare hand, he swiped at his eyes and blinked as blood ran down from a cut on his brow. Grant decided to take advantage of that weakness and stepped in close. He twisted, aiming a foot at the Fury’s knee. It connected with a crunch followed by a grunt of pain. Fury, already slightly off balance, cursed and stumbled sideways.
But Fury immediately righted himself with a practiced fighter’s stance, his feet planted firmly on the ground. “That the best you can do? I’ll disembowel you.” He edged forward, slashing the knife menacingly.
The knife caught Grant’s sleeve and he darted out of range. When Fury wiped his eyes again, Grant moved in and lashed out with another kick, higher up. It struck right where he aimed, and Fury crumpled with a squeal. He fell into a crouch with a groan of pain. Clutching his groin, he dropped the knife. Cursing, his eyes on Grant, he reached for the knife. Seeing he was in a vulnerable position, Grant aimed an upper cut to the man’s thick neck. Fury fell back awkwardly to the ground and rolled over. With a shriek, he levered himself up on his elbows, then fell again onto his face in the dirt. He lay silent.
Grant turned him over. The man lay spread-eagled staring sightlessly up at the sky. The hilt of his dagger protruded from his chest. “Fell on his knife.”
