“Be careful, Flynn. He’s dangerous.” Her blue eyes beseeched him. “He said he’d cut my throat. And he would’ve, too.”
Pistol drawn, Flynn crept down into the dank cellar where loud groans emanated from amongst the wine racks. Not dead then. He’d reached the bottom step when a knife whistled past his cheek before it hit the wall behind him. It clattered to the floor. As Flynn dropped into a crouch, he spotted movement among the racks and fired. The rack rocked, almost toppling. Bottles fell and splintered, and a flood of frothy crimson spread over the floor.
Flynn snatched up the attacker’s knife and crept along the row. He peered into the next aisle. Althea’s kidnapper lay crumpled on the floor. Blood seeped from his wound and blended with the spilt wine. Flynn turned him over. His shot had hit the man in the left side of his chest right where his heart would be if he’d had one. His face was covered with blood which had run into his eyes from the head wound.
Flynn sat back on his heels, breathing more easily. Luck had been on his side. The blow Althea delivered the cutthroat had partially blinded him and affected his aim. Otherwise, Flynn could be the one lying dead.
He ran up the stairs. On her feet, Althea waited with her hands on her pale cheeks. “Flynn!” She launched herself into his arms.
Flynn caught and held her. She appeared close to fainting as he swept her up and carried her through the house and outside into the air. He set her down on a garden seat. “Has Crowthorne been here?”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Not since yesterday.”
He wrapped his arms around her to try to quell her shivering. “We have just one horse,” he said, attempting to inject some humor into the grim proceedings. Once she saw Owltree Cottage, she’d likely never speak to him again.
“Oh, Flynn.” She gave a weak chuckle.
On the lookout for Crowthorne, Flynn explained what had taken place at the cottage, as he trotted the horse back along the road with Althea perched in front.
“And we still don’t know what they were after. Crowthorne said it was a cache of jewels, but it’s more than possible he lied. We’ll learn the truth when he’s captured. The Bow Street runners will go after him.” A rush of bitterness filled him, his dreams crushed. “I’m afraid His Majesty will be outraged. And it doesn’t do to anger the king.”
“That is hardly fair,” Althea said, leaning back against him.
With a sigh, he breathed in her hair’s flowery scent. “He doesn’t have to be fair. He’s the king.”
“I suppose that’s true. I am so sorry.”
“There’s something else, Althea.” He felt her tense against him. “There was a fire at Owltree, one of Crowthorne’s men knocked over an oil lamp. The cottage has been damaged, I’m afraid.”
She twisted to look at him, her eyes dark. “How bad is it?”
The house might be in smoking ruins for all he knew. “I’m afraid I have no idea. I had to leave my men to put out the flames while I came to find you.”
She signed and leaned back against him again. “I’m very grateful you did come, Flynn.”
At Owltree Cottage, Flynn’s carriage stood in the drive. Althea’s gasp echoed his own thoughts. The house still stood.
As they dismounted, Ben rushed to greet them. Flynn’s relief was palpable to find him unhurt.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Lady Brookwood. I feared the worst with that bad lot.” Ben took the reins from Flynn. “Good to see you, milord.”
Flynn patted his young groom on the shoulder. “I’m relieved to find you still in one piece after all the excitement.”
“I hope that Mrs. Peebles reached my townhouse unhurt,” Althea said.
“She did, my lady, but I confess I’ve never witnessed such distress.”
“Oh, poor Mrs. Peebles. And my cat?”
“The animal is safe and sound, my lady.”
Wondering what they would find, Flynn took her arm. “Let’s go and find out how bad it is.”
Barraclough’s men had vanished, taking the bodies with them. The house reeked of smoke. The fire was no more than smoldering ashes but hadn’t spread from the salon. That room however, was a smoking ruin. He swung around to gaze at Althea. She stood like a statue in the doorway. The furnishings, chairs, and sofa were reduced to burnt rags, the walls gaping open.
Althea hiccupped. Tears ran tracks down her dirty cheeks. She clutched her stained pelisse in whitened fingers.
Flynn’s heart squeezed in his chest. She’d asked him to safeguard her home, and he’d failed. “It does look bad, but the rest of the house is untouched.” He put an arm around her. “It can be put to rights.”
“We are alive, Flynn.” She sniffed into a handkerchief and blew her nose. “And it’s only a house. It can be repaired.”
“We’ll get it restored,” he said, his voice tight.
She replaced her handkerchief in her reticule and pulled the strings tight. “No, Flynn. My house is not your concern. I shall deal with it.”
He knew that tone. The fiercely independent Althea of old had returned, and there was nothing he could offer her to change her mind.
“I doubt there’s much to eat, but I’ll go down to the kitchen and see what I can find after I change my clothes,” she said in a brisk tone. “Then we must return to London.”
