Page 130 of Courting the Country Miss

He retrieved a knife and showed it to her. The sliver of light coming through the cracks under the door shone on the blade. Fear turned her cold.

He leaned over her. “I warn’d ye afore but y didn’ listen, so listen now: close th’ school an’ ne’er open it agin.”

She glared at him. What an ignorant fool!

As if seeing the defiance in her eyes, he grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back. The cold metal of his knife bit into her throat. A gasp worked its way out through her gag.

“I kin kill ye, see?” he continued. “It’d be easy. But I ain’t no murderer. So, I’ll give ye one final warnin’. If’n yous don’ stop yer school, I will kill ye. I’ll already be a murderer then so I migh’ as well kill yer teacher. Then yer fancy friend with the fancy title. I’ll take my time wiff ’er—I bet she smells real purty.”

He grinned and the stench of rotten teeth gagged her. The thought of Miss Harper or Elizabeth in this villain’s hands sent a shower of nausea raining down on her.

“I’ll leave ye ’ere a while to think it over. Maybe I’ll come back and let ye go if’n ye promise you’ll leave off wiff this school business.”

He opened the door and slammed it behind him.

She let out a half gasp, half sob. Were the lives of her friends worth the school? Would she live to see Tristan again? If only she’d realized sooner how matched she and Tristan were. Her affection for Richard all those years were a schoolgirl crush compared to the deep love she bore for Tristan. She’d wasted so much of her life pining away for the wrong man.

Tristan was probably searching for her with the same dogged devotion he’d used to rescue his brother last year—the rescue that had gotten him shot. Oh heavens, he might get hurt. Or worse. Panic left her breathless.

“Be safe, Tristan. Please be safe.”

The gag muffled her words and they dissolved into silent prayer.

Chapter Forty

Gun in-hand, Tristan glanced back at Richard. His brother shook his head. A cart sat in the street, but who knew into which building the scoundrel had taken Leticia. She’d left a trail of clues for them—clever girl—as they’d followed, lost, and then found the cart again. But now?

In front of one in the endless line of doors, lay a piece of cloth. Was it purple? In the waning light, color faded.

He crept forward, bent down, and examined it. Purple. Unless he was mistaken, that purple cloth was the exact color of Leticia’s favorite pelisse. He picked it up and found a hard object inside the soft fabric. When he turned it over, Oma’s diamond brooch lay, still pinned, to the ragged scrap of cloth, glimmering in the twilight. He sagged in relief. She was here. Tristan tucked the brooch into his pocket and nodded at Richard. Stepping stealthily, his brother took up position opposite him with the door between them. From inside the building a male voice spoke.

As Tristan bunched his muscles, ready to spring, the door flew open and the man who’d stormed into the school and dragged out one of the students stepped out. Focused on tucking away a knife, the disgruntled father walked out.

Tristan leaped into action. A primal cry rang out. He knocked the man down and leaped on him. Rage blinded Tristan to all but the need to punish Leticia’s attacker for all the ways he’d hurt and frightened her. A pair of arms pulled Tristan off the man. Tristan struggled to continue to rain vengeance upon the scoundrel but the other arms held him fast from behind.

“He’s had enough!” Richard’s voice cut through the haze of fury consuming Tristan.

Tristan shook off his brother’s arms. “Let go of me!”

“Leave off. Don’t kill him.” His brother’s voice, calm and authoritative, peeled back another layer of the haze.

Tristan blinked. The cretin lay moaning, his face unrecognizable through blood and swelling. A knife lay several feet away. Tristan’s gun lay in the opposite direction. Tristan looked down at his hands, bloodied and cut. How much of that blood was his and how much belonged to the other man, he could not guess, nor did he care.

“I’ll watch him,” Richard said, gripping his pistol. “Go inside and see to Leticia.”

Leticia. Her name snapped him into motion. He strode into the dark room. “Leticia?”

A muffled whimper replied. What had that monster done to her? His heart pelted his chest and echoed in his ears. Cold perspiration trickled down his face. If she’d been harmed, he’d go back out and finish off the beast.

He took another step inside, wishing for all the world that he had a lamp. “Tish?”

Another wordless sound, more urgent this time, guided him a few steps to the right. Her perfume mingled with the scents of fish and dank rotting wood and jute. He could barely make out a dark form on the floor in front of him. He bent down and reached out. Something soft touched his gloved hands.

“Tish?”

Two more squeaks in quick succession. Was she so badly hurt that she couldn’t speak? Or gagged? He tore off his gloves and felt around, finding soft fabric, an arm, a shoulder; lower down, with his other hand, he found a leg and a knee. He slid his arms underneath her back and legs, and lifted her up. Fighting the impulse to simply stand still and hold her close, he carried her outside where he could see to her better. He set her down on the cobbled street, leaning against the outer wall.

Gagged, white-faced and wide-eyed, Leticia looked back at him. Tristan worked the cloth’s knot until it loosened enough to throw away. Red marks around her mouth testified of the tightness of her gag. A bruise purpled her temple and another darkened her cheekbone and eye. The brute had struck her. Tristan almost went for his gun. Instead, he worked at the ropes on her hands until Richard handed him a knife—the beast’s knife—and cut her binds, freeing first her hands, then her feet.