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“She had nothing to do with Will,” Alec said again. He was slowly moving sideways, to where he could see Cressida’s face. Two spots of red burned in her cheeks, and her eyes were glittering. She was furious, he realized, so furious she wasn’t even frightened anymore. “She never met him or heard of him.”

“But she lived well off his death, and that’s enough.” Morris gave her another shake. “Let’s go, miss. Time to join your papa.”

With a strangled cry, Cressida threw her head back, cracking into Morris’s chin. She kicked at his knees and scratched at his restraining arm. He cursed, turning his face away from her as she twisted, and almost dropped the pistol. Alec lunged forward to grab it, but Morris raised the gun and tried to aim at him. Alec dodged to the side to avoid presenting a good target, lunging for Cressida at the same moment.

Suddenly she fell to the floor, along with the pistol. Morris had released both to grab the rope that snaked around his throat.

With a soldier’s reflexes, Alec yanked the knife from his sleeve and struck. Morris jerked upright, his face going slack with surprise. With an awful, reedy gasp he choked and coughed, and blood spurted from the mortal wound. The hilt quivered right below his meaty chin, the blade piercing his throat. Morris’s eyes glazed over and went blank. Angelique, clinging to his back, gave a sharp tug on her garrote, and his head went up without resistance.

“Angelique,” he said. “You can let go.”

Morris thudded heavily to his knees as she relaxed her grip. She peered over his shoulder, not appearing very surprised by the knife hilt sticking out of his throat. “I was not in need of help.” She whisked her black rope from around his neck and gave Morris a push. Freed of support, his body slowly toppled to the floor. The blood gushed forth as he collapsed, staining the carpet dark red in a wide arc around him.

Angelique stepped away, wrinkling her nose. “Such a mess the knife makes,” she said on a sigh.

Alec turned to Cressida, who had scrambled away from Morris and now sat braced on her arms, skirts twisted around her legs, knees pulled up under her chin, breathing hard and staring at the dead man. “Are you hurt? Cressida?”

She raised dazed eyes to him. Mutely she shook her head. Alec exhaled, his hands starting to shake from the delayed fear and fury at the sight of her caught in Morris’s grasp.

“My God,” cried Lucey in shock. “You’ve killed my man!”

Alec gave him a black look as he bent to retrieve his knife. He cleaned the blade with a sharp swipe across Morris’s sleeve.

Angelique raised her eyebrows at Lucey as she coiled her garrote around her hand. “Perhaps you are next.”

The old man jerked, staring at her in terror. In her dark clothing, with her hair pulled back and making no attempt to gentle her expression, Angelique might have been the angel of death, coldly merciless. When Ian appeared in the doorway behind her, looking for all the world like his fierce Highland forebears must have looked to the invading English, Lucey gave an audible whimper.

“Get him out of the way,” Alec muttered to Ian. The big Scot glanced at Angelique and nodded. He bent to heave Morris’s bulk over one shoulder. Angelique stepped out of his way as he carried the dead man to the sofa. Lucey watched in horrified silence, cowering in the corner.

Alec pulled Cressida to her feet. She came into his arms and held him as if she would never let go. He pressed his lips to her hair. She was shaking, and he held her even tighter, to keep her still, to comfort her, to reassure himself that she was whole and well.

He hadn’t planned to kill Morris, but the sight of him strangling Cressida had fueled a black rage that overrode every thought except the fierce instinct to protect her. The knife had left his hand before he’d even thought of drawing it.

“Why did you not wait with the carriage?” Angelique gently touched Cressida’s arm. “I did not wish you to be involved.”

“I did wait with the carriage.” Cressida’s voice was muffled against Alec’s chest. “He found me and dragged me to the house.”

Alec glared at Angelique. She knew better. Based on the way she was dressed and armed, Angelique had known exactly what she was walking into, and there was no excuse for bringing Cressida anywhere near The Grange.

She pursed her lips. “I am sorry, Alec.”

In other moments Alec would have argued the point, but this time it didn’t matter. Perhaps that, more than anything, drove home to him how final his choice was. He couldn’t go back to being a spy—not because he had found the proof of innocence he sought, not because he had returned home and everyone knew he was alive, but because of Cressida. She mattered more to him than all the rest. With her he’d discovered not the restoration of his reputation, but the reclamation of his heart and soul.

“You’ll take care of this?” he asked Angelique.

She nodded. “Ian will go to Stafford. He will want to know.”

Alec didn't give a bloody damn what Stafford wanted. He nodded once and walked out of the room, leaving it all behind—Lucey’s festering shame, Morris’s murderous loyalty, George Turner's venal sins, and most of all Will’s tragic flaw. He had Cressida in his arms, and that was all he cared about.

Chapter Thirty-Six

They rode home slowly, Cressida behind Alec on the horse. Neither spoke during the ride. A few fat drops of rain spattered against them, and the skies rumbled almost non-stop, but the storm still held off. At the Penford stables, Alec dismounted and handed the reins to the stable boy. He held out his arms to Cressida, and after a moment’s hesitation, she let him help her down.

She couldn’t stop thinking one thing: Papa was dead. He hadn't hesitated to entice William Lucey into treason and then he blackmailed old Mr. Lucey over it. As she huddled in Alec's arms, her life with Papa played across her memory’s eye, his cheery winks and booming laughter, his quick temper and generous nature. The time he carried home a baby bunny in his hat for her and Callie to see. The way his face would darken when she argued with him, and the callous way he maneuvered Callie into marriage with Mr. Phillips. She thought of him making sport of Tom, and carrying her grandmother tenderly up the stairs when Granny grew unwell. It was a jumble of happiness and horror, that he could take such care of them with money gained so shamefully.

And now Papa was lying in the ground behind Mr. Lucey's privy, if Morris could be believed, and she was brokenhearted and angry and relieved all at once.

Cressida couldn't help thinking that her father had brought his fate upon himself. He had played with fire and it consumed him in the end. And not only had it cost her her father and her affection for him, it might cost her a lifetime of happiness with the man she loved.