unmoving.
Stacy lifted his gaze to Elliot, his eyes resigned. “I’m sorry, old friend. So sorry.”
“Shut it,” Elliot said. “Ye trying to die a hero?”
“Best way.”
“You’re an idiot. Stay still.”
Fellows came into the light, shaking his head. “Heard him, tried to follow. Lost him.”
“Never mind,” Elliot said. “You don’t know your way around down here. Stay with Stacy. I’ll hunt.”
He turned away and picked up the fallen assassin’s pistol as Fellows nodded, Elliot’s heart hammering, his skin hot.
“McBride,” Stacy said.
Elliot looked back. Stacy was grim-faced, blood trickling from the side of his mouth.
“Get the bastard.”
Elliot intended to.
Elliot could move like smoke when he wanted to, or a ghost in the night. He tracked the other assassin in silence and darkness.
The footsteps of the man ahead of him moved swiftly, then hesitantly, then swiftly again.
This was Elliot’s territory, and here he was master. He’d learned his way around the tunnels of his prison on his own, sometimes hiding down there for days. Whenever his captors found him again, they beat him, but eluding them had given Elliot a small measure of triumph. He’d made his captors hunt
The unknown man in the dark was trying to kill Stacy for defiling an Indian prince’s sister. Never mind that the prince had kept Jaya behind locked doors, never allowing her even to look out a window. Jaya, as headstrong as her brothers had been, had escaped. Jaya had been gifted in conversation and intelligence, wasted, secreted in her luxurious home, waiting for her brothers to marry her to some elderly wealthy man to further their own power.
He couldn’t help thinking that Juliana would have liked Jaya in other circumstances and been indignant on her behalf.
The man was slowing now, uncertain. He went one way, then the other. Elliot followed, allowing his footfalls to sound occasionally so that the other man would flee him.
Up through a tunnel, again with a low ceiling. A faint light glowed at the end, and the man hurried forward.
The light was not daylight. It came from the cracks around the trapdoor that led to the boiler room. Elliot’s quarry hesitated, then swarmed up the ladder fixed into the wall.
They or Stacy must have found the entrance before and worked on the door, because the man quickly pushed it open and climbed through. Elliot rushed him, yelling.
The assassin turned around and shot once, but Elliot had expected that. He threw himself out of the way, the bullet missing him and pinging into the wall. The assassin climbed desperately up into the house, Elliot after him.
The assassin burst out of the boiler room and through the main cellars, up into the kitchen. Screams sounded, and Elliot’s throat closed up as he pounded after him. Mahindar’s family would be up there—with Priti.
Elliot was hard on the man’s heels. He had his pistol, but the assassin decided that using Channan then Nandita as shields was a good idea. Komal, on the other hand, picked up a long knife and went at him.
The man dropped Nandita, who, screaming, somehow found her way to Hamish as the lad barreled into the kitchen.
But the assassin was still running. He stormed into the main part of the house, where Juliana would be. Alone.
There she was, standing in the vestibule, looking down the hall at the approaching man with wide, frightened eyes. Priti was nowhere in sight, hadn’t been in the kitchens either. Safe?
The assassin ran into the staircase hall. Elliot stopped, lifted his pistol, and took aim.
“Mr. McGregor!” Juliana shouted. “Now!”
A deafening roar filled the hall as McGregor, on the landing above them, aimed his shotgun at the ceiling and fired both barrels. The shots struck the plaster and stone around the great chandelier, which swung, groaned, and tore out of the ceiling with a rush of rock, nails, and rusted metal.
The assassin screamed. Flinging down his pistol, he leapt, rolling, as the monstrous iron thing plunged to the floor below.
He couldn’t move quickly enough. The chandelier hit with a roar of broken metal. Juliana fled out the front door, shielding her face. The assassin managed to get his torso out of the way of the chandelier, but his legs were trapped. He struggled, then he fell, his face ashen. Defeated.
Elliot let out his breath. He kept his pistol trained on the man, made a wide berth around the wreckage, and knelt next to the assassin.
The assassin was an ordinary-looking man, with dark hair and brown eyes, a suit of such plainness that no one would have looked at him twice. He opened his mouth and spewed a string of invectives at Elliot, his accent pure Cockney.
Elliot unwrapped his hand from around the pistol—it hurt to open his fingers—and shoved it at Mahindar, who’d rushed into the hall followed by his family and Hamish. Elliot turned his back on them all and walked out of the dim wreckage of the house to the light, and to Juliana.
Juliana shook all over as Elliot came to her and took her into his arms. She held him close, smelling the acrid smoke of pistols and the dank air of the cellars on him. The tightening of his hold on her for a long moment was the only indication of what it had cost him to hunt for Mr. Stacy and his killers in the dark.
Elliot drew in a shuddering breath and let it out again. “I have to go back down,” he said. “Stacy’s hurt. Shot. Fellows is with him, but he won’t know how to get out.”
“Yes, of course. Go.”
Elliot touched his forehead to hers and drew another breath. Then he kissed her, released her, and strode away, calling for Mahindar and Hamish to help him.
Juliana watched him walk away with them, her knees weak with relief but her heart still beating hard. He was all right. He’d fought, and he’d won, against more than just the assassins.
But there was much to be done. Juliana hurried into the house. She had to prepare a bedchamber to receive the wounded Mr. Stacy, and they needed to send for a doctor or surgeon. And then there was the matter of an assassin lying in her hallway.
She entered the main staircase hall to the chandelier strewn across the floor, its giant wheel having gouged a small trench into the flagstone. Cameron and Daniel Mackenzie and some of the workers were trying to lift it off the poor man.
As soon as the ring of chandelier moved enough, Cameron grabbed the man under the arms and hauled him out. He was groaning, his legs bloody, his face wan.
“You’ll have to put him in the morning room,” Juliana directed, “to wait for Mr. Fellows. Stay in there, and don’t let Mrs. Dalrymple leave.”
“Right ye are, ma’am,” Daniel answered cheerfully.
Juliana skirted past the chandelier and the dangerous criminal and went on to the kitchen to enlist Channan and family to help fix a room for Mr. Stacy. Priti had been taken off to McPherson’s after Hamish’s bellowed announcement that Elliot was hunting assassins, to be watched by Gemma, and the ladies of the Mackenzie family.
Mr. McGregor was already in the kitchen. He was proudly showing the empty shotgun to Komal. “It was a
