Halfway down the stairs, he could hear Gillian talking, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. He stepped down to the last step then hid in the alcove by the doorway and waited for his moment.
“Where is this husband of yours? I sent word to your uncle to bring our recruits to me at one o’clock.” Silence. “According to my timepiece it is half past the hour. Are you the diversion while they surround the abbey to capture me? Rather unseemly of the King’s Own, and your uncle, to use you so shabbily. I would treat you better, my dear. Would you like to go to France with me? I was supposed to take Lady Roberts, but since you have taken care of her, why not take her place completely?”
To Moreham’s amazement, Gillian inched her way closer to his hiding place. Did she know he was near or had she remembered the stairs? As she moved closer so did the stranger. Moreham crouched down and picked up a stone, the size of a small apple.
“You know, should you harm me in any way, my husband will hunt you down and kill you. He takes care of his own.”
Gillian took another small step closer to him.
“My dear, your husband and his friends have been looking for me for almost six months to no avail. I have beaten him at every encounter. This one will be no different. Your last chance to leave the abbey alive.”
Gillian laughed. Moreham seized the moment and threw the hefty stone at the stranger’s head. The man fell to his knees and landed face down in the dirt. Before the traitor could recover, Moreham lunged for Gillian who spun around and flew into his arms. At least that was how he saw their frantic joining. He would never forget the fear he had felt at the sight of his enemy’s pistol trained on his darling.
Moreham grabbed her then propelled her up the crumbling steps. Shouting echoed through the cells as the ringleader realized his captive was gone. A single shot in the night punctuated the shouting and then silence reigned.
“Don’t fret, dearest, Cross fired that shot.” Moreham kissed her hard on the lips. “I must go below. Stay here.”
“Moreham, if you think I am going to hide in this cell while you go down and face that fiend, you are not as intelligent as I have been led to believe. Shall we?”
Gillian took his hand walked out of the cell to the stairs to make their way back into the courtyard where they found Cross kneeling over the now bleeding man.
“Is he dead?” She asked.
“No, I got him in the shoulder. He’ll mend and then we can hang him,” Cross replied before turning his attention back to the wounded man at his feet. “Where is Sturmbridge? You said you had Sturmbridge?”
Moaning, their prisoner pointed off to the other side of the abbey. “He’s in one of the cells. Over there.”
Cross jumped to his feet then ran to the other side of the courtyard shouting Sturm’s name all the way. Moreham wanted to go with his friend, but he could not leave Gillian alone with the man who had wanted to kill her only moments earlier. If Cross needed him, he would call out.
“Go ahead and finish me off. Better for my family. Moreham, you owe my mother that much.”
Moreham frowned the voice sounded different now. Who was this traitor? He knelt down to get a better look and gasped.
“Rodney? Is it really you? Why would you align yourself with the French?”
“Aye, ’tis me. Why? A king’s ransom in money and treasure would tempt any man. Well, not you Moreham. Always the loyal subject, you are.”
Moreham looked up at Gillian and realized he had never released her hand. He tried to ease his hold, only to have her tighten her grasp.
“Who is he?” she whispered.
Moreham shook his head and chuckled. “Dearest, Rodney Littleton, Her Grace’s cousin from her mother’s family.”
Shuffling noises across the way brought him to his feet. Cross appeared out of the shadows with Sturm draped over his shoulders. Moreham ran forward to help his friends.
“How is he?”
“He was out cold when I found him. Woke up when I lifted him up from the floor. Lots of blood. Don’t think it’s too bad, probably just cuts and bruises. Still breathing. That’s something. Don’t see any bullet wounds. He does need a doctor,” Cross reported.
Gillian joined them. “Moreham, we have to get Sturm and Littleton out of here. There could be others coming.”
Cross jerked to a stop. “The duchess’ cousin? Rodney ran this operation?” he asked in disbelief. “No wonder he was always a step ahead of us. We trusted him. Drank with him. Sturm was meeting him at White’s the night he went missing.”
Moreham felt his friend’s pain at Rodney’s betrayal. Not an agent of the Crown, but a friend to them all. It would take some time to get over the deception.
Gillian tugged on his sleeve. “Lady Roberts’ traveling coach is outside the abbey. I will get the groom to help with Littleton.” She hurried off through the archway. Moreham laughed at the sight of her breeches and white linen shirt billowing in the wind.
Gillian’s tale of how and why she had ended up at the abbey with Littleton pointing his pistol at her would have to wait. Moreham pulled Littleton to his feet then slung him over his shoulder. Cross held on to Sturm. The men inched their way out of the keep of the abbey towards Gillian and the coach.
The coach pulled forward as they walked through the archway. A groom jumped down and helped with Sturm. When Cross moved to get inside the coach, he growled and called Moreham over.
Gillian spoke before he could look in the coach. “Oh, I
