“You’re scum,” Padraig accused. “None of us have done aught to deserve such injury.”
The red-headed man smirked. “Were I you, I’d be cautious, throwing my lot in with the likes of this innocent.” He nudged Adolphus Paget’s shoulder roughly with the toe of his boot. “His riches are made from the sale of slaves. Young slaves. Girls, stolen away. Lads as well. Isn’t that so, Adolphus?” He crouched down suddenly so as to look into the nobleman’s anguished expression, upside down to him.
Lord Paget’s only response was his rattling breaths.
Beryl’s voice rang out. “What do you mean?” she insisted. “Stolen away?”
Bolstered against Padraig’s arm, Lucan tensed further and sounded as though he spoke through his teeth. “Is that an excuse you use to ease your conscience? Your band has terrorized this land for years—it’s unsafe for any traveler, not only those with coin.”
The man retrieved his bow and rose, continuing to stare at them with his hard smirk. “We’re only taking back what was taken from us.” He used one long arm to indicate the band standing ready at the perimeter of the clearing. “All of us here have been robbed of something by these thieving nobles. As you well know, Montague.”
“I’ve taken nothing from you,” Padraig said, and again he was struck by the idea that Lucan was so well known in Northumberland—even unto thieves.
The masked accomplice suddenly touched the man’s biceps to gain his attention and then gestured toward Padraig.
“That may be true, my Scots friend,” the man allowed. “You’re no servant, and yet you’re part of Hargrave’s hunting party.” He looked Padraig up and down. “Not dressed quite well enough to be noble—certainly no appreciable fortune to your name. Perhaps you are better off one of us, no?”
“Don’t answer him anything,” Lucan advised grimly.
“I’d hope you’d learned by now that your advice brings only injury, good Sir Montague. Padraig, wasn’t it?” the man suggested with a grin. “Hmm. Not a name common to Northumberland. Betrayed the Scots in you even if your speech hadn’t.” He stepped over Paget’s body without a glance for the wounded man, until he was only one pace away from Padraig and Lucan. “Can you fight, I wonder, Padraig?”
“Give back my sword and you’ll soon find out,” Padraig challenged.
“Gorman,” the masked accomplice warned in a low voice.
“Do you know what happened to Euphemia Hargrave?” Beryl’s question rang out clear and anguished in the clearing, and it seemed as though everyone turned to regard the woman who was now standing against the tree, only the fingertips of one hand touching the bark as if tethered there by her fear, when she wanted to fly to the center of the clearing. She looked around, her eyes pleading as her undone hair flowed over her shoulders.
“Do any of you know? Was she taken? Did Lord Paget take her?” Her eyes were wild. “Please. Someone here must know something. Lady Hargrave wastes away in grief.”
The masked accomplice seemed to be watching Beryl closely now, and that damned bow was still at the ready. Searrach’s warning from the night before haunted Padraig.
I’m nae the only one indebted to a Hargrave.
This group had been lying in wait for them; there was no other explanation. The clearing was near no road, no outlying estate building or field. They’d been lured here, with the barking of dogs, which had suspiciously gone silent after the first arrow had flown.
Now the masked accomplice walked toward Beryl slowly, each deliberate step of fine boot sending forth a loud, crunching of leaves.
* * * *
Iris couldn’t help her heaving exhalations of breath as the masked robber walked menacingly toward her, slowly, deliberately. The drawn bow, although aimed at the ground, struck deep fear in her heart. Both Padraig and Lucan had been shot, and Lord Paget had stopped moving, his jerky, watery gasps no longer menacing the clearing.
She backed against the tree fully once more.
“Please,” she repeated, hearing the breathy shakiness of her voice, and yet unable to contain her fear as her eyes welled with terror. “I need to know.”
“What is your connection to Euphemia Hargrave?” he rasped.
“I…nothing. I have no connection,” Iris stammered. “I only serve the Lady Hargrave. I…care for her very much.”
“Then you are a fool,” the robber spat, then stepped closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Euphemia Hargrave is dead. She died the night she escaped from Darlyrede.”
Iris’s heart skipped a beat in her chest, and her voice caught on her breath as she asked the dreaded question. “How do you know?”
“Because,” the thief whispered, “it was I who killed her.”
Iris brought her hand to her mouth to stifle her sob. “How could you?” she finally managed to choke out, no longer caring about the consequences of her words. If the band was going to kill them all any matter, she would have her say. “She was just a girl! A child! She had done you no wrong, surely.”
The bandit stared at her for a long moment, the blue eyes through the slits in the mask seeming to examine every aspect of her gown, her cloak. She was unable to read the intention in his eyes, and yet the bow hung relaxed.
“It was the most merciful thing I could do,” he whispered. “Euphemia Hargrave…had suffered.”
“What?” Iris’s fright stilled like the water of a pond—slowly, gradually, even as a faint rumbling was heard. “What do you mean? Suffered how?”
“The priest knows wh—”
The clearing was lit up with fire and sound then, the forest floor exploding with light, smoke, shuddering crashes. Dirt and bark flew through the air, now filled with black, acrid smoke.
Iris dove to the leaves, and both heard and felt the many feet pounding by her. She covered her head with her arms.
It could be nothing other than Vaughn Hargrave’s arquebus.
“Gorman!” the bandit before Iris called.
“Go! To the caves!”
Another boom echoed through the trees, and was followed by a piercing scream. Iris dared peek from her arm and
