Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (39 page)

"Damn, Reeve!" Tade exclaimed, bolting down the shadowy hall. "I knew you'd come, but I scarce smuggled out the message, and—"

The words had barely left Tade's mouth when the Falcon's hand caught his arm, spinning him around. He reeled in shock as the black-garbed figure hurled itself at his chest with a cry that was far from masculine. Pistol butts cracked into his back as the "highwayman" flung trembling arms around him, and the shoulders that had looked so broad beneath the cape shifted to an impossible angle. The hooded face was pressed against his chest, soaking his shirt with tears. "Tade! Thank God, oh, thank—"

"Blazes! What the—" His heart slammed down to his boot soles, terror, joy, and disbelief warring within him as his hand shot out and ripped free the satin mask. "Maura!" He choked out the name when her delicate pale features, eyes blue, gold, green, glistening with love and tears were revealed. But the joy he took in the sight of her, far from the clutches of the cursed Dallywoulde, warmed Tade for only a moment. The walls of Newgate, which had, moments past, seemed as breachable as crumbling clay, suddenly closed in about him, gripping him with panic.

A string of savage curses burst from his lips, his hand shooting out to crush her slender wrists and wrench her arms free of his waist. "Maura, I should wring your blasted neck!" He yanked her toward the darkened staircase. "Coming here, and you with child, I—damn!" The candlelight caught the glint of the pistols, so ludicrous in her tiny hands, and Tade paused long enough to snatch them from her fingers, jam them into the waistband of his breeches. "Hell and damnation, you could have blown your blasted foot off with these things!" He railed as he grasped her arm again, dragging her forward. The staircase spilled them down into the debtors' ward, Tade rushing toward the door as though the devil himself pursued them.

"I—I could scarce march in here and demand they release you without some weapon to convince them." Her breathless defense, filled with a new strength and confidence, only served to stoke the fires of Tade's anger. "They were going to kill you!"

"Kill me?" Tade blustered, flinging open the huge door that led to freedom. The wintry wind whooshed into him, chilling him through the thin fabric of his shirt. But he scarce felt it as his gaze darted about the deserted midnight streets. "I still damn well might hang for murder once I get you safe!"

She stumbled and, with an oath, he caught her, curving his arm about her waist. But as he bent toward her, urging her ever onward toward the safety of the streets beyond, his eyes glimpsed her face—elated, courageous, and excruciatingly beautiful—in the faint moonlight that struggled through the roiling clouds.

"Who was it who told me once that life is scarce worth the trouble unless you're willing to take risks?" The saucy impudence in her wind-stung lips, the sparkle in her eyes, made him want to rail at her, shake her, kiss her, until she couldn't breathe.

He opened his mouth, maybe to do all three, but suddenly the words died upon his lips, buried beneath the ominous sound of hoofbeats thundering toward Newgate.

Swearing, Tade flung away the stub of candle, his arm tightening about Maryssa to aid her to run, but before they could dart into one of the twisted, narrow streets that offered safety, a flash of ghost-white horse caught his eyes, the beast's rider crouched low over its massive flanks, his cape whipping wildly in the wind.

"Dallywoulde."

Tade heard Maryssa's choked gasp, for the first time detecting fear in the voice that an instant ago had dared tease him.

Feral rage tore through him, fierce protectiveness toward Maryssa and the babe she carried crushing even his thirst for the blood of Devin's murderer. Tade's hand flashed down, yanking the pistol from his breeches, bringing the barrel up to bear on the approaching rider. He cursed under his breath, gauging the distance to the thundering horse and the man astride it. In that fleeting instant, Tade knew if he fired too soon, before Dallywoulde drew close, the pistol ball would miss the Englishman. And if his aim wasn't true...

"No, Tade!" Vaguely, he heard Maryssa's frantic cry, but he shut it out as the hammer clicked back, his finger tightening on the trigger.

He held his breath but an instant as he squeezed off the shot, then waited an eternity for the roar of gunpowder, the flash of orange from the long barrel. But as the flint cracked down upon the pan, the weapon emitted nothing but a metallic click, and Tade's heart froze.

"Tade, I didn’t know how to—"

"Load it? You didn't load it!" His eyes flashed from the useless gun to Dallywoulde. The planes of the man's evil face were now visible as he raced toward them. Tade sensed those chill eyes locking upon them, could see the loathsome knight's lips contort in a triumphant jeer. At that instant an explosion did split the night, the flare of orange spitting lead from a pistol aimed over the head of Dallywoulde's mount. Tade felt the bullet tear into the flesh of his thigh, but he paused not an instant to cry out in pain. Raw panic seized him as he caught a glimpse of Maryssa's stricken fear-glazed eyes. All thought of vengeance, aye and of honor, fled. Nothing mattered to him now except ensuring this woman's safety. He hurled the useless pistol to the ground, caught her arm, and bolted with her toward the shadowed alleyways that offered the only sanctuary.

"Run, Maura," he urged, half dragging, half carrying her over the uneven stones. "Have to—have to find a place where the bastard can't—cut us down.”

"Tade, I—"

"Run!"

A second pistol spat death into the night, but this time the ball slammed well over their heads, striking a sign swinging over the shop of a cooper.

The splintered wood rained down upon them, one shard slicing Tade's cheek. He felt Maryssa's foot catch on a stone, felt her start to fall, but with a jerk of his arm he righted her, then guided her through the narrow passage between two buildings and on into the next twisted street.

Desperately his eyes swept the shadowed fronts of shops and houses. If he could get Maura inside one of them and force Dallywoulde to dismount and give chase, the odds would be a bit more even, and they might have a chance of besting the armed knight. But the crashing of hooves into the street behind them warned Tade what little time they still had was nearly gone. His eyes flashed over the building fronts yet again, locking on a humble arched doorway and rising to the church spire outlined above it in the moonlight.

Hazarding a glance over his shoulder, Tade saw the mist white of Dallywoulde's horse, heard the flapping of his cape, felt the icy eyes boring into him, menacing, glazed with lust for the kill. But already Tade was bolting forward, dragging Maryssa beside him.

"Hasten," he urged between clenched teeth. "The church—try the—" But as though she, too, realized the hopelessness of battling the vicious knight afoot without weapons, Maryssa climbed up the few steps leading to the arched oak door, reaching the portal before him. Grasping the iron ring that served as handle, Tade yanked the door wide with a force that slammed it against the outer wall.

He could feel Maura flinch as her gaze darted back toward Dallywoulde who now raced toward the tiny building. A grimness descended upon Tade as he propelled her through the door, a primal need to crush anyone who dared threaten his mate, his child. He rushed into the dark sanctuary, his eyes struggling to pierce the inky shadows, to spy somewhere to hide Maryssa in safety before he turned to confront the man he hated more than the dark angel himself.

A brace of candles flickered upon the plain wood altar, as though to welcome any weary traveler who might seek peace within this humble dwelling of God. Tade raced up, grasped one waxen taper, and held it aloft as his eyes searched the small room. A narrow, rickety stairway spiraled upward in one corner, the wooden steps twisting, perilous. Aye, and maybe leading to the one place where Maryssa might have a chance of defending herself against Dallywoulde if Tade should die.

"It must lead somewhere. The roof, perhaps, the belfry," Maryssa gasped.

"Wherever it leads it will be safer than where we stand now," he said. Thrusting the candle up into the heavy darkness, Tade grasped the fabric at Maryssa's waist in an effort to help her to keep her balance as she stumbled up the flight of stairs. Twice she nearly fell, and once his own knee cracked into the sharp edge of a step, but they finally reached the last wooden stair, their boot heels cracking with a hollow sound on a platform the size of a dray.

The candlelight picked out the shadowy zigzags of beams across the ceiling, narrowing into the spire they had seen from outside. Coils of new rope spilled near Tade's boots, the cord twined with aged lengths of hemp between the bell's top and the rail that guarded the gaping opening in the platform above which the mammoth bell dangled. A dusty, broken stool stood beside the rail as though the sexton had stood upon it to replace the bell rope.

Tade peered down at the humble altar; the simple carvings that flanked it were partly shadowed by the fluted sides of the huge brass bell high above.

Pray God when next it rang it would not prove their death knell. "Maura, I'll need your cape. Maybe I can use it to deflect Dallywoulde's sword long enough to—" Tade spun, his fingers stilling as he reached for the flowing garment, the sound of thudding footsteps echoing up from below. Muttering an oath under his breath, Tade ripped the mantle free and hastily wrapped it around his left forearm. But the hope he had held of sheltering Maryssa, whatever the outcome of the battle between him and the evil Dallywoulde, melted as he heard a low, triumphant chuckle.

Through the slats in the wood, he saw Dallywoulde, candle in hand, bend down and reach out with gloved fingers to touch something upon the floor. The knight pressed his fingertips to his lips as if tasting something, and even so high above that pale head, Tade could sense the twisted pleasure Dallywoulde took in what he’d found.

Tade's gaze flicked down to the weathered golden boards, catching sight of a wet, dark glimmer of crimson on the old wood. Blood.

"Damn!" He had paid no heed to the pistol ball that had torn through his flesh, scarce aware of the burning wound in his need to get Maryssa to safety. He yanked free his neckcloth and jammed the fabric inside the hole torn in his breeches in an effort to staunch the bleeding.

"Tade,” Maryssa's voice was choked with fear. “Your leg."

"Hush, love. It is nothing. I've lived through five like it in the years I've ridden the highroads." He wanted to soothe her, comfort her, but he dared not even catch her eyes lest she see the unease in his face. It was no serious wound, he knew, yet with each minute that passed, with each drop of blood that soaked into the wad of cloth, some portion of his strength drained away as well. To battle a demon like Dallywoulde, weakened by a wound, with no weapon and only a cursed cloak to meet the swine's cold steel was madness.

He forced a bracing smile to his lips, but the sound of weight bearing down on one creaking step cut off the words he had wanted to say to her, his gaze finding and holding the terrified blue-gold lights of hers.

"Tade, I-I'm sorry. About Dev. The babe."

"Stay back, love, away from the fight," he said, suppressing the terror he felt for her. "If I should—if anything should happen to me, ring the bells. It will bring half of London running, and the bastard won't dare harm you."

"Nothing will befall you. You can't—" The desperation in her face tore at him.

"I love you, Maura." Simple, the words were so simple, the love he felt for this woman driving back the bitter poison that had been twisting him in the days since Dev had died. A hundred vows of love and a hundred pleas for forgiveness rose in his throat, but there was only time enough to brush her lips for one infinitely sweet instant before he spun to where Dallywoulde's shadow lengthened upon the belfry wall.

Candlelight caught the cold blue glimmer of unsheathed steel, the razor-honed length of sword lancing the darkness. But more threatening, by far, was the icy hate gleaming in Dallywoulde's eyes. Spectral evil, Dallywoulde's visage gleamed in the candlelight—death's face—the shadowed sockets empty caverns, the sparse hair clinging as if to a withered skull, the fleshless lips drawn back, eager from jagged teeth.

It was as though the Falcon at last faced the demon the tales claimed him kin to, but this battle would be for something Tade Kilcannon treasured far more deeply than his own soul.

"Coward!" Dallywoulde's voice issued the challenge, taunting. "What do you fear, Black Falcon? The blade of a holy man's sword? It was child's play to cut down your puling Irish papists in the glen that day—child's play to send your thrice-damned brother to hell."

Rage surged through Tade, but he checked it, holding his body taut, waiting, watching. "Aye, it took great courage to murder women and babes, Dallywoulde."

"Kits grow into foxes and all need to be poisoned."

Tade's teeth clenched, his stomach wrenching as the shadows on the wall shifted into images of blood-soaked bodies of children clutched in their dead mothers' arms, eyes that had watched last summer's butterflies with innocent wonder suddenly glazed with horror and death.

"Bastard!" Tade snarled.

Tade heard Maryssa make a tiny sound of horror, saw Dallywoulde's cold eyes flick to where she stood pressed against the outer wall. In that second Tade lunged, slamming his shielded arm into the side of Dallywoulde's head, grappling desperately for the hilt of the glistening sword.

But before his hand could close upon the gold-wrought hand guard, the knight dived beneath his grasp, not toppling, as Tade had hoped, down the treacherous stairway, but rather skidding across the floor of the small platform, perilously close to where Maryssa stood.

With panther-like agility, Dallywoulde rolled across the platform and sprang to his feet, weapon ready. But before the knight could get a solid footing, Tade lunged toward him, swinging his bound arm high as the blade of the sword swept in a savage arc at his head. Tade slammed into Ascot's side, and both men fell to the floor as the blade whacked into the fabric that guarded Tade's arm.