Dear Impostor (30 page)

          He nodded, and they both paused to listen. Silence,
then the wail of pipes rose again..

          He motioned toward the way they had come, and
she understood at once. If their pursuers had gone further into the maze,
perhaps they could slip safely back out the entrance.

          With Gabriel leading the way, they walked,
swiftly but as lightly as possible, and retraced their steps. Gabriel seemed to
remember the way they had come, for which Psyche was thankful; she was already
disoriented and was sure she would have taken the wrong turn.

          The tall hedges towered around them, and there
was nothing in the clear blue sky to guide them; a bee buzzed amid the leaves,
but otherwise, she heard nothing but the whine of the bagpipes, which–muffled
by the thick hedges–seemed strangely distant.

          Gabriel paused at a juncture of passages, and
with a tightening of his grip on her hand, indicated that she should stay back.
She nodded her understanding. Gabriel bent slightly and peered around the
hedge; apparently the way was clear because he tugged on her hand, and then
they ran.

          But they had gone only a few feet when a shout
cut through the background blare of the pipes. They had been seen! But they
could still outrun the stranger–

          No, one of the men was standing in the gap
through which they had entered the maze. Gabriel swore, and Psyche suppressed a
groan. She had hoped the rough-looking men were not clever enough to spilt up;
perhaps they were more practiced at stalking than she had realized.

          Just what in heaven’s name was Gabriel
embroiled in? If they lived through this, she was determined to find out.

          Again, they were caught between two foes. But
in the maze, there were amble opportunities to slip out of sight. Gabriel
turned into a side passage, pulling her with him, and they ran, taking another
turn, and then another and another.

          “Oh no!” Psyche exclaimed as they skidded to a
halt; this time, they had come to a dead end. If the man, or the men, succeeded
in following them, they had no way of escape.

          Gabriel looked around, as if seeking a weapon.
But the slender twigs of the shrubbery, though strong enough when woven
together in the thick walls of old greenery, would be little defense if taken
one by one. And anyhow, the green branches would be hard to break, and they had
no knife.

          Psyche drew a deep breath, trying to stay
calm. Gabriel had not panicked, nor would she. Her mother had had no patience
for swooning, shrieking women, and neither did Psyche.

          “What shall we do?” she whispered.

          “Wait, for the moment,” he whispered back,
leaning close so that his breath tickled her ear. “And hope they do not find us
here. I regret, dear Miss Hill, that I have led us into a blind alley.”

          She lifted her brows. “Luck is fickle, even for
the most practiced gamester,” she murmured back.

          She saw him, incredibly in this moment of
danger, smile. “I do love your sense of the ridiculous,” he said, lowering his
face to her own.    

          His comment was so unexpected that she did not
attempt to evade his kiss. His lips were as firm as ever, and he did not seem
to be even breathing hard after their flight. His embrace soothed her, as
perhaps he had intended; her own pulse calmed in the pleasure of his kiss. This
time it was not demanding but gentle, comforting. It seemed to say, ‘Do not
fear; I am with you.’ Not to face the perils of the world alone. For a moment,
Psyche forgot her own trepidation; she wrapped her arms around Gabriel and
pulled him closer. If she could stay here forever–

          But she could not. The world awaited, not to
say two dangerous men whose mission she could only guess. She pulled away from
his embrace and said, loud enough to be heard over the bagpipe’s wail. “I think
we might try–”

          Then froze, because the music had died away an
instant before she stopped speaking. Had she been heard? Had their hiding place
been exposed?

          He gestured for silence, and they stood side
by side, hardly breathing. Then he nodded toward the passage which had brought
them to this dead-end, and she followed, tiptoeing. When they neared the end of
the passage and Gabriel slowed his steps to check out the intersection with the
next corridor, she stood just behind him, still very close.

          He leaned to look around the corner of the
hedge, while Psyche tried not to make a sound.

          A knife slashed through the bush beside them.

          Psyche screamed, but the sound was lost in the
blare of the pipes as the unseen piper began another tune.

          The blade had come within inches of her
throat. It was a large, rough-hewn weapon, and it must have been thrust with
great ferocity to penetrate so far through the thick hedge. What kind of men
were they dealing with? Psyche felt frozen for a moment with fear. She stared
at the knife as if transfixed.

          Gabriel straightened and grasped her
shoulders, pulling her away from the threatening sharp edge. “Stay behind me,”
he ordered, his voice so grim that she hardly recognized it.   Then he turned
away, and before she could protest this apparent rejection, she saw why.

          One of the men had stepped around the corner
of the maze. There was nowhere for them to retreat to, the dead-end behind them
blocked their passage, and she could hear curses as the second ruffian, pulling
his knife from the thick hedge, tried to find his way back around to join his
partner.

          The other man held a smaller blade, smaller
but still lethal, and his expression was set, his eyes devoid of any normal
human emotion. It was the face of a man prepared to kill, Psyche thought,
feeling cold all the way to her bones.

          “Gabriel–” she whispered, then stopped,
unwilling to divert his attention. He had put her behind him, and all she could
see was the tenseness of his shoulders, but even the back of his head, as he
watched the villain before them, revealed his alertness, his readiness.

          Somehow, Psyche felt less afraid. She stood up
straighter, preparing herself for the attacker’s next move. She would not
distract Gabriel by screaming or swooning or behaving like a fool.

          The man jumped forward. Gabriel, unable to
step aside and expose her, moved swiftly to deflect the blow. But she heard him
grunt, and she feared that the blade might have met flesh.

          Yes, she saw drops of blood fall to the gravel
path. Gabriel was hurt!

          Whatever her counterfeit fiancé had done, he
did not deserve to be cut down like this, murdered by some nameless man when,
with another person to protect, he could not even properly defend himself. Some
distant part of her mind brought up her mother’s voice, saying icily, “Why do
men always feel that women are so defenseless?”

          But what could she do? Psyche found that she
was still clutching her parasol; it was frail and light, not much of a weapon. But
still, the unexpected could startle, could divert attention.

          Deliberately, she stepped to the side, away
from Gabriel’s protecting frame. He must have detected the movement from the
corner of his eye–the man never failed to surprise her–because he muttered,
“Stay behind me, Psyche.”

          She ignored him. The grimy man with the blade
had his eyes focused only on Gabriel, and they had little time; the man’s
partner would find his way through the tangle of passages and be with them at
any moment. She watched the villain carefully, and when he raised his arm
again, she thrust with the furled parasol.

          The assailant swore and pushed the delicate
thing aside; the spine cracked uselessly; she had never expected it to be an
effective weapon. But she had given Gabriel his chance. He sprang forward and
with his left hand pushed the arm holding the knife aside, then gave the
villain a resounding crack to the jaw with his other fist. The man crumpled
neatly.

          Psyche gazed at the supine form; she had
expected Gabriel to do something, but this was neat work, indeed. Such an
economy of movement–no wonder men went to see bouts of boxing–

          The fallen man moaned and tried to sit up. Gabriel
kicked him in the stomach, and the man collapsed again.

          “Come along,” Gabriel commanded. He put his
hands around her waist and lifted her bodily over the form that blocked the
gravel path, then jumped over the villain. “We must run for it.”

          Run they did, pounding down the passages,
while Psyche hoped they did not meet the other man face to face as they twisted
and turned and wound their way back–she hoped–to the entrance.

          Again, Gabriel did not fail them. He led the
way to the opening in the maze, and then they were outside again on the grass,
panting, but there was no time to catch their breath. They raced across the
empty lawn till they reached the stone wall of the formal garden, and only then
did Psyche manage to say, “Wait.”

          Gabriel halted abruptly, leaning against the
wall. “What? We should get into the crowd before they emerge from the maze.”

          “Yes, but we cannot go in like this.” Psyche
touched her hair trying to tuck in the strands of hair that had come loose from
her French twist in their frenzied dash. “And you are bleeding!”

          He glanced down at his arm, and the stain of
red that marked the white cuff of his shirt. “It’s nothing; he barely marked
me.”

          If that were nothing, she hated to think what
he would consider a serious attack. Which reminded her– “We need to talk,”
Psyche said, grim again. “I want to know–”

          ”Later,” Gabriel told her. “We need to lose
ourselves in the protection of the other guests.” As he spoke, he had pulled
out a clean linen handkerchief. He slid his arm out of the tightly-fitting coat
and pushed up his shirt sleeve. “If you would assist me?”

          Grimacing when she saw the jagged cut, she
wound the cloth around his arm. “You need to have that bathed,” she worried.

          “Later,” he promised, watching her tie the
handkerchief neatly so that it would stay in place. He pulled his sleeve down
and then put his arm gingerly back into his coat, pushing the stained cuff up
beneath his coat sleeve and out of sight. “Come on.”

          “I still look out of sorts,” she protested,
brushing a stray leaf off her skirt, and finding a lock of hair brushing her
cheek.

          “They will only think we stole a kiss in the
maze,” he told her, and taking her hand, pulled her firmly inside the garden.

          With that thought in her head, Psyche had to
face the curious eyes as everyone within ten feet, it seemed, turned to stare
at them. There would be gossip aplenty about this little episode, she thought,
trying not to blush. But the scandalmongers would never–she hoped–know what
greater defamation they had missed. Ruffians with knives–

          She whispered to Gabriel. “Should we not send
someone to apprehend those men? What if they attack the house?”

          “There are too many servants on hand, they
will not risk it,” he assured her. “Besides, what those men want is here. I’m
sure they have taken to their heels by now and will be out of sight before we
could raise an alarm.”

          She had to be content with that. To be
truthful, she dreaded having to tell her hostess that Psyche’s fiancé had
common, ragged men stalking him. How would she ever explain? But she had to
know what had caused this dreadful attack. What did he mean, ‘what they want’?

          “We need to talk! Soon!” she hissed to Gabriel
beneath her breath.

          He nodded, but already, two women were
crossing the grass to their side. It was Aunt Mavis and Cousin Matilda. Psyche
was thankful to see friendly faces. Well, one friendly face, Matilda was
smiling bashfully, but Mavis frowned.

          “Push your hair back into place, Niece,” Mavis
said. “Do you wish to be the talk of the Ton?”

          “Come now, Aunt, if I may call you so,”
Gabriel said with his best smile. “Of course young lovers must steal a kiss now
and then. I’m sure you remember how it was when you were first courting?”

          Psyche was diverted by the thought of her
sour-faced relative ever being young and giddy, but to her amazement, Mavis’
expression wavered, and her cheeks turned a pale shade of pink.

          “Well–”

          ”You see, I was certain that you, too, have
known the madness of first love. I’ve no doubt that you were a young lady
impossible to resist.”

          Mavis frowned, as if suspecting sarcasm, and
Psyche held her breath. Had he gone too far?