Ethan gave her an apologetic look, then walked forward as far as he dared and set down the bag.

"Move away."

As soon as the marquis stood several feet distant, Middleton urged her forward, his fingers biting into her flesh in a bruising grip. Only when he drew close enough to touch the saddlebag did he act, giving her a rough shove to the right as he bent down to snatch up the pouch.

His push sent her staggering, feet hurrying as she fought not to lose her balance. A new pair of arms wrapped around her, catching her before she could fall. Steadying herself against Vessey's reassuring strength, she glanced around to check on Rafe.

With a sinking heart, she saw that Middleton was already seated on the other horse, his weapon pointed straight at Rafe.

"Take care of her, Ethan," Rafe said.

Turning their mounts, the men rode away.

"Oh, God, Rafe." A shudder went through her, shock and fear making her whole body quake. "Middleton will kill him."

"Rafe will be all right," Ethan said, though by his tone she could tell he only half-believed his own words.

"We have to go after him."

"I can't leave you. Rafe would have my head."

"Then don't. There are horses in the stable and a coach. If we start now, we'll only be a few minutes behind."

"Out of the question."

Pushing herself from his hold, she planted her hands on her hips. "Then I'll do it myself."

Turning on her heel, she headed toward the barn.

Behind her he uttered a low, muttered curse. "Women!"

Moments later, she heard him follow.

Chapter Twenty-five.

HOW MUCH FARTHER?" the viscount demanded, his weapon trained on Rafe as their horses proceeded up the road.

"Not much now," Rafe said. "It's just a little ways ahead."

Of course, "a little ways" was as near or far as Rafe chose to make it, since his statement about having buried the money and journals was nothing but a ruse.

Knowing how imperative it had been to convince the viscount to release Julianna, Rafe had relied on deception to lure Burton away. Clearly, his improvised plan had flaws, such as the possibility of getting himself shot and killed, but at least St. George was no longer a danger to Julianna and the baby.

The truth was that Hannibal had the ransom, the funds and journals, stored safely inside a locked chest in a room at a nearby inn. But Rafe knew he would never have been able to talk St. George into releasing Julianna, then accompanying him to a public inn. The viscount, quite rightly, would have seen it as a trap.

Besides, Rafe had never had any intention of giving the money or the journals to St. George. He'd only brought them along as a kind of last-resort insurance policy in order to win Julianna's release.

Now all he had to do was lead St. George to a likely-looking spot in the woods, then find some method of distracting him long enough to wrest the gun from his possession. Once he had the viscount under control, he would march him back so St. George could be turned over to the authorities.

Of course, excellent as that plan might seem, actually making it work was not going to be easy. He would, he knew, have to stay alert and think quickly.

Aware of St. George's rapidly waning patience as the minutes passed, Rafe scanned the countryside for a stopping place. So long as the land wasn't too muddy, he supposed any location would serve. As they rounded the next curve, Rafe saw a heavily wooded area that showed definite promise.

"Here, this is it." Rafe pointed toward a large tree. "This oak is the one. I walked inland just there for several yards."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I'm not likely to forget where I buried twenty thousand pounds. You don't mind if I dismount, do you?"

St. George motioned his agreement using the business end of his pistol. "Lead the way. But I'm warning you, Pendragon, no tricks or I'll shoot."

St. George would shoot anyway, he knew. Once the viscount had what he'd come for, St. George would make sure to rid himself any potential liabilities-namely him. Dead men, as the saying goes, tell no tales. Although considering Hurst's journals, that wasn't strictly true, he thought wryly. Hurst had told a considerable amount even from his grave.

Boots sinking lightly into the half-thawed spring ground, Rafe began walking into the woods, St. George close at his heels. Overhead, naked tree branches spread outward like thick gnarled fingers, green buds still held snug in their cocoons, nearly ready to unfurl.

Imperceptibly, Rafe drew a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, aware that he required all the calm he could muster. When the right moment came, he would have to recognize it and act without hesitation. If he failed in the first attempt to free himself, he would not be getting another.

"I've been wondering," Rafe said, hoping a little conversation might divert St. George's focus, "how did you know I had the journals?"

St. George gave a laugh. "I didn't know for certain, but I decided to take a chance and assume you did. I figured even if it wasn't you, kidnapping your wife would be good for squeezing money out of your pockets. Besides, who else could it have been? Who else bears me such a deep and abiding grudge?"

"Oh, I'm sure there must be several others. Eleanor Winthrop's father, for one."

"Annoying old fool. Even with the so-called proof he believes he has, his claim against me will come to naught in the end. Once I destroy the original journals, those copies will appear as nothing but a fraud, manufactured to disgrace me. The marquis will look like exactly what he is-a grieving father unable to let go of his loss."

"And what of Hurst? Bow Street knows you poisoned him."

"Do they? His death was ruled a spasm of the heart. If he was poisoned, it was by drinking far too much for far too long."

"So you're staying with that story, hmm? Why bother when we both know the truth? You are planning to kill me as well, are you not? Why bother with secrets now?"

"Keep walking, Pendragon." St. George prodded the gun against Rafe's shoulder.

"No, really. I'm just wondering why you feel so confident about getting away with murder."

"Why wouldn't I? I've done it before."

"Your wife, you mean?" Rafe questioned as he led the way down a small incline.

"Perhaps, but there's another. In fact, since we're sharing confidences, it's someone near and dear to your heart."

A chill ran through him. "What do you mean?"

"Haven't you ever wondered at Papa's death?" the viscount drawled. "How he went so suddenly, and at such a young age?"

"It was a seizure."

"And so it was. Poison is an interesting thing. I've made a bit of a study of it over the years. Some varieties are completely tasteless, did you know? While others need the addition of something stronger to conceal the flavor. Alcohol is a good medium, especially when the recipient is in the habit of drinking a particular variety. Papa preferred brandy. He drank a snifter every night after dinner."

It took all of Rafe's fortitude to keep walking. Mother of God, St. George killed our father!

"It was simple, actually. Murder is, once you get up the nerve to do it the first time. He didn't even realize what I'd done, not until the last, when I leaned over and whispered it into his ear. I can still remember the look in his eyes, the horror of knowing he was going to die and by my hand."

"Why?" Rafe asked, his voice low and strained. "Did you hate him that much?"

"Hate him? Of course not. I adored him. No one was more devastated at his death than I. But he said unforgivable things to me, said I wasn't suited to be the future head of our family. He claimed I was selfish and unfeeling, cruel to those I do not deem my equal. He told me he wished you were his heir, wished you'd been the one born legitimate so you would one day hold the title. He said of the two of us, you were the better man."

He prodded Rafe again with the pistol. "Who's the better man now? Which one of us, I ask, is going to walk out of here the victor?"

Not you, Rafe thought as he reached up to push aside a mass of low-hanging branches. And that's when he knew.

Now!

Sweeping the branches aside, he paused for a fraction of a second so he could hurry under, then he let them fly.

The tree limbs raced backward, striking with an impact Rafe knew had to be painful.

St. George howled, beating at the rough tangle of branches as he fought to free himself from their clutches. As the viscount spun and slapped his way clear, Rafe lay in with his fists.

Pain shot through Rafe's right hand as his knuckles connected with St. George's jaw. He barely noticed the discomfort, though, too focused upon his goal of wrestling away the pistol. Clamping his fingers around the viscount's wrist, Rafe squeezed, flesh grinding against flesh, bone against bone, as each of them struggled for possession of the weapon.

Seconds later, the pistol popped free, soaring through the air for a long moment. A muffled thump echoed as the gun landed at the base of another tree.

Rafe dove for it, satisfaction roaring through him as his fingers curled over the wooden grip. Rolling, he brought the weapon up and aimed it straight at St. George's chest. Keeping the gun steady, Rafe regained his feet.

The viscount stopped, frustration and hatred shining in his sky-colored gaze. He spat out a curse but made no further move to retake the pistol, obviously knowing he was bested.

"Go ahead, Pendragon. Shoot me," St. George said. "You know you want to."

"You're right. I do. But that's the difference between you and me, St. George. I don't kill in cold blood, not even when I know the world would be made a better place by the act."

"Coward." The viscount spat.

"We'll see who the coward is when the hangman slips a noose around your neck. With my testimony and the rest of the proof against you, the Lords will give you death for sure."

St. George blanched, but said nothing further.

"Get going," Rafe commanded. "You lead the way back this time."

The return walk seemed shorter, the horses whickering a soft greeting as Rafe and the viscount emerged from the forest.

"Wait here and don't move," Rafe told St. George as soon as both of them were once again standing on the road. Before he and the viscount began the journey back to the cottage, Rafe planned to make sure St. George had no further means of escape.

Keeping the gun leveled, Rafe moved to his horse to retrieve a length of rope from inside the saddlebag. With the binding in hand, he approached St. George.

He was about to order the viscount to place his hands at his back when there came a rumbling of coach wheels and horses' hooves plodding quickly against the dirt road.

Glancing up, Rafe felt his eyes widen as he recognized the driver.

With a soft command, Ethan drew the team to a halt. "Well, this is a fine sight. I'm relieved to see you are the one now holding the gun."

"I managed to resolve the situation. But why are you here? You're supposed to be with Julianna."

"He is," Julianna declared, lowering the coach window and leaning out. "We came to help."

Rafe's heart gave an uncomfortable double beat.

Ethan had the grace to look sheepish. "She insisted."

"Well, I insist you take her back now, out of harm's way. St. George and I will be along in just a few minutes."

"We're not leaving you alone with him," Julianna said, plainly aghast at the idea. "Lord Vessey, assist Rafe."

"Ethan, stay where you are."

"No," Julianna said.

"Yes," Rafe answered back.

"Maybe I should help you, Rafe," Ethan began. "I don't trust him to-"

In an unexpected flash of movement, St. George shifted, slamming his elbow into Rafe's stomach. Pain shot through Rafe's belly, but he ignored it, fighting to keep the gun away from the viscount.

Suddenly a jolt reverberated up Rafe's arm as the gun discharged, the bullet whizzing harmlessly off into the woods. Realizing the weapon was now useless, Rafe tossed the pistol aside and prepared to use his fists.

Spinning away, the viscount bent down and reached into his boot. Metal flashed, silver glinting with wicked intent as Middleton straightened to display a knife clasped in his hand. Yelling a profanity, he charged at Rafe.

From inside the coach, Julianna watched, breath trapped in a painful bubble inside her lungs.

The two men circled, Middleton doing his best to stab and slash at Rafe, while Rafe managed to leap clear. Coming forward again, the viscount struck out wildly in an attempt to draw blood, the lethal blade missing Rafe by mere inches.

Above her on the coachman's seat, Julianna saw Ethan reach for his gun. A faint snick sounded as he cocked the trigger. But even as the marquis took aim, he held his shot. The men were too close and moving too erratically, Julianna realized, for Ethan to fire without risk of hitting Rafe instead of Middleton.

Rafe barreled forward, catching hold of Middleton's wrist and bending it inward. Locked in a furious scuffle, the men fought on, each move vital, each one possibly the last.

Down they went, striking the earth like a pair of enraged bulls. The men rolled, adding punches and kicks, the blade now lost somewhere between them.

The fighting continued for another long minute. Suddenly Rafe jerked and fell still, Middleton sprawled above him.

Julianna's heart stopped for a full beat.