Page 20 of Secrets of the Highwayman (Immortal Warriors #2)

N athaniel was standing in the shelter of the gnarled trees, a mask covering the upper part of his face and a neckerchief over the lower half, while the old tri-corn hat was pulled down on his head. He was gripping a pistol in his hand, one eye on Neptune, hidden back in the woods out of sight, and the other on the road.

He could hear the coach and horses.

It was closing on him — Pengorren coming home to Ravenswood after his trip to Truro to make arrangements about the estate. Nathaniel’s estate. He should have gone with him, he should have insisted, but all he could see in his head was Sophie and that man, in bed together, and his mother lying dead at the bottom of the stairs.

Nathaniel was in mourning, half-crazed with grief and suspicion, and in no state to be rationally discussing the future. When Pengorren had denied being in Sophie’s bed, and then offered to go to Truro in his stead to “handle matters” for him, Nathaniel said nothing.

“He’s lost his wife, and he still wants to lighten your load,” one of the callers come to pay his respects had spoken in wide-eyed admiration. “You should be grateful for the assistance of such a man, Nathaniel.”

Grateful! They didn’t understand, and if they did, they wouldn’t have believed it. Pengorren could do nothing wrong, while Nathaniel could do nothing right.

All day long his anger had been gathering force and focus. He needed to bring it to a head one way or another. He was sick of Pengorren’s lies, sick of feeling disloyal because he couldn’t trust the man. Sick of feeling like he was losing his mind. He needed to know the truth, whatever the danger to himself. He couldn’t wait any longer.

As the coach rounded the corner, Nathaniel fired his pistol into the air, and it was a blessed relief to do something at last.

The ensuing din was very satisfying. The horses were rearing and screaming, the driver of the coach was shouting curses, and the coach itself was creaking and rattling as it came to a shatteringly abrupt halt.

“Get down!” he ordered, waving a second loaded pistol, his hand amazingly steady. But then he found it was always so in times of crisis. When the coachman refused to obey, he raised the barrel and sighted it upon the hapless man.

“What the devil is happening?” Pengorren roared from inside the coach like a caged animal.

“Major, if ye wud be so kind as to step outside.”

He’d altered his voice, made it deeper and with a stronger Cornish accent, while the cloak concealed most of his tall, familiar form. The coach door swung open and the steps dropped down and an elegant leg in stocking and pantaloon planted itself on the top stair. Pengorren was wearing a black coat over his satin waistcoat — a small sober concession to Felicity’s death — but other than that he was no widower.

“I can have you hanged for this,” he hissed angrily.

Nathaniel smiled behind his mask. The risk he was taking made him feel more alive than he had since he left the army. But there was more to it than that. He was up against Pengorren for the first time; he was rejecting all that Pengorren was pretending to be. He was finally doing something, and it felt good.

Pengorren was furious. In the wan light of the coach lamp, his skin was flushed and his blue eyes glittering. The beringed hand at his side was clenching and unclenching, as if he wished it was fastened around Nathaniel’s neck.

“I am the magistrate for this district,” he said through his teeth. “You won’t get away with this, you bastard. I’ll have you hunted down.”

“Well, we’ll see about ’at,” Nathaniel said softly. “Give me your purse, sir.” He held out a hand. “An’ I’ll have your rings, too, while ye be at it.”

Pengorren looked at him, and something in the major’s expression made Nathaniel wonder whether he was being entirely sensible. He hadn’t really planned this out after all. As usual he was acting on impulse, on instinct. But it was too late, he wasn’t going to turn tail now. It was done, and in truth he couldn’t feel sorry.

Pengorren was tugging at the rings on his fingers, tossing them contemptuously at Nathaniel’s feet, before reaching for his purse.

“There’s little enough in there,” he said, throwing the small leather bag. “Hardly worth dying for.”

Nathaniel caught it in one hand, the pistol steady in the other. “Enough for an ale or two,” he replied pleasantly. “I’m very grateful, sir. Ye can go now.”

But Pengorren didn’t scurry back into the coach as he was supposed to. He stood staring at Nathaniel, cold-eyed, and then he said in a voice so low only Nathaniel could hear it, “You’ll regret this, my friend.”

When the coach had gone, Nathaniel stood alone in the darkness, the rings at his feet and the purse in his hand. His head was throbbing, as if he had just fought a vicious hand-to-hand combat, but there was a sense of elation, too. He had seen the real Pengorren tonight, the man who lived behind the amiable exterior, and he knew for certain that Pengorren was his deadly enemy.

T he road shivered beneath his feet, and he stumbled, taken by surprise, attempting to stay upright. A part of his mind was telling him this wasn’t right. It didn’t happen like this. Pengorren had climbed into his coach and driven away. But now here he was again, standing in the road right in front of him. Just the two of them.

And it was no longer like a dream, it seemed real . . .

“That’s right, Nathaniel,” Pengorren said, his voice soft and seductive. “You stay right here with me in the past where I want you. You enjoyed that memory, didn’t you? Make the most of it, because it will be your last. Did you really think I’d let you just ride away? I’m going to have to kill you all over again, and this time you won’t be coming back.”

“You can’t,” Nathaniel said, but it was a whisper, and he felt dizzy. Pengorren’s face was wavering in and out of his vision. There was a thudding in his ears, like horses’ hooves, and his face was wet with salt spray, and yet the sea was miles away from the Truro Road.

“Haven’t you learned yet,” Pengorren retorted arrogantly, “that there’s nothing I can’t do?”

Nathaniel! A woman’s voice in his head, breathy and terrified. Nathaniel spun around, almost losing his balance, but there was no one there in the dark woods. Then, louder, closer. “Nathaniel!”

Pengorren cursed, and said, “Melanie? Where is that interfering bitch? Why can’t she mind her own business and stay in her own time?”

“Melanie,” Nathaniel whispered, “I need you. Come to me.”

The salt stung his eyes, and he shook his head, trying to clear it. He could feel Neptune beneath him, he could hear the pounding of the sea against the cliffs. The cliffs? What in God’s name was happening to him.

And then Pengorren grabbed Nathaniel’s arm, his fingers pressing painfully deep into his flesh. His face was so close that Nathaniel could see the pores of his skin, and suddenly he was back on the road again, darkness all around him.

“No, you don’t,” Pengorren said. “No wandering off. You stay right here with me. I have you now, and I won’t let you go.”

M elanie was all alone in the darkened house. The storm had come over with terrifying swiftness, the wind howling around Ravenswood while overhead lightning flashed and thunder growled. The electricity had flickered once or twice and then gone out. She’d lit some candles, and she had her flashlight, but still the house seemed dark and dangerous, like a heavy weight around her.

Where was Nathaniel? When he left her he hadn’t said he was going away. There was something very wrong, she could feel it. He was too rash, the sort of man who dived headlong into battle without considering the consequences. She feared for him.

An extra loud crack of thunder came from overhead, and she shivered. She wasn’t certain if the surging noise she could hear was the sea against the cliffs or the trees blown by the wind. Melanie ran to the window and stood, fingers gripping the sill, peering out. It was as black as night out there, the rain thudding all around, puddles already forming on the driveway. Lightning slashed across the sky, dazzling her and making her blink.

Melanie . . .

“Nathaniel?” She turned, thinking he must be here in the room with her, but she was alone in the dark house. And then she realized his voice was in her head, coming from that part of her she had kept locked away for so long.

Melanie, come to me.

He was fading, leaving her. Trembling, Melanie closed her eyes and concentrated. She drew his image into her mind, so real and vibrant and alive.

“Nathaniel, where are you?”

The room spun and the sound of the sea surged in her head. Melanie cried out as she felt a part of her breaking away, splitting in two. One half remained in the darkened room, grounded, while the other slipped backward into time, like a roller coaster on a hairpin bend, fighting it all the way.

I t was night and cold . Melanie saw that she was approaching the woods, the dark trees leaning together like whispering widows. Nathaniel stood on the road, the moonlight shining eerily across his features. Pengorren was before him, eyes strangely aglow, as the two men faced each other.

Melanie stepped closer, not feeling the chill night, seeming to float above the ground. Inside, her soul, her spirit, was humming, so strongly, so powerfully she no longer felt like herself.

“Nathaniel?” she called.

His eyes flicked toward her, and for a moment she saw into his heart. He was angry, but he was also shaken. Things, she thought, hadn’t gone as he wanted them to.

The contact seemed to anchor her, for now she found herself standing firmly on the road. She came to stand at his side, aligning herself with him, and watched as Pengorren’s mouth twitched in a scornful smile.

“Melanie,” he said, “what a pleasure.”

But Melanie wasn’t fooled. It wasn’t a pleasure. He didn’t like her invading his past, any more than she liked him stealing into her present.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m showing Nathaniel how he died,” Pengorren said.

“You killed him,” Melanie retorted, “and then made it look like an accident.”

Pengorren smiled. “Far too simplistic, Melanie. I’m capable of a great deal more than that.”

“What are you?” Nathaniel demanded. “What evil demon spawned you?”

“Ask the sorceress,” he replied.

“The sorceress?” Melanie glanced from one to the other. “Who’s she?”

“The self-styled queen of the between-worlds,” Pengorren sneered.

“Do you—” Melanie began, but she was interrupted.

A cry sounded from the woods. “Hew?”

Nathaniel started forward. “Sophie?” But Pengorren held out his hand to stop him.

“She can’t hear you,” he said. “She’s not really here. What you can see is the essence of Sophie, her ghost, if you like. I’ve brought her here so that she can replay her part from the night you died, Nathaniel. Don’t you want to know what happened? I mean, what really happened?”

Sophie was in sight now, a dark cloak covering her from head to toe, except where the lighter strip of her gown showed between the fastenings. For something that was a “ghost” she seemed very solid. She gripped one of the tree trunks, peering around her. “Hew?” she whispered again. “Where are you? I don’t like this place . . .”

“I’m here,” Pengorren called. Then, to Nathaniel and Melanie, “Don’t worry, she can’t see you.”

Sophie stepped out of the woods, sighing with relief, her eyes big and a little wild. “Why did you want me to meet you here, Hew? I don’t understand. Is this another test of my love?”

“Yes, Sophie, this is another test,” Pengorren said, taking her hands and placing the pistol in them.

She looked down at it and tried to pull away.

“No, Sophie, this is what I want you to do. Your brother has lost his mind. He is no longer responsible for his own actions. You do know that, don’t you?”

Sophie stared up at him, white-faced. “I know he is playing at being a highwayman,” she whispered. “But he’s not like that, Hew, he’s not!”

“I know, I understand,” Hew assured her, “but I am the magistrate, and I am bound to act and soon. I will have to arrest him, and he will hang. You know that, Sophie. He will suffer. There is only one solution. End his life swiftly, and save me from the pain of being the one to sentence him to the gallows. You know how fond I am of the boy.”

Sophie shook her head, but her eyes were fastened on Pengorren’s.

Nathaniel groaned. Melanie reached for his hand, to comfort him, but couldn’t seem to grasp it.

“You have to do this,” Pengorren went on. “Sophie?”

For a time she continued to fight against it, but Melanie could see her weakening before Pengorren’s greater strength.

“But Hew?” she breathed. “There must be another way. Can’t we get him out of Cornwall, onto a ship for the Americas?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear. It’s gone beyond that now. No, he must die, Sophie. A good clean death, what more could a soldier ask for?”

Soon she fell silent, listening to him, and then she gave a little sob and nodded.

“When?” she asked, and her voice had lost all color.

“Tonight.”

“He will not suffer?”

“No. Not if you aim true.”

“You bastard,” Nathaniel whispered. “You evil bastard!”

Pengorren laughed. “Poor Sophie, she’d do anything for me.”

“Hew?” Sophie whispered, not understanding.

Furiously, Nathaniel flung himself at Pengorren, but the other man moved back, fumbling at a chain about his neck and lifting some sort of medallion. The next instant, Nathaniel was gone.

Melanie spun around, searching the road, but Nathaniel had vanished. Sophie was gone, too. It was just herself and Pengorren, alone on the road.

“Where is he? What have you done to him?” she cried in a panic.

“He was never really here, Melanie. He was like Sophie. I captured his mind, his essence, but his body is elsewhere. It was a trick. While I kept his mind occupied, his physical body has been moving closer to its death. Maybe it’s already too late. I’m sorry, I know you were fond of the boy, but perhaps I can make up for his loss.”

Fear squeezed at her heart, but Melanie refused to let him see. “I doubt it,” she said. “You’re not my type.”

“But I am, Melanie,” he purred. “That’s just it. I am.” He lifted the chain again and swirled it in his fingers. She could see now it wasn’t a medallion but a locket, silver in color and oval in shape. “Do you see this? This is a key.”

“Key, what key?” she asked impatiently. Her heart was thudding. She clenched her hands into fists. Where was Nathaniel? She had to find him. She didn’t have time for this.

“A key to time. But you don’t need a key, do you, Melanie? Don’t you realize how powerful that makes you? I almost feel a sense of familial pride. A shame I’m going to have to kill you eventually, but I have no option.”

“I don’t understand!” she backed away. “Tell me what you’ve done to Nathaniel.”

“The stronger you become, the stronger I will become. When you reach your zenith, then I will harvest your essence, my dear. I will take your soul.”

Melanie turned, searching the dark road with wild eyes. “Nathaniel!” When she looked back, Pengorren was fading into the shadows, vanishing before her eyes.

“Why?” she shouted at him. “Why do you want my soul?”

“Because I want to live, Melanie. I want to live forever . . .”

He was gone, she was all alone. Melanie began to shake. “Nathaniel,” she whispered, “where are you?” What had she done before to find him? She tried to order her thoughts, calm herself. She’d pictured him in her mind. That was what she must do now.

Before it was too late.