Andrew Lord of Despair(105)

“Ah-hah,” Henry cried as his gaze lit on another lantern, this one hanging on the ladder that led up to the haymow. He hauled Astrid to it and crowed with pleasure when he saw the lantern had plenty of oil.

“We’re in business, dear Astrid,” he said cheerily, lighting his prize from the single fixed lantern burning low halfway down the aisle. “Come along.”

She did, but stumbled when he pulled too sharply on her wrists.

“Isn’t it enough,” she hissed, “that you’re going to kill me, Henry? Must you abuse me in the process?”

That struck him funny as he hauled on the reins again, sending Astrid careening into the unused saddle stand. As she righted herself, the main barn door cracked open.

“Henry!” she bellowed. “You need not jerk my wrists, for God’s sake. I’ll follow you to the saddle room readily enough if you’ll be patient.”

“It really, really is a shame we don’t have time to play,” he observed, proceeding more quickly.

“So how will you kill me?” Astrid asked, using her two remaining wits to not look in the direction of the barn door.

“Interesting question. Do you have a suggestion? Firearms are my preference, as you know, but a gunshot would bring a crowd a bit too hastily for my convenience. I’ve a knife in my boot if all else fails.”

Oh, the preferences she had. To see Andrew again, to see the last of Henry in this life, to keep her child safe. To keep Herbert’s child safe from a menace poor Herbert hadn’t recognized. “I don’t particularly want to suffer.”

Though to reach his knife, Henry would have to take his attention from her, which gave Astrid a glimmer of hope.

“Reasonable enough, I suppose, but we must bear in mind your death cannot appear to be murder, which leaves only accident or suicide. Suicide would fit in nicely with Douglas’s theory, though his conviction regarding your inclination toward self-harm is wavering. What say we start a fire in the stables?”

And then nip ’round the pub for a pint? “That won’t answer. I’d simply run out of a burning building, Henry.”

“Same thought occurred to me,” Henry replied genially as he unlatched the saddle-room door. “That leaves us with suicide, which will have the advantage of being relatively painless for you, though messy for your family. My apologies and condolences.”

“So you’ll simply cut my wrists and leave the knife by my body?” Astrid asked, hanging back at the saddle-room door.

“He will not,” Andrew hissed, brandishing a pistol. “Run, Astrid!”

She bolted for the far end of the barn aisle, jerking the reins from Henry’s grasp in the instant it took him to realize that his ingenious machinations would again be foiled. Astrid flung open the door and pelted out into the bright sunshine.

Her balance and her nerves failed her then, and she ended up floundering to her knees in the snow a few feet from the door.

“Astrid!”

Douglas Allen hissed her name from beside the door. He put a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. “It’s Henry, isn’t it?” he whispered. He drew a knife from the folds of his cape and freed her wrists with one slice.

“With Andrew—Henry has a knife. Henry was going to murder me, and… oh, Douglas…” She hung her head and tried not to retch.

“I know,” Douglas said softly. “But it’s dark in there, and Henry is distracted by Greymoor. I’ll have the advantages of stealth and surprise.” Only then did Astrid see Douglas, too, had a gun, a long-barreled pistol that would be lethal over a goodly distance, likely half a matched set of Mantons. Before she could say another word, Douglas hoisted her to her feet, nodded briskly toward the manor house, and slipped into the barn.

Get help, Astrid thought desperately, trying to draw air into her lungs. Go to the house and get help. Feeling returned to her hands in stinging agonies, and she wasted precious moments trying to push away the dizziness and the roaring in her ears.

The barn door burst open, and Henry stumbled out, his knife in his hand. Before Astrid could scurry to safety, he hauled her up against him and raised the blade against her throat.

“That’s far enough, Greymoor,” Henry panted. “Toss your gun out here into the snow, and then come out slowly with your hands behind your head.”

Nothing moved in the darkness within the barn, prompting Henry to jam the blade tighter against Astrid’s neck.

“Quickly, man! No tricks, or I cut her throat,” Henry cried.

A gun the exact match of the one Douglas had held came sailing through the door, landing in the snow at Astrid’s feet.