Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(270)

“The next time I ask you a question, try to give me a better answer, my dear.” His tone was hard. “Now, why the ring?”

“It belonged to Ruark.” Shanna spat between angry white lips.

“Much better, my dear.” He studied her intensely. “Then your Ruark already suspects me of the bitch’s murder in London? He didn’t believe I had gotten it from the Scotsman?” Gaylord held up a hand. “No need to lie again. You did say I had killed Milly, too. And he has, of course, talked to your father?” He nodded as Shanna’s eyes flared in renewed contempt. “Ah, yes, I see. Then my masquerade is done!” He straightened away from her. “Well enough! I weary of playing the foolish fop for your good humor.”

Shanna realized her face betrayed her again.

“What’s this? You are surprised, my dear?” he jeered arrogantly, the lisping accent gone from his words. “I was well aware that your common minds would find amusement with a clumsy, bumbling fop. Still, I am injured, madam, that you, of all, believed it so readily.”

Shanna glared her utter hatred for the errant knight.

“I see, my dear Shanna,”—Gaylord chuckled and scratched at his collar—“that you could not give even pity to an afflicted knight of the realm, but you reserve your adoration for a colonial bumpkin. I wonder if he really faced the pirates as boldly as is told and if you survived as pure and untouched as you would have us believe.”

Gaylord began to pace again, his head bowed in thought, but his wary eyes ever touched her.

“Pirates!” He chortled, halting and shaking his quirt at her. “By the devil, that’s the way! A ransom!”

He went back to the chair and quickly returned with the long rifle. Shanna’s eyes widened. She recognized it as Ruark’s, the one he had left in the stable before it was set on fire.

“Aye, my lady,” Gaylord leered, seeing where her eyes wandered. “Your husband’s. I took his weapons from the stable after I hit him. I should have finished the task then and there, before I set fire to the place. I lured him from your side when I knew the house was asleep. Clever of me, I must say, using Attila to draw him out. Had I planned better for the other two attempts, I would have seen him gone sooner, but I just happened by and saw that the opportunity was ripe. Then, I didn’t know he was your husband. I was in the loft with Milly while you two were playing beneath. I realized, then, that I had to do away with him, because you were obviously in love with the rogue. Your infatuation hindered my marriage plans, and, you see, I really needed your father’s wealth. Why,” he laughed, “I couldn’t have avoided my creditors this long had it not been for the treasure I found in the girl’s room in London. She tried to pry a few coins from me, you know, but I had naught to keep her quiet. She deserved to die.”

Snatching a long scarf from the armoire, Gaylord came back to haul Shanna roughly to her feet. His fingers bit in calculated cruelty into her arm.

“No sound, my dear,” he warned close to her ear. “ ‘Tis your continued fortune that I have found a use for you.”

He pulled her arms behind her and bound them tightly with the scarf as he leered over her shoulder at her taut bodice.

“Be docile, my dear.” He lightly caressed her bosom and the full length of her body. Bound or not, Shanna could not tolerate his mauling. She opened her mouth for an enraged shriek but found it stuffed with a handkerchief. She tried to spit out the dry linen, but he wrapped another scarf over her mouth, drawing it tight. Sir Gaylord rifled through her trunk until he found a heavy cape and draped it over Shanna’s shoulders. The knight then slipped the strap of the rifle over his left arm and drew a pistol from his belt with his other hand. He held the latter beneath his cloak, reached out, and twisted his hand in Shanna’s hair until she winced with pain.

“So that you will not leave me on a whim, my dear,” he laughed.

Sir Gaylord paused, and his eyes gleamed as they swept the room. “But how shall they know?” he spoke as if to himself. The small writing desk sat in the corner and there his gaze stopped. “Of course! A note for them. Come, my dear.”

He dragged her across the room and, laying the pistol on top the desk, flipped the shelf down. He snatched a sheet of paper and plunged the quill into the well. He wrote boldly:





From the Beauchamps and Lord Trahern, I demand fifty thousand pounds each. Instructions later.





For the signature he scrawled an ornate “B” ending the letter at the bottom with a flourished scroll. With a snorted laugh, he sailed the paper to the bed, retrieved the pistol, then led Shanna into the hallway.