Midsummer Moon (23 page)

In a voice barely above a whisper, Quin said at last, “I'll stay, then, sir."

Ransom lifted his brows. “My terms."

"On your terms, sir."

"If I discover you deliberately looking for evidence of treason against my brother, you'll find yourself in an infantry ditch with your shoulders stripped before you have time to say your last prayers."

"Yes, sir."

Ransom narrowed his eyes. “I can do that, Major. Don't think Castlereagh can protect you."

"No, sir."

He sat back in the chair, rubbing his jaw as he looked at the officer. “I don't know if I'm dealing with a brave man or a fool."

Quin's green eyes held steady. “A fool, I think, sir.” He gave a little bow. “I'd like to join the search party, with your permission. If you would excuse me, Your Grace?"

An hour later Shelby strode into the library, his golden hair dark with sweat and the smell of horses still on him. “What is it, Ransom? News?"

"No."

Shelby's anxious expression darkened. He frowned toward the window where Ransom stood. “What the devil do you want, then? I was trying to head up that foot search on Potter's Hill.” He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his hands. “Lord, I near shot my bay's wind to get back in such a hurry."

"Sit down."

"The only decent mount I've been able to keep my hands on,” Shelby grumbled. “And a stud, too. I'll have some racing stock from him, you mark my—"

"
Sit down.
"

Shelby looked up, his eyebrows lifted. After an instant's balk, he shrugged and sat.

"There's a bank draft on the desk,” Ransom said. “Sixty thousand pounds."

Shelby jerked around in the chair. “
What?
"

"Made out to the order of Mr. Alfred Rule."

Ransom saw the effect that name had on Shelby—a moment's blankness and then recognition, and after that a dawning horror.

His brother sprang up from the chair. “He hasn't—Good God, that fool's never brought his damned notes to
you
for payment?"

Ransom looked at Shelby. Hard. And all he saw was his brother—wild and brilliant and fiercely loved.

He walked over and stopped, so close to Shelby he could smell the sheen of dust and perspiration on his brother's skin. “Pay him off. Don't wait a day. Don't wait an hour. Take that draft and get out of here, and don't come back until you have the notes."

Shelby's chest rose and fell. For a moment Ransom thought he would argue. Never—never once had Shelby let his older brother pay his debts. Not once had he asked or accepted rescue from the disaster he'd made of his life. It was some crazy point of honor with him, a quirk that made Ransom alternately proud and exasperated.

But this time ... this time Shelby's blue eyes held Ransom's and then faltered. He set his mouth and looked away.

"All right,” he said. “I'll pay him off.” He turned around and swept the sealed paper from the desk, not glancing back as he strode to the door.

A thought struck Ransom just as his brother reached for the doorknob. “Shelby,” he said sharply. “Don't meet with Rule yourself. Don't go near him. Send your man with the draft and a pistol to get back those notes."

Shelby stood motionless by the door for an instant. His expression did not change. “As you wish,” he said curtly, and was gone.

It was early twilight, but the ancient trees already cast thick shadows against the pillars of the little vine-clad temple. Ransom paused in his aimless walking and gazed at the columns, where lichen-stained crests flaked off the decaying stone.

He sat down on a flat sandstone slab that bordered the stairs, resting his boots on the two lowest steps. The forest was quiet. Only the distant baying of a hound floated on the still air. He listened to the silence, to the hush that was so deep he could hear the subtle hum of his own blood in his veins.

Detachment was what he sought. He needed to
not care,
to set aside his trammelled emotions and find the threads of logic that he knew were there. He was furious at the situation—at Merlin and Shelby and himself—and straining under the weight of a dread that seemed to have gone all the way to his bones.

In the cool light of evening, he stared at the play of rosy gold color on the stone. As a child he had come here to hide and dream, safe in this secret place from tutors and dancing masters and instructors of elocution. They might have followed him here, those plagues of his childhood, but they never found him. For those with the key, the innocent little temple in its sylvan glade was an impenetrable fortress.

He smiled to himself, recalling the beginning of that half-forgotten oath.
A swallow-flight, a fair wind's run; five steps to the setting sun...

Too many decades of adult concerns obscured his memory of more. Perhaps Shelby recalled the rest of it. Ransom hoped so. It was Shelby's to pass along to his son. Woodrow was twelve already—he should have been given that gift years ago.

Ransom's half-smile faded. He'd find out if Woodrow had been told of the temple and the oath as soon as Shelby returned. It was a silly thing, maybe, but The Wilderness and the temple were precious in odd ways. It was the trust implicit in that shared secret, perhaps: the assurance of unbending loyalty. Ransom, Shelby—even Blythe: their oath was a bond of blood and faith in one another.

As the sun began to set, the orange rays pierced a glowing slice between the columns of the small, round structure.
Five steps to the setting sun,
Ransom thought.
The snow, the spring, the circle closed...

He looked over his shoulder into the smooth-floored interior. The small night creatures of The Wilderness were already beginning to emerge and forage: there was a flash of movement as a field mouse scuttled across the stone, and a hedgehog rummaged among the pile of moulding leaves at the base of a pillar.

Ransom turned back, steepling his hands and resting his chin on them. His only comfort was that the speaking box and her notebooks about it were still safely locked in the vault at Mount Falcon. That meant that the kidnappers needed Merlin. Her life was assured, as long as that need lasted. As long as she did not tell them what they wanted to know.

But his blood ran cold when he thought of the kind of “persuasion” she might encounter.

Time was inexorably against him. The net of men and dogs he'd flung out in two days’ hard ride in all directions had closed on nothing. She would either speak and then be murdered, or hold her tongue and suffer the consequences. And he doubted the French agents who'd taken her were men who'd be willing to listen long to Merlin's idea of rational conversation.

He locked his fists and chewed on his knuckle. He knew what would happen. He could see it. They would think she was trying to confuse them with nonsense, and retaliate by...

He made a vicious sound in his throat.

All right. Enough. Enough of that.
He closed his eyes and refused to be drawn into a circle of thought that would only lead him to a helpless frenzy. Deliberately, he made his mind blank again, trying to recapture the moments of calm he'd known before. He stared at the temple steps.

The leaves rustled behind him. Ransom turned a little, and saw the hedgehog trundle across the temple floor, stopping occasionally to examine cracks and likely crevices for food.

He watched it idly. The temple grew dimmer. Like an annoying bit of song, that half-forgotten childhood oath went around and around in his mind:
The snow, the spring, the circle closed—then opened for the one who knows.

The hedgehog snuffled through one last chink and ambled over to the steps, nosing out along the sandstone slab where Ransom sat. It came to his hand and stopped, lifting its black, button nose and weaving it back and forth in the air.

He frowned at it.

The small, spiky beast lowered its head and turned around, waddling back into the temple.

Ransom stood up. “Good God,” he whispered.

A swallow-flight, a fair wind's run; five steps to the setting sun...

He found himself at the center of the symmetrical building, counting steps. Only three brought him to the western pillar, but he'd been smaller then.
The snow,
for one pillar north;
the spring,
for the little alcove where a statue of Persephone had long since vanished;
the circle closed
...

He reached up, sliding his palms down the stone curve of the alcove, seeking the faint indentations for his fingers. It took him a moment to find them—another shock, to see how low they were; how they seemed too small for a man's broad hand. He fitted the heels of his palms against the stone, his feet spread in a long-remembered stance, until his arms and the wall of the alcove formed a circle.

He took a breath, blinking at the featureless wall in front of him.
A swallow-flight, a fair wind's run; five steps to the setting sun. The snow, the spring, the circle closed—then opened for the one who knows. 1 keep this rhyme for future times, for I and mine, not thee and thine. My line and name I never fail; I swear by blood I will not tell.

He shifted his weight. Without even a squeal of protest, the false wall gave beneath his push, swinging silently aside in an arc to reveal the narrow doorway in the stone behind. Damp, mossy air moved past him in a light breeze.

He did something stupid, then. He bent over and plunged into the black doorway, and he was halfway down the familiar, spiraling stairs before he realized just how asinine a move it was for an unarmed, unprepared man who was making all the noise it was probably possible to make. He stopped on the fourth step, exclaiming, “
Drop your weapon!
” in a commanding voice, and knowing he was going to feel exceedingly foolish when it turned out there'd been no one in the hidden chamber for years.

Utter silence met his words. He could just see the stairs in what was left of daylight, but the stone newel hid the room itself from his view.

"Ransom?” came a very small voice from the dark.

He let out a huge, harsh breath. “Merlin! Thank—"

Then he almost made the same mistake again, throwing himself down the stairs blind. With a silent curse, he caught himself, hanging on the stairs in sudden realization that an ill-conceived move could cost both their lives if one of the kidnappers was waiting out of sight for him below.

Silence reigned again while he racked his brain for a plan.

There was a faint rustling noise from below. He went still and tense, gathering himself for a spring.

A sad little sneeze sounded in the dark. “Ransom?” she asked in that small, wistful voice. “Aren't you going to rescue me?"

His muscles relaxed. “You're alone?"

"Yes.” The rustling came again. “My hedgehog got away."

He descended the last four stairs, squinting into the dimness. A very faint, green-tinged light came from a moss-lined crack in the ceiling. She was sitting on the stone floor, her hands manacled by two feet of light chain, fastened in turn to a length of far heavier steel that was padlocked to the wooden handle of a huge, ancient chest. The rest of the circular room was empty except for some dusty chairs and abandoned toys that were streaked with age and chipping paint.

"God damn,” he hissed, striding to her side. “I'll kill them."

With one savage kick, he smashed the handle from the chest. The chain fell free with an echoing clatter.

He picked it up, and the weight of the thick links sent red fury through his veins. “Come on.” He hauled her to her feet by the elbow and pushed her toward the stairs, looping the heavy shackles in his hand.

She went up in front of him, turning awkwardly as he carried the end of the chain behind her. He came out of the hidden entrance and straightened, catching her arm again, moving as fast as possible with the weighty encumbrance of the steel. He'd not had time to think through the logic of where he'd found her and why she'd been there and how it was possible—he knew only that he wanted to be out of there and back in the safety of the house immediately.

They were down the steps when Merlin cried, “Wait! Wait a moment. My hedgehog—"

Her sudden stop made the chain go taut. Instinctively, Ransom swung his arm back, letting go of a loop rather than allowing it to jerk her forward. But Merlin had braced for the tug. The slack sent her toppling backward onto the lowest step. There was a loud crack, a puff of lichen and sandstone, and a blow to Ransom's upper arm that made him stagger sideways.

For an instant he stared stupidly at the chain still in his hand with a confused idea that a link had popped. He'd seen that happen once, on a towing barge. The recoil had killed a cow standing eighteen feet away on the bank.

But the chain seemed whole. As he stood there looking at it, Merlin scrambled up and turned away, pulling it after her.

"Merlin—never mind that.” He frowned at the stone step, where a fresh slash showed white through the weathered surface. He looked up at her. “Come on."

She ignored him. The chain reached its full length and lifted between them. It seemed suddenly even heavier than before—so heavy that his hand would not take the weight. It slid from his fingers. Ransom stepped forward to catch it, but Merlin was already dragging it toward her with a loud clatter, looping it as she went.