by Maya Banks
Her eyes widened briefly and she gave a slight, nearly imperceptible nod.
Kirk stood in front of them, his eyes continually darting back and forth as if expecting Montagne to materialize from nowhere. He turned back to them, the gun in his hand still trained on them.
“I must be the most foolish person who ever lived,” Simon began, hoping to loosen Kirk’s tongue. “Because I never saw this coming.”
Kirk laughed derisively. “That’s because you were too busy saving king and country from the rest of the world.”
His voice rang with such bitterness that Simon began to wonder if this was a personal score Kirk was settling.
“Humor me since you’re handing us over to Montagne and I have no illusions he will keep us alive—”
“Montagne?” Kirk asked with a lift to his brow. “He is but a pawn.”
“Then who…?” His voice trailed off. It wasn’t important who. The important thing was for him to buy enough time for him and Isabella to escape. “What cause do you serve and how did you get mixed up in Leaudorian politics?”
“It’s so like you to assume everyone has a cause,” Kirk said mockingly. “I have no cause save for what benefits me directly. Not everyone is born to wealth and nobility. Some of us have to scrape along the best we can and take opportunities when they are presented.”
“You mean this is about money?” Simon asked incredulously.
“Spoken just like someone who has never done without it,” he retorted bitterly. “And if it weren’t for you, I would have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams years ago.”
His outburst baffled Simon. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You,” Kirk hissed. “You’ve long been the bane of my existence. I’ve tried everything to rid myself of you, but you persisted like the plague.”
“I don’t understand. What have you done?” Thinking back there had never been anything but easy camaraderie between them. No close calls. No attempts on his life or unexplained accidents. What could he be talking about?
Kirk continued on, deep in his diatribe, his face growing red as his anger mounted. “I thought that if you became earl you would resign from the agency. But still, you stayed on, acting as if you held the fate of the entire world in your hands.”
Simon froze, horror sweeping over him. Surely he wasn’t suggesting… He couldn’t even bear to consider the possibility. Kirk paused, something remarkably like pain marking his features as he saw Simon’s evident agony.
“Surely you don’t think your brother really committed suicide,” he said in disgust. “Really, Merrick. And here I was so envious of your abilities.”
Isabella gasped, her hand reaching out for Simon’s.
“You killed Edward?” he managed to croak out.
“Yes. It was rather easy actually. I assumed with you as the heir you would give up the agency and return to Hertfordshire.”
Kirk’s voice turned almost pleading. “He deserved to die. Surely you can see that. He took everything from you. From me. I did it for you, Merrick. So that you would have what was rightfully yours. So that you would retire from the agency and become the earl. So that you and I could remain as we were.”
His face hardened. “But you refused, and I was forced to take more drastic measures. If only you had done as you should have.”
“Don’t you dare say you did this for me,” Simon spat.
Anger wild and hot surged through him until he feared he would explode. That Kirk had killed Edward was incomprehensible. All the years of not knowing why his brother had committed suicide. The anger, grief and overwhelming sorrow. All because of Kirk.
And his father. Kirk killed him as surely as if he had pulled the trigger and shot him. His sadness over Edward’s death had pushed him into an early grave.
Suddenly all the subtle hints about Simon retiring made sense. Time and time again Kirk had tried to persuade him to leave the agency. Had insisted on calling him Merrick when he inherited the title even though for years he had referred to him as Simon. It was a reminder of his new station. His new duties. And represented Kirk’s hope for him to quit and pave the way for Kirk’s treachery.
“You bastard.” He seethed, barely controlling the urge to lunge after Kirk and wrap his hands around his miserable neck. His rage threatened to spiral out of control when Kirk continued to stare at Simon as if he had done nothing wrong. Simon clenched his fists in an effort to quell the eruption of fury that was imminent.
“If you had just retired to your country estate and done what it is earls do, then we wouldn’t be standing here contemplating the circumstances of your death,” Kirk said wearily. “I had no wish for you to die. My only goal was the princess.”
“What has Montagne offered you?” Isabella demanded.
He cast her a baleful look. “Think you this has anything to do with Montagne? You give him far too much credit. He has only done as he was ordered.”
“Then why?” Simon spat out. “I deserve to know what it is you think was worth my brother’s life.”
“Leaudor is but a tiny piece in the puzzle,” Kirk said with a curl of his lip. “A means to assist the larger goal. Though I could care less what happens as long as I receive payment.”
“So you’ve been plotting against England all these years?”
“I’ve looked after my best interests all these years,” he corrected.
“And how many people have you murdered for your own selfish aims?”
“I lost count,” he said blithely.
“Who recruited you if it wasn’t Montagne?” Simon demanded.
“Yes, I suppose you’d love to know,” he said with a smirk. “After King Fernando was assassinated and the princess disappeared, I was approached by a group of Bonaparte loyalists who promised me a great deal of money if I handed the princess over to them. When you agreed to bear her back to Leaudor, you inadvertently made things much easier for me. I merely sat back and let you do my work for me, and now I step in and hand the princess over to them and collect my hard-earned wealth.”
He smiled smugly—a pleased, self-assured smile—as if he were applauding his ingenuity.
Isabella’s slim hand gripped Simon’s arm tighter. Then she rose from her perch beside him.
“Back down, Princess,” Kirk ordered, waving the gun at her.
“Surely you aren’t afraid of a hapless female,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “I have need of a place to relieve myself.”
“I said sit down.”
“I’m afraid the situation is becoming rather desperate,” she said with an embarrassed flush.
“It is about to become more desperate if you don’t do as I have ordered,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
With lightning speed, she rotated her leg, kicking the pistol from his hand. Shock registered on his features as the gun landed with a thud on the ground.
Simon was on his feet in seconds. Kirk raised his arm before Simon could get to him and viciously backhanded Isabella, sending her reeling. Simon’s heart lurched when she did not immediately get up.
He rammed his shoulder into Kirk’s midriff, slamming him into the dirt with force that rocked them both. Unleashing the anger that simmered, he drove his fist into Kirk’s jaw. Yanking him up by his collar, Simon punched him again, and blood spurted from Kirk’s battered nose.
Kirk kicked him in the chest, and Simon fell backwards. Kirk jumped on him, and the two men rolled over and over in the leaves and sticks as blows were exchanged.
Simon poured every ounce of hatred and his thirst for revenge into his effort. He rolled on top of Kirk and curled one hand around Kirk’s neck while he used the other to pummel Kirk’s face.
But Kirk was fighting for his life, and he wasn’t going to be overcome that easily. He jerked his leg up and kneed Simon in the groin. Pain exploded through his abdomen, and he flew backward as Kirk shoved him off.
He scrambled bac
kwards on the ground, trying to catch his breath and collect his wits to go back on the attack. When he could see through the haze of pain, fear quickly overrode his anger.
Kirk, bloodied and battered, knelt behind an unconscious Isabella, holding her dagger to her throat. “If you come any closer, I will slit her throat,” he gasped out.
Kirk’s voice turned pleading once more. “I don’t need you, Merrick. It’s the princess and the relics they want. For once in your life, turn your back. Return to England. Forget what happened here. No one need ever know. She means nothing to you. Let her go.”
“That is where you are wrong,” Simon said in a deadly voice.
Simon inched back, and his fingers brushed against the pistol Kirk had dropped. Knowing it was his only chance, he curled his hand around the cold metal and pulled it slowly to him until he gripped it comfortably in his hand.
In one smooth motion, he brought his hand around, took aim at Kirk’s head and fired with no hesitation. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Kirk fell away from Isabella, the dagger slipping from his hand.
Simon rushed over, ignoring Kirk’s lifeless body, and knelt beside Isabella. He gently smoothed the hair from her head and saw the bruise already forming at her temple.
Knowing he had no time to waste before whoever Kirk was meeting arrived, he scooped her up in his arms. Not sparing Kirk a glance, he hurried in the direction of the monastery.
A flood of emotions threatened to overpower him, but he staunched the tide, determined to get Isabella to safety. But his anger ate at him until he feared going mad. Tears burned his eyes, and he ground his teeth in an effort to hold them back.
When he topped the hill in front of the monastery, he hunkered down, shielding her with his arms. He surveyed the terrain, looking for any threat to him and Isabella. If luck was with him, Montagne’s men would have accompanied him to his rendezvous with Kirk.
But luck wasn’t.
A small contingent of guards on horseback patrolled the gates, swords drawn. Getting inside may well be the biggest challenge he would ever face. But his entire career had been fraught with difficulties, and he didn’t expect it to become any easier now.
He glanced down at Isabella’s face, his concern growing at her prolonged state of unconsciousness. Standing up once more, he walked just below the ridge of the hill until he stared at the side of the monastery. He hurried forward, ducking behind brush and trees along the way. When he reached the great stone wall that served as an impenetrable barrier to the monastery, he laid Isabella on the ground and positioned her in comfort.
Rising, he pressed himself to the wall and felt for his knife. He moved to the corner and peered around. He counted three guards. One on foot, two on horseback.
Moving his head back, he rested it against the wall and considered his options. If he could lure the closest guard on horseback around the side, he could surprise him and dispatch him quickly.
Sidling back to the corner, he let out the most pitiful wail he could muster. If the situation wasn’t so dire, he would have laughed at the horrid impression of a newborn baby. But it worked. The sound of hoof beats drew nearer, and he readied himself to go on the attack.
As soon as the horse appeared around the corner, he threw the dagger, hitting the soldier in the shoulder. The soldier’s hand flew to the knife and he wobbled atop the saddle. Simon grabbed at his shirt and pulled him down to the ground.
Not giving the soldier any time to react, he leaped on him, smashing a rock down over his head. The soldier slumped and Simon retrieved his dagger from the unconscious man. Then he scrambled up to await the next guard who would likely appear any moment to check on his partner.
It wasn’t long before the second horse appeared around the corner, but Simon had to no clear shot. When the soldier saw Simon and his fallen comrade, he vaulted from the saddle and drew his sword. Simon groaned, glancing down at his paltry knife.
In one swift motion, he dove for the discarded sword of the previous soldier, rolling and quickly bouncing back to his feet. He circled his opponent, warily sizing him up. The soldier was larger, but Simon hoped he was quicker. And more desperate.
“Give up now and I won’t kill you,” Simon said.
“The only one who will die is you, Englishman.”
What confidence he had quickly left when the third soldier appeared around the corner. As he backed away, his mind frantically searched for a plan to outwit the both of them.
Like predators closing in on their prey, the soldiers advanced, their swords gleaming menacingly. In his mind, there was only one way to go about it. He charged forward, letting out a bloodcurdling yell to rival any savage.
The sound of metal clashing rang out as his sword engaged first one then another. He pulled every fighting trick he’d ever learned from his repertoire and even made up a few new ones.
A blade slashed through his skin, and pain seared his upper arm. He felt warm blood roll down his sleeve but ignored the wound. His sword found flesh of its own, cutting a jagged gash in the belly of the soldier closest to him.
A strangled cry went up from the other soldier, and Simon watched as he crashed to the ground. Isabella stood over him like an avenging goddess, her dagger covered in the man’s blood. The soldier gripped his shoulder and struggled to regain his footing. But Isabella never gave him a chance.
Simon swiftly turned his attention back to the last remaining soldier, confident that Isabella had the other well under control.
“Have you any idea the penalty for assaulting a member of the royal family?” he asked, as he and the soldier circled each other.
In fact he had no idea what punishment was meted out, but apparently it was stiff, for the man whitened.
“Perhaps you would like to rethink your surrender,” he said, pressing his advantage.
With a snarl of fury, the soldier launched himself at Simon, giving him the opportunity he had been waiting for. He smashed his fist into the man’s stomach then brought the butt of the sword down over his head, sending him crashing to the ground unconscious.
Not wasting any time on the fallen man, Simon rushed to aid Isabella. Only she had no need of it. With one well placed kick, she sent the last soldier sprawling to the dirt. He didn’t attempt to rise again.
“About time you showed your face,” he grumbled. But he caught her up against him before she could respond to his attempt at humor, holding her tightly to his chest.
She pulled away and smiled crookedly at him. “You were doing quite well on your own.”
“Is your head paining you?” he asked, smoothing the bruised skin with the tips of his fingers.
“I’ve had better days, but I’ll certainly survive. Let’s go into the monastery before more soldiers arrive.”
He turned to do her bidding, but she caught his arm.
“Merrick?”
He turned back to her, reading the concern in her face.
“What about Kirk?” she asked in a low voice.
Raw agony tore a jagged path through his chest all over again. “He’s dead,” he said flatly, ignoring Isabella’s troubled look.
He shepherded her around the corner to the huge wrought iron gate. The two monks standing on the inside immediately swung it open when they saw Isabella.
Without a word, they swiftly ushered them in and closed the gate once more. Then they hurried into the monastery where Father Ling stood to greet them.
“Your Highness, thank God you have returned safely.”
“I believe you have something for me,” she said in a husky voice as she held out her father’s scroll.
Tears filled the older man’s eyes, and he reached forward to grasp her hands in his. “It is with great joy that I will present you with the Sacred Emerald and the Royal Scepter. Come, let’s hasten to prepare you for your return to the palace.”
Monks scurried from all directions, some bearing food, some bearing clothing and stil
l more ushered her into the bathing chamber.
Simon watched the events unfold with awe. Isabella was bathed and anointed with sacred water then dressed in the finest gown. When at last she stood before him, her transformation complete, he could not summon the words to express his amazement.
Gone was the woman he had spent the last weeks with, and in her place, stood a stunningly beautiful member of royalty. Her long hair fell in waves to her waist, a jeweled tiara atop her head. Her dress was a combination of materials, satin, silk and a heavy brocade, all in shades of green. Her trim waist was clearly outlined by the tight-fitting bodice. From there, the material fell in soft waves to her feet.
An emerald necklace rested in the hollow of her throat, and diamond and emerald drop earrings hung from the tiny lobes of her ears. She was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
A knot formed in his throat, and he did the only thing he could think to do. He bowed before her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Isabella’s heart constricted as Merrick’s dark head bowed before her. With such an innocent action, he widened the gulf between them. I love you. His words still echoed in her memory, their imprint burned in her brain.
Did she love him in return? In truth, the only emotion she could feel was burning revenge. It had shoved aside all else. Did she love him? She didn’t know. It had been too long since she had felt anything but numbing pain. Did she need him? She did. And she didn’t want to examine the proximity of the two emotions. Not now.
Moving forward, she took his head in her hands and pulled him up to meet her eyes. Holding his hands in hers, she led him to a plush seat across the chamber.
Her eyes drank in the sight of him as they settled across from one another, their knees nearly touching. The monks had provided a suit of clothing for him, and he looked every inch the earl in them. Cream-colored trousers encased his muscular legs, and a matching vest buttoned over a white silk shirt. A black formal cutaway coat completed the ensemble, the tails pulled up in the back to accommodate his position on the bench they sat on.