Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle (73 page)

Nineteen

at last! Nora rose from her cramped position in the little-used root cellar of the Grange. She ran her fingers through her hair, freeing it of cobwebs and who knew what else.

However, she had few complaints. She had leased the Grange specifically for the feature of the hidden room beneath the kitchen floor.

Earlier in the day, the root cellar had served its purpose, allowing her to rest and to hide, both of which had been imperatives. She could not carry out her final mission in port-on-the-Medlock sleepless. Booted feet on the floor

under which she hid proved the importance of the latter.

The intruder's voice belonging to the purposeful steps had been Stockport's. She'd taken satisfaction in his presence. He was worried enough to come

for her. He had every right

to be worried; worried about what might become of his mill if she were allowed to

loose; worried about all the different ways he could be incriminated if she were caught.

It did not escape her that the man was faced with an awful dilemma, either let her stay free and protect his culpability while potentially endangering his precious mill, or at tempt to catch her and save the mill while exposing his connection to

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her. Nora wondered what he would risk, his reputation or his finances. One or the other would have to be sacrificed. He had nothing left to barter with. He'd already sold his soul with the plan he engineered to keep her at Stockport Hall.

Nora struck a match and lit one of the candles stored in the cellar. It was time to get to work. She struggled out of the dirty ball gown, tamping down memories of the nimble fingers that had done up the tiny buttons in the back. She could not afford to let sentiment cloud her thought. Nora shut her eyes tight, pushing back images of Brandon, naked, fastening diamonds and emeralds about her neck, making false promises.

Nora slipped into The

costume, dark leather breeches,

black silk shirt, and enveloping cape. The clothing felt like a second

comforting and familiar.

The only change tonight in her costume was an expensive dun-colored wig she had decided on at the last minute. She pinned up her hair and tucked it beneath the excellent hairpiece, which looked real and hid her own dark mane effectively, before tying the pirate headscarf over it. She wasn't planning on being caught, but, if she was, she wasn't ready yet to expose herself as Brandon's intended. One didn't burn bridges until they were absolutely unnecessary.

Last, she tied on the black silk mask that partially hid her face and emphasised her cat-green eyes.

She went to the crude chest in the comer and lifted the lid, revealing a small cache of arms. With the calculation of a duellist selecting his weapons, Nora tested and rejected a snub-nosed pistol. She hefted the weight of another pistol and found it to her

She put it in her belt along with a pouch of am-munition and a skein of dark rope.

She turned her attention to the array of knives and selected a small dagger reminiscent of a

dubh for her arm sheath

and a longer one for her belt. She hoped she wouldn't need any of the weapons.

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Pickpocket Countess

Nora hung a powder horn about her chest, bandit-style, and grabbed up a medium black bag and matches. Charges were a bit of a nuisance, heavy and weighty.

She did a final mental inventory of her supplies: powder, charges, pistol, knives, matches. She had everything. Her saddle bags, containing the valuables from the previous night, were already at the base of the ladder leading to the hatch. She was ready for her last raid.

Outside, Nora breathed deeply of the crisp night air. It felt good to stretch, to be in the open, after hours in the confinement of the cellar. She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled for her horse. She'd let the gelding roam during the day. The horse couldn't lead Stockport to her if he happened to find it, recognise it and try to track it. If anything, her horse probably led him on a merry chase to nowhere since her horse had no idea where she was.

The horse came to the whistle though, following the bird-call of the night-jar to where Nora stood. She flung the saddle bags over his withers and fastened them with a cinch. She retrieved a bridle and deftly slipped it over his head. It was the only harness he'd wear. Tonight, she'd ride bareback.

Nora set out for the mill, her progress slowed by the lack of the moon, but she appreciated the added invisibility it afforded her.

A short distance from the mill, Nora stopped to survey the structure. A patrol passed by the structure. So, Stockport thought to increase his security. She watched for a half-hour, sure of the guards' circuit. They passed every ten minutes. It would be enough time to lay a quick line of powder from where she hid to the structure and run back to light the fuse. She was counting on the explosion and subsequent flames to create enough distraction for her to make an invisible getaway.

The guards made their pass. Nora went to work, efficiently sprinkling the powder and setting the fuse. She hesitated for a

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moment upon reaching the mill. When she dropped the match she would put paid to Brandon's dreams. There would be no going back for either of them. He would be ruined and he'd know she was the one who had done it.

Her fingers trembled with the match. She struggled to light it. She tried again. This had to be done. Firing the mill now would save lives and minimise whatever funds Witherspoon would collect in insurance. Brandon would find a way to go on.

No image she could conjure up could persuade her to see it through. Just as she'd known that night at St John's that she couldn't shoot Brandon, she could not bring herself to destroy his mill in a wanton act of violence.

Her heart rebelled at her weakness.
He betrayed you!

Be fair!
Nora argued.
You entered into the liaison knowing
mettle and he yours. It's not his fault you fell for him.

He set the trap and let you decide
wanted to spring it.

Nora blew out the match, careful to cup her hands around the flame and the residual smoke. She dropped the extinguished match to the ground. She wouldn't do it. She would get on her horse and ride away.

It would be punishment enough for Brandon to struggle with the remnants of The

presence. The charges were still

laid. He would see the last gift she left him. He would know The Cat had won their private game. He would she could

have blown up the mill, but hadn't. He could spend his life pondering why.

Lost in her own thoughts, Nora didn't hear the two stealthy soldiers approach her from behind. She turned to go and ran right into their scarlet-clad chests.

'Well, well, well, what do we have here?' one of them said in a tone that indicated full well they already the answer.

'I think,' said the other, 'The Cat has come out to play for the last time. Fire your flare and get Witherspoon over here.'