Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (28 page)

And from there on to wherever they were needed.

Timothy might well be correct about Prince Louis and the rebel barons, but if they succeeded in their quest, Merry and the children could return home where they belonged. That made it a worthy enough cause for Allen to pursue. And pursue it he would. As soon as possible.

“Curse them!” John kicked at the pile of wood in the empty clearing. He had thought only to refresh himself in the cool
stream after two long days of tracking Merry Ellison. Tonight, so near Farmingham, would have been the perfect time to capture her. “Curse them all!”

He had planned to steal her after dark, when she went to relieve herself for the night. A habit he had noted she followed routinely. One of the only times she would not suffer her guard dogs to follow along.

Now they were gone. All of them. Disappeared into the air, as ghosts were wont to do. Such a large group could not be hard to track, but they had a significant head start. They might have moved too far from the village for his plan to remain feasible.

Someone would pay for this. Forget his grudging respect for the ghosts, for the children of the forest—they had foiled his plans, and now someone must die. He growled and kicked the wood again, stomped the closest log into splinters, as he longed to do to them. He would snap the neck of one of those insufferable young men just to see the pain and fear in his eyes.

Fury flowed through him, but he must calm himself and form a plan. Though he suspected many rebels dwelt in Farmingham, the local baron remained loyal to King John. Perhaps he should rally the man, but he knew not if he was even in residence. Nor if he would believe his story. Besides which, the manor home lay to the far side of the village, and John could waste no more time. The sun had already sunk well below the treetops. He must find the ghosts before darkness concealed them for the night.

Spying a broken branch on the outskirts of the forest to his left, he headed that direction. He would think of a way to make Merry Ellison and her band pay for this. The chit was becoming more trouble than she seemed worth. But when at long last he watched Timothy Grey’s face while the girl writhed from a rope, all would indeed be worthwhile.

When he learned the villagers of Farmingham had seen no sign of Merry or her group, Timothy searched the forest to the west while the sun dipped toward the horizon once again. They could not have traveled farther than this village in the past two days. Surely they would be camping somewhere nearby for the evening.

He must find them soon, must protect them from that underhanded Hadley. He still had no idea why the man had turned on him. Knew only that Merry and her band were in danger, and it was his fault.

By the time he arrived at his father’s manor, he had discovered only the women of the family. His male relatives and all the troops had already been summoned by the king himself. He could find no one to send to the earl or to assist him in his own mission. Timothy could only hope they had been sent north to help with the rebellion and were not searching for Merry even now.

Whatever the circumstances, he was left to do this thing alone. And he must succeed. Too much was at stake this time. He must save Merry and the children. Must for once in his life do something truly honorable and important. Ninth child or not. He had wasted too much time playing at politics.

The good-bye kisses he had given his mother and sisters might have to hold him for many years, but all would be worthwhile once he escorted Merry and the children safely to France.

Except that he still could spot no sign of them.

Timothy crossed over a stream, and there he spied some crumpled leaves along the bank, then noticed a clearing with what appeared to be firewood smashed and strewn about. Ahead, he heard a crackle of branches, and he rushed in that direction.

A bold flash of red and gold gleamed through the dense, darkening forest.

Hadley!

He must draw the man back. He must keep him far away from Merry.

Timothy hopped down from Spartacus and landed with a thud in the clearing.

He could not risk stealth or anonymity. No time remained. He must protect them at all costs.

“John Hadley, you coward. Is that you skulking about in the woods?” He shouted to the retreating back in the Wyndemere coat of arms. “Come here and face me like a man.”

Once the words were out and the hulking fellow turned back his way, Timothy questioned the wisdom of his decision. Hadley thundered toward him enraged, as Timothy had intended. But what now? Should he draw an arrow on the man? He as yet had no proof of his betrayal, so he clutched the hilt of his sword instead.

John Hadley broke through the branches and snarled in Timothy’s direction. “Who is the coward? Certainly not I. I would say you, Timothy Grey. You, who made a pact with the ghosts in exchange for freedom. Have you shared that tidbit with my father?”

“With your . . .” Timothy could not recall who John Hadley’s father might be. Nonetheless, he would not tolerate such slander against his character. “You have it all wrong.”

“I’m sure my dear Papa Wyndemere would love to hear about it. And once I’ve captured Merry Ellison, I will tell him and ruin your good name. I had hoped to see you hanged, of course, but no time for that now.”

Timothy’s mind reeled, unsure which information to process first. “Wyndemere is your father?”

Hadley chuckled as he drew his sword. “I’m his bastard, truth be told, but still, not so far beneath you as you always imagined.”

Although the man spoke nonsense, Timothy clasped his sword and pulled it from its sheath. “I made no assumptions about you. We got along well enough. What did I do to earn your disdain? Why in heaven did you send that missive to the king?”

Hadley moved two steps closer with a menacing tread. “Ah, you liked that, did you? Thought me an illiterate fool, no doubt, but you couldn’t have been more wrong.”

And Hadley no doubt thought Timothy a weakling, but he knew nothing of the training Timothy’s brothers had drilled into him. He would taunt the man no further though—he had his evidence.

Restraint, his remaining ally.

His opponent brandished his sword as a wry grin spread across his bearded face. “I suppose you have no recollection of threatening a boy in the woods, who did nothing more than catch his dinner. Do not recall stepping on his throat and calling him a worm. Declaring the entire forest yours. But you let him get away—that was your mistake. You are weak, Timothy Grey, and now you must pay.”

Memories flashed through Timothy’s mind. A boy in the forest.

Timothy had thought himself so tough and noble capturing the poacher, until the boy flipped free of his foot, bounded up, and punched him in the gut. It was then that he spied the hungry, wounded look in the boy’s eyes. Hadley’s deep brown eyes. Compassion had washed over Timothy, and he had let the fellow, so close to his own age, run away into the forest with the contraband boar in his hand.

And here that boy stood before him, intent upon revenge, with murder simmering in those same brown eyes.

“That was you? I am so . . .” But before Timothy could get out another word, the man lunged toward him.

A sword flashed toward his face, and Timothy ducked aside just in time.

Hadley regained his footing and thrust his sword several times in Timothy’s direction, toying with him. “So what? So pathetic?”

“Sorry.” Timothy lowered his sword, hoping that his words might be enough. “I am so sorry. I misjudged you, but once I understood, I let you go.”

“And that was your mistake.” Hadley swung his sword at Timothy again.

Timothy swiveled out of its path. This time he assumed a crouch and prepared to fight.

“You misjudged many things, Timothy Grey. My goodwill, for one. And I can’t say much for your timing either. I had dreamed of making you watch your sweetheart die, and now I must kill you before you get the chance. More the pity, that.” Bitterness dripped from every word.

Hadley circled Timothy, hatred seething in his eyes. Had he been resenting Timothy, plotting against him all this time? Timothy could not fathom such bitterness. But then the realization hit him—Lord Wyndemere treated Hadley like a pesky insect
while honoring Timothy at his right hand. Little wonder the man detested him.

Hadley struck, but Timothy deflected his blow.

He must gather his thoughts. Recall his training. Again and again their swords clashed. Timothy’s arm reverberated with the shattering strikes, even as his mind attempted to sort the situation.

This man was after Merry. He must stop him!

Hadley’s sword slashed his left arm and sent fire shooting through it. In that moment, fire flowed through Timothy’s veins to match the burning in his arm. He dove at Hadley. “Leave her alone! Whatever you believe I have done to you, leave Merry and the children out of this.”

He slashed at his enemy again and again, but Hadley matched each strike. He ducked to the ground and rolled away from Timothy’s attack.

Staring up at him, Hadley laughed, low and evil. “Never. I will never let them get away.”

He bounced back to his feet and came at Timothy again. This time Timothy stood poised and ready. Something about the angle of Hadley’s swing drew Timothy’s eye. In a flash, he struck back, sending Hadley’s sword flying in a streak of silver toward the bushes. He wrapped his foot around Hadley’s leg, pushed him to the ground, and pressed the tip of his blade into Hadley’s neck.

The man stared up at him, red-faced and panting. Panic seized his features. Hadley held his hands before his face. “I didn’t mean it. Any of it. He just makes me so crazy. You don’t understand. Your father always accepted you.” Hurt and desperation flashed through Hadley’s eyes. Not unlike the moment when Timothy had let him go ten years earlier.

Emotions warred within Timothy. Anger fought compassion
with the same ferocity of the battle moments ago. He pushed against his sword. Felt the spongy resistance of Hadley’s flesh against the tip.

Choking back the awful sensation, he instead pictured Merry, hanging dead from the castle walls, in hopes of fueling his hatred to the point that he could administer the final thrust. Drive home the deathblow to this scoundrel.

But Timothy could not.

He pinned his gaze to Hadley’s—this man who had been so hurt, so wounded. He saw no more hatred in his eyes. Only fear. He pulled back his sword an inch.

And in that moment, Hadley’s eyes flashed and hardened. “Weak!” he shouted as he shoved the sword aside with his arm.

Timothy was so caught off guard, he flew to the side with his sword and crashed to the ground. In that brief moment, Hadley leaped to his feet and dove at Timothy. Timothy raised his arms to fend the man off. The air swooshed from Timothy as Hadley slammed atop him.

Then nothing.

Even as Timothy tensed himself for the scuffle, the man barely moved. He lay atop Timothy, moaning. A heavy weight. Timothy rolled him off and knelt over him. Saw his sword caught between them, plunged into Hadley’s side.

The man twitched and groaned for breath as Timothy withdrew his sword. He watched a puddle of blood form.

Timothy’s stomach soured at the sight. “This didn’t have to happen. Your hatred did this.” His sword felt weighty in his hand. He knew he should strike a final blow and ensure the man’s death—stab him straight through his hard, dark heart. But this day had seen enough violence, and Timothy’s heart had not the capacity for murder.

As a chill surged through him, Timothy glanced down to
his left arm. Blood flowed from a burning wound and coated his sleeve. The warm sticky stuff dripped over his hand, and he held it before him in the twilight.

Through his fingers, he again spotted the trail leading into the woods, though darkness had nearly fallen. Merry’s or merely Hadley’s? His face buzzed and pulsed in an unfamiliar manner. He could not follow. He must seek medical attention, or he would be no help to them at all. And so Timothy pressed his hand against his wound and stumbled in the direction of the village while he still could, with faithful Spartacus following at his heels.

“Weak,” the single, garbled word called out to him from Hadley’s dying form.

“Better than hateful.” He called over his shoulder.
Better than dead,
he thought but did not say. Although by the ringing in his head, Timothy assessed he might not be long behind the man. He would have no life with Merry in France if he could not get this bleeding stopped in time.