Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (36 page)

After changing into dry clothes from their saddlebags, they ate in what had become their usual terse fashion, speaking only about practical matters of survival on the journey. "I'll take the first watch," he said, refilling his coffee cup.

"Do you think it's necessary?" she responded, stifling a yawn. "You look too weary to stay awake, even if you drank all the coffee in South America. No one's going to find us here in the middle of nowhere."

He took another swallow and grimaced at its bitterness. "Bloody hell, I detest coffee without cream! You're probably right, but I'll watch awhile until the fire dies down." He looked at the barely glowing coals, then pitched the black liquid over them, creating a sizzling hiss.

She looked up at the night sky. A few faint stars winked and the sickle of a quarter moon rose as scudding clouds obscured it. "If you think there's a need, wake me at two." With that, she laid on her bedroll, fully clothed as was their custom on the trail, and curled up, Yellow Boy at her side—also a habit she'd grown accustomed to following.

Max watched her sleep in the dim light as the last of the fire died. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and her face looked strained from the long, dangerous journey they had made from Denver to Fort Worth and back through the Nations. Was she carrying his child? It would account for her fatigue. But then, so would the awful tension that hung like an unspoken curse between them.

Lord, much as he wanted them to have children, he did not want it to happen this way. She would always be bound to him and he would never know if she would have stayed out of love and trust, instead of duty. Then an even more disturbing thought occurred to him. What if she was carrying his baby, but left him anyway, without telling him? Would Sky do such a thing? He honestly was not certain anymore.

If only Harry had known what his damnable codicil had wrought, he would never have had Bartlett draw it up. Max laid his head in his hands and sighed. That was when he heard the soft snick of a gun hammer being cocked.

Max looked up too late to draw his Smith & Wesson. Two tall Indians dressed in an odd mix of buckskins and calico shirts stood on opposite sides of the camp. One held an old Henry lever-action repeater on him, motioning for him to toss his weapon out of reach. Carefully, Max withdrew the revolver and did as he was bidden.

Sky, who had come awake at the soft thud of his Smith & Wesson landing in the dirt, reached for her Yellow Boy. She stopped when she saw the second man's Springfield breechloader aimed directly at her heart. The trackers stood in stone silence, while the clumsy footfalls of a man unaccustomed to this kind of rough country drew nearer.

"Cletus?" Max called out, unbelievingly.

"It's Bartlett," Sky said.

"You're getting a tad careless, considering the fearful reputation you have in this godforsaken wilderness, Maxwell, old coz."

Both of them froze in disbelief as Phillip Stanhope materialized out of the darkness, his silver-gilt hair glowing like a halo in the moonlight when the clouds cleared away He was dressed like their missing guardian Englishwoman in jodhpurs and a white linen shirt, with a ridiculously high crowned hat shoved back on his head. But there was nothing ludicrous about the Enfield Mark II service revolver strapped to his left hip, butt forward.

"You're supposed to be dead!" Sky blurted out.

"Dead?" he echoed, startled. "As you can see, I am quite alive. Hullo, Max, Sky," he said as politely as if inviting them in for afternoon tea, tipping his hat and sketching a bow for her. "You know, it has been the very devil keeping track of you, what with you haring about this wretched wild country."

Max said calmly, "I presume you and Cletus arranged your death so you could pursue us."

Phillip appeared affronted. "Max, I see I've overrated your intelligence considerably if you'd believe for a moment that I would throw in with Cletus. The drunken sot had no more sense than a hedgehog."

"I note you speak of our cousin in the past tense," Max said, desperately holding on to his aura of calm indulgence until he could formulate a way to escape.

"Quite correct. I had assumed Bartlett would wire you of Cletus' unfortunate demise, but now I can see dear old Jerome was rushing his fences a bit."

"He told us you had drowned and Cletus had vanished,"

Sky said, communicating silently with Max that she understood the longer they kept Phillip talking, the better their chances were to find a way to outsmart him.

Phillip chuckled. "And so, you believed it was poor, stupid Cletus who attempted unsuccessfully to have you killed in New York and St. Louis. But after those professional marksmen failed—they came highly recommended, by the by—I grew quite frustrated. That's when I decided it best to handle matters directly."

"You killed Cletus?" Sky asked.

"It was really quite simple. I sent him word the trout were voracious at the family lodge in Scotland...and that the liquor cabinet was unlocked. Then I announced to my servants that I was departing to purchase draft horses in the Low Countries. It was simple to detour on my way abroad and drown him, making it appear an accident. Some local constabulary must have discovered his body and thought it was mine. I did note the wretch had borrowed my fishing gear and favorite deerstalker. The little toad always was a thief," he added with a sniff.

"I imagine Jerome has discovered the truth, now that the body's been returned to London for burial," Max said.

"No harm done. 'Twas a natural mistake and I do have a handsome alibi. I will arrive home from my trip to the continent only to be greeted by the shocking news that all the remaining Stanhopes, save I, have predeceased me." He tisked, smiling guilelessly.

"But you must have had help from Jerome Bartlett. How else would you have known our itinerary?" Sky asked.

Phillip was amused by his own cleverness now. "Your husband was assiduous about telegraphing his every move to his trusted solicitor. Unfortunately, what neither Max nor Jerome knew was that I bribed his clerk, Hampton. Not only did I have word of your every move, but of that damnable codicil to Uncle Harry's will. That, alas, made your death imperative as well, my dear lady," he said with a regretful sigh.

"You've never been to America, much less out West before," Max said. "How did you know to hire Shawnee to track us across this rough country? We're following no trail."

"Ah, that was ironic. I read the accounts of your exploits in the Eastern tabloids. You have, on occasion, employed them. Why not I? And more recent scandal sheets trumpeted your killing a desperado in Fort Worth and driving a herd of cattle to that beastly amalgam of savages quaintly called 'the Nations.' These most efficient men met me at the train in Garden City, Kansas. By the by, the place is neither a garden nor a city. Americans possess the strangest sense of humor."

He's so pleased with himself, so self-inflated.
Sky's thoughts whirled.

There has to be a way to distract him.
Max edged closer to where his rifle lay, partially hidden in the darkness. He hoped the Shawnee could not see it. Sky's Yellow Boy was closer to her, but he was afraid she would attempt something that would get her killed before he could figure a way out for them. He casually leaned back and looked up at Phillip as if seeing him for the first time in his life. "All for the title?" he asked, not really giving a damn.

"That is an added perk, but it's only a barony. No, the money our dear uncle chose to bestow on you is far more enticing. I was not at all sorry about Cletus, but I do sincerely regret the necessity of killing you. You, dear coz, were the best of the Stanhopes. I was almost as proud of your heroism at Rorke's Drift as Uncle Harry." He turned to Sky. "And you are one of the most beautiful and intelligent women I have ever met. Yes, I am indeed very sorry to see such a remarkable woman die."

He sighed and raised his hand as a signal to his men.

That was when Sky saw a flash of steel, followed by a spurting fountain of blood.

Chapter Nineteen

The Shawnee dropped to the ground, his head tumbling in the opposite direction cleanly sliced from his neck. His companion's fate was identical and occurred at the same instant, leaving Phillip Stanhope frozen with his hand on the butt of his Enfield revolver. A rich contralto voice spoke from the darkness. "Take your hand off your weapon, Phillip," the woman commanded sharply. "I will not repeat my request."

Both Max and Sky seized their rifles, but did not raise them as Phillip complied with the woman's demand. He refused to look at the decapitated bodies of his trackers, instead staring straight ahead into the darkness. Max smiled grimly.
I imagine his agents reported back to him precisely how those professional shootists he hired died.
Their mysterious Englishwoman had once again come to their rescue.

She materialized from behind Phillip, a Webley trained levelly on him as she approached the dying campfire. Phillip had to know her Gurkhas were close enough to end his life as mercilessly as they had that of his Shawnee. She was a petite woman with a cap of gleaming silver-blonde hair a shade darker than the Stanhopes'. Although the pith helmet was nowhere to be seen, she still wore English safari clothing, a light tan shirt, brown jodhpurs and high boots.

"Please, m'lord and lady, would you be so kind as to lay aside your weapons?" she requested courteously. Her precise diction left no doubt that she was an English aristocrat.

Sky shot Max a glance and he nodded. If this woman had wanted to kill them, she could have let Phillip's Indians do the job for her. They both placed their rifles on the ground.

"Thank you," their guardian angel replied as she stood with her weapon trained on Phillip. To him she said coldly, "You would be most wise to remain absolutely still."

Through everything he had not moved or uttered a sound. An expression of incredulity was frozen on his face. It was apparent that he recognized their protector—and that her appearance boded ill for him.

She asked Sky, "Would you please throw some of that wood near you on what remains of the fire? Additional light would be most welcome."

Sky did as she was asked and the dying embers quickly reignited into small but bright flames, illuminating the grisly scene surrounding them. Phillip had been wise not to look at the work of her Gurkhas. Apaches from hell, Max called them. How right he was! Now they materialized, one on either side of Phillip. Although he was more than a head taller than the two little brown men, their menace made them appear Goliaths. Without command, they knelt and tossed the heads away from the camp into the brush, then dragged the bodies into the darkness as easily as if the Shawnee had not weighed half again as much as they did.

The Englishwoman faced her enemy. His complexion was white as bleached bone. Her eyes gleamed with triumph when she looked up at him.

"Well, Phillip, we meet again...for the last time."

His voice sounded strangled when he responded. "Bloody hell, Ronnie, I thought—"

"You thought you had escaped punishment because it's been so many years," she concluded in a harsh tone. Sparing a glance for Max, she continued. "Your adoring cousin omitted one vital thing from the recitation of his murderous brilliance. It was he who drowned your brother. Not Cletus." Her words were icy and clipped.

The truth of the accusation blazed across Phillip Stanhope's face.

Max sucked in his breath and Sky gasped as they stared at him. When Max reached for his Smith & Wesson, the Englishwoman said, "No, Lord Ruxton. Though I understand your need to avenge Edmund, mine is greater. I have prepared for this moment nearly half my lifetime."

Still trembling, Max released his hold on his revolver. "Why is your claim greater? Edmund was my only brother."

Now Phillip laughed, a hollow, ugly sound. "You honestly don't remember her, do you? She was your brother's lover."

"Lord Ruxton was just a boy then. There is no reason he should know me, but yes, Edmund Stanhope was my first, my only love...and you took him away from me."

"I was certain Cletus did it—or at least, stood by and let my brother drown. He was found nearby..." Max's voice faded as he realized he'd blamed a weak, foolish man for a diabolical evil.

"Cletus was foxed. His father hid his drinking problem until the old man died," she replied. "Cletus could have done nothing, worthless creature that he was," she said to Max.

"But then, how—"

"Did you know, in addition to his other crimes, dear Phillip attempted to rape me? One day..." She paused and took a breath, then resumed speaking in an eerie, calm tone. "One day when your brother and I had arranged a tryst by the river, Phillip happened upon me while I was waiting for Edmund. I was a petite girl and he was already a tall man. Edmund arrived before he was able to do more than tear my frock." She glared at Phillip. "He thrashed you within an inch of your life, did he not?" she asked.

Phillip did not answer, only stared at her with cold, dead eyes.

"When Edmund died less than a week later, I knew the drowning was no accident. We often swam in the river. He knew every rock and current for miles and he was a strong swimmer. I would have killed you that day, so great was my grief and rage, but my father found me in his gun room loading a pistol. He packed me off to his sister in India, who was married to an English colonel."