The dress she wore was threadbare and torn, showing shapely ankles disappearing into ragged half boots. Her sleeve had been ripped at the shoulder, sliding down her arm and sending the neckline dangerously low on her generous bosom. He fought to keep his attention on her face, but even that was a distraction. Her eyes were ethereally vivid, her mouth full and wide, and her neck a lovely arch beneath it all.
Bloody hell, why her? Why him? What god or demon had he insulted so gravely as to deserve this? All he wanted was a damned holiday, a well-deserved one, he might add.
“You are Mrs. Tindall,” he said doggedly. “Surely there’s a Mr. Tindall?”
“Yes, there was… but he is no longer amongst the living.”
His fists clenched at his sides, forcing himself to calm. She was a widow. Good manners dictated he grant her some measure of consideration.
“I am sorry to hear it. When did this happen?”
“Two days ago.”
To his credit, the curse that nearly flew from his mouth stayed obediently behind his teeth.
Two days? A landlord who evicted a woman immediately after the death of her husband ought to be publicly flogged, and Drake would jump at the chance to administer the punishment. Particularly since, in this case, it meant she had been booted out of her home and into his hunting cabin.
“Have you no family or friends who can take you in?”
“No,” she said. “I know two or three people, but no one I could impose upon.”
“Of course not,” he muttered. “Why impose upon those you know when there is a perfectly good stranger handy.”
Her eyes flashed. “Under the circumstances, I couldn’t possibly ask someone I hardly know to shelter me.”
“Circumstances,” he echoed. “Circumstances being the death of your husband? Is that the trouble you have found yourself in?”
She looked away. “More or less.”
Drake narrowed his eyes as he assessed her. She was withholding pertinent information. She must be. People do not hide in abandoned cabins, acting scared and suspicious without good reason.
“Mrs. Tindall, allow me to make one thing very clear,” he stated. “I am not someone you ought to be toying with. In my experience—”
A quick rapping sounded at the door, interrupting him.
“Hullo? Anyone here?”
Her breathing seemed to stop completely as she grabbed handfuls of her tattered skirt in each tightly clenched fist.
He watched her, wondering at her reaction. She hadn’t been afraid of him, but she was most certainly afraid of something now. What the devil could be more frightening than him? He, who could spur an entire Parliament of slovenly lords into taking action in one moment, and browbeat a group of pugnacious assassins into behaving themselves the next?
Good heavens, how dastardly could this fellow be? Now his curiosity was piqued.
He mouthed, “Stay here,” and brought his finger to his lips.
She nodded jerkily.
“Hullo?” the voice came again from the front door.
“Yes,” Drake answered, turning his back on Mrs. Tindall and moving toward the man standing just outside the cottage.
“I thought I noticed a rider not long ago. I’m Mr. Gordon, local magistrate.” He smiled genially and dipped his chin. Then he leaned to the side to peer past Drake. “I had forgotten all about this cottage. It’s been abandoned for so long.”
“Indeed, it has,” Drake said, moving to block Mr. Gordon’s view. “Are you looking for someone, Mr. Gordon?” Because, if so, he had a pretty good idea of whom that someone might be.
“Why, yes, I am. A murderess, to be exact. Killed her husband only two days ago. Burnt the poor bugger to a crisp.” He pulled out a handbill from his coat pocket.
Drake mentally rolled his eyes. He just couldn’t get away from the damn things.
“She’s a handsome little thing by the name of Sarah Tindall. Have you seen her?”
Well, that explained a few things. Although, he did not recall her smelling of smoke. Nor had he noticed any burns on her. Or bruising. Or blood. Something wasn’t quite adding up.
Drake glanced at the notice, schooling his features to betray nothing as he gazed at a rather impressive likeness to the aggravation in his bedroom. He could give her away right now and be done with her. He would give his account of things, perhaps stop by the magistrate’s office for a report, and then continue on his merry holiday without further intrusions.
But… she was intriguing, and damn him, he felt in his gut there was more to the story than a simple case of domestic homicide. Not that he thought she was innocent. She might well be guilty, but there were other facts to uncover, and he wanted to know what they were.
He shook his head. “Sorry, but no,” he said, his stomach sinking with regret the moment those words left his mouth.
He held out his hand to return the handbill, but Mr. Gordon stepped back without taking it.
“You had best keep that,” Mr. Gordon said. “We believe she is in the vicinity, and she is dangerous. If you see anything, don’t hesitate to report it to the magistrate’s office in Barnsby. They will contact me, and I shall hurry over.”
“I certainly shall. Thank you for the warning.”
The man nodded and mounted his horse before riding off into the trees.
Drake shut the door and stepped slowly back into the room. Her face was chalk white, her hands still clutching her skirts.
A dangerous woman who had allegedly burnt her poor husband to a crisp was scared witless by this lone, amiable magistrate. Not exactly the trait of a heartless killer.
“Is he gone?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
He nodded as he held up the handbill for her to see. “Care to explain this?”
Sarah felt the icy claws of fear the moment she had heard Gordon’s voice. But now, as she gazed at the freshly printed handbill, those claws became savage. They dug into her back and crushed her ribs until she could hardly breathe.
She had suspected this was how things would turn out, but she couldn’t possibly have been prepared for it.
Frank’s likeness was sketched into the bottom right corner, with her face taking up most of the space in the middle with words like MURDERESS and DEAD OR ALIVE scrawled along the top.
He lifted a brow. “Well?”
“It looks like a handbill.”
“It looks like you,” he returned, not sounding the least bit amused.
Her chest squeezed. Panic. She forced it down.
“I didn’t kill my husband.”
“Of course not,” he said, almost mockingly. “I suppose you were conveniently taking a stroll at the time. Alone.”
He was an arrogant, insufferable human being, she decided—something that hadn’t taken long for her to discern. However, he was right, though he was being as sarcastic as his stony countenance would allow. She had been, in fact, taking a quiet walk about the grounds when it had happened.
A walk had always been just what she needed on restless nights, and since arriving in England a month earlier, she hadn’t been able to sleep well at all, especially since Frank had become far less than genial the instant their ship had docked in Bristol. She had hoped he would have at least acted the gentleman a few more months, until she could take her portion of her dowry and leave, but she had underestimated the devil in him.
“Mrs. Tindall, I do not have unlimited patience.”
The masculine rumble was grating. She looked up at the imperious man who held so much power over her.
He was attractive, with eyes like emeralds, but he was distant and over-analyzing. She could almost see the gears working behind his eyes. Pity. A stupid, less attentive man would have been easier to convince. Even so, she had to at least try to sway him. Her life depended on it.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I stepped out,” she said, deciding the best course of action would be to tell the story exactly as it had happened. At least part of the story. “
I was only gone for a few minutes when I first noticed the smoke. When I returned, our bedroom window was filled with flames.”
She could still smell it, the way it had clouded her vision and burned her nostrils. Tears stung the backs of her eyes as she envisioned the scene, recalling the panic that had engulfed her when she realized he could be dying… that he might be dead already. She hadn’t loved her husband, she hadn’t even liked him, but she had never wished for him to die, and she had certainly never wished to witness the morbid event.
“Go on, Mrs. Tindall.”
“I ran back as quickly as I could, calling out for him. I wanted to rush inside to….” She stopped, suddenly unable to speak. Her throat felt thick with smoke, and she could still feel the heat of the flames as they licked the roof.
No one deserved to die in such an awful way.
Saint Brides watched her from under a knit brow as he stuck a hand inside his coat, revealing a small notepad and pencil. “Did you hear him, or see him through the window?”
She shook her head. “No, but he was sleeping soundly when I left. He must have still been there. I tried to go in after him.”
“Into the fire?”
She nodded. “I don’t know what I could have done. I shall never know. I was dragged away and strapped to a tree. The man accused me of murder. He said I would hang. I was… I don’t know what I was. Shocked, I suppose. When he ran off to help control the fire, I wriggled out of the ropes and made a run for the trees. I kept running until I twisted my ankle. That was when I came across this place.”
“If this is the truth, why not turn yourself in to the local authorities? It would clear your name, and they could begin looking for the real culprit.”
She met his stare with a grim smile. “It was the magistrate, Mr. Gordon, who tied me to a tree, threatening to deal justice right then and there. No trial needed. I daresay, my humiliating him by running away will not endear him to the idea of waiting for a judge and jury now.”
His scowl deepened. “It isn’t far to the next district. You can plead your case there.”
Sarah shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter.”
“Why is that?”
“It just wouldn’t.” There was no way she would be found innocent, even without Mr. Gordon ready to take the stand to prove her guilty. The evidence was already stacked too high against her. She had no alibi, no character witnesses, no defense whatsoever.
If she were to be taken into custody, she would be as good as dead.
Rider’s Revenge
The Last Riders, #11
Jamie Begley
Coming Soon!
Prologue
Jo swam through the cool water of the small lake hidden in the woods behind Rachel and Cash’s house. Rachel had offered to let her swim there any time she wanted. Usually it was early evening when she came out here. If she didn’t see any cars or motorcycles outside Rachel’s house, then she would take a quick dip. Tonight, though, it was so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, and the lights from Cash’s cabin that could normally be seen through the inky darkness were off.
She dunked her sweaty hair under the water. The night was muggy, and she had serviced a three-car pile-up on the outskirts of town.
Jo swam until she was nearly exhausted, banishing the sight of the dead body being wheeled to the coroner’s van. Thankfully, the victim had already been covered in a body bag before she had arrived.
The sheriff had told her that the victim had been from out of town and had ignored the warning for the sharp curve. The BMW had taken the curve too fast, not seeing another car had stopped, waiting for a car in the incoming lane to pass so they could go down the side road that led to a home.
All three cars had been involved in the accident, four people had headed to the ER, and one to the morgue.
“I need to find another job,” Jo said out loud to herself as she floated aimlessly on her back.
Staring up into the tree branches that fanned over the water, she had drifted out farther than she had thought. She didn’t bother lifting her head, knowing exactly where she was in the small body of water.
The faint sound of a motor from the road didn’t have her lifting her head. The main road wasn’t close, but sounds carried in the woods surrounding the lake. With Rachel and Cash being out of town to visit Cash’s relatives, she didn’t expect any of Cash’s friends or Rachel’s brothers to stop by for a visit. Even if they did, they wouldn’t stay long, seeing that they weren’t home.
As the sound of the motor grew closer, Jo lowered her legs, treading water to stay in the shadows of the trees on the side of the lake.
“Dammit,” Jo muttered softly, seeing a motorcycle’s headlight coming to a stop at the bank, the lone light hitting the water.
She moved farther into the shadows, her chin dipping into the water in case the light hit her. She castigated herself for not taking the time to put on her swimsuit.
She had ridden her bicycle from the scrapyard. At least whoever the lone rider was who was enjoying his cigarette wouldn’t be able to see it from where it was leaning against a tree several feet away.
Jo remained still, making small movements to stay afloat as he smoked. When the smoke drifted toward her, she realized whoever it was, they weren’t smoking a cigarette.
When he lifted the joint toward his mouth again, Jo recognized Rider.
She cursed to herself. She detested that particular Last Rider. Shade, she had talked a few times before and after her father had been murdered. He had even loaned her enough money to keep her business going when she had been overwhelmed with the debts her father’s death had left behind. If Shade hadn’t loaned her the money, the new tow truck her father had talked her into buying would have been repossessed.
The few times that she had been unfortunate to talk to Rider, he had grated on her nerves. The first time she had met the handsome biker, he had expected her to fall for him as if he were God’s gift to women. The second time, he had thought she was interested in women.
Every bone in her body had screamed at her to take the Casanova down a peg or two. The only reason she didn’t was because Jo knew he was friends with Rachel and because his ego was so overblown that dynamite wouldn’t make a dent in his pearly whites.
A stray breeze had her shivering in the water.
Dammit, how long does it takes to smoke a joint? she thought wrathfully as she waited for Rider to leave.
When she saw him flick what was left in a glowing arc, then turned off his bike, she knew she was in trouble. His headlight disappeared, giving only the dim shadow of him undressing.
Her head spun at trying to figure out what to do as she warily watched his movements.
Rider headed toward the opposite side of the lake from where she was swimming. When she heard the scape of a rock, she knew he was climbing the rock overhang.
Was he going to stand there or …?
Her unfinished thought was answered as soon as she heard the splash.
She started swimming for the bank where she had left her clothes and bike. Her heart was pounding in exertion as she swam.
The tips of her toes had just grazed the bottom when she felt a muscular arm curl around her waist.
“Let me go!” Jo screeched, trying to jerk out of Rider’s restraining hold.
“Who do I have here? A mermaid coming to keep me company?” his amused voice came from behind her as she struggled against him, kicking her bare feet at his shins and thighs.
“Let go!”
“What’s the hurry?”
Jo sputtered out the water that was threatening to drown her as he turned her around to face him in the dark. The sleek feel of his skin under her palms heightened her anxiety of being alone with him in this isolated spot.
“I want to leave.” Jo was angry at herself for the slightly hysterical tone she could hear in her own voice. When men saw a weakness, they were quick to take advantage.
“I can’t convinc
e you to stay?” His husky voice had a seductive, assertive tone that had him increasing her efforts to get away from him.
It might be pitch dark, but she could see the sexual promise that had the cool water feeling as if she was trying to escape being dragged down into quicksand.
With her nails, she scratched his hands, determined never to be a victim to a man’s desires again. “No!”
He released her, and she frantically started swimming toward the bank.
“Come on, Rach; the least you can do is keep me company until Cash gets here.”
She stopped swimming to turn back toward him, dumbfounded. “You think I’m Rachel?”
“Who else would be skinny dipping in Cash’s swimming hole?”
Was he pretending not to know who she was? Jo could have sworn he had known. Then she admitted to herself that if she hadn’t seen who he was when he had been smoking, she wouldn’t have known.
“No, I’m not Rachel.” Jo had lowered her voice, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her voice from the few times she had been around him.
“Want to tell me who you are, then?” The seductive intent turned flirtatious.
“It doesn’t matter. I have no interest in keeping you company.” She flipped onto her stomach and started swimming again. “Just stay where you are until I can get dressed and leave.”
“You must not know who I am if you think I’m a gentleman.”
Jo swam harder at hearing the sound of splashing behind her.
“Don’t you dare get out of the water before I leave.”
As soon as she was able, she took off in a run, going toward the vicinity she had left her clothes and nearly tripping over them.
Tugging on her shorts as fast as she could, then her T-shirt, her heart was pounding out of her chest, leaving her unable to hear where he was in the water. Twisting as she tried to tug her stubborn damp T-shirt down, she heard the sound of a twig breaking.
“Don’t!” She bent down, trying to find her panties and bra. Finding her bra, she shoved it into her back pocket, giving up on trying to find her panties. She then slipped into her tennis shoes, water still running down her legs. “Where are you?” She raised her head, trying to peer through the pitch darkness.