Page 3 of The Last Crimes of Peregrine Hind
Maybe he’d keep roaming the roads until he was inevitably caught and even more inevitably hanged.
But this was an unexpected difficulty. If he let this younger Dartham live, then Alexander would tell Reginald that he was being sought by a highwayman, not for money, but for murder. Peregrine’s opportunities for revenge would shrink further—not to mention that Reginald would no doubt make sure Peregrine was hunted by the law more than he already was.
Which would be…inconvenient.
Peregrine looked back at the young lord, his pistol steady in front of the man’s face. He hadn’t killed anyone since the war, and even then, the battles had been volleys of smoke and mud and screams, utter chaos, impossible to tell who he’d killed or if his musket had struck anything at all.
Never had he killed someone like this—in stillness and in quiet, with them unarmed and helpless in front of him.
But his sister had died in stillness and in quiet too, she and her unborn child, and Peregrine didn’t know what else to live for if it wasn’t avenging her death, along with the deaths of his mother and brother. Why not start here?
Why not make Reginald Dartham feel part of what Peregrine had felt when he’d lost his entire family?
He curled his finger around the trigger.
Two
Sandy
“Wait, wait!” Sandy blurted, lifting his hands. His mind raced. He’d been in worse scrapes than this, surely—that time he was caught with a Bohemian princess in his bed came to mind, or perhaps the time a Spanish ambassador realized Sandy had been cheating at cards and was ready to fight a duel over it.
Sandy was very used to people wanting to kill him—honestly, it was starting to become something of a Friday night routine—but never had anyone seemed so emotionless about it. Usually, they were howling with indignation or livid with rage, and all Sandy had to do was remind them that he was the son of a dead duke and the brother of a living one, and then whatever it was went away.
But he’d have to do more than charm his way out of this one, especially if Reginald was involved. He had no doubt that this person had a very good reason for wanting to kill his brother, since Reginald was a miserable shit of a man. Not to mention that he was also a very wealthy miserable shit of a man, so his robbery or murder would brand any thief deep into tavern songs and fireside stories forever.
“You can kill me, I promise, you can kill me whenever you like,” Sandy said quickly, still thinking of a plan as the words tumbled from his mouth. “But if you kill me here, you’ll only get whatever valuables are in the coach.”
The highwayman standing in front of him didn’t react, and Sandy rushed on. “But if you abduct me instead, you can force my brother to pay any ransom you want, and then you can still kill me after you get his money. See? You’ll get what you want, plus money! Everyone wins!”
The woman standing next to the highwayman was tall and slender, her long limbs displayed in the breeches and tailored coat she wore. She looked familiar, but Sandy couldn’t quite place her, although her voice reminded him of . . . someone.
“He has a point,” she said. “But Sandy is slippery. He’ll try to escape.”
Hmm. She talked about Sandy like she knew him. That probably didn’t bode well.
Sandy put his hand over his heart like he was swearing an oath. “I’m not slippery! I won’t try to escape!” He was definitely planning on escaping. The first chance he got. “And how do you know me again?” he asked her.
She didn’t deign to answer, instead turning toward the highwayman. “We might have to kill him, Peregrine,” she said quietly.
Peregrine.
Sandy’s blood ran cold—well, colder—and then suddenly and fitfully hot. Peregrine Hind was, depending on whom one asked, either a devil who tortured his victims and then left no survivors, or a gallant thief who never hurt his victims or their horses and who gave most of what he robbed to needy families in nearby parishes.
Either way, Sandy was currently at the mercy of a legend, not a man, and that didn’t feel like a safe place to be. Even if Peregrine Hind was a very tall legend. With very powerful thighs. And very broad shoulders.
And pale, eerie eyes that glittered in the moonlight.
“You can still kill me,” Sandy volunteered helpfully. “I’ll be your captive the whole time. And you’ll get a ransom on top of it. And also, it will really, really incense my brother. Like really.” Reggie wouldn’t mind so much that Sandy had been kidnapped, but he would hate the paying part. Sandy already cost him plenty of money simply by existing. Well, and existing so lavishly, but Reggie could afford it.
Peregrine studied him, his face betraying nothing. In the stories, highwaymen always had masks and wide-brimmed hats. The other thieves had some variation on the uniform, but Peregrine Hind wore none of that. His black hair was tied back in a simple queue like a soldier, and his face was unmasked, revealing dramatic, ivory features: a high forehead, a strong nose, and a grim, sharp-edged mouth. His clothes were simple—dark breeches, dark coat, dark boots—nothing trimmed or fine, even though it all looked clean and of decent quality.
Nothing about him suggested he was a man used to treating himself with the finer things. At that, Sandy’s heart sunk a little. Maybe money wasn’t an effective lure after all.
Given the lack of mask and hat, and his overall cold, efficient demeanor, Sandy suspected that Peregrine Hind wasn’t after melodrama or notoriety either. That meant Sandy could think of only one other reason a man would want to kill his brother, and that was revenge.
Which was not ideal.
He could work with a craving for money or fame—those urges were mollified easily enough. But revenge? He’d seen enough of it at court and in the Second Kingdom to know its bitter effects well. Revenge was a flame that burned without air, a sword that cut without a blade. It listened to nothing but its own counsel, and it had no master but itself.
