Page 60 of This Laird of Mine

She heard scurrying again.

“Murdoch?” she called to the lifeless man beside her. “Wake up, you miserable toad. Get me out of here.”

At his silence, Agatha dug her fingers into the rock floor, inching herself forward. She had to move, had to drag herself to safety before the rats came any closer, or before the authorities arrived.

Her work was not yet done.

Again, she dragged her body across the cold rock floor. The movement made her dizzy with pain, and yet she continued, anger and pain fueling her movements.

She heard the rats scurrying again, closer this time. Exhaustion overtook her movements, and she lay against the floor, breathing hard. If she didn’t move, she would die here in the darkness. The creatures, they would devour her, and that would be the end of her revenge.

Inch by inch she made her way down the tunnel, toward the light. She had to get to the light. The creatures would not follow her there.

The light would see her through. Then and only then would Jules, Claire, David, and Penelope be vanquished from this earth forever.

Upstairs in Claire’s studio, Jules looked on as his wife bathed both the girls, who had woken from their stupor on the way back to her home. The physician had been to see them and pronounced them both well.

And the authorities had been sent to the tomb after Agatha, only to report that the woman had vanished, leaving just a trail of blood behind. They had followed the path out of the kirkyard, but then the trail had disappeared.

Jules hoped it meant the woman had perished, but he knew better than to trust that she was gone without cold, hard evidence. Agatha was like a phoenix, always rising from the ashes. She would continue her revenge if she could.

And Claire would remain a target unless he set her free.

She was his wife.

Only three days ago he had told her that wasn’t enough to keep them together. He regretted those words but knew they were the right ones if he wanted to keep her safe. The only way to minimize the threat to Claire and her wards was to stay away from them, away from her.

He could leave David behind to protect Claire and her girls. He doubted he would have to do much convincing in that area. David seemed particularly fond of Penelope. Jules went to speak with David.

He had to let Claire go.

The next morning, Claire found herself dressing with particular care in a gold gown trimmed at the neck and sleeves with sage-green lace. She was not dressing for Jules, she assured herself, even though she knew she was. If this was to be their good-bye, then she wanted to at least be remembered well.

When she came into the studio, she saw that Jules, too, had taken pains with his attire. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath his MacIntyre tartan. She stopped at the stairs to admire his beauty and his strength. She would paint him like that—paint this final memory of him in his full splendor. She curled her fingers at her side, fighting the urge to grab a brush and begin that task. Instead, she committed him to memory.

At her approach, he met her gaze. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied, coming fully into the chamber.

They were silent again and she didn’t know how to break the charged stillness in the room. Jules was different this morning. The easy rapport that they had developed over time at Kildare Manor was gone and all that remained was the tingling awareness of each other’s presence.

The silence between them lengthened.

“How are the girls?” he asked finally.

“Better. They are even talking again. I think David was correct in his assumption. The shock of the kidnapping and their subsequent torture was too much for them, and they both shut down.” She walked about her studio, from easel to easel, until she stopped in front of a canvas bearing a landscape. She’d started the oil painting the day before Jules’s unfortunate solicitor had approached her about marrying Lord Kildare.

At the thought of the solicitor she turned to Jules. “I was just thinking about James Grayson.” She paused. “Do you think Agatha had him killed?”

“Most likely she drove the carriage,” Jules replied solemnly.

Claire shivered. “She could be out there.”

“She’s not after you.”

Claire frowned. “How do you know that? How does anyone know what goes on in a disturbed mind like hers?”

“We don’t, thank goodness.” He moved to stand beside her. “We know nothing except that she is injured and—”