Will gripped her firmly by the shoulders again, still trying to move her behind him. ‘Perhaps we could continue this conversation in a place where the lady is not trapped between us.’
‘The lady?’ At this, Montague laughed. ‘You poor deluded fool, that you should still call her that now that you remember what she was to me. Justine will move of her own accord, soon enough. Once she has worked out, with her tiny, feminine brain, how hopeless her situation is, she will come back to me and leave you to die. Like all women of her type, she cares for no one but herself.’
After killing her father, forcing her into a life she did not want, and threatening the only two people she loved, was that really what he thought of her? The idea that she would come tamely to his side and resume her old life was a sign of madness. Or perhaps it was only stupidity. Margot was safe, no matter what had happened. Will had promised her that, even when he was so angry he could hardly look at her. But without Will, she would have nothing left to lose. When one did not care about the future, there were far better alternatives than sharing a bed with a man she despised.
Justine watched as Montague’s gun hand twitched ever so slightly, as though trying to decide if it were possible to shoot past her and hit his target. She was too small to be an adequate shield for him, especially when Will seemed intent on being the protector, not the protected. He was still tugging at her arm, trying to ease her out of the line of fire.
She spread her arms wide, trying to cover as much of him as she could, staring at the hand that held the gun, watching for the telltale tightening of tendon and muscle. Her own hands clenched in response. The slight movement set the bag that held the diamonds swinging slowly on her wrist. It was too light to be a weapon. But perhaps...
She extended her arm suddenly and twisted her wrist. The drawstring slipped down her hand and the bag fly off her arm, arching through the air to land behind Montague. ‘Here are your diamonds. Take them and go.’
He was not distracted, as he should have been. Instead, the movement had startled him. He raised the gun, finger on the trigger.
He was going to shoot and it was her fault. Without thinking, she threw herself forward, as though it might be possible to stop what was surely to occur. Then she remembered the ice pick, still clutched in her right hand, and fell forward, holding it in front of her.
There was a noise, very close and very loud. Then Montague’s body weighed heavy against hers, as they fell to the wet ground. The warm, wet ground. That could not be right. An ice house should not be warm. Will was standing over her, the lantern swinging wildly in his hand, casting shadows against walls and ceiling, and over his very white face. He was so very pale. But at least he was still alive. He was moving his lips, but she could not seem to hear what he was saying. It was easier, just to close her eyes and think of something else.
‘Justine! Oh, my God. Justine!’ He had been hatching a plan to get clear of her and wrestle the gun from Montague. He had not been paying attention to her. That had been Montague’s problem as well, he was sure. Neither of them had given her enough credit. Nor had they expected her to spring like a tiger for the throat of the man who had persecuted her.
God help him, there had been a shot. His head was still ringing with it. The foolish girl had given no thought to her own safety, throwing herself at an armed man. She might have been injured, even killed. If she had been lost because of his slow reflexes...
He was at her side in an instant, rolling Montague’s inert body to the side so that he might tend to her. ‘My darling, are you all right?’ Was she his darling? He hadn’t thought so, this afternoon. But why else would she risk her life to protect him? ‘Justine?’
She stared blankly up at him without answering. Had she been shot? There was a prodigious quantity of blood, but it did not seem to be hers. He ran his hands carefully over her body, looking for tears in her garments, or the flinch and cry as his fingers accidentally probed a wound. But she could not seem to feel them at all. Her flesh was impassive at his touch, cold, but whole.
‘Justine.’ Then he remembered the shot, so near to her ear. ‘I think you have been deafened by the gunshot, love. Do not fear. It will be better soon.’
Perhaps she had heard that, for she closed her eyes, as if to shut out the scene.
It was just as well. If she was not already aware of it, he did not want her seeing what she had done. Now that Will had moved him, Montague lay on his back, eyes wide and sightless, the blood pooling behind him, the ice pick buried to the handle in his chest.
He must warn the servants, before some maid wandered down to fill an ice bucket and frightened herself witless. And a man must come to take care of the corpse in the ice house. Although, until he could be buried, this was the best place for him.
And, of course, someone must be sent to the big house to get the duke so that he might swear a statement, or whatever one did when a crime occurred. There would be no question of self-defence, for the gun Montague had threatened them with was still clutched in one lifeless hand.
The little bag that held the loose stones lay just at the edge of the spreading pool of blood. Will scooped it up and dropped it in his pocket. Then he gathered up the real treasure: the body of his precious Justine. She was limp in his arms and so very cold. Was that the fault of the ice around them, or was it shock?
It was no trouble getting her back down the tunnel, through the kitchen and back up the stairs to her room. Once there, he did not bother with the maid, but stripped the bloody gown over her head and threw it into the fireplace, shifting the coals and poking it until he was sure it would catch and burn.
From behind him, he heard her soft voice. ‘You oughtn’t to have done that. It is probably evidence of some kind.’
He turned to see her staring into the fire. Her expression was still frighteningly blank, as though she could not quite understand what she was seeing. But he was relieved to see some colour returning to her face. ‘My word to my brother will be evidence enough, I am sure. You will not be forced to sit like Lady Macbeth, covered in gore.’
‘I do not think the blood on her hands was real,’ she said, staring down in puzzlement at her own hands, which were quite literally stained.
Will filled the basin and brought it to her along with a towel, that she might wash. When she made no move to do it, he helped her, wiping away every last trace of what had happened. He took the basin away again, dumping it in the yard so there would be no trace of the pink-tinged water. Then he brought a dressing gown, wrapping her tight so that she would not take a chill, and a glass of brandy from a decanter he kept in his room. He added a few drops of the laudanum the doctor had left for his headaches and swirled the liquor in the glass. While he normally did not believe in the need for soporifics, his head wound was nothing compared to what she must have suffered in the last day. He pushed the glass into her limp hand, wrapping the fingers around the stem, and said, ‘Drink.’
She refused at first. But he would not release her until she took it and coughed it down. ‘You do not have to wait upon me, hand and foot,’ she said, rising as if to prove it and sinking weakly back on to the bed.
‘And you did not have to save my life,’ he said. ‘All the same, I am glad you did.’ He lifted her legs to swing them up on to the bed and covered her, fluffing the pillows behind her head. ‘Rest.’
‘But I must speak to someone, to explain... And I need to tell you...’ Her brow creased as though she could not think what it was that she meant to say.
‘You will do that in the morning,’ he assured her. ‘For now, I will call Margot to sit with you, in case you need company in the night.’ He kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘And then you will go to sleep, Justine. No arguments.’
‘Yes, Will,’ she said softly and closed her eyes.
* * *