A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(54)

“So,” he said, “this . . . Grubb and Carmichael, was it . . . wanted the glory for themselves?”

“That’s how I see it.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” He nodded. “Very astute. But you know, you probably shouldn’t have told me their names.”

The younger man’s eyes went wide. He cursed unimaginatively.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure Grubb and Carmichael won’t kill you.”

He waved the pistol at Colin. “Don’t . . . don’t . . . don’t you say those names again.”

“Well, it’s not like I can just forget them, is it?”

The young man pushed to his feet. “You’ll forget them if I shoot you.”

“But then you’d be in a very bad situation. Once Grubb, Carmichael, and this boss of yours come back and find you’ve killed their valuable hostage?” Colin whistled low. “You’d not be long for this world then.”

The robber’s hands started to tremble. “I didn’t agree to this. I was just supposed to be lookout, while they done the robbing.”

“No,” Colin said smoothly. “Of course you wouldn’t agree to this. Kidnapping a peer of the realm? That’s not like you.”

“It’s not, is it? I only wanted a few bob to take my sweetheart to the fair.”

“Buy her a trinket, slide a hand under her skirts . . .”

“Exactly.”

Colin paused. “I’ll tell you what. These boots I’m wearing? They’ll fetch a tidy sum in any city. If you untie me, you can have them. Run off, make your money, take your sweetheart to the fair. When the law comes looking for Grubb and Carmichael—and mark my words, they will hang—you’ll be long gone. Forgotten. I don’t even know your name.”

The youth eyed him warily, slowly approaching. “I have a better idea. Mayhap I’ll just take your boots. And then I’ll leave you here.”

A sliver of fear pierced Colin in some vital artery. His composure bled from the wound in gasping spurts. Just the image of being left alone, tied to a tree . . . with night coming, eventually . . .

He could have begged the man to shoot him dead.

Instead, he closed his eyes.

Stay calm. This was what you wanted. What you knew he’d do.

Still holding the gun with one hand, the youth began tugging at Colin’s left boot with the other.

“You’ll never get it off that way,” Colin said, forcing a nonchalant tone despite the sweat trickling down his back. “You may as well set aside the gun. There’s nothing I can do, trussed like this.”

After a few more moments of struggling, the robber swore and did as Colin suggested, setting the pistol to the side and wrestling the boot with both hands. At last, it slid free with a whooshing sound.

Casting the first boot aside, he started to work on the other.

“Slowly, now,” Colin joked. “Have a care for my aging joints.”

In actuality, he cared nothing for his joints. He was wagering everything on the hope of that small folding knife secreted in his right boot. If the thing slid free where he could see it . . . and if his captor didn’t notice it . . . and if he could somehow manage to get the knife into his hands . . . in a matter of minutes, he could cut himself free.

But if any one of those things went wrong, he’d remain tied here. For only the Devil knew how long. Until night, most likely. Until the dark descended, thick with ominous rustling. Until thirst and hunger became animate demons, tasked with his ceaseless torment.

Until the wild dogs came.

Jesus. Please, God, no.

His heartbeat thundered in his chest.

As the youth lifted his leg and tugged on the boot, Colin flexed his leg muscle, pulling the boy close. He had to keep that knife within reach when it fell. If the thing went flying when the boot came off . . .

“Easy,” he said through gritted teeth. He could feel the boot starting to give way.

Crack. A faint snap in the undergrowth drew his attention.

His captor didn’t notice the sound. He was too absorbed in his struggles with the boot. But Colin slid his gaze to the side, and what he saw there stalled his pounding heart.

Minerva.

Minerva Highwood, in her governess-blue traveling gown, slowly emerging from the undergrowth. Creeping toward them with all the stealth of a cat, intent on grabbing the discarded pistol. She put a finger to her pursed lips, gesturing for Colin’s silence.

Colin made his eyes wide. No, he mouthed. No. Go back.

She crept closer still. Her foot snapped a branch.

This time, the robber noticed. His head whipped up, swiveling toward Minerva.

With a vicious growl, Colin gathered his strength and kicked him in the face. Scissoring his legs, Colin caught the man by the throat. He had him stunned and caught off guard. But he wouldn’t be able to hold him long.

“Get the pistol,” he managed.

As Minerva dove to retrieve the weapon, Colin tightened his legs about the highwayman’s neck.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his voice strained with effort. “You’re thinking that she’s just an innocent miss with spectacles. That she can’t possibly know how to fire that weapon. But you’re wrong. She’s had training.” He raised his voice. “Min, show him. Shoot that birch tree over there.”