Both highwaymen were too busy trying to control their mounts to pay any attention to the coach as it sped off around the bend.
"What in the name of all that's holy was that?" the first villain shouted.
"It's that wolf the woman at the inn talked about," the second yelled.
"There is no bloody wolf. It's a damned fairy tale, I tell ye."
Leo whistled once. Elf sprang from the undergrowth. He leaped toward the first highwayman, lips drawn back, fangs gleaming.
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"Shoot him," the first man cried. "Kill him, for God's sake."
Leo managed to wrest his spare pistol out of the pocket inside his cloak. He aim&d and fired in a single motion.
The bullet caught the second highwayman in the thigh just as he leveled his pistol at Elf. The man yelled and toppled from his horse. He sprawled on the ground, clutching his wounded leg.
The first man finally lost the struggle to control his mount. He slid sideways to the ground. Elf leaped toward him.
,, Elf," Leo said. "Guard."
The hound came to a halt. He stood over the fallen man, growling softly.,
A strange silence descended on the scene. Leo tried to shake off the unpleasant, light-headed sensation that threatened to creep over him. He was aware of dampness in the vicinity of his burning shoulder.
On the ground, the first highwayman took his terrified gaze off Elf long enough to flick a quick, desperate glance at Leo.
"They told us at the inn-" He broke off to lick his lips. "They said that the Mad Monk guarded only Monkcrest lands."
"They got it wrong," Leo said. "The Mad Monk takes care of his own. And that includes his guests. Last night you attempted to rob a lady who was on her way to Monkcrest. Tonight you paid for that mistake." .
"Bloody'ell." The highwayman crumpled back onto the ground in despair. I knew that the woman was trouble the moment I saw her."
0 Q ler
4
A most dangerous pact with a man who might yet
prove to be the devil himself.
FROM CHApTER FouR oF The Ruin BY MRs. AmELiA YORK
I o ride back through the watched Le
abbey gates. A deep curiosity had kept her awake at her chilly post in front of the window. She knew she would not sleep until she discovered where he had gone and what he had done. The man and the mystery compelled her in a manner she could not explain.
She knew at once that something was wrong. The huge stallion did not canter back into the yard. The beast walked at a steady, even pace. Elf trotted alongside, tongue lolling. Moonlight glinted on the metal studs in his leather collar.
Leo was upright in the saddle, but he swayed slightly, as if exhausted.
The stallion came to a halt and stood quietly. Elf
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bounded up the steps to the door and barked once in a demanding fashion.
Leo started to dismount. But he paused abruptly in the middle of the fluid, practiced movement. He clutched his shoulder.
Alarmed, Beatrice watched as he slowly kicked his booted feet free of the stirrups and slid gingerly off the horse.
Safely on the ground, he kept his footing, but Beatrice saw him grip the edge of the saddle to steady himself. As if he sensed her watching, he glanced up at her window.
She stepped quickly back from the glass, whirled, picked up a candle, and hurried toward the door. Whatever Leo had been about, he had managed to injure himself in the process. She wondered if he had been thrown from his horse.
But that possibility left the most important question unanswered. What had lured the Mad Monk of Monkcrest out in the first place?
She made her way to the top of the staircase just as voices rumbled up from the hall.
"Stop fussing, Finch. The bastard only singed me a bit. I'll live. It was my own bloody damn fault."
"M'lord, I must take the liberty of telling you that at your age a man really ought to cut back on excessive excitement." "Thank you for the advice," Leo said in tones that would have frozen the fires of hell.
"Sir, you are bleeding. The wound must be bandaged." "For God's sake, man, keep your voice down. We don't want to awaken Mrs. Poole. She would demand explanations from now until sunrise."
"Yes," Beatrice said as she came down the steps. "Mrs. Poole will most certainly demand some answers. What in heaven's name is going on here? As a guest in this household, I have a right to an explanation."
Leo groaned at the sound of her voice. He did not turn
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around. "Damnation. One would think I'd had my share of bad luck tonight."
Beatrice reached the bottom step. "What is wrong with your arm, Monkcrest?"
He paused at the door of the library and looked at her over his uninjured shoulder. In the glow of the hall lamp his saturnine features appeared even more forbidding than they had earlier in the evening. Pain and bad temper had fused into a dangerous flame in his eyes.
"There is nothing wrong with my shoulder, Mrs. Poole." "Rubbish." She set the candle down on a table and crossed the hall to where he stood. "That is blood on your cloak, is it not?"
"I recommend that you go back to your bed, madam." "Don't be absurd. You require assistance."
"Finch will deal with my shoulder." Leo stalked into the library. Elf hovered close on his heels, whining softly. Finch hurried after him. "Really, m1ord, this sort
of thing must cease. It was one thing when you were a young man of twenty, but quite another now that you're forty. "
"I am not yet forty,' Leo growled.
"As near as makes little difference." Finch lit a lamp and rekindled the fire.
Beatrice stood in the doorway. "I have had some experience with this sort of thing, Finch. Please bring clean linen and hot water."
"Ignore her, Finch." Leo sank wearily down onto a stool in front of the hearth. "If you value your position in this household, you will pay no heed to Mrs. Poole."
Beatrice assumed her most reassuring smile and turned it full force on Finch. "His lordship is not himself at the moment. Do as I say. Quickly, please."
Finch hesitated briefly and then appeared to come to a decision. "I shall return in a moment, madam." He rushed off in the direction of the kitchens.
Beatrice walked briskly into the library. Elf rested his head on Leo's knee and watched her with an intent gaze.
"Let me see your shoulder, sir."
Leo glowered at her. "Do you always get your own way, Mrs. Poole?"
"When the matter is sufficiently important to me, I insist upon it." She eased the cloak off his shoulder and tossed it aside.
Leo clenched his jaw but he did not resist. Beatrice caught her breath when she saw the blood on his white linen shirt.
"Dear heaven."
"If you intend to faint, Mrs. Poole, kindly do it somewhere else. In my present state, I don't think I can catch you.-
"I have never fainted in my life." She was relieved to see that the red stain had already begun to dry. "You are fortunate. The bleeding appears to have nearly stopped. I shall need a pair of scissors to cut the shirt away from the wound."
"In my desk. Top right drawer." Leo reached for the brandy bottle with his right hand. "What experience?"
She went quickly to the desk. "I beg your pardon?" "You told Finch you'd had some experience with this sort of thing." He splashed brandy into a glass, tossed it down in a single swallow, and refilled his glass. "Considering the fact that you have forced me into the role of your patient, I think I have a right to know the extent of your medical expertise."
"MY father was a vicar before he retired." Beatrice opened the drawer and found the scissors. "My mother was, of course, a vicar's wife."
"Meaning?" Beatrice started toward him with the scissors. "She took her responsibilities very seriously. She not only in-
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volved herself in acts of charity, she frequently assisted the village doctor and the midwife."
"And she taught you what she learned?" Leo eyed the scissors warily.
"When I was old enough, I accompanied her whenever she was called out to attend the sick or injured." Beatrice clipped the shirt away from the wound with swift, careful movements. "I naturally learned a great deal."
"Your mother is, I take it, the irritating sort who devotes herself to good works?"
Beatrice smiled slightly. "My mother, sir, is the sort who takes command of whatever project she feels requires her attention. If she had not married my father, I expect she would have busied herself giving advice to Wellington during the war.'
"You have obviously inherited her talent for assuming command." He drew a sharp breath as she peeled away the last of the linen. "Have a care, madam. That shoulder has already suffered enough tonight."
She surveyed the raw, red crease, relieved to note that it was superficial. "I have seen one or two bullet wounds." "You appear to have led an adventurous life, Mrs. Poole."
"They were the result of hunting accidents. Such injuries can be quite nasty. But in this case the ball appears to have merely grazed you on its way past. Had it struck you a couple of inches lower-"
"I had some warning." He turned his head to examine his shoulder. "I told you it was not serious."
"Any injury such as this can become serious if it is not properly attended."
Finch loomed in the doorway. "The fresh linen and water you requested, madam."
"Bring them here, please. Then you may fetch his lordship a clean shirt."
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"Yes, madam." Finch set the tray down on a table and hurried away once more.
"Poor Finch," Leo muttered. "I fear he'll never be the man he once was. You have quite vanquished him, Mrs. Poole."
"Nonsense. He is simply displaying common sense, which is more than I can say for you, sir."
Beatrice put aside the scissors and reached for the brandy decanter.
Leo looked grimly amused. "Do you need to fortify yourself for the task, Mrs. Poole?"
"I do not intend to drink the stuff, sir. Brace yourself." She poured the spirits into the open wound before he guessed her intention.
Leo sucked in his breath. "Damnation. Waste of good brandy."
"My mother believes very strongly in the value of cleansing wounds with stout spirits." Beatrice set the bottle aside. "She got the idea from one of the books in my father's library.'
"Where do your parents live?"
"They have retired to a pleasant little cottage in Hampshire. Papa has his books and his rose garden. Mama has organized a school for the local village children. She is a great believer in the value of an education."
"Tell me, Mrs. Poole, are your parents aware that you interest yourself in such pastimes as investigating murders and searching for dangerous antiquities?"
"I have not as yet had an opportunity to write to them about my current project." Beatrice trimmed the linen bandage. "But I shall get around to it after I have resolved the matter."
"I see." He watched morosely as she tied the ends of the linen. "Will they be surprised to learn of your activities?" "I'm sure they will understand that under the circum-
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T h i s R i n g
stances I had no choice but to search out Uncle Reggie's murderer and recover Arabella's inheritance."
"Naturally. All in a day's work for a reader of horrid novels, eh, Mrs. Poole?"
"One does what one must."
Leo grunted and took a mouthful of brandy. "How long have you been a widow, Mrs. Poole?"
She was startled by the question. Then she realized that Leo was no doubt attempting to focus his attention on something other than the pain of his wound.
"I was married for three years, sir. I have been widowed for five."
"At what age were you wed?" "One-and-twenty." "So you are now twenty-nine?"
"Yes." She wondered where this was all going. "Damn near thirty."
"Indeed, sir." She tugged very firmly on the bandage. He gritted his teeth and took another swallow of brandy. "Any desire to remarry?"
"None." Beatrice smiled coolly. "Once a woman has known the metaphysical perfection of the most harmonious kunion possible between a man and a woman, once she has
tasted the ambrosia of physical, spiritual, and intellectual communication with her true soul mate, she can never be content with anything less."
"That good, was it?'
"It was perfection, my lord."
"Until your husband died," he pointed out.
"Perfection can never last. But one goes on with life knowing that one has been privileged to love, as few people ever are." She paused briefly in the process of adjusting the bandage. "I feel certain that you understand. I have heard that your own marriage was also quite extraordinary."
"She was a paragon of grace and beauty," he said very
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steadily. "She was faithful, gentle, and a loving mother to my sons. No man could ask for more from any woman. She had the face and temperament of an angel."
For some reason, Beatrice's heart plummeted at that news. She managed a polite smile. "You were fortunate, sir." He hoisted the brandy glass in a small salute. "Just as
you were, Mrs. Poole. As you said, so few ever know true love, even for a short while. 1, too, have no wish to dim the bright flames of memory by contracting a second marriage that could never equal the first."
"Indeed." Beatrice did not like the brooding quality that had crept into his tone. She struggled to find something bracing to say. "Perhaps it is for the best. As we have both learned from our own tragedies, a great love may command a great price."
"You know, Mrs. Poole, you sound exactly like a character in one of those horrid novels we discussed yesterday."
"Then we are even, sir." She picked up the scissors and clipped the end of the bandage. "You bear a striking resemblance to a character in one of those novels yourself, what with all this dashing about at midnight and getting shot."
"Bloody hell. Maybe Finch is right. Perhaps I am getting too old for this kind of thing."