Chapter 14 - The Edge of the Abyss
Alister moved before the glass had finished shattering. He pushed Abigail and Clara down to the carriage floorboards, shielding them completely with his own broad body.
"Stay down!" he ordered, his voice ringing with absolute, unyielding authority.
Outside, the coach lurched violently as the driver whipped the horses forward along the narrow cliff ledge. Through the broken window, Alister saw a lone figure on a foam-flecked black horse charging down the parallel sheep path from the cliff top—Captain Vance, his coat soaked in blood, his face twisted in desperate madness.
Vance raised a second pistol, aiming directly through the broken window at Abigail.
"If I swing from the gibbet, Countess," Vance shrieked above the howling gale, "you'll rot in hell before me!"
Alister didn't hesitate. Drawing the long-barreled cavalry pistol from his leather coat, he leaned out the window into the lashing gale. He did not aim for the man’s chest; he aimed with cold, calculated precision at the horse’s front leg.
The gun roared. The ball struck the beast’s knee, and the charging horse collapsed instantly, somersaulting into the rocks. Vance was thrown violently through the air, crashing onto the narrow road twenty yards ahead of the Duke's carriage.
The driver hauled back on the reins with all his strength, the carriage skidding sideways across the wet shale, stopping barely ten feet from the cliff's edge, where the drop plummeted two hundred feet straight down into the raging surf.
Higgins and the guards brought their horses around in a defensive circle, weapons drawn.
Vance lay in the dirt, his leg shattered, his cutlass thrown clear into the heather. He dragged himself backward against a boulder, coughing blood, his wild eyes fixing on the Duke as Alister stepped down from the carriage.
Alister did not draw a sword. He walked toward the fallen mercenary with the terrible, calm deliberation of an executioner. His face was devoid of fury; there was only an icy, lethal stillness that terrified Vance more than any shout could have done.
"Who hired you?" Alister asked, his voice cutting through the roar of the sea.
Vance spat blood onto the gravel. "Go to the devil, Your Grace."
Alister drew his second pistol, thumbing back the heavy flintlock hammer with an audible, chilling *click*, resting the cold muzzle against the center of Vance’s forehead.
"You shot at my wife," Alister said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "You endangered my child. You have ten seconds before I scatter your brains into the North Sea. Who holds the warrants in Edinburgh?"
Vance felt the ice of the steel against his skin, and the bravado dissolved into raw, trembling terror. "MacIntyre!" he gasped, his voice cracking. "Duncan MacIntyre... the advocate! He has the forged deeds... he meets Cavendish's continental agents tonight at the Signet Library in Parliament Square... to register the fraudulent transfer before the court opens tomorrow!"
"And what was your part?"
"To hold the Countess hostage until she signed the renunciation... or kill you both on the pass!" Vance sobbed, his hands clawing at the dirt. "Mercy, Your Grace! I was only a hired sword!"
Alister lowered the pistol, his disgust evident. "Higgins."
"Sir!"
"Bind him across his horse’s saddle. When Colonel Maitland’s detachment catches up, deliver this wretch to the magistrates in Berwick. He will stand trial for attempted murder and high treason."
Alister turned on his heel, walking back to the carriage. The tension that had held his soldiers rigid eased slightly, though Higgins kept a wary eye on the ridgeline.
As Alister stepped into the carriage, Abigail looked up from the floor where she was still holding Clara tightly in her embrace. Her hair was windswept, her dress dusted with wood splinters, but her eyes were clear, steady, and filled with an unbreakable courage.
"He spoke of MacIntyre?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," Alister said, reaching down to lift Clara into his arms, checking the child over with tender care before pulling Abigail up beside him. "The snake is attempting to slip into the registry tonight under cover of darkness. He knows that once the Court of Session sits in the morning, our Chancery decree will nullify his forged papers forever."
"Then we do not wait for morning," Abigail said, her jaw setting with the fierce determination of a Ravenscroft defending her birthright. "We ride straight to Edinburgh. We confront MacIntyre at the Signet Library before he can file a single page."
Alister looked at her, his heart swelling with an admiration that surpassed words. "You would ride through the night, after this?"
"I have spent two years running from these men, Alister," Abigail said, reaching out to clasp his hand, her ring cold against his fingers but her touch burning with resolve. "I will not sleep while they try to steal my father’s legacy from under our feet. We take Edinburgh tonight."
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Clara reached up, patting her father’s arm with a small, resolute nod of her own. "We are brave, Papa. Miss Abigail says Wentworths never run away."
A soft, fierce laugh broke from Alister’s throat. He pulled both of them against his chest, kissing Clara’s forehead and then pressing his lips to Abigail’s temple. "No, my sweet girl. Wentworths do not run. We attack."