Queen of Swords
Page 4

The Priest was watching her now, as she turned over cards and talked about them. He might be thinking about nothing more than what he would eat for his supper, or of changing his shirt, or there could be something very different brewing there.
It worried Moore, but Jennet was beyond fear. Dégre had already robbed her of everything of value.
“The Moon,” she said to Moore. “It shows itself often when you come to hear your cards read, sir. The moon is a guiding image for you, I think.”
“Aye,” he agreed, his small features bunched together in an attempt to convey sincerity. “And remind me then, Lady Jennet, what does it mean, the Moon card?”
“Inconstancy. Are you inconstant in your temperament, Mr. Moore?”
It was too much for him in his current state. He blinked at her owlishly, his mouth jerking at one corner as he tried to push himself up from the table, a puppet with tangled strings. Jennet gathered her cards together, waiting patiently for him to find his tongue and make it do his bidding. Later, it would be the expression on Moore’s face she recalled first when she thought about this night.
As he opened his mouth, the sound of a dozen rifles firing together tore the world in two. Moore fell forward onto the table, blood gushing from his mouth.
Jennet dropped to her knees and then pressed her face to the floor. The room was filled with screams and gunsmoke and tumbling bodies, glass shattering and the wind, rising suddenly; she heard it howling and howling as the idea presented itself, very clearly: She was about to die, and she had brought it upon herself. The next volley would find her, and she would die here on this filthy floor in this hell-begotten place and she would never see him again, never in this life.
A man was standing over her. Dégre, his face lost in shadow and still she saw his eyes, wild with rage. Blood dripping from his scalp onto his shoulder, running down his arm. He held out a hand to her, and it simply…fell apart in a mist of blood and flesh.
He stood for a moment looking at the raw meat that was his hand, baffled, it seemed by his expression, at this turn of events.
And then Luke was there, pressing a pistol to Dégre’s temple.
“Ah,” the false priest said calmly. “Scott. Come to claim the leftovers, eh?”
To Kit Wyndham it looked as though Dégre smiled, even as Scott’s pistol kicked and fired. The Priest’s knees folded, and he fell.
Lady Jennet was falling, too, collapsing so slowly that when Scott caught her it looked as though they were practicing a new dance step. His head came up and turned, his gaze raking over the destruction they had wrought.
“Hannah,” he said, holding out the woman. “Hannah, help me.”
In less than an hour it was all sorted: a dozen dead men piled up and rolled from the porch like so much driftwood. The ones who had been in the rooms off to the side with the women, all prisoners now, had been divided into groups. Some of them were digging graves; the rest were marched down to the cove.
Overhead the early morning sky was darkening, and a rough breeze made the palms sway.
One of the women yawned. There was a splatter of blood on her skirt and her eyes were dull with weariness, but she raised her face to the sky and smiled. Another woman sat with her feet swinging, leaning toward one of Scott’s men. His posture as he bent his head toward her was as obvious as a flag. Soldiers were as predictable as horses in their needs.
Kit rubbed the grit and gunpowder from his face and listened to what was going on in the corner where Scott crouched next to his half sister, the two of them a wall between the room and the woman.
Lady Jennet had come out of her faint and was weeping in Hannah’s arms, weeping as a woman weeps when she has lost the thing she loves most in the world.
“Jennet,” Hannah said, her tone firm but not harsh. “Jennet, calm yourself. You’re safe now. You are safe.”
Scott looked away. To Hannah he said, “I’ll go search the other rooms.”
“No,” Jennet said. Her head came up with a jerk. “No, don’t leave me. Luke, don’t go.”
What a gift that was to him. Scott couldn’t hide his relief.
“We have to be away,” he said to her, cupping her head in one hand. “Jennet, do you know where he kept the letters?”
She blinked, fresh tears coursing over her reddened face. “Letters?”
Hannah sent Scott a sidelong glance, one that told him to keep his silence. In a gentle voice she said, “The letters Dégre stole from you. The ones he threatened you with. We can’t leave them where someone else might find them. Where are they, Jennet?”
“The letters,” Jennet said. “Those letters. I burned them months ago.”
Scott made a sound that came up from his gut, as if he had been punched.
Hannah said, “The letters are destroyed? You burned them?”
“Aye, and he beat me bloody for it.” She might have been talking about a new hat, for all the emotion in her voice.
“He beat you.” Scott’s tone, so carefully modulated, took on a new tone, an underlying tremor. “Is that how the child died? He got a child on you and beat it out of you in a fury?”
She seemed to wake up at that, confusion giving way to understanding and then, more quickly, anger. A brightness came into her eyes, and Kit recognized her then as her father’s daughter.
Wyndham had first met Lady Jennet at the dinner table of the garrison commander at Île aux Noix, introduced to him only as a missionary’s widow working among the wounded prisoners. Then he had not seen her for who she was: a daughter of the fourth Earl of Carryck, and sister to the fifth of the line. She had taken pains to hide her connections, but now her bloodlines were etched on her face. In spite of all she had seen and done in this war, or maybe because of it.