Ellen didn’t have breath left to shriek. She skidded to a halt; just avoiding Hardcastle’s grasping fingers, she pivoted and plunged back under the lychgate. Praying that Christopher and Toby had by now reached the end of the tunnel—that they had, in fact, followed Hardcastle as per their plan—she raced straight ahead, desperately making for the west end of the church.
The graveyard lay to the east; she hoped to lead Hardcastle back to where he’d emerged from the grave.
She was perhaps ten feet ahead as she ran along the path parallel to the nave on the south side of the church—and she’d been right. She was faster than he was on the flat; he wasn’t gaining on her.
She risked a glance back, saw his features contorted with fury, and promptly faced forward again.
Her breath sawing in her lungs, a stitch starting in her side, she rounded the northeast corner of the church and looked toward the open grave.
She nearly sobbed with relief when she saw Christopher standing beside it and Toby climbing out.
She didn’t have breath left to call; she gasped and rushed on. Christopher heard her footsteps and, instantly alert, swung her way.
His eyes widened as she staggered into his arms.
“Hardcastle!” She managed to wave behind her—just as the publican came roaring around the corner.
Ellen found herself thrust at Toby; he grabbed her arms and dragged her aside.
She twisted to look back and saw Hardcastle skid to a halt.
His eyes wild, Hardcastle raked the scene. He took in Christopher, who was quickly circling to block Hardcastle from fleeing to the south.
“Stay there!” Toby pushed Ellen down to sit on the top of an undisturbed grave.
She was too winded to argue and, struggling to catch her breath, all but wilted on the grave top.
Toby stalked forward between the graves, together with Christopher slowly closing in on Hardcastle.
Ellen heard footsteps and voices approaching as the watchers in the wood came running.
Hardcastle saw them. He was trapped and about to be taken.
He snarled, reached into his jacket, and whipped out a long, wicked-looking knife.
The sight of it—Ellen was pleased to note—caused Christopher and Toby to pause and take stock.
Then they started forward again, moving to trap Hardcastle between them.
Horrified, Ellen sat up. Her eyes felt as round as they could get as she watched Hardcastle swing the knife point first toward Toby, then toward Christopher.
Back and forth, Hardcastle went, then he lunged at Toby, but it was a feint.
Hardcastle swung and flung himself at Christopher—who was standing between him and his only possible route to freedom.
Faster than Ellen had thought possible, Christopher sidestepped, flung up his forearm, pushing aside the knife, and jabbed a vicious punch into Hardcastle’s chest.
Hardcastle huffed and staggered.
Christopher tripped him and helped him on with a two-handed shove.
The publican went sprawling, plowing almost headfirst into the side of a monument.
Stretched full-length, Hardcastle abruptly deflated; he lay facedown between two graves, plainly struggling to breathe, while the men from the wood ran up.
Granger had brought rope. He and the other watchers swiftly tied Hardcastle’s hands, then hauled the man—still wheezing—to his feet and dragged him toward the woods and the horses.
Toby called back two of the grooms, and together with Christopher, they slid the top stone over the open grave, sealing the tunnel once more.
Straightening, Christopher and Toby dusted their hands. The grooms, dismissed, hurried to catch up with their fellows.
Toby glanced at Christopher, then at Ellen, still seated on the monument where Toby had left her. He grinned and saluted her. “That was quick thinking.”
She huffed, still faintly breathless. “Just as well I’d dropped back in the woods and was close enough to hear him open the grave.” She looked out across the village green. “It seems no one else heard my shrieking.”
“Indeed.” Toby exchanged a glance with Christopher, who remained distinctly tight-lipped. “Despite our plans taking an odd turn, it seems we’ve succeeded in securing both Hardcastle and the notes.” With his head, he indicated the package, lying in the grass near the graveyard wall, and started for it. “I’ll take this back to the manor, along with Hardcastle.” He bent and picked up the package, then looked at Christopher and Ellen. “We’ll get him settled in the manor’s cellar, then we can see what he has to say.”
Christopher managed a terse nod. “I’ll see you back there.”
Ellen looked from Toby to Christopher, then back at Toby. “I’ll be there, too.”
Toby waved, stepped over the low wall, and headed off after the other men.
Ellen swung to face Christopher and leveled a distinctly challenging look at his uninformative, not to say stony, visage. “I believe that as I was instrumental in apprehending the man, I have a right to be present and hear what he says.”
Christopher stared at her. Inside, a whirlwind of emotions and fears raged, buffeting him and rattling the very foundations of his control. Eroding it.
He stalked toward her; as if from a distance, he heard himself ask, “How did you come to be chased by Hardcastle?”
She pushed off the monument and rose to her feet. “I saw him come up out of the grave—I realized you and Toby would be following him, but then he bent to push the stone back into place. I had to distract him, so I marched out and upbraided him about desecrating a grave, but he wasn’t going to wait meekly until you came, and the others were too far away, so I asked him if the package contained counterfeit notes. He picked up the package and came for me, but I knew I was faster than he was, so”—she shrugged—“I shrieked and ran, and of course, he followed.”
He frowned. “How far did you run?”
She pointed. “Along the wall to the lychgate, through it, but then he leapt over the wall and nearly caught me, and I pelted back around the church”—she transcribed the route with her finger—“and around to here, and thankfully, you and Toby had arrived.” She blinked at him, her gaze untroubled, as if such a performance was commonplace and not to be wondered at.
Christopher felt something inside him rupture. He seized her arms, held her before him, and exploded in the equivalent of an icy roar, “Don’t you ever— ever—put yourself in danger like that again!”
Her level gaze turned to a glare. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard!” He couldn’t seem to rein in the force that was driving him; he met her glare for sizzling glare. “You must not, ever again, put yourself in danger.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because…” He gritted his teeth against the words, but they forced themselves through. “I can’t bear it.”
Because I’ve fallen in love with you.
But he couldn’t say that. Instead, he ground out, “Not here, not now—not on my watch.” He saw anger cloud her eyes, only to be dissipated by suspicion. One part of him prayed she would guess all he hadn’t said, while the rest of him cringed at the possibility.
Her lips had set as if she was about to hotly argue, but now, the luscious curves eased, and she tipped her head and eyed him assessingly. After another moment of searching his eyes, she drew in a short breath and said, “You have to understand that I find this”—she waved a hand between them—“quite odd. No one has ever really worried about me—I’m the one who worries about everyone else.” She paused, then, her gaze still locked with his, evenly said, “I really can’t see why you’re so upset. I’m safe, you’re safe, Toby’s safe, and everything has turned out as we wished.”