The Tyrant Read Online Free Page A

were seen, you are properly in disgrace! And I also. This had best not be some poor joke, or—”
    The words died away as they came out of the deeper darkness of the trees and into a little clearing. Lascelles now lay with his back propped against a tree, and Sinclair crouched beside him, holding a decanter of wine he had evidently appropriated from the house. Carruthers checked, and stood rigidly still.
    With a twitching smile, Lascelles said weakly, “Now see … what I’ve done.”
    Two strides, and Carruthers was kneeling. Taking the trembling outstretched hand, he growled, “You blasted bentbrain! I might have known you’d get yourself into that miserable fiasco! Out with Charlie, were you?”
    â€œYes.” A glitter of slow and painful tears came into Lascelles’s eyes. “Until Culloden. Merry … if you’d seen that hell…!”
    â€œI did see it! I was there. Only through the grace of God we did not face each other over our sabres! Damn you, Lance! I could break your stupid neck!”
    â€œWell!” exclaimed Phoebe, indignant. “A fine way to talk to your friend! Can you not see the case he is in, sir? I’d think—”
    He interpolated savagely, “Then I suggest you do so, madam! Do you look forward to seeing your father’s head on a spike atop Temple Bar? Do you fancy they’d balk at meting out the same treatment to you? Or this young gallant who is, I take it, your brother?”
    Bristling, Sinclair said, “I am Sinclair Ramsay, Mr. Carruthers. And I think there is not the need to take that tone to my sister. If anyone is to be blamed, it is me. I am now and always have been for the Stuart Cause, and—”
    â€œAye. You’ve a Scots name and Scottish forbears, I fancy. Catholic?”
    â€œNo. Many of the Englishmen who supported Charles were Protestants, and are—”
    â€œAre dead, dying, racked, tortured, starving, hounded! Only look at this idiot!”
    Lascelles muttered, “You need not—feel obliged to … to help, Merry.” But in spite of his brave effort, despair showed in the ravaged face.
    Phoebe’s lip curled. “My brother and I will help you, Lieutenant Lascelles. We are not afraid!”
    â€œLascelles?” snapped Carruthers, shooting a disgusted look at her.
    The fugitive nodded wearily. “My fighting name.”
    â€œIt is vital he get to Salisbury, Mr. Carruthers,” Sinclair put in. “He said you live near there, so we thought—”
    â€œDid you, indeed? Paint me the scenario if you please, young Quixote. Am I to carry this silly clod on my back, perhaps? Haul him off in my carriage, to be discovered by the first troop of dragoons we encounter? And they are thick on the highways, I do assure you. Is the reason I came late to your party! Shall I tell my coachman to kindly look the other way while we carry off a traitor whose presence would ensure the lifting of his head—if we were lucky enough to be spared questioning, first? Damme, what folly!”
    â€œYes,” gritted Phoebe, yearning to claw him. “And folly you perpetuate! If you will not help your good friend as far as Salisbury, will you at least carry the Lieutenant to our basement so that I may tend his hurts? If it has escaped your notice while you worried for your coachman, he bleeds!”
    Carruthers stared at Lascelles in silence, then said grimly, “If I take him inside your house, ma’am, I place every member of your family in jeopardy. Are you willing to bear so terrible a responsibility?”
    A sick coldness clutched at Phoebe’s middle. She knew that Sinclair’s blue eyes were steady on her face and that he would abide by her decision. “He is a—a human being in need,” she quavered.
    â€œLord!” grunted Carruthers scornfully. “A female Good Samaritan, no less!” But he peeled off his elegant coat and