LILY STUMBLED AT the sound, entirely forgetting both Cecily and pompous Pimberly, forgetting her play and everything else, really, and simply stared.
Caliban was laughing.
Deep and full, a masculine laugh, his shaggy head thrown back, eyes closed in mirth and crinkling at the corners, straight white teeth flashing. He wore a white shirt topped by a brown waistcoat missing two buttons. The sleeves were rolled to just below his elbows, revealing strong brown forearms lightly sprinkled with dark hair. His breeches were grayed black and over his worn shoes he wore stained buff gaiters. A red kerchief was tied loosely at his neck and he’d wrapped a wide leather belt around his waist to hold his pruning knife. She’d seen innumerable laborers in her lifetime, but she’d never really looked at them. Now she gazed her fill at Caliban and thought how terribly, awfully appealing he was: physically strong, yet able to critique her play, and with a sense of humor to boot. He was so much more than a simple laborer.
But that thought was followed quickly by another: if he could laugh, then why could he not speak? She felt rather stunned, watching the strong cords of his throat work as he laughed. It made no sense to her, for surely he was using his voice to laugh?
He opened his eyes, his laughter dying, as he met her gaze, and Lily realized that she’d stepped closer to him in her fascination. She stood almost touching him, his heat, his masculinity like a magnet to her. He dipped his head, watching her, traces of his amusement lingering on his face. She couldn’t help it: she reached out and touched his face, her fingertips running lightly down his lean cheek, feeling the catch of invisible stubble. He was so hot, so alive. She stood on tiptoe, her hand slipping to the back of his neck, beneath the wild tumble of his brown hair, to pull his homely face down to hers. She just wanted to see, to capture some of that vitality and find out if it tasted as sharp as it looked.
She was so absorbed, in fact, that the male voice, when it came from behind her, nearly startled her out of her skin.
“I’ve come to bring you back.”
She jumped, whirling to see who had invaded their Eden, but she wasn’t as fast as Caliban.
He shoved her to the side—not gently—and charged the stranger. Caliban’s head was down, massive shoulders bunched like a bull’s. He caught the other man about the middle, his momentum sending both men skidding to the ground, the stranger on the bottom. Caliban growled, slamming his fist at the stranger. But the other man was swift, pulling his head to the side and avoiding what surely might’ve been a disabling blow.
The stranger was in his prime, dressed all in black, wearing his own dark hair pulled back into a braided queue. A tricorn hat had been knocked from his head and she saw that a walking stick had also fallen to the side.
“Stop!” she cried, but neither man paid her the least mind. “Stop!”
The stranger wrapped one leg over Caliban’s, heaving to displace him, but the mute must’ve outweighed him by a couple stone or more. Caliban, meanwhile, hit the man repeatedly in the side, each blow earning him a grunt of pain from his adversary.
Metal flashed between them, and Caliban reared back, grabbing for something. Oh, dear God, the other man had a pistol! Both men had a hand on it. They strained in ghastly embrace, each trying to turn the barrel to the other’s face. The stranger’s fist shot out and struck Caliban square in the jaw. His head whipped to the side with the blow, but he didn’t let go of the awful pistol. Lily wavered, afraid to venture nearer, afraid to leave the scene. She wanted to help, but couldn’t think how. If she tried to strike the other man, she’d merely interfere with Caliban—and any distraction could prove fatal.
A flash and a horrific bang.
Lily screamed, half-crouching in reaction, her hands over her ears.
She started forward, afraid she’d see blood—afraid to see Caliban’s dynamic face rendered slack by death—but the men were still struggling. Somehow the shot had missed them both.
“Mama?”
Indio’s voice was high and scared, his eyes fixed on the men wrestling on the ground. Lily thought her heart would beat right out of her breast. She flew to her son, catching him up in her arms even though she hadn’t carried Indio for years. She turned with him clutched to her chest, in time to see the stranger draw a second pistol. Caliban grabbed the other man’s wrist and glanced up, as if searching for her.
Their eyes met, and she didn’t know what he saw in hers, but his face was distorted in a scowl, his visage warlike and grim.
A man like this could kill, she thought, somewhere in the back of her mind where she was still sane. I should be afraid of a man like this.
Then he jerked his chin, sharply, and the message was clear: he wanted her and Indio gone.
A better woman might’ve stayed, might’ve argued or in some way helped him, but evidently she wasn’t that better woman.
Lily turned and fled, stumbling, sobbing, clutching Indio.
And as she did she heard the second shot.
Chapter Six
So the king took the baby and walled him up in an impenetrable labyrinth at the center of the island. There the monster lived and grew, unseen by any human. But on certain nights there could be heard a mournful lowing such as a bull might make, and on those nights the people of the island shivered and shuttered their windows…
—From The Minotaur
Trevillion stared up into Kilbourne’s bloodied face and knew he was about to die of hubris.
The first pistol shot had missed Kilbourne completely, the second had bloodied his thick skull but hadn’t seemed to slow the man down at all. Maybe nothing would. Maybe Kilbourne was like some mindless beast, driven into a killing rage, unfeeling of any pain.
It was pure, stubborn hubris for a cripple to come after a fully capable man—especially a man as large and muscled as Kilbourne. Hubris to announce his presence to his quarry instead of disabling him first.
Hubris to think he was the man he’d been before the accident.
Trevillion continued to struggle, even though he’d discharged both pistols, his leg was screaming, and he had no hope of overpowering Kilbourne. He might be a prideful bastard, but he was a stubborn prideful bastard and if this was to be his last hour, then by damn, he’d go down fighting.
Kilbourne’s forearm was across his throat, pressing down, stealing the air from his lungs. In the giant’s other fist was a hideously curved knife. Trevillion expected to feel the hooked blade sinking into his skull at any moment.
Black spots floated in Trevillion’s vision and he wished viciously that he’d drawn both his pistols before he’d called to Kilbourne. He’d’ve at least had the chance to shoot when the big man charged. He’d worried about the woman getting caught by a shot, though…