The Secret Night. Rebecca York
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pushed the little boat into the water. Then she climbed in, sat on the center seat and grabbed the oars, conveniently left ready in the oarlocks. It had been a long time since she’d rowed a boat, but it came back to her. She maneuvered the craft around, pointing the bow at the opposite bank, then began rowing in earnest, the oar tips digging deep into the dark water. As she pulled swiftly away from the shore, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Margaret running down the path—followed by two of the guards.
“Come back!” one of them shouted.
It was fully dark now, but the pole light at the end of the dock provided all the illumination necessary for her to see the man taking off his shoes and slacks. Oh, God, he was coming after her.
In the next instant, a volley of bullets sprayed the water, missing the boat by inches.
Emma cursed, wishing she had a weapon to defend herself. Ted, another of her stepfathers, had been big into self-protection, and he’d dragged them all, her mother included, to the shooting range on a regular basis. At the time she’d hated any suggestions that came from the creep, but she’d since come to appreciate knowing her way around firearms.
Not that the knowledge was doing her a bit of good right now. She’d been afraid to bring a gun with her to the Refuge. Which meant her only option was to row like hell until she was out of range—and hope the gunman’s aim didn’t improve.
She thought she must have succeeded when the shooting stopped. She breathed out a sigh of relief—then heard a splash that told her the guy who’d been stripping on the dock had plunged into the river.
In quick over-the-shoulder glances, she saw him swimming toward her—and catching up. Groaning, she forced her burning arm muscles to row faster until, finally, she was outpacing him. By the time she was three quarters of the way across the river, he gave up and turned around.
She muttered a prayer of thanks, knowing she wasn’t home free. For all she knew, Caldwell had people stationed on the other side of the river. All it would take was a call to a cell phone, and his goons could be waiting to snatch her when she landed. Even if the guards weren’t already in place, they could drive over the bridge a few miles upstream and still be there to catch her.
In all of her life, Emma had never been so frightened. With the palms of her hands blistering and her muscles screaming under the strain of pulling the oars, she rowed for her life—and for Margaret’s. She had come this far, had escaped Caldwell’s horribly misnamed Refuge, and she could damn well make it the rest of the way.
She had to make it. For herself and for Margaret.
A speedboat came racing up the river. It seemed to be heading directly toward her, and her whole body went rigid. What if it was full of Caldwell’s men? Or what if it rammed into her in the darkness? Either way, she’d be dead. As the speedboat came closer, she prepared to leap over the side of the rowboat.
When the larger craft sped by, she sagged in relief. She could hear people laughing and talking—vacationers, probably, or local residents out having fun on the river. For a minute or two, she slumped over the oars, breathing hard.
She wanted to curse at her sister for turning her in—for getting them both into this mess in the first place. But she knew it wasn’t Margaret’s fault. Her mind was like a sponge for Caldwell’s orders, and she was behaving as he had trained her to act. How long did Margaret have before her brain turned completely to mush? Was there a point beyond which she would be irrevocably lost?
Or would something even worse happen? Would Caldwell punish Margaret for her sister’s disobedience?
Emma straightened, her gaze fixed on the moonlit shoreline ahead. In her effort to save Margaret, had she, in fact, signed her twin’s death warrant?
Should she go back?
The rowboat had lost its forward momentum and was drifting with the current. She let it drift, while she sat caught in a storm of emotions more intense and painful than anything she’d experienced in a very long time.
She might have gone on sitting there, trapped by indecision, if a single thought hadn’t finally bubbled to the surface of the turmoil inside her head: Nicholas Vickers.
He would know what to do. He could help her save Margaret. She just had to find him and…and what? Tell him to don his armor, saddle his white charger and come to her rescue?
Emma snorted in self-disgust. How stupid could she be, pinning all her hopes on a stranger? She had no control over her subconscious, the irrational part of her that had turned Vickers into her ideal man—Sir Galahad and the perfect lover rolled into one. But common sense and experience told her that he would turn out to be just a regular, ordinary guy, nothing special. If she was lucky—and it was a big “if”—he wouldn’t be a complete jerk. And he would help her.
She needed help. That much was crystal clear. Desire and determination weren’t enough. She lacked the skills and training necessary to free Margaret, willing or not, from Caldwell and his guards. If Nicholas Vickers wouldn’t lend his expertise to her cause, she’d have to find someone else who would.
Meanwhile, she could only pray that Margaret had bought herself some favorable treatment by trying to abort her sister’s escape attempt and by refusing to go with her.
Feeling marginally better for having come to a decision, Emma took note of the rowboat’s position. The shore was only a couple of hundred yards away—a good thing, since her arms and shoulders felt like rubber. It occurred to her, though, that enough time had passed that Caldwell’s goons could well be waiting to pick her up when she landed.
She allowed the boat to drift past several docks belonging to large estates. Finally, when she thought she’d gone far enough downstream, she gathered what was left of her strength, rowed the rest of the way to shore and climbed out.
She started to pull the boat onto the beach, then hesitated, realizing she might as well post a sign that read This is Where Emma Birmingham Landed. She should probably sink the boat. Or she could use it as a decoy.
Giving the boat a shove, she pushed it into the water again, wading in to give it another good shove, then watching as the current grabbed it and took it away. With a little luck, it would serve to throw the Refuge guards off her trail. They might even think she’d drowned.
Exhausted and bedraggled, she looked around to get her bearings.
In front of her was a scraggly wood, full of underbrush, but a little way to the right lay a wide expanse of well-tended lawn. And on that lawn, set well back from the river, was a very large house with lights showing in many of its windows. Maybe the people inside would help her.
Or shoot her as an intruder. Or set the family Rottweilers on her. That, she thought, would really be the final straw.
Yet if she walked to the road, Caldwell’s men could be waiting to scoop her up.
She swiped a hand through her hair and sighed. Given the choices, she decided, the house was the lesser of the evils. She started toward it, but she hadn’t trudged more than twenty feet when a large, masculine hand clamped down on her shoulder.
She opened her mouth to scream—but she didn’t have the chance. The man’s other hand clamped itself firmly over her mouth.
Chapter Three
Emma twisted in her captor’s arms. Shooting out a foot, she caught him in the shin and was gratified to hear him grunt. But he didn’t let her go. She managed another kick, and he muttered a curse.
“Take it easy,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Like hell. She kept struggling and pounding him with all her strength, determined to go down fighting.
“If you’ve escaped from Caldwell’s estate, I’m on your side,” he puffed. “So stop trying to do me bodily harm.”
When she kept fighting, his voice took on an urgent note. “I’ll trust you, if you trust me. I’ll take