Free Desire Me by Robyn DeHart Page B

immortal.
    Horses’ hooves sounded off in the distance, and his own mount stomped in response. He ran his hand down the mare’s neck to
     calm her. Slowly he slid from the saddle, then tied her loosely to a tree. He retrieved a halved apple from his pack and held
     it out to her. Her whiskers tickled his palm as she took the treat.
    The frigid night breeze bit into the exposed flesh on his ears and face. He would have been far warmer enclosed in his carriage,
     but he couldn’t afford to have another witness. Already he had the other driver to be concerned about. Now carriage wheels
     rumbled closer and closer to his hiding place.
    He made his way to the middle of the road and withdrew his pistol. Aiming it straight at the approaching carriage, he held
     his stance. Though the dark of night was beginning to settle, light from the horizon still illuminated enough of the sky for
     him to see the surprised and fearful expression of the driver. The man made an effort to swerve, but at the last minute, he
     pulled the reins, and the horses skidded to a stop inches from Spencer. The steeds stomped restlessly.
    He’d made a mistake at the last killing with that servant girl. Having extra bodies for the authorities would only sully his
     message. He could not afford to indulge himself so carelessly again.
    With purposeful steps, he made his way to the driver, never lowering his gun. “Run,” he told him. And the driver made no delay
     in doing precisely that.
    “What the devil…” One of the men from the interior opened the door and sputtered when he saw the gun aimed at him. It was
     Clyde, the adjutant-general, which made him the most senior officer in her majesty’s army, though many remained perplexed
     by how the man made it that far.
    And Spencer knew precisely who would take his place—a fine gentleman already sympathetic to Spencer’s cause. “Good evening,
     gentlemen,” he said calmly.
    “Cole,” Clyde said in surprise. Then the man chuckled. “Quite a jest”—he nudged the man next to him—“pretending to rob our
     coach.” He motioned to the pistol in Spencer’s hand.
    Clyde, of course, was the easy prey, always up for a night of drinking and prurient entertainment.
    The other man, Mercer, found no humor in the situation. Naturally more suspicious, he had been harder to tempt onto this deserted
     country road. Clyde had achieved his position through the connections of his powerful family, but Mercer had clawed his way
     to the top through cunning and ambition. “I thought we were meeting you at the Hog’s Hair Inn.”
    Spencer shrugged. “Change of plans.”
    “What do you want?” Mercer asked.
    “What’s going on?” Clyde asked.
    Mercer’s shrewd eyes narrowed. He had quite the reputation for being a brilliant strategist. He put his hand to his belt.
    “There’s no need to go for your weapon,” Spencer toldhim as he raised his own gun. “There isn’t time. I can assure you I’m
     a perfect marksman.”
    “Our money,” Clyde said as realization struck him. “You can have our money.”
    “I’m afraid money is not what I’m after.” Mercer pulled out his own pistol, but Spencer was faster. He fired a shot straight
     into the man’s heart. Then he shot the older man in the head.
    Clyde’s expression froze into a look of permanent surprise, and Mercer clasped a hand to his chest, struggling to get off
     a single shot as his heart pumped the last of his blood from his body.
    “And you make five.”
    “Son of a bitch!” Max cursed loudly as he pulled off his shirt. He tossed it into the newly lit fire warming his bedchamber.
     The flames roared as they engulfed the linen. He stood in front of the mirror looking at the gunshot wound just below his
     shoulder. The stitches were even and small; she’d done a good job, he’d give her that. The wound, though, was an angry red
     mark and hurt like the devil. He’d be fortunate if it didn’t leave one hell of a nasty scar.
    But