Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

“I will do what I must,” Duncan said.

There was a harsh promise in those clipped words and no trace of mercy in an eye that was harsh as slate. For a moment, she almost pitied John Vesey.

. . .

It would be far easier than he had anticipated. Vesey watched as MacLean and his man rode across the causeway, noting their saddlebags with satisfaction. Excellent. He would have more than ample time to arrange matters according to his new strategy. By the time MacLean returned, the trap would be set.

His tongue darted out to lick his lips in anticipation. It could not have worked out better had he planned it so. He had not anticipated finding Katherine and the child here. With his two nemeses under one roof it was ridiculously easy to formulate a scenario that would produce the outcome that would give him both the explanations and the outcomes that he wanted. Now, all that remained was to set his campaign in motion.

The child had long disappeared from sight when Kate finally left her spot on the hill, but that was no matter. Anne would be easily dealt with. Vesey stole into the kitchen. The old besom of a maid did not even hear him as he came up behind her and hit her with the butt of his pistol. He deliberately avoided a fatal blow. The woman still had some value as a lever to bend Kate to his will. His sister-by-marriage was foolishly fond of the servant and that affection could be used. With quick economical movements, the woman was bound and gagged. Unfortunately, Vesey was forced to drag the weighty body from view himself. He had no assistance. He had determined that there would be no witnesses.

. . .

“Daisy?” Kate set her basket on the table and began to unload the produce. “The cucumbers are thriving again. We may yet have enough to pickle.”

“I have always despised cucumbers,” came a voice from the shadows.

Kate whirled knocking the basket to the floor as Vesey stepped into view.

“I would not flee, Katherine,” he said, levelling his pistol. “It would be tragic for Anne to lose her mother, would it not?”

Kate fought a rising sense of panic. “What have you done with Daisy?” she forced herself to ask with a semblance of calm.

“Nothing . . . presently,” Vesey said. “However she is somewhat ... er... tied up.” He tittered. “So, I would not count on her help. It is just the two of us, my dear. And, of course, little Anne. Where is my charming niece? Why has she not come to greet her dear Uncle John? But then with you as a teacher, ‘tis no wonder that she is rag-mannered as well as dull-witted.”

Kate was silent.

“Call her, Katherine,” he commanded, waving his gun menacingly. “If you do not bring her, I vow the sound of a gunshot might.”

Kate inclined her head in the cowed manner she had learned long ago. Slowly, with a show of reluctance, she went to the window. “Anne! Uncle John is here! Hide! Run!” was all that she could say before he hauled her aside roughly and slapped her across the face.

“Stupid bitch!” he said. “What do you think that you have gained by that? She’ll come, I vow, when she hears her mother screaming.”

“I will not let her suffer at your hands again, John,” Kate said.

He scrutinized her coldly. “You are obviously mad.”

“Yes, you have gone to a good deal of trouble to paint me as weak-minded,” she said drawing herself upright in defiance. “I know what manner of worm you are. Well you will not trifle with me as you do with the servants.”

“Trifling with the servants?” Vesey asked. “Poor little Anne, telling stories. Why she must be suffering from the same madness as her dear mamma. But be assured Katherine, I do not mean to trifle with you. I sincerely hope that the Mad MacLean has enhanced those paltry skills that Marcus complained of, because I fully intend to make an honest woman of you. Alas, my poor Chloe is not long for this world.” he said, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back sharply.

“I will die first!”

Vesey laughed. “No, unless you agree to this marriage, you will die last, Katherine. Last and in suffering, watching them all go before you, your beloved Daisy, your Scots lover and I will be left with little Anne. It will be such a tragic tale; a lover’s quarrel, ending in gunshots, the servants dead and poor little Anne, silent and out of her mind with grief. I can just picture Prinny weeping as he laps up the gory details. There is nothing that the royal fat fool adores more than a lurid melodrama.”

“Well you can leave Lord MacLean from your fiction. He is gone,” Kate said, “I am certain you saw him go. We quarreled and I doubt that he will return any time soon.”

Vesey laughed softly. “You always were a poor liar, Katherine. Those eyes betray you every time. He will be back and we will be waiting. But while we wait, I have a few questions to ask. Where is Anne’s book of poetry?”

So, Vesey knew about the book. It was certain that he would never let any of them live to tell the tale.“Which book?” she asked vaguely. She had to stall for time, keep him talking. There was no way to know if Anne had heard her warning. And if she had? What could the silent child do?

. . .

“Be certain that the pipes be copper,” Tam admonished Duncan. “A cheaper metal willna do near as well.”

“I will remember, Tam,” Duncan said, impatient to be off. Duncan had sent the Cockney with his slower horse on ahead, hoping to save time. Tam had already spent well over an hour describing every detail of the distilling mechanism down to the last bloody bolt. Fred was likely to be halfway to