Page 47 of King's Man

Of course. The law didn’t touch men like MacLeod. Here, as on his plantations in the colonies, he did as he pleased with impunity. And Sam realized with a jolt that MacLeod was exactly what Nate had taken up arms to resist: a petty despot, an autocrat. A tyrant.

“Well,” Rowsley said, dry as a bone, “that must save time…”

MacLeod grunted, looking displeased and, for a moment, distracted. “Lord Rowsley, do me the honor of returning to the card —”

Sam grabbed Nate by the collar of his coat and yanked him backward towards the door. He caught a glimpse of Taylor’s grim face as he shoved Nate out ahead of him, sending them both stumbling down the steps. “Run!” he barked. “Now!”

Behind them, MacLeod began to roar. But they were already sprinting away from the house. “Not the bridge!” He wrenched Nate sideways, swerving away from the men on the bridge. Behind them came the crunch of running footsteps on gravel, shouts, and curses.

A gunshot.

Sam skidded, flinching, and looked back to see MacLeod staggering down the front steps, waving his pistol like a riding crop. “Whore-mongering thieving bastards!” he thundered and leveled the gun at them.

“No!” A blur of movement and Nate plowed into Sam, knocking him sideways as a second gunshot cracked the night, its echoes rebounding against the castle walls.

Sam staggered, momentum carrying him too far, and went down on his shoulder. Nate landed on top of him, pinning him in place for a moment before he rolled away onto his back.

“Nate?” Sam scrambled over to him, but there was no time to stop. Shouts of alarm rang out behind them and the gun fired for a third time.

“Jesus Christ!” That was Rowsley’s cry, bright and horrified.

When Sam looked back, he saw a man sprawled on the ground. Motionless. Rowsley watched from the doorway, a hand pressed over his mouth, while MacLeod aimed his weapon again.

Cursing, Sam grabbed Nate under his arms and dragged him to his feet. “Get up! Run!”

With teeth gritted, Nate staggered forward. A riotous commotion rose behind them, and ahead ran the slick black line of the river. But Nate was lagging, slowing down, so Sam grabbed his sleeve, propelling him forward. “Jump!” he barked and together they launched themselves off the bank and hit the water with an icy shock.

Deeper here than downstream, the current moved faster. Sam shot to the surface, but Nate came up slower, spluttering and struggling like something was dragging him down.

Sam hauled him up. “What the hell are you doing? Swim!”

“Can’t —” Under he went, fighting back to the surface. “Arm…”

Breathless with cold panic, Sam turned Nate around, one arm locked around his chest and leaned them both back in the water. “Stop struggling,” he hissed in his ear. “Nate, stop. I’ve got you. Let the river take us.”

Gradually, Nate stilled, but he was panting hard, grimacing in obvious pain, and clutching his left arm. Sam’s heart pounded hard with fear. If anyone came to the bank, they’d be seen — two pale faces staring up at the cloud-whipped sky.

But no one came.

“Nate,” Sam whispered against his wet hair, “are you hurt?”

“Shot, I think. Left arm.”

“Shit.” Lightheaded with terror, Sam tightened his hold around Nate’s chest and tried to stay calm. “It’s alright. Just lay still until we get our feet under us.”

Above, he saw the bridge, watched as they floated silently beneath it. Still no one looked. The men on the bridge were gone but he could hear distant cries, a woman sobbing — and the frantic sound of baying dogs.

Abruptly the river narrowed, speeding up where it looped around to the left. Sam felt a drag against his feet as the rocky bed caught his boots and, together, they scrambled upright, finding themselves chest deep in water near the fording point. Nate stumbled, woozy, and Sam clamped his arm around his waist. There were lights on the far bank, shouting and barking. Men searching with dogs.

He seized Nate’s face with one hand, searching it for the truth. “Can you walk?”

A tight nod. “But we should go further downstream. They’ll check the fording point — the dogs will track us…”

That was true, but Nate was bleeding. They’d have to stop soon, if only to bind his wound. “Come on,” Sam said, keeping hold of Nate’s arm as they waded through the shallows, sticking close to the bank. The water grew deeper again, up to his waist, the ground underfoot slippery and difficult to navigate in his waterlogged riding boots.

Nate stumbled, face ashy, and Sam hauled him up again. It was too dark to see the blood seeping through Nate’s fingers, but the dogs would smell it bright as a damned beacon.

Marlborough Castle was to the left of them as they moved along the river, letting it take them behind the house. Lights on the bank moved, searching methodically. They should keep going, but Nate was slowing, losing his balance. Sam stopped, put a finger to his lips, listening. Dogs, men’s raised voices — calling to each other, not shouting — the lap of the river, the shushing of the trees. Here, the bank was less steep, and the trees were closer, leaning their branches over the water. It would do.

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