“This is just one of them.”
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning it, if you must know,” he retorted. “Neither of them is much to brag about, but they’ll be worth even less if they don’t fire correctly.”
Eva supposed he had a point. She grunted. “Where did you find them?”
He carefully laid down the piece he was cleaning. “You know those two doors at the end of the hall?”
“The ones that look like doors to more rooms?”
“They are other rooms.”
“Really? I wonder why Mr. Norton said they only had these two?”
“Well, likely it’s because they are crammed full of stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
He shrugged and turned back to his work. “All kinds of things: furniture, clothing, crates of brandy.”
“Huh.” She pushed the odd information from her mind and pointed at a tea saucer with a gritty black mess. “What’s that?”
“Hmm?” He glanced up and saw where she was pointing. “Oh, that’s something I devised so that I don’t need the requisite three feet of smoldering saltpeter-soaked rope.”
Eva stared.
He sighed. “Don’t worry what it is. All you need to know is that the arquebus will fire as quickly as most other guns the way I’ve set it up.”
Eva would believe that when she saw it, but in the interest of harmony she kept her opinion to herself. “Where is the other gun?”
“Under my pillow.”
Eva fetched it and opened the breach. “Where are the bullets?”
Andrew looked up. “Why?”
“Because I want them, that’s why.”
“But why do you want them?” He had that look, the one that said he was prepared to argue until the bitter end. Eva knew the expression well: it was one her family dreaded seeing on her face. Now she knew how they felt.
“Godric and I are going into town and he’ll want a pistol along,” Eva said, not exactly lying. He’d not mentioned it, but surely he would want one.
Andrew perked up. “Oh. I want to go.”
“You’ll have to sit in the back of the wagon in the straw with Godric. There is only room for Mrs. Crosby and me on the seat.”
His cheeks flushed at the mention of the other woman’s name, and Eva rolled her eyes.
She tossed the gun onto the bed. “Load this so we can bring it along. And you’ve got ten minutes to put that gun together. Can you do it?”
He gave her a scornful look. “With my eyes closed.”
“Do it standing on your head if you like—just do it quickly.” She knocked on the connecting door. “Godric? Are you dressed?”
She heard something that sounded like laughter and opened the door to find him just where she’d left him on the bed. But now he was tipped onto his side, laughing.
She rushed to him and dropped down on her knees beside the bed. “Godric! Good Lord, what is wrong?”
“Numb.”
She could barely hear him. “What? What’s numb? What happened? Is it your head—that blow to your temple?” And was it her fault for making him spend such a delightful, but vigorous night?
“Tongue.”
“It’s your tongue?”
“Tongue. Tongue ith numb.” His eyelids fluttered closed and drool oozed from the corner of his mouth.
“Godric!” She shook his shoulder vigorously, but that only served to dislodge him from his precarious perch on the bed. He slid slowly and bonelessly to the floor, far too heavy for her to stop.
“Andrew!” she yelled, unable to pull her eyes away from the prone figure on the floor. “Come quickly, it’s Godric—something is wrong with him. I think—he’s—” She heard motion behind her and turned, her jaw sagging at the sight in the doorway: Andrew with his hands in the air, Mrs. Crosby behind him, holding their pistol and wearing a very, very unpleasant smile.
“Been poisoned,” Eva said weakly.
Chapter 17
“He’d better be all right,” Eva said, her hands chafing against the too-tight rope Andrew had tied around her wrists—but only after the cook had made him remove his first, far looser, attempt.
“You do repeat yourself, don’t you?” the older woman asked as she and Andrew dumped her unceremoniously into the straw in the back of the cart. “I already told you—at least four times—that it is nothing but a sleeping draught. Now”—she turned to Andrew—“tie that around her mouth.”
Andrew looked from the neckcloth she thrust into his hands to Eva.
“Go on.” Mrs. Crosby poked him with the point of the pistol.
Andrew mouthed the word sorry as he reached for her.
“You don’t need to do this,” Eva said calmly. “I give my word I shan’t make any racket.”
Mrs. Crosby just laughed.
Once Andrew was done, Mrs. Crosby gave the gag a tug to make sure it was tight enough and then poked Andrew again. “All right, well done. Come along now.”
“Er, where are you taking me?” Andrew asked as they walked away. “Perhaps I might go with you and Eva—you could keep an eye on me that way. Wouldn’t it—”
His voice faded away as they moved out of hearing range and Eva furiously worked at the ropes binding her wrists and ankles, but there was no give. She groaned in raw, infuriated frustration. She should have known the woman was a rotten piece of work. She should have loaded the bloody pistol herself and brought it into the room.
Should have, would have, could have.
She thought back to Godric’s oddly vulnerable-looking form as he lay on the floor, his breathing shallow and a sheen of sweat on his gray-tinged skin. Oh God. What if Crosby was lying? What if she’d really poisoned him?
Why would she lie? You saw the look in her eyes. If she wanted him dead, he’d be dead.
That was true, and the thought cheered her. For all that the cook was clearly a bloodthirsty villain, she’d yet to prove herself a liar. Unless you counted the fact that she’d kept this maniacal facet of her personality a secret, of course.
The sound of heeled boots on cobbles heralded her return and Eva stopped squirming. The cook peered over the side of the wagon, the pale sun at her back, leaving her face in shadow.
“Now it’s just you and me, my lady.”
Something about her soft, almost gentle voice, made Eva’s spine tingle.
Mrs. Crosby climbed onto the seat, and then snapped the reins, sending the big old draught horse into a grudging walk.
“I’m sorry you are suffering such discomfort,” Mrs. Crosby said, not sounding in the least sorry, “but it won’t be for long.”
Well. That didn’t sound ominous.
They rumbled along in silence after that and Eva tried to look for landmarks. But they must have been in an area bordered by fields because all she saw was the occasional hedge over the high sides of the wagon. They couldn’t have ridden for more than ten or fifteen minutes when the surface of the road changed and Eva recognized the sound of wood on wood as they rolled over a bridge.
She gave a bitter laugh beneath the gag.
The cook turned slightly and said, “Yes, only one bridge was washed out, I’m afraid. The three of you were just so trusting. Of course Joe knew the truth, which is why he developed such a convenient chill and took to his bed.”
Eva wanted to bang her head against the wood. She’d wondered at the postilion’s heavy sleep, but hadn’t thought to try to wake him the three times she’d checked on him, believing he deserved the opportunity to rest.
“Don’t worry, my dear. Joe won’t take any permanent harm.”
The fact that the older woman could read her mind so easily was less than comforting.
They’d not gone much farther before a canopy of increasingly dense trees appeared overhead. Eva guessed this was the same wood they’d been in . . . yesterday? Could it have been only yesterday?
She’d not paid close attention during the ride from the woods to the Greedy Vicar, b
ut it seemed as though it couldn’t have been longer than thirty minutes. She felt the rickety wagon slide occasionally. The rain might have stopped but it would be a while before the roads—especially little cart tracks such as this one—cleared.
A few minutes into the woods she felt the surface beneath them change again, this time to something softer, grass or plants or perhaps a ground covering of fallen leaves. The trees were so thick in this part of the forest, it felt like dusk. Eva had a sick feeling that Crosby was taking her to Flynn’s camp. When she recalled his infuriated look the day before—and her taunting—she knew things would not go well for her.
Perhaps five minutes later the wheels slowed and then stopped. Crosby hopped off the seat and then must have unhooked the horse because Eva heard the jangling of a harness and the sound of hooves moving away.
Crosby returned so silently that Eva yelped behind her gag.
“Sorry to startle you,” she murmured, sounding subdued all of a sudden. Well, the deep, primeval sense of the trees bearing down on them was enough to subdue anyone.
“I’m going to cut your feet loose,” Crosby said in a warning tone. “If you have any ideas of kicking me or running, I beg you will reconsider. Quite honestly, I wouldn’t mind shooting you. I wouldn’t need to kill you, just hobble you.”
The flat, almost bored tone of the other woman’s voice was more compelling than the threat.
Once Eva’s feet were free, Crosby pulled her upright and Eva saw there was a tiny cottage with a shed off to one side. The horse was standing in the open stall, contentedly chewing hay.
“Come along.” Crosby pulled her over the splintery wood, making her grateful she was wearing her buckskins or she’d have slivers lodged deeply in both cheeks.
There was smoke coming from the chimney, so Eva wasn’t surprised to find the cottage inhabited. She was surprised to see the occupant who was slumped in the corner, his big frame overwhelming the small cot that had been shoved into the corner so that two walls might offer support for his battered body.
He shifted on the cushions that kept him upright and squinted through mostly swollen-shut eyes before his distorted jaw opened just enough to say something that sounded like, “Dora,” and then wince at the pain speaking must have caused.
“Oh, hush, Paul. You shouldn’t talk, you know that.” She dragged Eva to the only other place to sit in the room, a heavy, rudely made wooden chair. “Sit.” She shoved Eva down and then proceeded to tie her securely to the wooden back and legs. “There,” she said with a satisfied huff, coming around to stand in front of Eva when she’d finished. “Now, you just sit here and wait while I go fetch an old friend.”
Paul muttered something incomprehensible and Mrs. Crosby whirled on him. “You just hush, you hear? This is none of your concern. And if you keep talking, your jaw will never mend. Not exactly a tragedy in my opinion, but I’m sure you feel otherwise.” She went to the small cupboard, where a basin and several pieces of crockery stood. “I’ll clean this up when I return. But for now”—she poured something cloudy into a small glass and brought it to the reclining man—“you should drink this. It will help you sleep. And sleeping will help you mend.” He stared hard at her for a long moment before grudgingly taking the small glass in his giant fingers.
Mrs. Crosby smiled. “Good,” she said. “I’ll be back in half an hour. You just rest for a while.” She turned to Eva, and so missed the sight of Paul dumping the contents of the glass between the bed and the wall. “And you. Don’t try anything stupid.”
Eva glared, but the other woman chuckled and turned, taking the empty glass from Paul and setting it on the counter before tucking the pistol into the waistband of her skirt and marching out the open door. Eva heard the slide of metal, and then the sound of a lock turning, and shifted her gaze to her companion.
He shook his head, closed his eyes, and lowered his head back against the wall, breathing deeply. Eva thought he’d fallen asleep when he suddenly swung his long legs off the bed, groaning at the pain. He shuffled slower than any turtle she’d ever seen, lurching his way over to the counter, where he picked up a . . . knife.
Eva swallowed as he turned and began lurching toward her. She stared at his destroyed face as he hunched toward her. His jaw, for all that Mrs. Crosby had said it would heal, looked as crooked as a mule’s hind leg. His eyes were two puffy slits and she could barely catch a glint of eye between the sore, purplish folds.
Eva closed her eyes and held her breath, realizing with blind clarity as she faced the end of her life that she loved Godric and he would never know.
A big, hot hand landed on her shoulder and she felt the cold kiss of steel run down her temple. The knife gave a sudden jerk and Eva screamed, the sound filling the room. Which was when she realized she wasn’t dead at all and opened her eyes, squinting up at Paul’s shaking form.
But he wasn’t looking at her; he was studying the ropes that bound her arms. Time crawled with agonizing slowness as he sawed the rope with a blade that must be as dull as dirt, grunting with pain at every stroke.
When he’d freed her right hand, he gave her the knife and staggered away, collapsing on the bed so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break it.
Eva’s eyes darted between his prone form and the rope she was sawing so vigorously it chafed her wrist. He didn’t move so much as a hairsbreadth, and Eva thought he might have lost consciousness. Once her other hand was free she worked on her ankles, her pulse pounding in her ears. A half hour, Crosby had said—how long had she been sawing on these ropes? How long had it taken Paul to make his snail-like trip across the small room? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Certainly not twenty. Her hand slipped and the dull point of the knife gouged her boot, poking a hole through the fine, soft leather and nicking her leg beneath.
“Blast and damn!” She caught her lower lip with her teeth and blinked away tears as she resumed her sawing, hoping to high heaven that she could still run. She cut the last of the ropes and quickly examined her leg through the hole. The wound wasn’t deep, but it smarted.
She had almost reached the door when she recalled Paul; he’d helped her—she needed to check that he wasn’t hurt. Well, hurt any more than he already had been. She approached him on tiptoe, the knife clutched in her right hand. He opened his eyes when she neared the cot.
There were tears streaming from his eyes, and she didn’t think they were just from pain.
“Do you want some of the tonic?” she offered in a hushed voice, as if somebody were listening. “There is some left. You really should rest, you know.”
Eva had never seen a man so big and strong cry, and it left her feeling helpless. “I’ll fetch it for you, shall I?” Precious seconds ticked away while he stared, until finally his head moved in a slight affirmative motion.
Eva hurried to the counter, laid down the knife, and uncorked the solution. She had to help him sit up, and his big body was heavy and weak, so it was a task that took yet more precious minutes. By the time he was in a position to drink without choking, she was half mad with worry, her hands shaking as she carefully tilted the bottle into his mouth. Once he’d swallowed most of the contents, she set the bottle on the floor and covered him with the blanket he’d kicked from the bed. She turned to leave but his hand shot out and gripped her wrist.
Which was when Eva remembered the knife was still on the counter. But when she looked in his eyes, it was not a murderous look that met her. Instead, he gave a slight nod and said, “Key,” although it sounded more like “shgree.”
Eva recalled Crosby locking the door. Paul released her wrist and pointed generally in the direction of the cupboards.
She considered asking him to be more specific but knew that would be cruel.
The cupboards turned out to be shockingly empty and she found the key hanging from a nail at the back of one of them.
Her hands fumbled and slipped as she tried to jam the heavy skeleton key into the hole. Was that a wagon? Voices? The sound of horses?
* * *
Godric swam in warm, thick treacle, his limbs oddly light but non-responsive to his will.
Something unpleasant poked and prodded and worried at his arm and he groaned and slapped it away.
“Lord Visel, you must wake up. Please, Godric. We must go after Eva, sir. I can’t—I can’t do it without you.”
The name Eva made him pause, but the swirling mist surrounded him before he could discover why that should be so.
“Oh, God. I hope you won’t shoot me for this, but—”
Freezing water shocked him out of his warm cocoon. “Lord. Visel.”
Godric’s head snapped to one side with a loud slap, the grinding pain in his temple yanking him the rest of the way from his slumber.
“Please, Godric.”
Once again his head snapped to one side, and this time the action made his eyes open.
“Stop. Hitting. Me.”
“Thank God!” Hands landed on his shoulder and shook him until his teeth rattled. “Mrs. Crosby has kidnapped Eva and I believe she means to kill her.”
The words were more shocking than ice water or slapping, and Godric gritted his jaws against the haze that threatened to claim him. “H-how long?” he asked in voice he didn’t recognize.
“I don’t know—perhaps four hours, maybe longer. She locked me in the still room. I screamed for hours before somebody came—it was Mr. Norton’s son, Anthony. It turns out he’s soft in the head, so Norton never could have sent him. He’s a kind boy, but it took at least an hour to convince him to let me out and—Godric? Are you falling back to sleep?”
Godric’s eyes fluttered open and he saw Andrew raise his hand for another slap. “No,” he wheezed, gathering every speck of strength he could find and pushing himself upright. The room spun and he pitched forward and immediately lost his breakfast.
He continued to do so until nothing came up. Andrew, who’d been wisely standing some distance away, ventured closer. “Could I, er, get you anything?”
“Coffee.” Godric pushed off the bed and swayed drunkenly, his eyes seeing four of everything as he scanned the room for his clothing.
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