“More water?”
“You seem like such a nice man.” It was difficult to speak sensibly to a flour sack with blue eyes. She clamped her mouth shut against a sudden surge of hysterical laughter. After swallowing, she tried to speak rationally.
“Can you not take your hood off?”
“Cannot do that, either, Miss.”
He shoved another piece of bread and cheese into her mouth. She bit his fingers.
“Ow!” He shook his hand, eyed her, and then held the food against her lips once more with his fingertips well away from her teeth.
When she opened her mouth, he jerked his fingers back a little. After taking a delicate bite, she chewed methodically, examining her jailer. The first thing she noticed was that he was still huge. Every bit as large as he had seemed last night.
His coat and trousers were coarse, and again, he smelled strongly of horses and dogs, however at least the cabbage scent was gone. While she examined him, he fumbled through feeding her, carefully keeping his fingers away from her mouth. After giving her a few sips of water, he stood up as if getting ready to depart.
“Wait!” she yelped. “Really, you cannot leave me here, tied up. I will…scream! I will scream and someone will hear me.”
“Miss, you can scream if you wants, but around here, I would not.” His matter-of-fact statement effectively stopped her.
“What about my—I have personal requirements.” She wriggled urgently.
“I will untie your limbs. Use the bucket.” He unwound the ropes up to her waist. Then he proceeded to knot the rope like a leash to one of the few remaining supports holding up the ceiling.
“I cannot without my hands free. Please.”
He contemplated this for several minutes. Then, he slowly undid the knots before he clamped a hand on her shoulder and dragged her over to one of the remaining stalls. He put the bucket on the floor inside and turned around to face the door.
After debating the relative urgency of her situation, she picked up the bucket and hit him on the back of the head. The bucket shattered.
His hand delicately brushed the top of his head before he turned to stare at her. “Why did you do that?”
Charlotte closed her mouth and eyed him. “I cannot stay here. You said it yourself, this is not a respectable neighborhood. There are rats. I need decent food and water to bathe. I need a bed. I simply will not stay here.”
“You broke the bucket.” He examined the broken pieces before he picked up the rope again. “You did not hurt me, Miss, but you cannot be bashing folks over the head all the time. It is not friendly-like.”
“No! You cannot tie me up. I still have to….”
“Cannot trust you.” He shifted from foot to foot.
“No, really, you can trust me for one minute, can you not?” Charlotte dashed into the dilapidated stall. It didn’t even matter that he remained a few feet away.
When she returned to where he stood, he held up the rope.
“Please, don’t,” she said.
“You have to be tied up.”
“There are rats here. I cannot stay here—you cannot leave me alone. How long do you expect to keep me isolated here?”
“Not long. We might be hearing soon.”
“Soon? Does he still expect to marry me?”
He twisted the rope between his big hands as if worried. “Told ‘em last night it don’t seem like it’ud work.”
“No, it would not. He will kill me, if not now, then certainly after the wedding.”
“No, Miss. He promised. You are to go free as soon as we get the money. Marriage is a last resort.”
“Unless he changes his mind and for—forces me to marry him.” For the first time in her life, Charlotte stuttered.
“Well, Miss, there is worse, much worse. It will be all right.”
“Are you really such an idiot? He is going to marry me and then murder me! All he wants is my inheritance!”
“There is plenty as only weds for money,” he said. There was a bitterly sad quality to his voice. He focused on the rope in his hands and twisted it between his thick fingers.
“Perhaps, but don’t you think there needs to be mutual respect, as well? Affection?”
He shrugged. The rope swung between his hands as he strode over to her.
“You cannot! You cannot leave me here. Anyone might find me…helpless. What about the rats? What about that other man? What if he comes here without you?”
“He will not.”
“He might. He might…hurt me. Please? I trust you, don’t let him find me.”
He sighed.
Hope rose like a phoenix. It flared briefly only to hurtle to the ground when he spun her and tied the rope around her from her shoulders down to her knees. She couldn’t even walk. Or sit.
“I cannot stand here all day! I cannot even move!”
To her horror, he left without a word. A minute later, he returned with a large piece of canvas like the sail from a ship and another rope.
“What is that?”
“Never you mind.” He draped it over her head and started binding it tightly around her.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
“Quiet, Miss.”
She subsided, struggling just to breathe within the heavy folds. The fabric was harsh against her face and smelled of mold. She licked her lips. Her mouth stung with sea salt. Flakes brushed off caught on her eyelashes and burned her eyes until she squeezed her lids shut.
When he finished tying her again, he flung her over his shoulder. He walked a few feet and draped her over something else. A horse. He was helping her! At least he was taking her away from the stable. Hopefully, he would take her someplace with a bed and where the other man could not find her.
Their ride bumped along. Her breakfast sat uneasily in her stomach. She choked and swallowed rapidly whenever it rose in a lump to her chest. She could not get sick wrapped in a canvas sail with her head hanging down. She’d suffocate.
Sweat beaded over her face as the air grew hot and stale. Her head bounced in rhythm with the horse’s clopping gate. A pounding ache started at the nape of her neck.
Why had not she agreed to Nathaniel’s ludicrous proposal? The memory of his kiss burned her mouth like the salt from the canvas. She licked her lips.
Her heart turned over, and it wasn’t just because she was hanging upside down over some illiterate lunatic’s saddle. If she had been a little less selfish, she would have been engaged to Nathaniel. She would have kept the remains of her inheritance instead of losing it to a kidnapper.
Of course, that was assuming she was at all fortunate and the Archers gave him her money. If not, her kidnapper might do something to force her to marry him.
She was a brave woman, but there some threats were too serious to brush off lightly. She would not have long to suffer as his wife. A shove off the deck of a boat, tripping down the stairs: there were many ways for a wife to die by accident.
Her head bounced off the toe of her kidnapper’s boot.
She screamed only to have her bottom smacked smartly.
“Quiet, Miss,” he said. “Or you will be returning to the stables.”
She bit her lips, trying not to groan. Their trip seemed to last for hours.
When he plucked her off the horse, she took a deep breath to ease the cramps and tightness in her stomach. Her head ached, but the ordeal wasn’t over. Red slung her over his shoulder and climbed some stairs. At least that is what it seemed like he was doing. They were winding stairs, too, and frightfully narrow.
Her head bumped against the wall, or a wooden banister. She wasn’t sure which. Then, her feet hit something. Every few steps, her head or feet banged into hard wood.
At least it sounded hollow like wood. Maybe it was just her head echoing.
Then, he flung her down. The surface beneath her gave slightly. She tensed and heard him move around. The floor creaked. A minute later, he removed the outer ropes, canvas, and final
ly the second set of ropes.
Charlotte glanced around, rubbing her arms to restore the circulation. Her limbs tingled and throbbed.
She was in a long, low room under the eaves of what appeared to be a fairly large house. At least it was a well-sized room, an attic room. She sat up, placing her prickling feet carefully on the barren, rough planks of the floor.
Beneath her hands was a dark blue woolen blanket draped over a narrow bed. Ragged holes showed glimpses of a dingy gray linen sheet. The mattress felt hard and lumpy, sagging over the ropes supporting it, but it was a bed of sorts.
She sighed in relief as she searched the room. She was alone with Red. She’d been half afraid she’d find the shorter man standing in a shadowy corner, waiting for her.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Never you mind,” Red replied.
She glanced up at him. He had removed his mask! She stood nervously, wondering if this was altogether a happy an event. If he wasn’t afraid to show her his face….
She refused to think about it.
Red stood uneasily near the door, eyeing her. He was an enormous, raw-boned lad with a broken nose and minute scars around his cheekbones and brows. A fighter’s face—however not a successful one. His scarred knuckles, thick neck and bulky shoulders gave him a hulking, bull-like appearance, and he had a long, shaggy mane of bright red hair, nearly as flaming as hers.
“We’ve the same color hair!” she exclaimed.
“Aye, though yours has a mite more yellow in it.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, striving not to sound too sarcastic. “Please don’t—don’t tell the other man where I am.”
“Never fear. You are safe. That is all he needs to know.”
“Thank you, again.” She grabbed his rough hand and squeezed it.
He blushed fiercely. “When I go, the door be locked.”
“That is fine. Really.”
“No screamin’, now. No trying to run. When we gets the money, you will be free to go.”
“What if Mr. Archer will not?”
“He will. They are a soft family—they will not want to chance you coming to harm.”
“You will not tell him where I am?”
He shook his shaggy head. “No, Miss.” A smile crossed his plain features, bringing a twinkle to his eyes. “You are like me youngest sister, you are. A spiteful lass. I would not want you tearin’ into me iffin’ I tell him where you be. You rest easy. I have delivered the note with your lock of hair and the money will come soon. Then you will be home before you know it.” He stared down at his boots as if embarrassed. His enormous feet shifted, scraping the bare wooden floor. “I am powerful sorry about your inheritance—though you will find a lad soon enough without it.”
She didn’t want to argue the fact that without any money, there wasn’t a “lad” in England who would look twice at her. Red appeared miserable enough, and he had rescued her from the barn.
Most likely there were still rats, but at least she had a bed. And Red’s dreadful partner did not know where she was.
She hoped.
She glanced at him. If only she could trust him. He looked so pathetic with his wide, scarred face, and rough clothes. A child pretending to be an adult man.
Her shoulders sagged. She had to trust him. He might be a kidnapper but he was her only hope of survival.
Chapter Nineteen
Search warrants. — A search warrant is granted by a magistrate on the oath of a credible witness that there is suspicion of stolen goods or any property unlawfully come by… — Constable’s Pocket Guide
When Nathaniel and Archer could find no trace of Charlotte, they returned to Dacy house. Nathaniel called for his carriage, trying not to develop a reasonable plan of action.
Exhausted and wondering if Charlotte was safe, he climbed wearily into the dark interior of his carriage.
He sat and took a deep breath.
Perfume and another unpleasant odor filled his lungs. His carriage stank foully. He twisted in his seat and knocked into something soft, sitting on the seat next to him.
“Oh, God!” he groaned. He’d forgotten to check the carriage for females. He stuck his head through the window and hailed the coachman. “Stop! We have an extra passenger.”
When he turned to discover who was hiding in the corner, he was annoyed to find her pretending to swoon. The young lady slipped bonelessly to the floor at his feet.
“Here, there’s no need for that. I know you are only pretending,” he said. He gripped her shoulder and shook her. In the dim moonlight from the window, he saw her head flop backward. It hit the seat opposite with a soft thud. A dark stain covered her throat and the front of her dress.
Suddenly the stench of blood filled the close confines of the carriage. Horrified, he rubbed his sticky fingers on his trousers. After a minute, he bent over and searched for her wrist for a pulse. Her skin had not cooled completely yet, but already it felt chilled with death. He dropped the flaccid arm.
Nathaniel scrambled out of the coach. “Lansbury!”
“Yes, yer Grace?”
“There is a dead woman in my coach!”
“What?” The coachman climbed down from his high perch to look inside. “Lor’ love us! So there is,” he exclaimed, peering into the interior over Nathaniel’s shoulder.
“What happened?” Nathaniel asked.
“Why, I don’t know!” Lansbury said.
“How could you not know? Did you leave the coach?”
“No.”
“Then how could she be murdered without you knowing? You were sitting not four feet away, right above her!”
“Lor, yer Grace, it is a puzzle to be sure.” He scratched his head. “Was she alive when yer Grace found her?”
“Of course she was not, you dolt!” Nathaniel said, losing his temper. “I did not kill her.”
“Never said you did, yer Grace.” Lansbury took his large hat off and scrunched it between his hands while he stared at Nathaniel.
“Is something wrong?” Archer interrupted, strolling toward them.
“Yes—there is a dead female in my coach!”
“By God, there is!” Archer peered inside. “Did you kill her?”
“No, I did not. She was dead when I climbed inside.” The rank smell of blood clung to his clothing. He brushed at his coat, turning his head away to get a breath of clean air.
“Then who did?” Archer asked, pale with shock.
The coachman nodded, his eyes accusatory.
“How should I know who killed her? Was anyone else near my carriage?” Nathaniel asked the coachman with increasing tension.
“No, sir. Not that I seen.”
“This tragedy is incomprehensible,” Archer said, studying Nathaniel with worried eyes. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know!” Nathaniel struggled to keep his voice low. “That poor girl—I don’t know who would have done such a thing.” The sight of her slashed throat and stained bodice would not leave him alone.
The door to the Dacy residence opened. Lord Dacy strolled out, eyeing the crowd on his doorstep with surprise.
“Are you having difficulties with your equipage, Your Grace?” he asked.
“No!” Nathaniel replied sharply.
“Dead body,” Archer said, gesturing at the carriage. “Inside. Female.”
“Miss Mooreland,” Nathaniel added. The men stared at him, and he flushed. “I recognized her.”
Lord Dacy glanced inside. Drawing away, he motioned to his butler who stood in the doorway holding a candelabra. “Send a footman for the constable,” he ordered. “And someone to notify the magistrate. We will need the coroner, as well. I am sorry, Your Grace, but you will have to wait.”
“Of course,” Nathaniel replied stiffly. His hands felt sticky. He glanced down to find them begrimed with dried blood. When he raised his eyes, the men around him stood gazing at his stained hands with dismay. Lansbury, his coachman, took a step back. �
��I did not kill her.” Nathaniel said. “I only touched her to see if she was still alive.”
Archer thumped him on the shoulder. “Of course. Dacy, send word to Lady Victoria that I will be a trifle delayed, will you?”
“Certainly,” he said. He stepped aside to give orders to several footmen the butler had collected.
The men were hurriedly tucking shirttails into waistbands and trying their best to wake up and concentrate.
Archer grabbed the elbow of one of them. He gave him a few quiet orders before pushing him forward down the street.
While Nathaniel watched, he felt an urgent need to take action. If he was arrested for murder, who would find Charlotte?
He had to keep his freedom. Other than the newspapers and a few of his enemies like Bolton, no one had dared to insinuate he had had a hand in Lady Anne’s death. However, with the dead woman in his carriage, that would change. Things were going to get ugly fairly quickly even if he was a duke and an innocent one at that.
Dacy waved them all toward the front door. “We can wait inside if you wish.”
They straggled up to a sitting room on the second floor.
When they got to the sitting room, Nathaniel moved toward one of the chairs a little apart from the others, desperate to think. However Dacy cut him off. He refused to allow Nathaniel to sit until a heavy length of oilcloth had been found and placed over the silk cushion of lovely Sheraton chair. Nathaniel wearily started to sit down, but he found his trousers so stiff and uncomfortable that he stood up again and paced the room instead.
“Would you like a change of clothing?” Dacy offered, leaning back comfortably in his chair. He picked up a snifter of golden-colored brandy.
“Yes, I would.”
“You know where my room is. Ring for my valet and he will find you something. Just don’t bother my wife.”
The warning was spoken in a mild voice, but it didn’t fool Nathaniel one bit. Oriana Dacy, Nathaniel’s elder sister, was heavy with her first child. Her husband’s casual remark did not hide his protectiveness.
Nathaniel had once heard a rumor that Chilton Dacy had faced Napoleon himself in battle. Dacy would have killed the despot if he had not been foully attacked en masse by a cowardly gang of French cutthroats. Nathaniel didn’t feel inclined to provoke him or panic Oriana.
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