“Verity?” he murmured.
The voice above him spoke sharply, “Verity? Who is Verity?”
He forced his eyes to focus and after a little wobbling and swaying the face which hovered over him became clear. Not Verity. And not his bedroom.
“Cara? What the devil is going on?”
He struggled to sit up and she quickly released her hold on him, though she cautioned him not to try and stand, “You’ve had a nasty crack on the head.”
That remark brought everything flooding back to him, and he held his head in his hands for a moment, partly to ease the pain, but mostly in despair at his stupidity. He allowed himself the indulgence of a few more moments of mental lashing, and then he opened his eyes and looked about him. His first thoughts were of escape, but they were dashed almost before they were conceived. The light of a single guttering candle and two small horn lanterns revealed their place of incarceration and Underwood felt no hope.
The limestone caves above Hanbury were vast and mostly uncharted. To even contemplate the notion of wandering about without a guide would be an act of madness. Here they must remain, at least for the present.
He glanced about and was comforted to see that they had thankfully been left with light, food, blankets and fuel. Their captor, whoever he might be, was not entirely without mercy then!
Cara watched him silently as he took note of their surroundings; her joy at finding herself no longer alone tempered by that chilling first word he had spoken.
“Mr. Underwood?”
He recalled her presence and dragged his still foggy thoughts back to the present, “Cara, I trust you are unhurt?”
“I jarred my wrist when I fell from my horse, but otherwise I am unharmed – except my dignity, which suffered a severe blow. The unprincipled rogue tossed a blanket over my head, threw me unceremoniously over his shoulder and carried me for what seemed like hours, threatening to slit my throat if I screamed. I am intensely ashamed to have to admit that I allowed him to intimidate me! How callow I was. I dare say a good hearty shriek would have been the cause of my deliverance.”
Underwood managed a grin, pleased to hear the tone of fury in her voice. If she was angry, then she wasn’t afraid, “I can only say, my lady, that I am delighted you took no such risk. It would appear the man knows the area so well that you would never have been near enough to any habitation to be heard – and if he is mad enough to abduct us both, and to nearly kill me with a hefty blow, then I fear he is quite capable of carrying out any threat he makes.”
He perused her face as he spoke, seeing in her eyes that her brave words were merely a cover for the true terror she was feeling. She was pale, and there was a streak of mud or blood across her cheek – it was hard to distinguish which in the guttering candlelight. She had cast her hat aside and her hair had long since escaped from its pins. It hung in shining tendrils about her face and neck, making her look impossibly young. She nursed her injured wrist against her breast with her other hand, now that she no longer cradled his head. He noticed the protective gesture and gently took her arm in order to examine the damage. She winced as he flexed her fingers and he looked grave, “I think you have broken it.”
“I think so too,” she admitted ruefully.
He looked about him, searching for something with which to bind the injury and quickly found a couple of stout sticks. The blankets were rejected as being too stiff and coarse to use as a bandage; “Do you have a petticoat?”
“I have several,” she answered, somewhat testily, he thought.
“Then kindly remove one. You need a bandage.”
“Turn your back.” He obliged and listened with some amusement to the mysterious frou-frou of silk and satin underwear, and her laboured breathing as she struggled with an unfamiliar task, one-handed.
“Need any help?” he asked wickedly.
“No, thank you,” she replied, then dropped an exquisitely embroidered slip into his lap, which he proceeded to tear into strips. Her wince this time was not caused by the pain in her wrist.
His clumsy ministrations almost made her faint, but when the task was accomplished, she had to admit that the dull ache settled a little once the required support was in place. He scrabbled about in the pile of provisions and was delighted to find a bottle of brandy. He poured them each a tot into saucerless cups and she drank it with enthusiasm.
“Could you light a fire, Mr. Underwood?” she asked presently, “I am sorry to have to admit that even without a broken wrist, I had not the first idea how to do so.”
He looked up, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “I think the roof is of sufficient height to allow for the smoke, but you may find it is not. Are you prepared to risk choking?”
“I will have to, I am perished with cold.”
He did not bother to mention that he was almost as unpractised in the art of fire lighting, as she was herself. His male pride ensured that he made quite a professional job of it and any slight errors could easily be explained away by the excuse of his battered skull. She noticed him raising a pained hand and gingerly touching the gash, whereupon she asked, with solicitude, “Is there anything I can use to bathe your wound?”
“I imagine it would be best left alone, thank you. The bleeding has stopped, that is the most important thing.”
“Does it hurt very much?”
“It is excruciating,” he said frankly, then sat back with a sigh of relief, “Your fire, madam.”
She stretched grateful fingers and toes towards the dancing flames, “Bliss! I thought I should never be warm again.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, Underwood staring thoughtfully into the flickering tongues of fire, whilst absent-mindedly tearing off a chunk of bread from a loaf he had found. Under normal circumstances, the very notion of eating anywhere other than a dining room, with a battery of silverware at his disposal, was entirely alien to him, but hunger drove all thoughts of the niceties from his mind.
When next she spoke it was with a tentative question, whilst she steeled herself secretly to accept the answer stoically, “Underwood, who exactly is Verity?”
“My wife.” He could have no way of knowing the impact these two simple words had upon her. In a stunned whisper she repeated, “Your wife? You are a married man?”
He glanced at her, puzzled by the strange tone in her voice, “Yes. Yes, I am. Did you not know?”
“No, I did not! How could I know? You have always been alone … I … never …I had no notion.”
He was genuinely surprised by her ignorance of his personal circumstances; a slight frown creased his brow as he tried to imagine how she had missed seeing Verity, then his face cleared, “Of course! I had quite forgotten. Your arrival in Hanbury coincided with Verity’s doctor ordering bed rest for her.”
“She is unwell?” she ventured, slightly mollified.
“Not precisely unwell. Her pregnancy was proving a little difficult.”
If his first revelation had stunned her, it was nothing to the shock she now sustained, “She is having a baby?” Dear God, could she have made a more erroneous choice of man?
“At any moment. By God, I have to get us out of here and be back home before she realizes anything is amiss.” He leapt to his feet with the sudden energy of frustration and she could only be grateful that his impatient pacing hid her face from him, for she knew her horror at her own folly must be writ large. Dear Lord, she prayed silently, don’t ever let him know what a fool I have made of myself over him.
She understood now, all too clearly, why he had never allowed himself into open flirtation with her. His apparent disinterest had been all too real, and she had thought him so fascinating. Her vanity had received a knock from which it would not quickly recover.
Underwood, oblivious, continued his reconnoitre of the cavern. There were three passageways which led into their cave, making any attempt to leave unwise, to say the least. He would have to hope that their tormentor would visit soon, so that he could at leas
t see which passageway offered the most likely escape route. As he wandered about, he mused upon the reason for their capture and incarceration. Mrs. Rogers had seemed very sure that Conrad was behind Cara’s loss, but why should he be taken also? Revenge for a slight might prompt Conrad to attack the lady, but surely snatching a man merely added to the problems? As the daughter of an earl, Cara might be used to provide a ransom, but all who knew him were aware that money was not one of his greatest assets.
He returned to the fireside, feeling that at long last his head was clearing and he was beginning to think straight, “Cara, I don’t suppose you know who attacked you and brought you here?”
“I have no notion. I never saw his face. I was grabbed from behind and though he spoke to me, I didn’t recognize his voice either.”
“You don’t think it was Conrad?”
“Definitely not. His voice was a threatening whisper, but I could tell he was a Northerner – and bigger than Conrad by far. He tossed me over his shoulder as though I were a milliner’s manikin!”
The words struck a chord. Where had he heard something similar? ‘He threw me about …’ – oh dear Lord! It was from Verity. The man who had dragged her into the woods had shown such strength.
He knew now he was not dealing with the injured vanity of the petty-minded Conrad, but facing the man who had tried to kill his wife and baby.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
(“Vox Clamantis In Deserto” – the voice of one crying in the wilderness)
A solemn gathering of Underwood’s friends and relations met in the vicarage study. Toby had been left at Windward House to ensure Verity’s safety, and he continuing ignorance of her husband’s disappearance. Fortune had favoured them in this, for his burgeoning cold had provided the perfect excuse for his absence. As far as she knew he was tucked up in the spare bed, grumbling into his honey and lemon, with a mustard plaster and goose-grease for company.
Mrs. Rogers had spent a sleepless night and when dawn had brought no sign of the missing pair, frantic messages had been despatched. The resulting assembly included Gil, Dr. Russell, Dr. Herbert, Mrs. Rogers herself, and Mr. Gratten.
Mrs. Milner, the mother of Gil and Underwood, had been sent to help Toby with Verity. She had arrived in Hanbury the day before, just in time to attend the burial of her newly-wed daughter-in-law, and she was now charged with the care of his older son’s wife and her younger son’s boy. Fortunately Alistair had taken her in the greatest affection, probably due to the numerous gifts she had brought him, and he went off quite happily in her company to visit his favourite Aunt Verity. Gil could only admire the calm way she accepted her orders, though he knew she was filled with dread. Ever since Underwood had taken it upon himself to become an investigator of crime, she had feared that something of this sort would happen. Once a bullet fired in anger had grazed his shoulder and she had never managed to rid herself of the conviction that he was destined to die young and violently.
Gil tried not to let himself think along those lines, for life without his brother, the infuriating, careless, insensitive, unutterably lovable Chuffy was unimaginable. God could not be so cruel as to take his brother after having just robbed him of his wife. It was, therefore, a calm, seemingly unmoved Gil, who greeted his visitors and who crushed at once, and with brutal determination, any inclination towards hysteria.
Mrs. Rogers was asked to quickly outline the circumstances surrounding the mysterious vanishing. She told all she knew, handed over the threatening note, and could not restrain herself from adding passionately, “It was that ghastly man, Conrad, I know it. His face when Cara hit him was pure evil. If he could have taken a gun and shot her like a dog, there and then, he would have done it.”
Dr. Russell made a strangled sound of dissent, and sank, white-faced into a chair. All eyes turned upon him and there was but one thought in each mind. Suddenly the man looked every moment of his seventy years. Old was not the word one immediately applied to the doctor upon meeting him, for with his twinkling blue eyes, ready smile and healthily ruddy cheeks, he had seemed ageless – not so now, however. Gil simply poured him a brandy and continued, “We must not assume anything. That would be Underwood’s first direction to us. He would be horrified to hear these accusations flying about. He would want proof positive.”
“Conrad is a wicked man. He killed Godfrey and now he intends to murder Mr. Underwood and my sweet Cara.”
Gil’s was the voice of reason which rose above the clamour provoked by this remark, “But why should he kill Underwood? No, that really doesn’t make any sense, Mrs. Rogers.”
Dr. Herbert interjected, “He was not even in town when Rogers was murdered, was he?”
“Not officially,” answered Gratten thoughtfully.
“Very well, then” temporized Gil hastily, “Let us forget for the moment who might be responsible and concentrate solely upon finding the lost ones. We know Underwood met the abductor at Hanbury crossroads, so where might they have gone from there? Mr. Gratten, you are Hanbury born and bred – where would you hide two people?”
Gratten did not hesitate, “There are a couple of deserted cottages on the moors, but by far the most sensible place would be the caves. Even Underwood will know that he will have to stay exactly where he is put. He is not a fool. All our culprit needs to do is to find a suitable cave, and somehow mark his way in and out. No one visits the caverns in the winter, so he must know he could hold them there until doomsday and they would never find their way out.”
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Gil tersely, “And I hope to God you are right in your assessment of my brother’s character. If he decides to play the hero, he could be lost forever in those caves.”
Dr. Herbert reached out and gripped Gil’s shoulder, “He will not do so, my friend. Do not give it another thought. If nothing else, Underwood has a highly developed sense of self-preservation. He will do nothing to provoke the grim-reaper.”
Gil, seeing the sense of this pronouncement, managed the first smile of the day, “You are right, as always, Francis. Now, may I suggest search parties are organized? A few men could be spared to search the local moors, just in case we are wrong, but all the cavern guides must be brought together for a concerted assault on the caves – I don’t suppose there are any dogs available?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” announced Mr. Gratten, and promptly suiting actions for words, he was gone.
“What shall I do?” asked Mrs. Rogers, rather pathetically. She was feeling wholly responsible for the entire, sorry mess, and the thought that she should merely stand aside and let others do the work was painful to her.
The vicar glanced at the still pale Dr. Russell, “I think, madam, you must take care of our old friend here, and comfort him as best you can. He seems to have sustained a considerable shock and at his age, that can be no good thing.” He rather felt the old man had no right to feel the loss of Underwood so acutely, when his own family could not give in to their panic – it tempered his inclination towards sympathy which would normally be most evident.
Mrs. Rogers, sensing rather than hearing, the slight edge of impatience in his voice, decided that discretion must be her watchword. She found the strength to hoist Dr. Russell to his feet and lead him out to her waiting carriage.
*
Before another hour had passed men were setting out from Hanbury crossroads, fanning out across the moors, and trudging upwards to the limestone caves above the town, drawing capes and greatcoats close against the bitter cold which worryingly presaged snow. Gratten joined them, as did Gil and Francis, all of them hoping silently that Underwood and Cara were indeed in the caverns, where the temperature stayed constant, summer or winter, for a night out on the open moors in this weather would surely spell death for all but the hardiest of souls.
The moors gave nothing away. No foot marks in the muddied sheep-paths, no scrap of cloth torn carelessly from a garment. The search there was presently abandoned and everyone gathere
d at the mouth of the caves. Here there were footprints aplenty, but to whom did they belong?
Of course once inside the solid rock floors showed nothing beyond the first few yards. One passageway quickly divided into two, two into four. The official guides led a few forays, but came up with nothing, only their own echoing cries coming back to them mocking and cruel. Dusk outside called a halt to the search, and the seekers left reluctantly, but fully intending to return the following day, should Underwood and Cara still not be found.
Deep underground Cara was fighting off a deepening panic, for Underwood, having fallen asleep, could not now be roused and try as she might, she could not get any warmth into his hands. His slight cough had turned noticeably worse, and the deep, rattling breaths he drew were terrifying her. His pocket watch told her that the hour was four, but she had so far lost her bearings she had no notion if that be four in the morning or four in the afternoon. At last, frightened and exhausted, she fed the fire, pulled the blankets about herself and her insensible companion, and so far overcame her scruples as to nestle close against him, telling herself it was the only wise thing to do for benefit of the warmth they could pass to each other, and not because it was the first time in her life she had ever been really afraid.
*
Mrs. Rogers had just settled the sadly shocked Dr. Russell into a warmed bed, with a hot brick at his feet, when a thunderous rapping on the front door caused her to scurry to the landing window to see what or who had made the commotion. From that angle she could not see the caller, but she could see his vehicle.
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 19