Rakehell's Daughters

by Gayle Eden

  “All of you just stop this!” Jo demanded tensely. “Val is going to come through this, and hopefully, one of you will rid the world of that evil piece of dung. Now let us stop talking as if we will never see her again. I cannot stand it. I can’t, I tell you!” She got up and then ran across the room, going out the door, slamming it behind her.

  Alexander suggested, “Everyone should get some sleep.”

  Alex and Edmund left, after Alex embraced her father and Archard, Archard went only to the sofa and stared into the fire. The Marquis, and his brother, sat in chairs nearby.

  It was some hours later that the storm passed. The compressed feeling from its force was replaced by the notable sound of a clock ticking, a run off of drains from the roof, and the crackle of a fire.

  His spine slumped, knees splayed and head back on the sofa, eyes closed but not asleep, Archard was filled with thoughts of Valerie. Of her laughter, her smile, her lavender eyes gazing at him with passion…and trust. Hang on. Hang on, my love. Do not give up. We will find you. Christ—Please, Val. Do not give up.

  * * * *

  Valerie eased her lashes open. A spray of weak morning sun streamed down through the fallen rafters of the mill house. The storm the night before had poured water into the derelict structure. Her skirt and blouse were wet and chilling on her skin.

  Careful not to stir Leland, who slept against the dryer side, head down and snoring, she sat up and went to work again on rubbing the binding on her wrist against a corner of loose stone on the floor. He had tied one of her feet to a millstone with a leather strop of some sort. She knew he had done that as much to keep her from kicking him as from running.

  Her hair was mussed, dirty, hanging around her face and shoulders. She used her arm to push it back out of her eyes. Her face was smarting from his backhanded slap that bruised it. She was bruised all over, likely, but being alive as the hours passed, mattered more.

  As she sawed, working her wrists up and down, she watched Leland for any sign he was waking. He was dressed neatly still, always carefully grooming himself. A cape under him protected him from the same dirt she lay in. His nose and eyes however were discolored, and the bridge of that nose was no longer perfectly straight.

  He’d given her little but water, though he ate bread, fruit and cheese, from a sack he had carried in. He had a long bladed knife he used to slice the fruit, as well as a pistol. He kept the pistol on him always, in his waistband, the knife in the pack. She would love to get her hands on it.

  Leland ignored her need to relieve herself, and Val made due. Leland was, thankfully, in his own world, his own mind. other than brief times he came out of it to insult or curse her, to ramble about she and others betraying him, making his life hell—he stayed in his own head.

  She deduced from his constant checking of his pocket watch that he was waiting for a certain time. She also discovered he had collected a ransom from her father. Val gathered he had arranged a place to pick it up. Where he stored it, she did not know, somewhere in the mill. He had taunted her that at least her father paid to keep her alive—for the next few days. Val believed her father would keep paying until his last was spent.

  Nevertheless, that was not Leland’s goal. On the other hand, she assumed with full knowledge of both her father and Archard’s character, that they would have a counter plan, and be looking for her.

  Somewhere behind the mill, was a horse. She had heard it and assumed it was one they had exited the woods on. Whether or not they were still on Hawksmoor’s land, she did not know. She had stayed unconscious too long.

  From her tours of the countryside, there were many abandoned mills and churches, derelict structures, around. Val did not think Leland would leave her alive once Archard paid him. She felt in her bones that Leland thought nothing about killing. He had one reality, his own, and one thought, himself.

  Val had plenty of time to think. Even if she got herself free, she had to get past him and get to that horse. There were two ways she could get herself out of there, get free, kill Leland, and take the horse, or wait until he left. Otherwise, he would be on her before she was more than few steps—if he beat her, killed her….

  Val froze. The material on her right wrist slid away. She flexed her fingers and looked at Leland. There was an insect buzzing, sure to wake him soon. She cupped the end of the cloth and waited. She would see if he left after waking, if he did not, she would do what she must to get away.

  * * * *

  At Hawksmoor, breakfast was a subdued affair. Most under the roof had not slept. After bathing and shaving, Archard took coffee out to the stables, checked on his tired mount, and then sat on the edge of a cane chair, just in the shade of the side lawn. Presently, the men joined him.

  He had explained his cousin’s role in bringing the money—and it went without saying by anyone, that Leland would have to be one lucky bastard to live to spend that blunt. They did not talk much. Auvary arrived from London, sometime in the following hour. He refreshed and joined them, his conversation quiet, and receiving only the essential information before he too fell silent.

  It was noon, just a few moments passed, when a lad came riding up to the stables. All the men converged.

  The lad looked terrified. He held out a paper with trembling, grubby fingers. “Mister. Van Wyc?”

  Archard took it. Whilst he was reading it, the other men took the lad aside, questioning him.

  Teeth set, Archard read the words: Dearest cousin, if you wish to see (our) wife alive again, bring the money to the Henderson farm. Come alone. You have until 9 tonight.

  “Bastard!”

  Archard strode to the boy and cut in the questioning, “Are the Henderson’s your kin?”

  The boy looked up the tall length of Van Wyc. “Y…yes, Sir. Me and me mum, me ten brothers and sisters. The lad’s eyes welled up with tears, his legs were trembling. “But we ain’t done nofin. The genelman what brought the note, tells me, tells me mum, he will burn our farm to the ground, he taked me sister wif’em, sir.”

  “Don’t you worry. We will see that you and yours are safe, and your sister will be returned.” The Marquis laid a hand on the boys head.

  Archard got directions to the farm. He checked his watch, hoping that Ingrid would arrived soon. He told the boy to remain and then went to write his own note.

  He demanded that his wife be present at the exchange. He stated in language that he knew Leland would latch onto, that he had doubled the amount asked for. If Val were there, at the exchange, he would re-instate a generous allowance to him.

  Taking it to the boy, Archard thought, any sane man would see through it, but not Leland. Leland was so used to Archard supporting him, covering for him, meeting his demands, that he would see it as having won, having achieved his aim. Leland had left so many messes, so much abuse and crime behind him, he likely never dreamed of being held responsible until Archard cut him off. He fully expected to get what he wanted.

  That was what Archard counted on.

  As soon as the boy left, the men went into action. With a slight signal of his head, the Marquis sent a brawny groom to follow the lad. Although Archard laid out his plan, he knew very well that Alexander and the others would likely follow him too. His brother Aric most certainly would. Rather than waste his breath arguing, Archard reminded them of the risk to Val if they were seen, as well as a whole innocent family now involved.

  In the house, Jo and Alex were filled in. While Archard was downing a whiskey, Ingrid arrived. She hardly looked the Swiss heiress in her riding breeches, boots, and ankle length coat. Her long hair was under a wool cap, and she had dust and mud from her journey all over her. There was scarcely time for introductions. She had just hopped off her horse and ran to the house.

  In the foyer, she set down the satchel full of money and looked around at the group. “It is all there. What’s occurred since last we spoke?”

  Archard filled her in. servants took her coat. Handing over her hat, she merely scooped
her long blond hair out of her face and accepted a bracing coffee, gulping it down.

  “Come into the library.” Alex stepped through the group men and took her arm. “You’ve been riding all night.”

  “Yes do.” Johanna added. “We’ll see a tray fetched. You must be starved.”

  The woman went, but told Archard, “I’m here, if you need me—”

  “Get some rest.” Archard came to her and embraced her. “And thank you.”

  “No need. She’s my kin too now.” Ingrid looked from him to the others. “We’re none of us fond of Leland. The family has suffered nothing but shame for his immoral deeds. He is a predator, and I would just as soon shoot him as look at him. I will, given the chance.”

  Archard saw the slight smile on Lord Auvary’s face and the raised brow. Another time he may have been amused himself. At the moment, they needed to plan.

  As soon as Archard was assured, they would give his own strategy a chance to work. He rode out on a fresh horse. The money sack was tied behind the saddle.

  * * * *

  Val had watched Leland awaken and stand. He looked her way while he undid his trouser flap and relieved himself a few feet from where he slept, muttering, “You’d better pray things go smoothly, bitch.”

  Val did not answer. She did not want to antagonize him.

  He left shortly afterwards.

  Her fingers trembled, fumbled, undoing the leather strap. Val was dizzy when she got to her feet but scrambled over and rummaged his pack, grabbing the knife and bread, her stomach rumbling at the prospect of having something solid in it. She spied his bag and dashed over to dig through it, taking out a pair of trousers. Val shed the skirt and put the trousers on, her blouse hem left out of it. Tossing her skirt where it could be found, she hurried out the entry, jumping over rubble, and sprinting with every sore muscle protesting across a long overgrown field.

  Afraid to use the road, she crossed it and went down a knoll, running for some time before she came upon a winding stream. Ribs and side aching, breathe not much more than gasps, she went to her knees. Catching her breath, she drank and hungrily chewed the bread. Val fashioned a quick braid of her wild hair, using material from her shirt hem to tie it. She splashed and rubbed her face, her raw wrists, and then got to her feet, running again.

  The sound of a horse had her heart beating mercilessly fast. She crouched in the high grass and edged toward the rise. There was a gully, a ditch of sorts, she crouched in, squeezing her eyes shut while she waited for the horse to pass before she raised and looked in that direction.

  “Dear God.” She saw someone, a young female in homespun, clinging to Leland and positioned behind the saddle.

  For a moment, Val stood there, trembling, the fist holding the knife tightening. Sick with having to make the decision to run and get away—or go back and perhaps help the child.

  Finding her gone, Leland would be in a rage. He would kill someone.

  Squatting down, she folded her hands on her knees, her forehead against them as she chanted, “Just run. Go. You can get help for her. This is your only chance. You might not be able to save her. You both might end up dead.”

  Nearly sobbing now, Val stood and peered over the landscape, farmlands and overgrown meadows. The sun was weaker, the sky overcast. Her body hurt. Her bones were aching, and she did not know how far she was from a farm or village.

  Arching her neck, she closed her eyes tightly. She had to decide, soon. She was not that far away from the mill. Sighing unsteadily Val went down the slope, keeping down in the grasses; she made her way back towards the mill.

  Val discovered she was close enough when she heard Leland’s foul, raging curses, as he called her name. Val wondered if trading herself again for the girl—but then, Leland was armed. Oh, bloody hell. She could hear the horse’s hooves on the road.

  It was a short span time before she saw Leland ride across and into the very meadow that she hid in. Val half crawled to the road, hid by grasses and then crossed to the other side. Time was everything.

  She ran toward the mill, reached it, and dived inside, panting, spying the gagged and bound girl, no more than eleven or twelve, by a timber. Val dashed to her. Squatting down, she ignored the girl’s flinch and cut her free.

  “Do you live nearby?”

  “I…not far M…miss.” The girl’s lips trembled.

  “We’ve no time to talk much, just do as I say.” Val helped her up and hurried her to the back of the mill, out of one of the windows. She followed and jumped down, urging, “Run. Keep away from the roads. But run, and do not stop!”

  They both ran, Val just behind the girl who hiked up her homespun and ran like a doe. Although her heart was beating hard in her chest and ears, Val also heard the sound of Leland’s horse and those hooves pounding on the road again. Eventually he would search this side. They had to get somewhere hidden and fast.

  “VVVVVVaalerie! You Bitch!”

  She stumbled and caught herself, her lungs afire. The girl was leagues ahead of her. Val thought, run…run child.

  When she could see her no more, Val let her quaking legs collapse. She sat sobbing in the brush, the water and bread coming up her throat. After it spilt, Val wiped her mouth and caught her breath. She never stopped shaking. There were spots before her eyes. Her head was too light. Time, moments passed before she heavily pulled herself to her feet. Walking—unable to run anymore, she heard Leland’s mount thrashing through the meadow behind her.

  Val clutched the knife and strode up, toward the road. She stood just off it, in plain sight with a ditch not far from her.

  When the lathered horse was close enough to smell, Val turned, seeing Leland, face now twisted, and his hand down like a claw, ready to snatch her by the hair. Val raised the knife and stabbed at it, then stumbled into the ditch to keep the horse from trampling her.

  Leland screamed. The horse wheeled, snorting.

  Val looked up from being prone on her back. Leland’s bloody hand was now holding a pistol pointing down at her.

  He was seething. “The knife. Toss it.”

  She considered a moment.

  He brought the horse close enough to trample her. His blue eyes were filled with death. “You may stab the horse, stab me, but I’ll have blown your pretty face off by then.”

  “You’re an animal. A sick and twisted, animal,” she grit though set teeth, her weak breath not allowing her to spew more.

  The slice in his palm deep, dripping blood, Leland coldly cocked the pistol. “The knife, Valerie.”

  She threw it over in the meadow.

  “Now. Get up.”

  She got her feet.

  Leland transferred the pistol. Pulling his neck cloth off with a bloody hand, he was using his teeth to help bind the palm and tie it off.

  The barrel pointed at her head, Val heard the birds, the stir of wind on the grasses, the heavy breaths of the mount. Was this her day to die? A beautiful day, all said.

  When he was done, Leland motioned her to the road. He ordered her to walk in front of the horse, the gun pointed at her back.

  * * * *

  Archard arrived at the farm to find a terrified Mrs. Henderson and her children huddled in the main room. He opened the door only long enough to survey them and bark, “Do not come out this door, not for anything.”

  The lad, who had been to Hawksmoor, wiped his running nose, his eyes raw. “He didn’t come back for the note, sir. I couldn’t give it to’em.” His grubby fingers reached in his pocket and he held it out.

  Archard waved it off. There was nothing to do with it now.

  “W…what about my Annie. He’s got my Annie!” the woman cried desperately.

  Archard answered, “If all goes well, we’ll have her back safely.” His eyes scanned the frightened children, one no more than a babe on her mother’s lap. “Keep quiet, no matter what you hear.”

  He closed the door and strode to his mount, waiting in the well-packed farmyard. Archard led the hors
e to a hitch post, looped the reins and took the satchel of money from the saddle.

  He looked around and found a spot far enough away from the house and windows, near a goat pen. He took a seat upon a jutting rock, and laying the satchel down, checked his pistol and short sword.

  Drawing one of the pistols out of the coat, he slid it into the back of his high boots, against his calf.

  Chickens squawked and other farm animals chattered, something squeaked near the well whenever the wind blew. He drew out his pipe and packed it, lit it, smoking—waiting, with eyes pinned on the lane to the farm.

  Dusk approached. Not good. He had ridden two hours to the farm. Archard rolled the now unlit pipe in his fingers. Come on, you bastard.

  It came soon enough; the sound of a horse on the road. Enough light remained when it turned in the lane that he could see the figure walking before it. Trousers or no, he knew it was Val.

  Archard observed Leland looking around. He came to his feet slowly, discerning the moment Leland spotted him, because he could feel the alert tension. Archard did not need much light to see the shape Val was in; filthy, trembling, her body looking as if it wanted to drop—her face was bruised and drawn with fatigue.

  Leland had the pistol aimed at her head, in plain sight. He said clearly, “Try anything and she’s dead.”

  Archard made himself sound calm. “The money is here.”

  “In the house!” Leland yelled. “Get out here! Mrs. Henderson, you send one of those brats out here!”

  Archard said, “I told her, not to come out for anything.”

  Leland glared. “Well you tell her to send one of those filthy brats of hers out. They’ll bring that money to me.”

  Archard called out. “Send the lad out, Mrs. Henderson.”

  He used the time Leland was preoccupied to look at Val again. She had her arms around her middle, and even in the dusk, he could see she stared at him. It was a stare that scared him, blank and inward turned. Hopefully, it was simply fatigue. He raised his gaze, keeping a mask intact for Leland.