“He was taken to an old cottage in the forest. They did not want to move him too far. I have never been there; I hope I can find it again.”
“You must remember.”
Farther and farther they scurried into the forest. Then Crosley’s steps slowed. “There it is. Through the trees there.”
An unfamiliar, dilapidated stone cottage stood in a modest clearing just past the path. The windows were broken and a tree had fallen over the thatched roof. She would have assumed it was uninhabited except smoke puffed from the chimney. Annabelle wiped the rain from her face. She gathered her skirts and bit her lip as if to summon strength. She would need every ounce of it she possessed.
Owen had been shot. There would be blood, pain. She had to be strong.
She exchanged glances with Crosley. How she longed for the old Crosley, who would listen to her, soothe her pain, take her side. In Crosley’s red-rimmed eyes she saw pain and concern.
Crosley reached for Annabelle’s hand. “Prepare yourself.”
The smell of wood smoke tweaked her nose. Her body trembled with such violence that she wondered how she would make it inside.
Crosley gripped her by the hand, stepped before her, and pushed open the door.
Annabelle thought she might faint as she followed her through the doorway, preparing for the worst. Gathering her courage, she lifted her eyes.
And what she saw shocked her.
The door slammed shut behind her. Crosley dropped her hand. And Annabelle whirled around.
Owen was there, yes, but he was not injured. His eyes wide, he was tied to a chair, and a rag bound his mouth.
She froze and lifted her gaze. In the corner stood her brother, Mr. Bartrell, and Billy Crosley.
She opened her mouth to speak but then snapped it shut. Crosley moved toward the men and turned to face Annabelle. Gone were the sympathy and fear. A smug smile replaced any trace of concern.
Annabelle pivoted back to Owen. His upper arms and torso were tied, his fists gripped the chair, and his eyebrows slanted down in anger.
Terror clutched her. She had been tricked.
For several moments, no one spoke. Then Thomas left his perch and moved closer to Annabelle. She lifted her chin, refusing to retreat as he approached. “What have you done, Thomas?”
“It isn’t what I have done,” he said, calmly and coolly. “It is time you faced the consequences of your thoughtless actions.”
Annabelle flicked her gaze from Owen to Mr. Bartrell and back to Owen. “This is wrong. Why have you tied him up? You must let him go. Immediately.”
Mr. Bartrell shifted, revealing a pistol in his hands. She struggled to make sense of this. Why Owen? How was Crosley involved?
“You’re not exactly in a position to be giving orders, Belle.” Thomas circled her, and Billy Crosley shuffled toward her. “It’s about time you realized you’ll do as you’re told.”
Annabelle huffed. “I will not.”
“You will, otherwise the gamekeeper here won’t live to see another dawn.”
Mr. Bartrell lifted the pistol and took aim at an invisible spot on the wall, then drew the weapon close, polished it against his sleeve, and fixed Annabelle with a pointed stare.
Annabelle could not control her trembling. She understood Mr. Bartrell’s silent warning, and she didn’t doubt that he was capable of such a dastardly action. Mr. McAlister’s demise flashed before her.
Mr. Bartrell spoke. “I told you that I’d get my way and that I’d possess you. You will marry me, Annabelle. Today. Otherwise I’ll kill your gamekeeper friend, who has caused enough trouble for me in his own right. And then you’ll marry me just the same.”
Annabelle looked to the door, wanting to run. It had been latched, and the lock bar had been lowered. Desperate for help, she looked to Crosley, but her cold expression conveyed she would be of no help.
Annabelle’s mouth went so dry she could not even swallow. The glow from the fireplace created the room’s only light, and it glistened on Owen’s perspiring face. Her heart ached for him—ached for the fear he must be experiencing. But what frightened her most was the thought of never seeing him alive again.
Her mind begged, pleaded with God for knowledge of what she should do. But how did God answer prayer? Was it like a lightning bolt from the sky? A whisper? A feeling?
As Bartrell drew closer and shifted the pistol’s aim toward Owen, she had no option. Mr. Bartrell would make good on his promise.
“Fine,” Annabelle blurted. “But do not hurt him.”
Thomas laughed. “So concerned. But we have other issues to address with Mr. Locke. You messed up trusting this one, Belle. You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”
She did not have time to contemplate his words, for Mr. Bartrell stomped toward the door, pistol still pointed at Owen. “Your carriage awaits, Miss Thorley. And don’t think about changing your mind. Billy here will be keeping an eye on our friend until he has been told our marriage has taken place.”
Thomas jerked her arm, and her soggy shawl fell to the floor. He swung a cape around her shoulders before they went outside.
The air grew bitterly cold as she stepped behind the cottage to the carriage. The rain raked her face, and the raw wind bit into her skin. She had to find a way out of this. For now Owen was safe, and she prayed she was making the right decision.
Chapter Forty-Two
Owen yanked his arms against the ropes restraining him. The rough cords dug through his sleeves and burned against his arms, but they would not give. He grunted and thrashed as Annabelle disappeared through the doorway. Perspiration dripped from his wet hair and stung his eyes.
Billy Crosley crossed the room and smacked the back of Owen’s head. “You’ll knock that off if you know what’s good for you.”
Owen had been ambushed last night in the forest. In the span of seconds the men had been upon him. Against one or even two men he would have had a fighting chance. But with three armed men, he was easily overtaken.
What was even worse was that Annabelle had been tricked.
He had failed to protect her, and now she was in the hands of a monster. His lungs strained against the constraint of his rib cage. He was barely able to get enough air through his nose.
Thorley, Bartrell, and Miss Crosley had all gone with Annabelle. He had heard the carriage rumble away. He forced his breathing to slow. The only thing standing in his way, besides the ropes and ties, was the moronic Billy Crosley and the weapon he wielded.
He had to stay calm if he was going to not only get out of this alive, but find and protect Annabelle.
He assessed the cottage. He knew the structure. It had been empty since he was a boy—ever since a tree fell over the back roof. He passed it every so often but never gave it a second glance. But litter, bowls, and furniture implied that someone had been using it for quite some time. Rope and wire were stashed in the corner. Crates and trunks lined the back hall. And a pile of fur sat atop a roughly fashioned table. Even as he assessed the cottage’s contents, his mind raced to put all the pieces together.
But what was even more shocking was what he’d learned from his captors.
Crosley paced the narrow space. “You picked a fight with the wrong man, Locke.”
Owen could only eye him.
“He will destroy you, you know that?”
Owen refused to be intimidated by the smaller man. But he did not doubt the vicious nature of either Thorley or Bartrell.
After what seemed like hours, a noise caught Owen’s attention. A dog barking. Not just any dog, but Drake. During the scuffle earlier that morning, he had become separated from Drake and was not sure what had happened to him. Owen had lost track of time, but no doubt Whitten would have noticed his absence by now.
He glanced to see if Crosley had noticed the noise, but he sat on the chair, pistol in hand. He was becoming complacent. Which was just what Owen needed.
His impatience mounted as the sound of barking grew closer. Drake was the best tracki
ng dog he’d ever owned. If Drake was on the hunt, Owen would be found.
The rain started again, pelting the thatched roof and slamming against the panes of glass. The barking was growing louder, more erratic.
Crosley noticed the sound finally. The lanky man stood from his chair and moved to the window to look out. “Dog must be daft,” he muttered, straining to see through the rain.
Owen’s heart beat wildly and perspiration dripped in his eye again. He blinked it away and strained to hear over the rain.
Then someone in the distance called out, “Locke!”
Drake’s barking sounded to be right outside the door. Owen forced himself to be perfectly still.
Crosley turned to the side as he regripped the pistol over and over, his motions clumsy and hesitant. He licked his lips and shifted from foot to foot. Perspiration dotted his brow and clumped his shaggy blond hair. Clearly he was not used to handling such a weapon, which made him even more dangerous.
Owen strained to see out the window, but the chair was too low to the ground.
Suddenly the door burst open and Crosley stumbled backward. Whitten appeared in the doorway, his thick frame but a silhouette against the dreary light outside, his weapon fixed firmly on Crosley.
Crosley fumbled with his gun and lost his balance, and Drake rushed into the room, snarling, and lunged onto Crosley’s unsteady form.
A cry escaped Crosley as he fell, and the weapon clattered to the ground. It discharged, and the bullet flew through the cottage’s back wall. Drake stood with his paws on Crosley’s chest, growling with his teeth bared.
Whitten drew closer, his aim direct. His gaze did not leave Crosley’s face. He stepped forward and kicked the gun away from the skittish man. “Not sure what all this is about, but I can’t say I’m too happy to find Locke here tied up and you with a pistol. Get up, and if you try anything foolish, this dog will be on you faster ’n you can snap a whip.”
Drake retreated, and Whitten made quick business of forcing Crosley into a chair. With Drake gnarling at Crosley’s every move, the man did not dare move a muscle as Whitten secured him.
“There now.” Whitten wiped his brow and turned his attention to Owen. He retrieved a pocketknife and cut the ropes. Owen pulled the rag off his mouth.
Drawing a deep breath, Owen scooped up Crosley’s discarded weapon. “Where were they going?”
When Crosley did not answer, Owen intensified his voice and aimed his pistol at Crosley. “Where were they going?”
Perspiration dotted Crosley’s brow and dripped to his chin. “They was going back to London, ’tis all I know.”
When Owen did not lower the weapon, Crosley hissed, “I swear, that is all I know. He wants to marry Miss Thorley. That’s it.”
“That’s not it, and you and I both know it.” Owen’s hand was steady as he continued to hold the pistol. “What were you doing out this morning?”
Crosley shifted, his gaze not leaving the weapon. “We were on our way back to Bancroft Park and got lost.”
Owen let out a frustrated laugh and steadied his grip. “Now how about you tell me the truth.”
Whitten stepped closer, and Drake snarled at his master’s feet.
Owen whistled, and Drake inched toward Crosley. “I will ask you again. What were you doing in Linton Forest?”
Crosley could scoot back no farther. “I’ll tell you, just get that mutt away from me.”
Owen whistled, and the dog retreated.
Crosley fixed his eyes on the pistol. “We were looking for you. Bartrell said you had to be punished for what happened to Hemstead and said you knew too much. And when he thought you and Miss Thorley were together, he went mad.”
Owen exchanged a glance with Whitten. The pieces fell into place: Bartrell and Thorley were behind the poaching, and they had been using their time on Bancroft Park property to make necessary connections for the game. And when they suspected Owen was on to them, they were going to prevent him from going to the authorities and exposing their activities.
That had to be it. That’s how they knew their way around the forest. They’d utilized this very cottage to run their operation from. It had been right under his nose this entire time. It made perfect sense. Game needed to be sold someplace where its origins would not be questioned. And that place was London.
He now knew what he needed to know. Owen bent down and scooped up Annabelle’s discarded shawl. The damp fabric felt heavy in his hand. Anger raged afresh within him. Annabelle was strong and feisty, but she would be no match for the likes of Bartrell and her brother.
“Make sure those ropes are tight,” Owen instructed Whitten. “We’ve a carriage to catch.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Within minutes Whitten and Owen had run to the stables to retrieve horses, pistols, and Walter Burley, the groundskeeper. The rain continued to fall, but Owen did not mind. He had learned to use the elements to his advantage. He donned a greatcoat to protect himself from the weather and pulled his wide-brimmed hat low before he motioned to the other men to mount their horses. If he was going to overtake the two men, he needed to outnumber them. The more at his disposal, the better.
He knelt down to Drake and rubbed the dog’s head. Drake licked his face and Owen scratched his ears. “Good boy. But your work is not done.”
He placed Annabelle’s shawl on the ground before him and gave the time-honored command, “Find her, Drake. Find her.”
The dog sniffed the damp shawl and circled it twice. He barked wildly and ran around Owen.
Once satisfied the dog had the scent, Owen mounted his horse. “Let’s go!”
They traveled the expanse of Bancroft Park land and made their way to a main highway. When Owen realized the direction they were traveling, he pulled the horses to a stop and shouted above the rain’s patter, “This road leads to London, but there is a carriage inn about five miles away. From there the road juts in three different directions. Let’s hope we can overtake the carriage. Everyone doing all right?”
Whitten, with ruddy face and excited eyes, nodded.
Burley, with blanched features and shadowed eyes, sniffed.
Owen and the men cantered down the road, passing forest and vale, pond and field. He was beginning to fear they were on a cold trail when they rounded a bend in the road and a carriage could be seen in front of them.
The carriage did not appear to be traveling unusually fast, but the thought of Annabelle with Bartrell in the carriage sent fire surging through him. The carriage had an unusually large number of trunks fastened to it. Far too many for men eager to flee Fellsworth.
He wished he’d had time to touch base with Treadwell to find out if he knew anything, but if his suspicions were correct, Treadwell would have no idea what his guests had really been up to while staying at Bancroft Park.
Owen urged the horse into a faster gait, faster, faster, until he was within shouting distance. Bits of earth flung up with each pounding of his horse’s hooves, and his horse stumbled in the thick mud on more than one occasion. He ran his horse up to the side of the carriage.
He ducked his head to the right just long enough to see Bartrell’s face as he flew by. Owen urged the horse ahead, and the carriage driver and his comrade noticed him.
No doubt they thought him a highwayman. He glanced back at Whitten close behind him. Burley was farther back.
From the corner of his eye he saw the driver retrieve a weapon, but at his speed he could not stop to confirm it. His main priority was to get ahold of a rein to stop the horses. Fortunately there were only two pulling the carriage, but it would be a feat.
Finally he was close enough. He ignored the shouting and after two attempts grabbed hold of the leather lead. He pulled tight, the force slicing his bare hand.
He glanced back. The carriage driver and his partner were not there—they had jumped. No doubt they bailed at the first sign of trouble, especially if they suspected him to be a highwayman.
The horses event
ually started to slow, their uneven hysterical gait eventually pulling to a halt.
Owen leaned forward in the saddle, gulping for air. He had not realized he was holding his breath until he stopped the animals. He looked down at his hand. Blood oozed from the gash.
He pulled his pistol from his saddle and turned to dismount, then froze.
Bartrell had exited the carriage and was pointing a pistol right at his chest.
Owen was but a few paces away. If Bartrell pulled the trigger, he would not miss.
Annabelle poked her head out of the carriage door, and at the sight of Bartrell with his gun drawn, her face grew ashen.
“What in blazes do you think you are doing?” Bartrell yelled. “What right do you have to stop my carriage?”
“You are transporting a lady against her will. And I have reason to believe that you have contraband game on your carriage.”
Bartrell snorted and tilted his head as he noticed Whitten and Burley approach, their weapons drawn. “You’re lucky I don’t shoot you where you stand, Locke. You’ve caused enough trouble for me.”
“Put the gun down, Bartrell,” Locke ordered.
Bartrell huffed. “Or what? You’ll shoot me?”
Bartrell started to pivot, but Whitten stilled him. “Don’t move, Bartrell. I’ll pull this trigger in a heartbeat. I’d love nothing more than to see a poacher like you put in his place.”
Bartrell smiled, almost as if he were enjoying the game. “What if you miss? Miss Thorley’s right behind me. Isn’t that why you are here? Do you really expect me to believe that you would follow me all this way for rabbits and foxes?”
Owen flicked his gaze up. Annabelle was no longer visible in the carriage.
It was then Thorley rounded the carriage, with a firm grip on Annabelle’s arm.
Her eyes were red, and her face was pale. Mud was splattered on her face. “Owen! Be careful!”
Thomas jerked her when she spoke, and waved an old-fashioned dueling pistol in his direction. “This is between you and me, Locke, as it should be.”
They were three against two, and with Miss Crosley in the carriage, he had to act fast. With a sharp intake of breath Owen ducked low and ran himself into Thorley, and by doing so caught him off guard. The action broke Thorley’s grip on Annabelle. She fell backward, and Thorley fell to the ground. Owen pressed his weight on top of him.
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 28