by Linda Miles
‘Well, if we have to die I can’t think of a better way to go,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think it’s that desperate. All we’ve got to do is untie ourselves and get out of here, and there won’t be much they can do.’
“‘All”,’ said Rachel.
‘We clear out, find some breakfast, and see what the hell is going on. Wonder if they took your soil samples? We may have to go back for more.’
“‘We”,’ said Rachel.
‘I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the fun,’ said Grant. ‘After all, it was your idea.’
‘It’s not my idea of fun to get hit over the head and be tied hand and foot,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s all right for you—at least you haven’t been here since yesterday morning.’
He smiled. ‘Poor darling. All right, all the more reason to get on with step one.’
‘And how do you suggest we do that?’ said Rachel. ‘Don’t tell me, your Apache blood brother taught you this trick for escaping from bonds.’
‘No—’
‘Your grandfather was Houdini.’
‘Unfortunately not—’
‘You’re the Incredible Shrinking Man.’
‘Will you be quiet? It’s perfectly simple. Turn around and face the wall, and I’ll untie your wrists with my teeth. Then you can untie mine, and we’ll do our own feet.’
‘Can you really do that?’ asked Rachel.
‘Try me.’ He smiled. ‘Turn over now, and just leave the rest to me.’
Rachel rolled over, painfully, onto her other side. The bed shook wildly as Grant tried to manoeuvre himself into position, then fell to the floor.
After an interval of rather choice language, the bed shook again as he leant forward. Rachel could feel the rope being tugged at her wrists; she bit her lip to keep from crying out. A very, very long time went by.
Rachel lost track of time. It must have been a good two hours later, she estimated, when he at last said, ‘OK, that should do it.’
She pulled one arm up, slowly, with excruciating pain—yes, she was free. She rolled onto her back, allowing her arms simply to lie at her sides, and looked at Grant.
‘Grant!’ she cried in horror. ‘Are you all right?’
His face was pale, the blue eyes stark. His mouth was scraped and raw where he had struggled with the rope.
‘Never better,’ he managed.
Rachel forced herself to ignore the pain in her arms. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. Grant needed to lie down as soon as possible. She could not waste time recovering.
‘Turn around and I’ll do you,’ she said. He turned away. Gritting her teem, Rachel moved her hands, in which circulation was unpleasantly returning, to the knots behind his back. They were tight, and intricately tied; with still numb fingers they were not easy to untie, and it took her a good twenty minutes to set him free.
They untied their ankles and stamped their feet softly on the floor to get the blood flowing.
‘What happens now?’ asked Rachel. Her arms were throbbing painfully, but she realised, with surprise, that she felt more at ease than she had for weeks. At least Grant was beside her. At least he wasn’t giving her his granite-jawed routine.
‘Well—if they come back soon, we lie back to back, hands behind us, and hope they don’t look too carefully. Otherwise, there are three options. One, wait till we’re in working order and overpower them. Two, break down the door. Three, escape by the window. I won’t know which it has to be till I’ve had a look at two and three.’
Rachel thought about his drawn white face, the tight mouth.
‘Won’t that be rather difficult?’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, but it seems to me it would be hard enough to do any of those things in peak condition. I don’t know about you, but I feel that being hit on the head, tied up for hours and starved hasn’t left me with the kind of energy I’d want to overpower someone, break down a door or escape through the window of an attic.’
‘Shame on you, Spidergirl,’ he said lightly. ‘I’m relying on you to fell at least ten opponents at a blow, or at least go down the sheer side of a building without a rope. This defeatism ill becomes a superhero.’
‘You’re the superhero,’ said Rachel. ‘I never thought you’d be able to untie me. Is your mouth all right?’
‘It’ll do.’
‘It looks terrible,’ said Rachel candidly. ‘Would you like me to kiss it better?’
There was a short silence. At last he said, ‘You know I would, Spidergirl. There’s not much point in pretending I wouldn’t, now, is there? But you know life’s not as simple as that.’ He stood up abruptly, gripping the bedstead, then made his way step by painful step to the window. ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he said. ‘These people have attacked anyone who’s tried to get a look at that blasted wood. Meanwhile Olivia’s out there with “Get in independent environmental assessor” on her list of things to do—there’s absolutely no guarantee that they won’t go for her first’
Rachel bit her lip. She had begun to entertain a terrible suspicion. There had been no sign of Driscoll at Arrowmead when she’d copied the map; Olivia was the only person who knew she thought something was wrong. It was possible that Driscoll had come back—but there was a much simpler explanation of what had happened. She couldn’t point the finger at her rival, though, so she made no comment, simply walking over to join Grant at the window.
‘Where are we?’ They were looking out over treetops with a long alley down the middle.
Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But I do know plan three is out of the question. We’re on the fourth floor.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Grant. ‘If we’ve got enough rope I might be able to get up onto the roof.’ He actually sounded as though he was looking forward to giving it a try, Rachel thought in disgust. ‘You know,’ he added, ‘break into another window, get back into the house that way.’ He held his hands up, measuring the window, and scowled—there was no way those broad shoulders could get through. ‘Well, maybe I couldn’t,’ he said regretfully. ‘You could probably get through,’ he offered generously.
‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
‘Well, let’s have a look at the door, then.’
The door appeared to be made of solid oak, and to have hinges on the outside.
Grant bent to listen at the keyhole, then straightened with another grimace. He pushed against it experimentally with a shoulder and shook his head.
‘Not a hope,’ he said. ‘Well, we’re not going anywhere fast, and if anyone comes after us now we’re in no shape to give them any trouble. Come over to the bed and lie on your stomach.’
‘What?’
‘You won’t be up to much with those arms—how are your shoulders?’
‘In agony,’ said Rachel.
‘Ever the stoic,’ he said, grinning. ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. Come on.’
Rachel obediently lay down on the bed again, and he began very gently kneading her shoulders.
She groaned. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said. ‘You’re killing me, but it feels marvellous.’
‘Good.’ His hands were strong, the thumbs circling with slow, ever increasing pressure on the sore muscles. Slowly she felt the knots in her neck and back and shoulders dissolve. After a while she realised that she could quite happily have allowed this to go on for hours—but Grant should not be doing this indefinitely.
‘That’s much better,’ she said regretfully at last. ‘But this can’t be good for you.’ She groaned again appreciatively. ‘If anyone has to fell an opponent it’ll probably be you. You’d better let me work on you for a while.’
There was another silence. She got the impression that he wasn’t entirely happy with the suggestion, but he could not argue with its good sense. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re right, I’m probably not good for much yet.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ Rachel said. She turned over and sat up. ‘You’ll have to take
off your shirt,’ she told him.
‘What?’
‘I only got hit over the head; you got beaten up,’ she said reasonably. ‘If you keep your shirt on I might hit a bruise. I don’t want to hurt you.’
Grant growled something under his breath.
‘Do you want me to do it for you?’ she asked.
‘No, that’s all right,’ he said hastily. He unbuttoned his shirt, glaring at Rachel, tossed it to the floor with another glare at the ministering angel, and lay down again.
‘You don’t mind if I sit on your back, do you?’ asked Rachel. ‘If I have to lean over at an odd angle I think I may strain my muscles again.’
Grant sighed. ‘Why did it always seem like a bad dream when you were inaccessible?’ he asked. ‘I should have quit when I was ahead. Maybe we should just forget about it.’
‘But Grant,’ objected Rachel, ‘we can’t forget about it. I’m relying on you to protect me.’
‘Yes,’ said Grant. ‘So I see. Now if only I had someone to protect me from you I’d feel a lot better. All right, do your damnedest.’
Rachel promptly straddled his back, kneeling on the narrow bed, and lowered herself to sit at the base of his spine. She began massaging the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders, working at them with her knuckles.
He drew in his breath sharply, then let it out again. Rachel supposed she should be nervous—after all, at any moment violent, ruthless kidnappers might burst into the room, and you could bet they would not take well to the spectacle of their captives giving each other massages. Still, she reasoned, neither she nor Grant could do anything anyway if they couldn’t move.
She continued to knead away at the hard, muscular back, gradually working her way down the spine and back up again. There were a couple of pretty spectacular bruises, which she did her best to avoid; once he flinched as she inadvertently touched a tender spot, but for the most part he lay rigid and unmoving on the bed.
‘Am I hurting you?’ she asked at last, wondering whether he was steeling himself not to show pain.
‘No,’ said Grant through gritted teeth. ‘Killing with kindness, maybe.’
Rachel ignored this. He felt wonderful—the skin silky, smooth over the lean muscle, the narrow waist rising to broad, powerful shoulders.
At last, reluctantly, she stopped. Too bad she didn’t have an excuse to take off some more of his clothes, she thought regretfully. ‘They didn’t injure you on the leg, did they?’ she asked hopefully, getting to her feet
‘No,’ said Grant. ‘And if they had I wouldn’t tell you. None of this petticoats-into-bandages nonsense from you, Dr Hawkins.’
‘I don’t have a petticoat,’ said Rachel.
‘And I don’t have a leg wound, thank God for small mercies.’ He slipped into his shirt again.
‘Maybe we’ll have to overpower them after all,’ Rachel said unenthusiastically. ‘If they ever show up.’ She couldn’t decide which was worse—engaging in unarmed combat with a modern-day Neanderthal, or just being left to starve here. She’d had some chocolate in her backpack, but there was no sign of it; not only were her notes and camera in the hands of the enemy, they also had her Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut. These people were obviously fiendishly clever. she thought she could have put up some kind of a fight if she’d just had breakfast. Or at least if she’d had breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and breakfast…
‘Well, it’s what I’d like best,’ Grant said grimly. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting a bit of my own back, not to mention getting even with the bastard who hit you.’
Well, at least someone would enjoy it, Rachel thought morosely. ‘What do you want me to do if they do come?’ she asked.
‘Stay out of the way.’
It was what she’d wanted to hear, but as soon as he said it she was furious. ‘There might be lots of them!’ she protested.
‘I don’t want to have to be worrying about you on top of—’
He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the room.
Grant was on his feet in an instant, gesturing to Rachel to stand behind him. She stepped back. The door opened a fraction—and Grant hurled himself against it, crushing the unseen visitor between door and wall.
Rachel approached the doorway in time to see the jailer slide out from behind the door, receive a single, powerful blow on the jaw from Grant, and collapse to the floor.
She stared, bemused, at the unconscious figure. One minute they’d been captives for who knew how long, now the door was open, their captor was in a deep faint and it was all over.
‘Right, let’s get him inside,’ said Grant, putting his hands under the victim’s armpits. Rachel took his feet. They deposited the body on the bed and used the ropes to secure him. Grant stripped off the mask the man was wearing and stared at his face.
‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Rachel.
‘Well, he’s one of the thugs who attacked me yesterday. Never seen him before that in my life.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘I’VE always wanted to have the chance to say, We have ways of making you talk,’ said Grant, looking down at their captive. ‘But we don’t have any time to waste.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘He didn’t bring any food with him, so he must have been on some other errand. They’ll be expecting him back.’
‘So when he doesn’t show, sooner or later they’ll send someone to see what’s happened,’ said Rachel.
‘Exactly.’
‘And we don’t want to be here when reinforcements arrive,’ she added emphatically.
‘Well, I don’t want you to be here,’ he amended. ‘Anyway, chances are, he doesn’t know anything very useful. He’s just a strongman. We need to go to headquarters.’
‘We need to go to the police,’ said Rachel.
‘Oh—yes, of course,’ said Grant. ‘The police. Obviously. I just want to find out what’s going on first.’
‘I was thinking we could leave that to the police,’ said Rachel, not very hopefully. She didn’t like the way Grant’s eyes were sparkling. He was undoubtedly having the time of his life. He did not look like a man about to let the police have all the fun.
Grant gave her a rather rueful smile. ‘You think I just don’t want to let someone else in on the fun, don’t you?’ he asked, with his old uncanny trick of reading her mind.
‘Well…’ Rachel searched for a tactful reply.
‘In other words, yes.’ He grinned. ‘Well, I won’t deny it’s more fun than boardroom politics. There’s a serious reason behind it, though.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not just worried about a bump on the head, you know. I’ve got a business to think about. I’ve got to have as much information as I can if I’m to fight this out.’
‘Which the police—’
‘Won’t necessarily be able to release to me.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t afford to wait for it all to come out in the wash. By that time someone may have taken over my business.’
Rachel wasn’t fooled for a moment by his responsible tone of voice. She knew he was having a marvellous time. The thing she couldn’t work out was how much he’d worked out. Surely it was obvious who had had the best opportunity to do all this?
Of course, it might be that Grant realised Olivia was likely to be involved, she reflected. That might be another reason why he was reluctant to go to the police. He might want to spare her if he could. Meanwhile, loyalty might prevent him from mentioning what could only be a suspicion to Rachel. If he really thought Olivia was involved, though, how could he possibly sound so cheerful?
Whatever the truth of the matter, she realised, she couldn’t possibly press him on it. ‘So what do we do?’ she asked. ‘Conceal ourselves in a secret passageway that just happens to be outside the room where the conspirators are conspiring? Loiter until we overhear the secret password and then smuggle ourselves into the meeting in disguise?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll wait for inspiration.’
‘Another of your great
hunches.’
‘Absolutely.’ He grinned again. ‘Meanwhile I want you to go home. I don’t want to endanger you any further, and if there’s fighting I may not be able to protect you.’
Rachel argued hotly against this, but Grant, usually so easygoing, was adamant. ‘All right, then,’ she said at last. ‘If I can’t go with you I’ll call the police the minute I get home.’
Grant scowled. ‘But you don’t even like adventures!’ he protested. ‘You’re starving. You know you’d rather be having a hot bath.’
‘I’m going with you,’ said Rachel. ‘I’d rather be with you than sitting in a hot bath wondering what’s happened to you. Anyway, if you have me to think of maybe you won’t be quite so foolhardy.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ he complained.
‘Good. Then that’s settled,’ said Rachel. She knew she was every kind of fool to insist on going along when Grant had given her an easy way out. She didn’t like being hit on the head. She didn’t like being tied up. For all she knew, people might shoot at them, and she didn’t think she’d like that either. What was more, she didn’t want the chance to find out. Anything was better, though, than sitting at home imagining the worst. Grant locked the door of the room behind them, and they made their way quietly along an attic corridor.
He listened intently for a moment at the head of a flight of stairs, then crept noiselessly down. Rachel followed, her heart in her mouth.
To her annoyance Grant didn’t even look nervous. His eyes were practically throwing off blue sparks, his lean, tough body had the kind of unthinking alertness that Rachel associated with predatory animals. Well, at least one of them was enjoying himself, she thought sourly.
There was no sound on this floor. Grant padded silently down the next flight of stairs, his reluctant sidekick gloomily bringing up the rear.
Wherever they were, it was huge and old, and its owner was fantastically rich. They were looking down a corridor covered with what looked like priceless carpets, and lined with suits of armour and portraits of eighteenth-century horses and cases of Chinese vases and other treasures. Grant hesitated, then set off to explore—and almost immediately discovered that there were a few expensive humans about as well.