by Corwin, Amy
“I will be here.”
“He will kill me,” she said, shivering with icy fear.
“Not him. You two got off on the wrong foot. He wants to marry you.”
“Marry me! He is not going to marry me: he is going to kill me. Surely, you must realize this!”
He paused, but then doggedly continued tying knots until she could not even wriggle a single finger. “He will not be hurting you.”
When he was done, he picked her up and deposited her on the pile of straw. “Wait here.”
“I cannot go anywhere,” she said, annoyed when he chuckled. Her temper changed to terror when Red picked up an old grain bucket filled with water and flung the contents over the head of his companion. “Don’t do that!” she called.
Her plea came too late.
The smaller man sputtered and rolled over before adjusting the flour sack on his head. When he sat up, he stared over at Charlotte, his eyes flaming with anger through the rough-cut holes.
Hatred burned in his gaze. She cringed.
“That was a mistake, Miss,” he said. His deep, slow voice made the words all the more ominous. He slowly got to his feet, wiping the back of his head through the wet sack. He winced when he touched the bleeding area where Charlotte had hit him.
He pulled a knife out of his pocket and strode forward.
“Red!” Charlotte called. “Please!”
Red wavered, but then clamped a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Sir….”
The smaller man shook him off. He swung his knife around in a vicious circle that just barely missed Red’s belly. “I am not going to hurt her—very much.”
When he got to Charlotte, he threaded his fingers through her hair and jerked her head forward. She felt the cold edge of his knife against the back of her neck.
There was a sharp tug and he released her head. “What?” she gasped. She didn’t feel any new pain….
He held up a lock of her hair. “Do you think anyone will miss you?” he asked, pushing the knife back into the top of his boot. “You had better hope they will.”
Charlotte stared back. He kicked her in the hip. She bit her lips against a yelp of pain. Fire shot up her side and down her leg.
“Sir,” Red said, moving between Charlotte and her tormentor. “There is no need to hurt her.”
“After what she did to me? Look at her! Damn, she makes my stomach turn: ugly, freckled, bean-pole of a woman. Bedding her would be like taking a ship’s spar to your chest. I don’t know why I thought I could stomach marrying her.” He jerked her head backward, staring down into her face. “But you are valuable, aren’t you?”
“Come away, sir, she is trussed up as neat as a hen for market.”
“Let us hope your guardian is more sensible than you, Miss Haywood. Or you may have a very short honeymoon.”
“I am not going to marry you!”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. One way or the other, the Haywood fortune will find its way into my pocket.”
The two men left together, taking the only lantern with them.
Darkness filled the barn. Charlotte heard the soft patter of rain tapping against the roof. She squirmed and rolled across the floor, her clothing and hair collecting dust and straw. The roof leaked. A cold splatter of rain hit her forehead.
She rolled over, but she could not wriggle free. The ropes bit into her arms, and her wrists stung with sticky blood. Her hip throbbed when she rolled over the broken churn paddle.
Despite the pain, she grinned. It was hard to be sorry for hitting him. In fact, she was glad she had hurt him. She wished he had died from it.
Instead, he was probably going to kill her unless she found a way to escape.
There was nothing sharp in the barn. Straw, a broken butter churn, an empty bucket, and a lot of dirt.
She stared about, straining her eyes in the dark. No blades, nothing sharp she could use to cut through her bonds. Lying in the middle of the floor, she puffed and rested her head against the cold ground, exhausted and muscles burning. Every bruise and scrape throbbed.
There was not even a friendly candle to keep her company.
A snuffling sound arose from the straw to her left. Rats. Probably mice, too. If she was a heroine in one of the silly fairy stories she read as a child, the animals would come over and bite through the ropes. Given her luck since she arrived in England, she expected them to come over and gnaw off her nose.
Her only ray of hope was that Mr. Archer would quickly sign away the rest of her fortune.
She would be penniless but free, and the duke would forget her. That hurt—it hurt a great deal. Too much to think about.
But without money, she would never get to Egypt, either. No one would accept a poor American woman on an expedition, unless…. She would find a way—she had to.
She didn’t care two pins about her inheritance. Its only importance was the value it had in allowing her to travel to Egypt.
If she had to work as a lady’s maid for Belzoni’s wife, assuming he got permits, she would do it. She would do anything to leave England.
She was tired of the damp cold. She was sick of being despised, sick of being alone and discounted and tired of being the hazy figure in the background of the family portrait.
After a while, her thoughts grew muddled as exhaustion overwhelmed her pain. She shook her head to stay awake, listening to the rustling around her.
Why didn’t the owners of this despicable barn own cats?
She had to stay awake. She had to so she could scream when the rats scrambled over her in the dark.
Chapter Eighteen
Prisoners are to be treated by the constabulary with the humane consideration which their situation and safety will admit of, and no harshness or unnecessary restraint is to be used towards them. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
A rough hand shook her. Charlotte woke up and immediately regretted it. Her entire body ached.
“Miss, here, drink this.” A tin cup of water was thrust against her teeth. When she opened her mouth to protest, he tipped a large quantity into her mouth, nearly drowning her.
“Stop!” she gurgled, spitting out a mouthful and gasping for air. “Please, just untie me.”
“Cannot.” He held a huge chunk of bread with a wedge of deep orange cheddar cheese against her lips. “Here. Eat. It is good. Had some meself. Thought you might fancy a bite.”
“Can you not just untie me?”
“No, sorry.” He pushed the bread and cheese into her mouth.
She glanced around her while she chewed. The sunshine was streaming through gaps in the walls. The shafts of light sparkled with dust. The barn was even more derelict than she imagined last night. The stall partitions leaned drunkenly, and old bits of rotten wood lay scattered about. The straw in the corner was the freshest item there, including her.
“I cannot stay here—there are rats! They could have bitten me last night. Do you want that?”
“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 finally 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.