Chapter Twenty-One
Althea clamped her lips on a whimper. For some hours she’d been painfully loosening the bonds restricting her wrists. She was a hair’s breadth from freeing herself when the squeak of door hinges made her stop. Footsteps descended the stairs. Her jailer’s foul smell gave him away. His hands tangled spitefully in her hair. He whipped off the blindfold pulling out strands in the process. She blinked into the bleak light filtering down the stairwell through the open door. The night had been endless. She was weak with exhaustion, her stomach growling with hunger. If only she could gain a little time. She was so close.
“Can I have something to eat?”
His face twisted into an ugly scowl. “Crowthorne should have been back by now.”
The sudden chill of realization made her breathless. He had removed his disguise, his cruel face exposed, a web of scars crisscrossing his cheek. She sagged in the chair. He planned to kill her.
“If he doesn’t turn up soon, I’m off.” He tilted his head to see what effect this would have on her, reminding her of a cat toying with a bird. “Now, what shall I do with you?”
“Let me go. I won’t cause you any trouble,” she whispered.
“Can’t do that. Maybe if you hadn’t pulled off my disguise back there in the woods. I did warn you, didn’t I.” His pale almost colorless eyes flicked over her. “If you’d made it worth my while, I might have considered letting you go, but you’re an unfriendly wench.”
He was lying. He would never have let her go. How odd that she was freezing and hot at the same time and dreadfully thirsty. “I can hear someone coming up the carriageway,” she said, in the hope of distracting him.
“Eh?” He spun around. “It had better be Crowthorne!”
He ran up the steps. Althea frantically twisted her hands, every movement sending bursts of pain along her muscles and scalding her tender, raw skin. Her breath came in loud bursts. She had only minutes to free herself.
Her urgent thrashing tipped the chair over. Althea fell heavily on her hip on the icy stone floor. She clamped her mouth shut and fought against crying out while she tried not to think about rats. Being on her side lessened the load on her arms. She wriggled her wrists back and forth sending sharp pains up her arms.
Suddenly, she dragged a hand free.
She tamped down the urge to give a whoop of joy and worked hard to free the other. Her hands shook and she was weak from lack of water and nourishment. At last, her hand came free, and she stretched down to tug at the ropes binding her ankles.
Minutes seemed like hours. When at last they fell away, she staggered to her feet, the blood rushing painfully into her legs. She was about to run up the steps when the door at the top opened. With a gasp, she turned and scuttled to the back of the cellar and crouched behind the tall shelves filled with bottles of wine and champagne. She drew down a bottle of champagne from the shelf above her.
Her abductor thundered down the stairs filling the air with his foul curses. “Where’ve you got to, wench? You’ve made it worse for yourself. When I get my hands on you, I’ll make you suffer. And I’ll take my time.” He chuckled as he roamed the racks, making a game of searching for her.
She caught a movement between the stacked wines. He was one rack away from finding her. Althea could hear his breathing; surely, he could hear hers?
With an effort, she raised the heavy bottle above her head.
*
Flynn galloped along the driveway sending gravel flying. Ahead, Hazelton’s mansion stood shrouded by trees. Crowthorne wasn’t aware that Flynn had been there, so he might think it a good place to hide Althea. There was no carriage in the drive and no sign of Crowthorne’s horse. Praying he had guessed right, Flynn jumped down, leaving the reins trailing, and ran to the house. No sound came from within. Had Hazelton sent his servants away? If Crowthorne wasn’t here, where had he gone? He might be on his way there, only moments behind Flynn.
The French doors were locked. Aware every minute could count, Flynn abandoned any idea of stealth. Let them know he was coming. Smoke them out. He picked up a small garden statue from the terrace and threw it at the door. The glass exploded. Flynn aimed his boot at the last shards of glass, then stepped through the gap. “Althea!”
No one answered. He yelled again, expecting someone to rush to investigate, but the house appeared empty. Disappointment twisted in his belly. Had he been wrong? He ran the length of the corridor, checking each room. Where would they have hidden her? Upstairs? He paused with a hand on the banister, and tried to listen, while the loud pounding of his heart deafened him. He almost doubted the sound. A faint cry from somewhere deep inside the house.
“Althea?” he roared.
He heard her again and made for the servants’ stairs, racing down yelling her name over and over.
In the kitchen, the cellar door burst open. Althea stood wobbling on her feet, the neck of a broken champagne bottle in her hand.
“Althea!” Hot with relief, Flynn took the bottle from her, tossed it down, and drew her into his arms.
She buried her face in his shoulder and shuddered. “My jailer is in the cellar. I think I’ve killed him.”
“Let’s hope so.” Flynn led her to a chair. He eased her down onto it and ran an anxious gaze over her. “Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head. “He was going to kill me. I managed to escape. But I had to hit him.”
“Rightly so. How very clever. Stay here. I’ll go and see.”
“Be careful, Flynn. He’s dangerous.” Her blue eyes beseeched him. “He said he’d cut my throat. And he would’ve, too.”
Pistol drawn, Flynn crept down into the dank cellar where loud groans emanated from amongst the wine racks. Not dead then. He’d reached the bottom step when a knife whistled past his cheek before it hit the wall behind him. It clattered to the floor. As Flynn dropped into a crouch, he spotted movement among the racks and fired. The rack rocked, almost toppling. Bottles fell and splintered, and a flood of frothy crimson spread over the floor.
Flynn snatched up the attacker’s knife and crept along the row. He peered into the next aisle. Althea’s kidnapper lay crumpled on the floor. Blood seeped from his wound and blended with the spilt wine. Flynn turned him over. His shot had hit the man in the left side of his chest right where his heart would be if he’d had one. His face was covered with blood which had run into his eyes from the head wound.
Flynn sat back on his heels, breathing more easily. Luck had been on his side. The blow Althea delivered the cutthroat had partially blinded him and affected his aim. Otherwise, Flynn could be the one lying dead.
He ran up the stairs. On her feet, Althea waited with her hands on her pale cheeks. “Flynn!” She launched herself into his arms.
Flynn caught and held her. She appeared close to fainting as he swept her up and carried her through the house and outside into the air. He set her down on a garden seat. “Has Crowthorne been here?”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Not since yesterday.”
He wrapped his arms around her to try to quell her shivering. “We have just one horse,” he said, attempting to inject some humor into the grim proceedings. Once she saw Owltree Cottage, she’d likely never speak to him again.
“Oh, Flynn.” She gave a weak chuckle.
On the lookout for Crowthorne, Flynn explained what had taken place at the cottage, as he trotted the horse back along the road with Althea perched in front.
“And we still don’t know what they were after. Crowthorne said it was a cache of jewels, but it’s more than possible he lied. We’ll learn the truth when he’s captured. The Bow Street runners will go after him.” A rush of bitterness filled him, his dreams crushed. “I’m afraid His Majesty will be outraged. And it doesn’t do to anger the king.”
“That is hardly fair,” Althea said, leaning back against him.
With a sigh, he breathed in her hair’s flowery scent. “He doesn’t have to be fair. He’s the king.”
“I suppose that’s true. I am so sorry.”
“There’s something else, Althea.” He felt her tense against him. “There was a fire at Owltree, one of Crowthorne’s men knocked over an oil lamp. The cottage has been damaged, I’m afraid.”
She twisted to look at him, her eyes dark. “How bad is it?”
The house might be in smoking ruins for all he knew. “I’m afraid I have no idea. I had to leave my men to put out the flames while I came to find you.”
She signed and leaned back against him again. “I’m very grateful you did come, Flynn.”
At Owltree Cottage, Flynn’s carriage stood in the drive. Althea’s gasp echoed his own thoughts. The house still stood.
As they dismounted, Ben rushed to greet them. Flynn’s relief was palpable to find him unhurt.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Lady Brookwood. I feared the worst with that bad lot.” Ben took the reins from Flynn. “Good to see you, milord.”
Flynn patted his young groom on the shoulder. “I’m relieved to find you still in one piece after all the excitement.”
“I hope that Mrs. Peebles reached my townhouse unhurt,” Althea said.
“She did, my lady, but I confess I’ve never witnessed such distress.”
“Oh, poor Mrs. Peebles. And my cat?”
“The animal is safe and sound, my lady.”
Wondering what they would find, Flynn took her arm. “Let’s go and find out how bad it is.”
Barraclough’s men had vanished, taking the bodies with them. The house reeked of smoke. The fire was no more than smoldering ashes but hadn’t spread from the salon. That room however, was a smoking ruin. He swung around to gaze at Althea. She stood like a statue in the doorway. The furnishings, chairs, and sofa were reduced to burnt rags, the walls gaping open.
Althea hiccupped. Tears ran tracks down her dirty cheeks. She clutched her stained pelisse in whitened fingers.
Flynn’s heart squeezed in his chest. She’d asked him to safeguard her home, and he’d failed. “It does look bad, but the rest of the house is untouched.” He put an arm around her. “It can be put to rights.”
“We are alive, Flynn.” She sniffed into a handkerchief and blew her nose. “And it’s only a house. It can be repaired.”
“We’ll get it restored,” he said, his voice tight.
She replaced her handkerchief in her reticule and pulled the strings tight. “No, Flynn. My house is not your concern. I shall deal with it.”
He knew that tone. The fiercely independent Althea of old had returned, and there was nothing he could offer her to change her mind.
“I doubt there’s much to eat, but I’ll go down to the kitchen and see what I can find after I change my clothes,” she said in a brisk tone. “Then we must return to London.”