Chapter Twenty-Nine
As good as their word, John and Guy responded immediately. With Flynn, they were on the road in Strathairn’s well-sprung carriage at first light the next day, his thoroughbreds making light of the distance.
They grabbed a quick meal at the coaching-inns on route when they stopped to change to the horses that John had sent ahead with a groom. Then they traveled through the night, armed against possible highwaymen, and napping in shifts. Fortunately, despite a mist sweeping over the landscape, the rain held off and the dirt-track roads remained passable. Three days later, they boarded a boat and were crossing the Irish Sea. They had made excellent time.
Flynn had barely drawn breath since their journey began. He grasped the rail, staring ahead as the deck slid and jerked beneath his feet. John, his greatcoat flapping in the bitter wind, came to stand beside him. “We’ll get him, Flynn.”
Flynn set his teeth. “Please God we aren’t too late.”
John shook his head. “Crowthorne won’t harm Althea. He wants the diamond.”
Flynn looked down at his white-knuckled fingers. “I’m afraid he’ll kidnap her again.”
“If he does, he won’t get far.”
Flynn met Strathairn’s steady blue-gray gaze. The big man had a way of putting him at ease. His calm, confident manner was born of years of experience in the field of espionage. Unquestionably, Flynn would trust him with his life. “I am indeed fortunate to have you and Guy with me, my friend.”
Strathairn winked. “If you think I wish to be anywhere else, you’re wrong. Although I’d like it to be for any other cause than this, I’m relishing being back in the game.”
“I can see that,” Flynn said with a faint smile.
Tense, controlled power coiled in John’s body, evident in his tight shoulders and the set of his jaw. He was spoiling for a fight. Flynn hoped he’d have his chance.
“We’ll need to get you out of Dublin unseen,” John said. “Crowthorne might have planted someone to watch the port.”
Guy made his unsteady way toward them, his long legs barely holding him upright in the severe swell. “I’ll be glad to get off this ship.” He pulled the scarf around his neck tighter. “I have no desire to develop sea legs.”
“Nor me,” John said. “Guy, I shall have to take that handsome scarf from you shortly.”
Guy laughed. “Do you plan to send me home to Hetty frozen solid?”
“Only for a short time when we reach Ireland. Flynn needs a disguise in case we encounter Crowthorne or one of his men.”
Guy grabbed his hat, before it could sail away in the wind. He ran his hand through his ruffled black hair. “An excellent notion.”
Strathairn pointed to where the misty haze softened the dark line of Irish coast. “We’ll be landing in Dublin Port in under an hour.”
“So tell me,” Flynn said, indulging in a little levity. “What did you two do to pacify your spouses, apart from the obvious?”
John chuckled. “I promised Sibella a trip to Ireland.”
Guy turned to him with a laugh. “I did the very same!”
Despite his anxiety, Flynn joined in their laughter. He allowed himself to dream a little. All of them together at Greystones Manor to witness he and Althea tying the knot.
Althea! A chill went through him. Was she safe? Would he arrive to find her completely unaware that Crowthorne was in Ireland? He prayed it would be so. He almost groaned aloud as bitter disappointment poisoned his thoughts. It looked increasingly likely that he’d have to cast himself on his knee before the king, expressing regret for his hasty decision. Would Althea wait for him if he was sent to Spain? Heaven knew how long he’d be gone. But how else was he to keep Greystones from crumbling into the ground? He tightened his jaw. All his plans were in disarray.
*
Althea instructed Sarah to pack away all signs of her presence before she and Quinn descended to the dungeons. When Flynn had taken her there, the dark space seemed so oppressive she’d shivered and hurried away. He’d chuckled at her fears and assured her she would never have a reason to enter it. But now, it looked like she might, and without his reassuring presence. The prospect of going down into that dank place chilled her to her bones.
Quinn raised the trapdoor, and she stared into the narrow stone well through the grill, then shuddered and took a jerky step back, her hand to her mouth. It wasn’t just the chill, an ominous presence rose from the stone enclosure to embrace her, like pleading ghosts from the past beckoning her to join them.
Quinn eyed her anxiously. “I’ll have a warm blanket and a chair taken down there, milady, just in case.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. Please God she’d have no use for them.
She hurried away, feeling sick with nerves, while praying she was wrong, that seeing Crowthorne on that Dublin street was a flight of fancy on her part.
Several hours later, Althea had almost succeeded in banishing the worry from her mind. She busied herself supervising the cleaning of the gilt-framed portraits in the great hall. When a shot sounded, she stopped mid-sentence, holding her body still while she listened. Soon after, O’Mainnin’s second shot echoed across the fields. With a strangled moan, Althea spun and met Quinn’s worried gaze. Were her worst fears to be realized?
“Maeve, go down to the kitchen and stay there,” Althea ordered the maid as Quinn rushed off. He returned with her warm, wool redingote and helped Althea into it. “It might be anyone, milady,” he said soothingly. “The priest likes to call in for a cup of tea. O’Mainnin is a good fellow, but not the sharpest, would argue with a signpost, would O’Mainnin.”
She firmed her lips, knowing the staff looked for her to be in charge. “The servants are to remain in the servants’ quarters. Don’t forget what I said, Quinn. Do not try to be brave.”
“Don’t worry, milady,” he said. “I will do as you wish.”
Althea wasn’t entirely sure he meant it.
At the entrance to the oubliette, he handed the lantern to Althea and unlocked the door. Once inside, he raised the trapdoor and removed the grill. Heart thudding against her ribs, Althea turned and climbed onto the ladder. She forced herself to negotiate the rungs and took two steps into the stale, bitterly cold air. Quinn leaned down and handed her the pistol he’d fetched from the gunroom. He’d instructed her how to remove the safety catch but she was familiar with guns—she was a farmer’s daughter—although she doubted she could shoot a person.
Finally, her feet touched the damp stone floor, which felt like a frozen lake beneath her shoes. The clang of the grill closing reverberated around her abnormally loud. “I wish you’d taken the lantern, milady.” Quinn’s voice floated down.
“No, a light might be seen.”
“As soon as I get rid of them, I’ll return.”
“Quinn?” The trapdoor banged shut. He had gone.
Her breath whooshed out of her lungs. The lantern gone, she could barely see her hand. The narrow window opening was a mere slit high up in the wall and did little to provide fresh air or lighten the gloom. The shadows took on menacing shapes. She dragged fusty air into her lungs, and sank onto the chair and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, seeking warmth and a protective covering. Tormented souls had suffered here, and some had died. Concentrating on her breath, she fought to slow the frantic beating of her heart and prayed Quinn wouldn’t do anything rash.