She gave him the look he recognized so well, the one dripping with disappointment. “Of course he wouldn’t say such a thing. Not to his kidnap victim nor to any witnesses.”
John’s heart twisted. Of course. It had been too much to hope for.
His grandmother tapped her walking stick into the carpet. “Which was why I had to follow them to find out.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Netta breathed through her mouth but couldn’t escape the stench. She had thought that time would make her grow accustomed to the smells of the dairy, but after awaking several hours ago, the foul odor persisted. The smell, combined with the pounding in her head, made her stomach turn.
She pressed her bound wrists to her abdomen. She would not cast up her accounts. The sight and stench of that would only increase her nausea and it would become an endless, horrifying cycle.
“Is there anything to drink?” she asked the two men guarding her. She shifted on her spot on the ground and leaned back against the wall. “My mouth is quite parched.”
Bob, as she’d found out her kidnapper was called, held up a jug of ale with a narrow-eyed smile and pressed it to his lips. He tilted it back then pulled it away with a huff.
His friend didn’t look up from the bit of wood he was whittling. “We finished the last of it an hour ago.”
Bob slammed the empty jug onto the small table the men sat at. “How much longer do we have to stay here? I tell you, I can ensure she won’t be getting away, with or without anyone watching over her.”
“Patience.” The man, whose name Netta had never heard, lifted his stick to the light and examined it.
She would call him Roger, she decided, because he and the lot of them could go roger themselves.
“Besides,” Roger said. “The boss won’t be happy with the damage you’ve already done to her. You know he likes them untouched before he plays.”
Netta bit back her gorge. She would save it. She wiped at the sweat rolling down her cheek with the back of her hand. When Sudworth came to her, she would be sick on him. Perhaps that would cool his ardor.
She looked around her prison, trying to slow her racing heart. The storage shed, although large enough to hold all the equipment for the dairy, contained no windows. Just because there was only the one door past her captors was no reason to panic.
“There is an easy solution to the problem of our collective thirst.” She tried to infuse her voice with unconcern. As though she were knocked senseless and held captive every other week. “We are at a dairy, surrounded by animals heavy with milk.”
Roger ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “Do you know how to milk a cow?” he asked Bob.
“Do I look like a farmer?” Bob sat back in his wooden chair and crossed his arms. “I was born and raised in London. I’ve always got my milk the sensible way. I buy it.”
Netta sighed heavily. “It isn’t difficult. All you have to do is get a bucket—”
“Shut up.” Bob threw the empty jug, and she flattened herself to the floor as it crashed against the wall above her. Bits of clay rained down, and she curled into a ball.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Roger said. He looked at a stack of buckets in the corner then looked back at Bob.
He held up his hands. “I’m not milking no damn cow. Have you seen how big those animals are?”
Netta straightened and stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “They don’t bite.” Lord, she hoped they would bite these men. “Nor kick. Not like horses do, and you ride horses.”
The men stared at each other.
“You’re not frightened, are you?” She loosed a peal of laughter, trying to imbue it with every ounce of derision she could. “Two large men like you afraid to milk a cow. I suppose we’ll just go thirsty then.”
Bob climbed to his feet. “I’m not going thirsty.” He strode over to her and grabbed the rope at her wrists, yanking her to her feet. “If you know so much about cows, you do it.”
Netta swayed, her brain clouding from the abrupt change in position. She fought against the dizziness. This was what she’d wanted. A chance to escape. She wouldn’t miss it by losing consciousness now.
“Of course. All I need is a bucket and a cow.” She recited a nursery rhyme she’d learned from her nurse, Dollie, as a child. There had been something about milking a cow in it. If Little Miss Muffet could milk a beast, so could she.
Wait. That wasn’t the right nursery rhyme. And it was a horrid little story at that.
Bob dragged her to the stack of buckets and shoved one at her.
