When the world finally stopped spinning, he saw nothing but darkness. Stifling silence loomed eerily around the area and he cocked his ear, straining to hear something…anything to help him locate Isabella.
Had she escaped? Or had she been captured after he was hit on the head? Self-recrimination ate sharply at him.
He stumbled in the direction of the inn. He had to find her. After struggling up the stairs to their room, he let himself in and hastily splashed water on his face from the washbasin.
He collected their meager belongings, hurriedly stuffing them into a sack. He once again tucked the dagger into his boot then checked his waistband to make sure the pistol was still secured there. His hand brushed against an odd shape just to the right of the pistol, and he dug into his pants to retrieve it.
To his utter shock, he pulled out the small pouch that contained the map. How had he…? And then he remembered her brushing against him just before they had leapt from the window. She must have feared she would be captured and was unwilling to relinquish the map.
Bile rose in his throat and fear gripped him, nearly paralyzing him. Once they discovered she didn’t have the map, they would not be overly concerned with what happened to her. She had trusted the entire future of Leaudor to him, and he mustn’t fail her. He had already done so once. Twice would be disastrous.
A quick glance out the window told him dawn was not far off. Despite the earliness of the hour, he knew there would still be patrons in the tavern. Perhaps a few coins would loosen their tongues. He fingered the coin purse Isabella had procured from the village woman, hoping there was enough within to gain the information he needed.
Chapter Twelve
“Where is the map?” the man snarled.
When Isabella remained silent, staring ahead in defiance, he lashed out and slapped her across the face with his palm.
Her head snapped back, the pain numbing her cheek, but she quickly faced forward again. Then she fixed him with what she hoped was her coldest stare. “Go to hell,” she said firmly.
The man turned on his heel with a roar of rage. The other two men, one of whom she had ascertained was named Tom, sat in the background, smirks embedded in their faces.
“Let me have a go at her,” Tom said, rubbing his jaw. “I owe the bitch.”
The man sitting beside him elbowed him. “You idiot. Why rough her up? I can make her talk.” He laughed uproariously as he adjusted his crotch.
“Shut up, the both of you,” the leader ordered.
“Aww, Rufus,” Tom whined. “We’re just having a spot of fun.”
“This is no time for your stupidity,” Rufus snapped. “You and Frank shut up until I tell you it’s time to talk.”
He turned back to Isabella, a wicked looking knife appearing in his hand. A sinister glint surfaced in his eye as he leaned in close to her. He pressed the blade against her throat until she felt a thin trickle of blood slither down her neck. “Tell me where it is, Princess, or I’ll take great delight in slicing you up.”
“If you kill me, you’ll never know where the map is,” she said in triumph.
“No, but that won’t stop me from creating a new face for you. You’ll still be very much alive. Just less beautiful than you are now.”
Her stomach clenched, and she knew she had been unsuccessful in keeping the fear from her eyes because he looked at her in satisfaction.
“Now, tell me what I want to know or it’s going to be a very long day for you.”
* * *
Simon crept up to the cottage, praying that he had been led in the right direction by the elderly man in the tavern. The old man had been way into his pint of ale. Probably one of many he had downed in the night. His speech had been slurred, but he swore he had heard a group of men plotting to kidnap a woman and take her out to the old Jenkins place.
On silent feet, he walked the remaining distance to the door and put his ear to the rotting wood. His heart nearly stopped when he heard Isabella’s cry of pain.
Stifling the urge to immediately burst in, he listened intently, trying to ascertain the men’s positions in the room. From the shuffle of feet and murmuring voices, he determined there were at least three. Not good odds. But the element of surprise would be with him as would his pistol and dagger. He would utilize all to the utmost.
Mentally counting to three, he withdrew the knife and gun and rammed his shoulder into the door. It immediately splintered, wood flying in all directions. He wasted no time and fired the pistol at the first man he saw. As a second launched himself at him, Simon threw the dagger into his chest.
Out of weapons, he turned to the man closest to Isabella, prepared to beat him to a bloody pulp. His stomach clenched when he saw the knife at her throat.
“I’ll kill her,” the man blustered, fear etched into his sweaty face.
“If you so much as touch her, I will make sure you die a long, slow, painful death,” Simon growled.
