He grabbed her shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled. “Do that again and there’ll be the devil to pay! Why don’t you let me kill her?” he appealed to someone in the carriage. “I can bury her right here. No one will be any the wiser.”
“If you hurt her, you’ll answer to me. Tie her hands and bring her here. Place her in the carriage.”
His sour, unwashed odor stung her nostrils as he twisted her arms painfully behind her. Was that Crowthorne’s voice she heard? Was he in the carriage? She craned her neck as the man applied thick twine to her wrists, so tightly it pinched her skin.
“Ow! You are hurting me, you oaf!” Althea kicked out at him.
“What’ll I do with this hellcat?” He let her go, jerking his legs out of her range. She lost her balance and fell onto the rocky ground, bruising her knees.
“Don’t make such heavy weather of it! Is a small woman too much for you? Tie her feet and put her in here.”
Althea was now convinced it was Crowthorne’s oily tones, she heard. Her stomach threatened to heave up her breakfast. She pinched her lips together. If she was to be sick, let it be on him!
The man shoved her backward onto her bottom. With the twine in one hand, he attempted to tie her feet. Hampered, he wrestled with her thrashing legs. When he crouched in front of her, she kicked out at him again, aiming for his groin.
Her half boot caught him in the stomach. Bent double, he yelled and cursed, uttering cuss words that shocked her. She rolled away from him and struggled to her feet, but he grabbed her again. He slapped her face hard, causing bright lights to flood her vision. Her head swam.
“Do that again, and I’ll ignore me orders,” he said, “I’ll cut your damn throat.” His voice was emotionless. Cold, cruel eyes stared at her. “Don’t think I won’t.” Convinced he meant every word, she wilted, and the fight went out of her. She couldn’t best him. She’d have better luck with Crowthorne.
He trussed her up and hefted her like a rolled-up carpet through the open carriage door, onto the seat opposite Crowthorne.
The sight of his fatuous face filled her with such impotent rage she spat at him.
“Vixen!” He drew out a handkerchief and wiped his fancy striped waistcoat. “I like my women fiery.”
“You villain,” she cried. “What have you done with Mrs. Peebles?”
“I don’t believe I have need of your Mrs. Peebles. Was she in the carriage? She will be on her way to London.”
“How can I believe you?”
“You have no choice in the matter. But more importantly where is your friend, Montsimon?”
Althea’s mind raced, fighting to come up with a plausible answer. “He has gone to visit a sick friend and intends to ride back to London.”
Crowthorne looked unconvinced. “Now what friend would that be?”
Montsimon had stayed with a friend the night of Crowthorne’s dinner. He’d mentioned the man’s name. Who was it? It came to her with a flood of hot relief. “Viscount Warren, he has a country house in Biddlesden.”
Crowthorne nodded. “I’ve heard of Viscount Warren.”
“Why have you done this? What good am I to you?” She hated how her anxious voice rasped.
“You can tell me of your husband’s activities in the weeks before he died, my dear.”
“Well, how ridiculous? Why go to these lengths? You might have just asked me.”
He gave a smug smile. “I very much doubt you would have told me.”
“You have wasted your time. I can tell you nothing of Brookwood’s endeavors. He didn’t take me into his confidence.”
Crowthorne’s eyes grew hard. “Perhaps something will come to you… with a little help.”
She fought to suppress a shudder. “I can’t conjure up something that isn’t there.”
“I expect a better answer from you. But we have plenty of time.”
The coachman whipped up the horses, and the carriage jounced over the rutted track. “Where are you taking me?”
