Chapter Twenty-One
Althea clamped herlips 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 alongthe 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.”
