Silence. She could sense his presence, like an evil force robbing her of air, and hated that it made her tremble so violently, he could no doubt see it.
Prue was relieved when the man lifted the hood a little. But the smothering, strong-smelling cloth he held to her nose made her cry out in terror. She tried to twist her head away and hold her breath, but she gagged. Her lungs ran out of air, and she dragged in a deep breathof something that smelled stringent and strange. Her eyes stung, and her head swam. Then a veil of black came down and blotted out everything.
Prue came woozily awake. She opened her eyes and groaned, putting a hand to her head, which ached. Propping herself up on her arms, she looked about her. She lay on a narrow cot in a small, stone-walled room. The barred window emitted a scant amount of light. “Where is this place?” A quick check of her clothes reassured her. While someone had taken off her pelisse and thrown it over a stool, Prue was still in her gown, although her half-boots had gone. She peered under the bed. When she found them, she sagged with relief, although she had no idea why that should reassure her. There was no sign of her bonnet, lost on the journey here, she supposed. Whereverherewas. Rolling off the cot, she walked on jelly-like legs to the window. Her limited view took in a steep drop from this stone room to the dense forest below. The scene was completely foreign to her. Prue moaned and rubbed her temples. Where was she?
She stumbled over to the arched oak door, which offered the only chance of escape, and wrestled with the heavy iron handle. The door was bolted from the other side and didn’t budge. Hot tears gathered at the back of her throat as panic clamped her chest like a tight band. How would she ever escape this chilly room with its dusty smell of neglect? And Gramma!How frantic with worry she must be.
Footfalls sounded outside. Hurrying to the cot, Prue lay down and closed her eyes. She heard the door open and then a jangle of keys as someone entered.
“Are you awake, miss?”
Curiosity got the better of her. Prue raised herself on her elbows. A nun in a gray habit and veil stood at the end of the bed, holding a tray. A chatelaine hung from a rope belt at her waist, from which keys dangled.
“Why was I brought here?” Prue demanded, sitting up.
The nun didn’t reply. She placed the tray on the small table, which was the only other piece of furniture in the room, apart from a small, wooden stool. “I’ve brought your luncheon. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.”
Prue’s stomach roiled. “What is this place?”
The nun gazed at her serenely. “The Sisterhood of the Holy Cross.”
“I don’t believe it. There are no Catholic convents in England. There haven’t been for centuries.”
“We are Anglican. A religious community for women.”
“What reason would you have for holding me here against my will?”
“I do not know the reason, miss.”
“Where is this place?” she asked again.
“Our convent is in the hills near Wantage.”
“I wish to leave immediately.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Then tell whoever is in charge to come here.”
“This is a busy time. It is wise to keep up your strength with the soup and bread while you wait.”
“I don’t want to eat,” Prue said. “I want to leave.” She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, then darted past the nun to the door. It was locked.
Furious, Prue whirled around and glared at the nun, who watched her without comment. “Unlock the door.”
“I am sorry, miss. They will only open it for me. Better that you eat and rest a little until you recover from your ordeal.”
“My brutal kidnapping, you mean? How can you face your God when you hold me captive against my will?”
The nun tucked her hands into the wide arms of her habit. “It is not I who has put you here. But we are told it is for your own good.”
“That is a lie. Who brought me here?”
“I cannot tell you. I merely take orders.”
The nun turned and went to knock on the door. It opened a crack, then widened, and the nun passed through. The door closed smartly behind her. Prue had tried to see who the other person was, but they stood back, out of sight.
She fell onto the bed, her head in her hands, and contemplated throwing the plate of some kind of thick, green soup smelling of cabbage, and the basket of bread, at the wall. But that would be foolish. It would get her nowhere to act irrationally. Better to plot her escape. A knotted sheet at the window like something in a romantic story would be dangerous. She would have to come up with a convincing argument when whoever was in charge here came to see her. But who was it? Could this be connected to her father’s murder? How would anyone find her shut away in this place? Lord Hereford couldn’t help her this time. The realization chilled her to the bone, and she curled up in a fetal position and moaned.
