She would need to make a run for it the moment the men entered the kilns.
She scooted forward, toward the edge of the stall, then peered past the divider and inwardly cursed. She could see nothing but the side wall. Her heart in her throat, she dashed across to the outer wall and pressed her eye to a slit between the planks.
She spotted Vane at once, and two large men, though Vane’s body blocked her view, giving her only a partial glimpse of one of them. Still, based on Lord Vane’s rant, she was almost positive the men here and the two who’d held her at gunpoint were one and the same.
“Grogan, good of you to join us,” Vane greeted the man.
“You summoned us; I came. Do you mind telling me why we’re here?”
Though Vane stiffened, he answered the insubordinate query. “I should think that much is obvious,” he snapped. “Now that the guide’s been discovered, it’s only a matter of time before they come looking for you—and eventually, me. There’s no waiting this one out, Grogan—and I’ve got our Scottish friends on my back looking to be repaid—something which can’t happen if I don’t have access to my inventory. So get in there and dig out the stones.”
A low murmur which she interpreted as grudging acquiescence followed Vane’s command, after which the two men went to the cart, gathering tools.
She held her breath. Her chance for escape was moments away—assuming Vane joined his men inside the kilns.
A gust of wind swirled into the structure, sending up a spray of dust to temporarily blind her. On reflex, she covered her eyes with her hands.
And released the letter.
Though she grabbed for it in less time than it took to blink, the wind caught the parchment sending it soaring out of the work shed. She flinched, hunching into a tight ball, and waited.
None of the men said a word. Maybe they hadn’t seen the parchment on the wind. Maybe they’d entered the kilns. She drew a shuddering breath, daring to hope.
“What was that?” Vane asked crisply.
“It appeared to be a letter,” came a gravelly reply.
Gooseflesh sprouted over her. That voice. She knew that voice. It belonged to the man who had aimed a pistol at her. A man she now knew for certain was a killer.
The crunch of boots sounded as someone stalked toward the shed. Resigned, she straightened.
Lord Vane stepped into view. “Who have we here? Why…it’s Lady Woodville.”
With as much haughty aplomb as she could muster, she stared the man down. “Lord Vane. What brings you here?”
He did not respond to her query, and instead, posed one of his own. “Madam, have you lost something?”
“I…er…yes,” she said. “A letter.”
A coy smile split his face. “I saw that. I’m afraid it’s long gone.” His gaze slanted up toward the heavens, then arced in the direction of the castle.
“Well. I suppose that’s that,” she said. Dusting her gloves, she stepped out of the shed.
Vane’s eyes crinkled at the corner in what looked like genuine delight. Without glancing toward the two watching men, he gestured, a silent command for them to head into the kiln.
From the periphery of her vision, she saw them move toward the opening.
Renewed hope lifted her spirits. Perhaps she could still talk her way out of this.“Well, then,” she murmured. “I’d best be afterthat letter and get back to Stoneford Castle before my husband, Lord Randall, comes looking for me.”
Vane huffed out a laugh. “Oh, he’s your husband now, is he? Is that what you’re calling it?”
She lifted her chin, ignoring the barb. “We married a week ago.”
“Indeed? Funny. You neglected to mention anything of the sort when I saw you yesterday.”
She cursed her split-second decision not to tell him when she and Lady Caroline’s paths had crossed his.
Regarding him now, she concluded he either did not believe her, or did not care. What that portended for her she could not predict.
