Page 47

“Very good, my lord.”

***

Elizabeth awoke to a wave of nausea. She did not know how long she had been unconscious, but it had been time enough for the men to carry her to a cart, bind her, and make their escape. She was lying on the bed of a moving wagon. A rag was tied around her mouth; her wrists and ankles were bound by cords. Her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow, and her lips tingled with the all-too-familiar sensation of swollen tissue. A prickly blanket that smelled of horses covered her from head to toe, and she could see nothing.

The wheels’ rhythmic motion suddenly changed; they were slowing. With a lurch, the cart left the hard-packed road and rolled across the uneven surface of a cobbled yard. Tossed about with teeth-jarring abandon, Elizabeth tried to brace her back against the side of the cart until the vehicle jolted to a stop.

“There’s no one about.” It was her father’s voice. “We’ll take ’er straight upstairs. Even if someone comes lookin’, no one’ll find ’er in the hidden room. There’s no way out from the inside, so she’ll be stuck in there till we decide it’s time to let ’er free.”

“Six days,” Mr. Cummings said. “Next Sunday’s the final reading of the banns. I’ll make sure Mr. Parkin’s prepared to do the wedding the next day; you make sure your daughter’s there, ready and willing to say her vows.”

“She’ll be there,” Cyrus said.

“Your payment depends upon it. There won’t be a third chance.”

One of the men cleared his throat and spat.

“Let’s get her outa here afore anyone else comes,” her father said.

Footsteps moved closer. Elizabeth tensed. Someone reached over, grabbed the blanket, and tore it off in one motion. She closed her eyes against the bright light.

“Is she still unconscious?” Mr. Cummings asked.

“If we’re lucky,” her father said. “You take ’er feet.”

Frantically, Elizabeth considered her few and miserable choices. She could struggle, but with a gag in her mouth, she would be unable to call for help; if she fell out of their arms, she would be unable to run. Chances were good that her father’s penalty for noncompliance would be to keep her trussed up even after they put her in the room. The only chance she had of having her fetters removed was to appear to acquiesce. With the ropes and gag off, there was an outside possibility that she could flee when someone brought her food or water. She knew the inn and its surrounds. If she could get out of the room, she could disappear.

Hands reached for her. She kept her eyes closed, willing herself to relax. Her father grunted, lifting her shoulders over the side of the cart. She allowed her head to loll slightly.

“Watch it, Doyle,” Mr. Cummings said. “You almost hit her head against the side. She’s bruised enough as it is.”

“Jus’ keep your end steady,” her father said, breathing heavily.

Elizabeth cracked open her eyes. Even from her lopsided perspective, she recognized the corner of the stable door, the pole holding up the washing line, and the stain on the whitewashed wall of the inn.

“Get the door,” her father grunted.

The hands holding her feet shifted, then she heard the back door creak open. They shuffled inside, walked down the passage, and started up the steep stairs. No sound came from the front room. Elizabeth wondered briefly if her father had been forced to bring on someone to help him run the inn. He’d never cleaned a bedchamber or made a meal in his life. Perhaps a maid could be prevailed upon to let her out of the hidden room.

Her father’s grip on her left shoulder slipped. She felt herself falling and was about to cry out when he grabbed her roughly and heaved her upward.

“Hurry up, Cummings. I can’t be holdin’ this dead weight much longer. We’ve got to move faster.”

Mr. Cummings grunted, but they took the last few stairs a little quicker. After staggering into her old bedchamber, they set her unceremoniously on the bed. The mattress shifted, the lumps as familiar as the scratchy linens. Breathing heavily, the men moved away from the bed. Elizabeth risked opening her eyes slightly. They were releasing the wooden panel. When the grinding of wood on wood ended, she closed her eyes again and waited.

“That’s it,” her father said. “We’ll put ’er on the cot in there. I’ll bring ’er some food and water in the mornin’.”

“If you’re not giving her anything till then, you’d best take off her gag,” Mr. Cummings said. “And maybe even the ropes around her arms and legs. I’m not paying anything for a dead bride.”

Her father did not answer immediately. Elizabeth scarcely dared to breath. If fervency of prayers counted for anything, this one deserved to be answered.

“Very well,” her father said, grabbing her shoulders again. “I’ll take ’em off once we have ’er on the cot.”

Her relocation took only a few minutes, and true to his word, once she was on the cot, her father tore off the gag around her mouth. Elizabeth trapped her swollen tongue between her teeth to stop from crying out as he yanked off the ropes from around her ankles and wrists. She gave a low moan and rolled onto her side.

“There, you see,” Cyrus said. She could hear the malice in his voice. “She’s alive and well.”

“She’ll need to be more than alive an’ well, Doyle. ‘Ready and willing’ is what I said.”