Nightmarish images prodded her awake. She could see through slitted eyes the face that slowly took shape, an aristocratic face below white hair, with eyes that were too familiar, treacherous eyes that regarded her with detached curiosity.
“Ah, I see that you are awake at last,” Philip Worth said, and nodded. “Very good. I began to worry that I had hit you too hard, perhaps, and that would certainly have ruined everything. But here you are, awake and in reasonably good health, so do sit up and rejoin us. Lady Leverton and I have been having a most revealing conversation.”
“Pig!” Jacqueline spat in furious French. “Dog! You are a disgrace. How dare you do this!”
“Madame, I dare because I have little left to lose now. My life is at stake, and that I care to keep, even if all else eludes me at the moment. Fortune has hidden her face, it seems, but all is not yet lost if I can keep my head. So reassure yourself that you are in little danger as long as you cooperate with my requests.”
He smiled, turning again to look at Celia, who lay upon the settee in the parlor. Her head throbbed wickedly as she stared back at him.
“You should have gone to America, my dear,” he said, “but since you have not, I am forced to make arrangements that will be less than pleasant for either of us. If you’d done as you were told, none of this would be necessary.”
There was a silky menace in his cultured tones, malice in the clear eyes that regarded her so calmly.
“My husband will kill you if you so much as promise to harm us,” Celia whispered, but Easton only laughed softly.
“That is exactly what I intend to avoid, child. Why do you think I’m here? I’d be safely in France if not for your husband—whose influence seems to reach much farther than I guessed. Every port I visited was closed to me. Damned officious men, those excise officers, and more efficient than normal in the performance of their duties. Not a one of them wanted to accept payment in lieu of arrest. I barely escaped them. I suspect Lord Mowry’s hand in this, and of course, my great-nephew must be behind such rabid pursuit.”
“What do you hope to gain from this farce—gratitude for abusing us?” Celia demanded more forcefully than she’d thought she could do as she pushed to a sitting position and smoothed her skirts back over her legs.
Jacqueline sat stiffly in a nearby chair, eyes huge in the glow of fire and lamps, her mouth a thin, angry slash.
Easton merely lifted a brow, the pistol in his hand a warning to both they need not attempt escape. “I need you as assurance of my safe passage from England. Once I am away, I will release you. It is a proposition that Colter will most likely view as agreeable, once given the alternatives.”
“You’re mad,” Jacqueline whispered, and Easton’s lips twisted into a cruel smile.
“No, Lady Leverton, merely desperate. Beware desperate men, as we have a tendency to be unreliable at times. This pistol could discharge quite unexpectedly.”
Celia rose to her feet and the barrel of the pistol instantly swerved toward her. “If you do shoot,” she said calmly, “you can only kill one of us.”
“This fires twice, an excellent model. I hardly need remind you that I possess more strength than either of you, and it would be no trouble to save powder and ball. Come here, child, since you promise to be rebellious, and secure your cousin with the sash from her dress. Tie it tightly, or I’ll assume you’d rather me assure her presence by more final means.”
Angry, frustrated and frightened, Celia did what he told her to do, using the blue silk sash from Jacqueline’s dress to tie her to the straight-backed chair by the fire. She could feel her fear, though Jacqueline said nothing, only stared balefully at Easton. While she tied the knots, Celia tried to think of a plan for escape.
Apparently Easton had already managed to secure James and Renfroe, for there was no sign of either of them. She hoped they were still alive, that he’d not been vicious enough to kill them.
Outwardly calm, Celia’s insides thrummed with tension as she tied the final knot and straightened to meet Easton’s narrowed stare.
“If you wish to test them, please yourself,” she said, and saw the suggestion of a smile on his mouth.
“Quite a little rebel, aren’t you? Rather like your mother, as I recall. She was spirited as well.” He moved to test the bonds, then nodded. “Very good. Now, remove your own sash, please. I shall do the honors this time.”
When she was tied with her hands in front of her, he put a burgundy cape around her shoulders to conceal her hands. “After you—and give no sign of distress or I’ll shoot you. That is a promise. I may not kill you, but the pain will be severe enough to make you wish I had.”
Celia had no choice but to go with him, and she saw from Jacqueline’s terrified eyes that there was little hope of rescue.
Easton put her into a carriage, a fast, two-wheeled gig drawn by a pair of Colter’s spirited bays, and she wished that she had the nerve to signal to Smythe of her plight.
Oh, where is Santiago when he’s needed? she wondered with a spurt of real fear when the carriage door slammed shut behind her and Easton took up the reins. No one save the elderly Smythe was in sight, and of course, he knew Easton as a relative and would suspect nothing.
The afternoon light was fading, and a cold wind penetrated the closed gig and the wool lap robe Easton had carelessly tossed over her. Once out of the gates, the gig turned east along the coast; marsh marigolds had begun to bloom in the damp woodland and wet meadows, tiny bits of yellow like scattered sunlight. A ringed plover churned along a spit of sand below the road, and the gig spun just as relentlessly toward its unknown destination.
“Where are we going?” she asked, though she suspected he would not answer.
“Curiosity can be a dangerous thing, my lady,” Easton said, a mocking emphasis on the title that was still so new to her.
“You’re quite right, but vengeance is deadly. I should know that well enough, as I’ve seen for myself how fatal it can be for those who pursue it.” Her fingers curled into the folds of the burgundy cape, the wind a rushing sound, the wheels whirling over chalk and sandy road an incessant hum that threatened to drown out their words. “Release me, and I’ll ask Colter to withdraw his charges against you.”
“My dear, naive countess, it’s not up to him.”
He smiled as he glanced at her, his hands competent upon the reins, the whip in his hand a cracking shot that urged the horses to a faster pace.
“I fear you’ve been misinformed if you think that he alone is responsible for my misfortune. There’s the matter of smuggling, you see, avoiding the excise men and revenue cutters that has rather stirred up a fuss. It’s not up to my great-nephew, but to his superior. It will be up to Colter to convince his superior to allow me to leave England. Would that convincing Colter alone be all I need to do…I’m sure that could be accomplished with you as the prize.”
Despair formed a hard, tight knot in the pit of her stomach. Mowry had not seemed the kind of man who would be agreeable to bargains of any kind, not if it meant foiling his own plans or purpose. He would hardly consider her as a strong reason to free a man he wanted to prosecute.
The gig rocked violently to one side and she grabbed at the handstrap to remain upright on the seat. Easton gave a harsh grunt, hauling back on the reins as the gig went into a curve on the road, then rolled smoothly forward again.
Waning light turned the sea gray, easily seen now on the right as they took the coastal road toward Devon. Celia remembered the last time she had come this way, afraid then, too, when Marita had betrayed her to Easton and Sir John.
It seemed that most of her life had been lived in fear of something—fear of the past, fear of the future, fear of failure. Yet, despite it all, she survived.
There was a resilience that she hadn’t realized she possessed until now, and it came to her rescue even when everything else seemed to fail her.
Even if Colter has abandoned me, she thought, then pushed the disloyal idea from her mind.
If she must save herself, then she would. This time Sir John was not there to relent, to take her back to London as he had last time. If she was to escape being put aboard a ship again just to save Easton from a well-deserved fate, she had to do it on her own. With her hands covered by the lap robe, she worked at the velvet sash around her wrists until it loosened and slithered free to the floor. Free!
A glance showed her that he had his pistol on the seat beside him. To reach it she would have to lean over him. Impossible, of course.
So she waited, watched, and when night fell and the gig went more slowly, the feeble lights flickering with scant illumination to show the rutted road, she reached slowly for the handle of the door. It was outside, so she had to slip her hand over the edge of the door, a cautious movement that required stealth.
Fumbling fingers found the latch, and she sat quietly waiting until just the right moment, until Easton was intent upon the road and the gig slowed enough so that she wouldn’t kill herself with a leap. Ridges lined the road, high and narrow, dropping steeply away in places. In other spots the road dipped into softer terrain. She narrowed her eyes, staring out the window as they pressed onward. Finally she saw a break in the chalky ridge of rock that lined the road.
Spiked heads of club-rushes waved in a brisk wind, indicating soft ground to cushion her fall, seeming in the ghostly light of rising moon and lamp to be beckoning to her as she gathered her nerve.
She saw her chance as the gig slowed to take another curve. Just as Easton lifted the whip to urge the sleek matched bays to a faster pace, she snapped open the latch and flung herself out into empty air.
Even cushioned by brackish water and soft ground, she landed hard, breathless from the impact as she scrambled to her feet. There was no time to look back, no time for anything but flight, and she ran through the muddy sludge toward the rushing sound of the sea. She heard Easton’s angry shouts, but he’d have to leave the gig to pursue her. Surely she could outrun him!
The enveloping cape swirled around her, impeding her movements, and as she ran she undid the braided frog that held it closed, letting it slide free of her shoulders. It billowed out, the rich burgundy like a splash of wine sailing through the air to land in a drift upon the ground.
Holding her skirts high, she fled like a marsh hare, ran as her side began to ache and her breath came in short gasps of air like a blacksmith’s bellows. It was cold, the wind constant, and the hem of her skirts grew wet and heavy. Several times she stumbled and nearly fell, but she pushed herself up and surged forward again, the sense of urgency driving her on until she reached a sandy ridge.
Tussocks of marram grass studded the sand, tripping her as she ran, so that she went sprawling on the dune, tasting grit in her mouth, her hands coated with it as she tried to wipe it from her face. Breathless, aching, she waited and listened, lying under silvery light with waving grasses as graceful as dancers, a whispering sway in the wind.
Around her, it was deserted, desolate, a barren silence save for the careless indifference of nature. When she finally dared look behind her, she saw nothing but empty expanse, heard nothing but the wind.
Above, on the rutted road that led to Dover, Colter saw the stopped gig, heard the angry voice shouting. He slowed his mount and drew the pistol from the waist of his pants.
Easton turned, saw Colter in the light of moon and lamp and blanched, disbelief registering on his face.
“You—how did you get here so quickly?”
Dismounting, Colter approached him with a light, swift tread like that of a stalking cat, the pistol held at the ready.
“Where is she?”
There was a brief silence before Philip shrugged, and said, “I don’t know who you mean. Where is who? You can see I’ve no companion with me.”
Colter stepped sideways to glance inside the gig, saw the wool lap robe on the seat but nothing else to indicate Celia had been with him.
“You’re coming from the direction of Harmony, so I can only assume that you were foolish enough to try to use her against me again. So help me, if you’ve harmed one hair on her head—”
“She was alive, well and quite energetic the last I saw of her,” Philip broke in, and some of his old arrogance returned as he smiled. “I do believe you’ve finally formed an affection for someone, Colter. Convenient, since you married her, I suppose.”
“Yes, quite convenient. Put your hands in the air where I can see them. I don’t trust you not to do something rash and stupid—and I’d much rather see you dangle at the end of a rope than explain how you came to be shot.”
“Hear hear now, no need for unnecessary violence. I’ve no weapon, as you can surely see. Not even a sword, though I would be of little use if I did have one. Never the shot or the blade that you’ve proven to be.”
Colter beckoned him forward. “You’ll ride my horse for now. I’ve no intention of letting you out of my sight.” He loosened his neckcloth and shook it out. “Neither do I intend to leave you unbound. You’re a wily old fox, and full of tricks. Sir John was meant to lure me far afield, I assume, so that you could escape. Why didn’t you?”
“I believe you must know why—do you mind? If I’m to ride a horse, I’d just as soon not freeze. My coat is in the gig.”
“I’ll get your coat. You stand there.” Colter moved to the side of the gig and reached inside, feeling for the coat without taking his eyes from his uncle.
Christ, he was an old man, silvery hair pale under the sheen of moonlight, his bearing still straight and tall for a man of his years, but the evidence of time stamped upon his features for all to see.
Colter snagged the coat and felt along it for possible weapons then tossed it to his uncle, who caught it deftly.
“Well, my boy, what would you have me do now,” he said as he shrugged into the coat, “march back to Harmony afoot?”
“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll revise my earlier suggestion. We’ll go together in the gig. It seems to be the favored transport for hostages—Who wore this?”
He held up a length of green velvet ribbon and saw the sudden wariness in Easton’s posture. “Where is she, Philip?” There was menace in his voice, and danger in his eyes as he moved toward the older man. “Tell me where she is, or by God, I’ll shoot you where you stand!”
“Shoot an unarmed man? Hardly fair, do you think? Give me a pistol and we’ll settle this at twenty paces.” Philip watched him closely. “It’s better than dangling at the end of a rope for the amusement of the excise men.”
Cold anger made him consider it; he’d like nothing better than to shoot him, but that would hardly help Celia.
“Tell me where she is,” he said softly, “or I’ll show you a few tricks I picked up from a tribe known as Apache. They’re quite inventive, have ways of making a man say things that not even the Spanish Inquisitors could imagine. It’s barren out here, and you wouldn’t be found for days…”
“You really are a savage, aren’t you.” Philip’s voice held thick contempt. “Your father was right.”
“My father was an utter bastard. Now, tell me where you left her.”
“Very well. Since you’re so insistent…”
He lifted his arms as if to gesture, and there was a brief glitter of moonlight on metal that warned Colter. He threw himself to one side, brought up his pistol in a smooth motion, his thumb snapping down to release the latch that fired it. Two explosions sounded simultaneously, the acrid smell of gunpowder sharp and strong.
Philip Worth stood for an instant, a shocked look on his face, then he crumpled soundlessly to the ground near the wheel of the gig. The horses snorted and stomped, but the brake held them from bolting as Colter moved to his uncle.
The shot had been true; a stain spread on his white shirt, an obscene red flower. Kneeling, Colter knew that his uncle was dead. Damn him. It had been too easy.
His head lifted, and he stared into the world of black and silver, saw tall grasses bending in the wind, heard nothing but the sound of the endless sea.
Where was she?