23

Tom shook the door to the pigeonnier, but the Spanish-speaking servant had bolted it. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he surveyed the interior. He stood on bare ground, packed hard over time and coated with guano. Above, small slits gave access to the pigeons who had largely abandoned the dovecote. He heard very little cooing from nesting birds. A ladder led to the nest boxes and could be moved from side to side by leaning it against crossbeams a few feet over his head. The lower level had some bins and nothing else. Certainly not the comforts he’d enjoyed in the garçonnière during his first visit.

Aside from the bolted door, the only other opening larger than pigeon-sized was a small shuttered window on the upper level. He shifted the ladder and climbed up to it. One of the residents objected, and he had to ward off the flapping wings with one arm while testing the shutters with the other. They didn’t budge. There must be a latch somewhere.

Now that he was still, the pigeon had stopped flying around. He ran his hand over the rough boards, picking up plenty of splinters. Where was it?

He found the hinges and the gap between the shutters, but no latch on the inside.

Tom groaned. It must be latched on the outside or nailed shut since this pigeonnier wasn’t tended. He was trapped.

He pounded a fist on the ladder with frustration. DeMornay had divested him of his dagger. He couldn’t even hack his way out.

Think.

Escape from the upper level was not possible. He descended the ladder and looked again at the ground level. Servants would have shoveled out the guano here, taking it out the only door. Did they feed the pigeons? Was that the purpose of the bins? If so, then the grain would be stored in the bins. Food brought mice and rats, both adept at gnawing through wood. Perhaps the wood inside one of the bins had been compromised enough that he could push out the boards.

The sun must be lowering, for the light was diminishing. Within an hour or so, darkness would fall. If he found rotten boards, he could escape this prison tonight. He hoped the servant who’d thrown him in here wasn’t posted outside.

Breaking out boards would make a racket. Any fool would hear it. Tom must risk waiting until everyone fell asleep. Catherine would not sleep tonight. When upset in the past, she paced back and forth in front of the window. Today’s events couldn’t be more upsetting.

What was DeMornay doing? Clearly he wanted Catherine. It made Tom sick to think of her in that criminal’s arms. The man must see her as the means to become master of Black Oak. Tom could not let that happen, even if it cost him his life. But first he had to get out of this prison.

The light had gotten so low that he had to feel along the walls to locate the bins. Shadows cloaked much of the room. He edged along until he bumped into something solid. There it was. Rectangular. Deep enough to contain a great deal of grain. It had a lid. No clasp or lock. He lifted.

Squee!

The squeal of a rodent sent Tom flying back a step. He hated rats. They boarded the ship using the mooring lines and gangway. They came aboard in cargo. They ate precious stores. They wormed into and behind anything.

He shuddered.

Investigating the bin meant sticking his hands—or feet—into an unlit, rat-infested place. He opted for a foot. His leather shoes covered him to the ankle.

He stuck one foot in the bin.

Nothing squealed.

He kicked the sides. Only wood met the toe of his shoe. Solid wood.

Yet the rat must have gotten in and out somewhere.

He kicked again, this time moving his toe just a fraction to the right with each kick. At last he found the weakness. His toe went through the small opening and pushed aside a bit of the wood. When he pulled back his foot, light filtered through the small opening.

Success! But was the wood rotten enough to break away a hole large enough for a man to fit through? He leaned over the edge and pushed around the opening with his hands. At first, small bits crumbled away, but that was all. The rest of the wood was solid. He’d managed to clear a hole big enough for a large rat.

A knock on the door sent Tom to his feet. He quickly and quietly lowered the lid on the bin and retreated to the center of the room.

“Come in.” It seemed a foolish thing to say when whoever was outside must unbolt the door in order to enter.

Whoever it was, he or she did not answer.

The latch scraped open.

Tom tensed his muscles, prepared to fight.

It could be DeMornay, come to finish him off. How had the man known he’d landed the ship’s boat at the corner of plantation property? Tom had hauled the boat ashore no more than thirty minutes before DeMornay arrived.

DeMornay must have seen it, perhaps from atop the levee. Or from the veranda of the house he might have spotted Tom leaving the James Patrick. Or he had lookouts. DeMornay must have been on alert. He knew Tom and Rourke were in the vicinity. He might have discovered Rourke’s ship by sailing his own. The black ship. Pa’s ship.

The door slowly swung open, and Tom braced himself for more rough handling by his jailer.

Instead, Aurelia entered, carrying a tray. “Supper.”

Behind her, the jailer blocked the door, arms crossed as if taunting Tom to attempt escape.

Aurelia turned and snapped, “I don’t need no fool watchin’ me.” She then said the same thing in Spanish.

The jailer retreated, though Tom suspected not far from the door.

Aurelia handed Tom the tray.

“Thank you.” Tom hadn’t expected food. A condemned man’s final meal? He set the tray on top of the bin. Before the housekeeper could leave, he asked, “How is Catherine?”

“I no see de mistress.” Aurelia lifted her head, her eyes flashing, completely unlike the woman he’d seen in his previous visits. She stepped closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Get help. Soon as you can.” Retreating, she cast a final word over her shoulder. “Knock on de door after yer done an’ Santiago’ll take dem dishes, but don’t wait too long or he be off eatin’ by hisself.”

Santiago must be the jailer’s name. So he was Spanish. Or Cuban. Like DeMornay.

A shiver raced over Tom. Aurelia would never have told him that Santiago would soon be leaving to eat unless she wanted him to recognize a window of opportunity. Moreover, the tray was covered with a napkin. She must have left something for him on that tray. A weapon? Or a note?

He carried the tray to the base of the ladder, where faint light from above filtered down. This was the best light he would get.

He braced the tray on a rung and carefully removed the linen napkin covering it. A plate of stewed fish—catfish by the look of it—and rice. He’d eaten worse. A spoon and a cup of tepid water. No weapon. Nothing he could use to chisel his way out. No help at all. He lifted the plate. Nothing under it. He looked under the cup. Nothing there either.

Tom raked a hand through his hair. What was Aurelia trying to tell him? Surely she knew that he couldn’t get help unless he could get out. He couldn’t believe it was as simple as asking Santiago to let him go. Tom had picked up some Spanish while sailing. It was enough to understand most of what he heard but not enough to carry on a conversation.

Frustrated, he settled down atop the bin and ate the stew. He would need fortification to maintain concentration and face what lay ahead.

His spoon hit something hard. A bone? No decent cook would leave the fish’s spine in the stew.

He dug away the stew and uncovered a small kitchen knife, slender and long. It wasn’t big enough to kill a man or even do much injury, but it might eventually dig through the wood behind the bin. Tom’s pulse increased. Aurelia had brought him a way out.

DeMornay pulled Catherine to her feet. “Come, my dear. This is no time for an unsightly display. We must prepare for Friday’s soiree, where I will announce our engagement.”

Hasty words could send Tom to the bottom of the river. She must continue her plea without making DeMornay think she would refuse him. “But you did not agree to my conditions.”

He laughed. “How charming you are when you think you have the upper hand. Yet how mistaken.” The stroke of his finger across her cheek turned to an aching grip of her jaw. “I am in charge.” His eyes flashed. “Never forget that.”

Before she could react, he pressed his lips to hers, hard, unforgiving, demanding.

She squirmed, trying to get away, but he was too strong, and her strength was flagging. She managed to get one hand to his face and pushed.

He grabbed her wrist.

In the instant that he let go of her waist, she jumped backward.

He reacted just as quickly, pushing her back into the study. He then slammed the shutters closed.

She stumbled and caught herself on the edge of the desk. After a steadying breath, she lunged for the door. He grabbed her arm in his viselike grip and struck her—not on the face where a bruise might show, but on the chest, which doubled her over to catch her breath.

He then yanked her up by the hair. “I am in charge, and you will marry me, or every person you tried to set free will drown. Everyone, including your precious Worthington. Even the girl.”

She could not breathe, could not think, could not believe her beautiful dream of Chêne Noir had come to this hellish end. A lifetime of anguish awaited unless she could think of a way out. What choice had she? DeMornay was cruel enough to drown his own children. He would not hesitate to get rid of Tom. For now, she must play along.

“All right,” she gasped.

His lips curved into that sardonic smile. “That’s better. I’m sorry you had to learn this lesson the hard way, but now that we understand each other, things will proceed much better for you.” Again he ran a finger along her cheek.

She fought the urge to recoil.

“I have invited guests for our grand announcement.” His black gaze bored into her. “Tomorrow, you and I will direct the servants to turn this house into the exquisite mansion your mother remembered. I will be by your side, dear Catherine, every step of the way, so don’t even contemplate trying something underhanded. Friday evening you will dress in your finest gown—the gold silk would be perfect—and greet each guest with all the excitement of a woman just betrothed and soon to wed.”

“How soon?” she managed to choke out.

“I have convinced the minister that we must wed in haste. We will go to chapel Saturday.”

Saturday. She could not draw a breath. That was only three days away. Three days to save Tom. Three days to save Aurelia and the children. Three days to save herself.

Time was running out. Her only chance was to get to Tom when DeMornay wasn’t watching.

Tom waited until dark and then knocked on the door. When it didn’t open, he called out Santiago’s name.

Again, no answer.

This was his chance.

He opened the top of the bin and began hacking at the wood. The knife made little progress. By the time Santiago returned for the tray, he’d managed a hole big enough for his fist. At this rate it would take a week or more. By then, someone would spot the hole, and his means of escape would be gone.

Still, he had no choice but to try. All night he worked, managing a large enough hole to discover a bush just beyond the pigeonnier wall. It would shield his efforts from view. While he sawed, his thoughts drifted. Ma would have married and moved into Tinker’s house by now. His younger brothers and sisters would have taken the Tinker name. Two months ago, anger over the situation had consumed him. Now he had located Pa’s ship, the culmination of his quest, and he felt no better. The anger was gone, but in its place came emptiness instead of the satisfaction he’d expected. Weary, he put the situation at home from his mind and concentrated on hacking a way out of this prison.

For the next day and a half he continued to enlarge the hole in the wood, but it still wasn’t big enough when Aurelia brought supper on what must be Friday.

Every other time she’d remained silent. Tonight, her eyes bored into him. “Bolt,” she whispered harshly. “Too late after tonight.”

Then she left.

Her words sent his thoughts swirling. Something was happening tonight. He had to get out or lose everything.

What did she mean by saying to bolt? Usually she told him to leave. By using that word, she meant something else—such as the dead bolt.

He stared at the knife. What if she hadn’t intended him to use it to dig his way out? What if he was to use it to open the bolt? The knife might be long enough to lift the metal bolt.

After Santiago wandered off for supper, he slid the knife between the door and the frame. The bolt would be above the handle. By wiggling the knife upward from the handle, he was able to locate the bolt. Now, would it lift, or did he need to slide it?

Please, God, he prayed, let it open quickly.

The Lord must have a fine sense of humor, for no matter how much he wiggled and tugged, it did not come free.

That meant he had to somehow slide it. Tom visualized a typical bolt. It would have a knob that allowed a person to grab hold and slide it. That knob was pointed away from Tom. How could he reach it? He would need something with an angle to it, not the knife.

The spoon! The one Aurelia brought today was very old with a straight, thin handle and a nearly flat bowl. He got the bowl of the spoon through the space at the top of the door and slid the spoon downward. He then bent the handle and wiggled until the bowl of the spoon caught on the bolt’s knob. Pulling proved another challenge. The handle acted as a lever.

Tom wedged and pushed and wiggled until he felt something give. The door creaked, and he pushed slightly. If Santiago was waiting, he would pound Tom senseless. Perhaps this was the time for the knife.

He pulled the kitchen knife from his belt, ready to attack. A quick jab to the face would stagger the jailer long enough for Tom to run. He pushed the door slowly open.

Every muscle tensed, waiting for ambush.

Nothing.

He pushed the door a little farther. Now he could slip out. A quick glance revealed no one guarding the pigeonnier. Lamps blazed in the kitchen. The house was lit brightly, the curtains pulled behind the columns. Lanterns lined the steps and carriage drive. If Tom hadn’t known better, it looked like guests were expected. Impossible. No one visited Black Oak.

A laugh sounded from the direction of the kitchen.

Tom spotted a large, dark form stepping out. Santiago.

Time was running out. He stepped outside, pushed the door closed, and slid the bolt in place. If he could escape unseen, no one would know he’d left for hours.

Someone called out to the lumbering jailer, and he turned back to answer.

Tom took the opportunity to slip as quietly as possible through the shadows until he was on the far side of the pigeonnier. Then he ran. Not on the carriage drive, where he would be seen, but through the long grasses and weeds until he was beyond the light of the lanterns.

He must get help tonight. Aurelia had made that clear. But he couldn’t get to the James Patrick without a boat. Looking for an untended rowboat would take time. Then he had to row to the last spot that Rourke had moored the ship. He might have moved it in the two days since Tom saw him. He might even be looking for him. He glanced back at the plantation house. Rourke could even be there tonight. If so, Tom must get help from other quarters.

He could think of only one person. Judge Graham. The judge had shown sympathy toward them when no others would. But it was a long hike to the town where he lived. Then he had to find the man. Where had he told them he lived? Tom wracked his memory until it came to mind. The judge lived in the white house next to the courthouse.

He should hurry, but he took one last look at the plantation house. Though every fiber of his being wanted to leap to Catherine’s defense right now, he had no weapon except a paring knife. If he hoped to succeed, he needed help. Lots of it.

Lord, he prayed, bring me to the right person before it’s too late.

Tom had never put all his trust in God, least of all for something so important. Tonight he had no choice. Like King David cornered in a cave, he had to trust that God would come to his aid.