Elaine
Elaine’s wrists were on fire, but she’d done it. She’d gotten out. The man who’d tied her up must have been a little hesitant to bind a woman, for she’d finally been able to work her hands free.
She scooted across the jagged ground to Gareth. His face was whiter than a sheet, and his eyes stared at nothing.
“Gareth.” She patted his cheek, and his focus snapped back. “We are leaving this place.”
Elaine searched the cave for anything she could use to free him. She found a small rock and hammered at the irons, but they did not give. Her hair had long since come out, and she had no pins to offer so he could pick the lock. But there had to be something. A loose nail. A broken knife. She found nothing.
“Go,” he said, his eyes like slits of darkness. “Get out of here.”
“Hush. Don’t speak.” If she could at least stop his bleeding, he’d last long enough for her to find help. She removed a boot and pulled off her stocking.
He watched her with a smirky grin. Head of a household, owner of a mine, and still a boy.
“Stop,” she chided. “It’s for your wound.”
She knelt beside Gareth and wrapped the stocking around the hole in his leg, looping it twice. He gasped when she pulled it tight.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “We must stop the bleeding.” The wound itself was not lethal—assuming it didn’t turn septic. It was the slow and steady loss of blood threatening his life.
He was barely conscious as it was. She pressed her hand against his cheek. Cold as the stones around them. She draped her cloak over him and placed a soft kiss on his forehead.
What he really needed was water, but there was none to be found save that which seeped from the rocks. She held her hand to the wall where a slow thread of water trickled back and forth, making its way down the jagged rocks.
She managed to catch a few drops in her cupped hand. He startled when her hand pressed to his lips.
“Here’s a swallow of water.”
He drank, then she took the remaining moisture and dabbed it across his parched lips.
“Leave,” he whispered.
“I cannot leave you.” She brushed some matted hair from his forehead.
“Get help. I’ll be fine.”
If Chiverton returned and found her free, her chance to do Gareth any good was over. If she escaped, perhaps she could find help. Neither prospect seemed right, but one at least gave her a small glimmer of hope.
“I’ll be back for you, I promise,” she told him.
He gave her one small nod.
“You wait, do you hear me? You wait for me.”
He smiled, but he was so weak only one side of his mouth went up.
If he died, she would never forgive him. She would never forgive herself. One more death to add to her growing pile of mistakes. But this time, Lord Chiverton would be made to pay.
Elaine headed down the tunnel—the same one Chiverton had come down. The going was pitch black, and she had to keep her hands out in front to avoid the walls. The corridors turned and split. She paused and listened, trying to decide which way to go. She made her best guess, but it happened time and again until she thought she was going in circles.
She tried to focus on direction, but her mind seemed tied to Gareth. She’d stopped the bleeding, but it would take awhile for him to recover his strength.
The letter. She’d left it in Gareth’s pocket. She started back for it, but then halted. It was useless. She would waste valuable time trying to wind her way back to him. She’d get it later, when she returned with the Landguard.
If she had accepted Gareth’s offer five years ago, she would have never gone to London and met Lord Chiverton. Never sent John off with that blasted letter, and he would still be alive too.
One wrong choice had set so much in motion, and none of it good. How could she ever have known that by refusing Gareth’s hand naught but misfortune would follow?
So many lives ruined. John’s, her mother’s and father’s, hers, and now Gareth’s. At the time, it had seemed the right thing to do, no matter her feelings for him. What she wouldn’t give now to live that one moment over again.
The echo of voices up ahead gave her pause. She’d been walking the tunnels blindly, one hand on the wall and the other on her head to keep her from hitting it on the low ceiling.
A dim light glowed, winding its way to her from somewhere ahead. Gareth’s only chance of surviving depended on whether or not she could get help.
She peered around the bend into a larger chamber that spread out on both sides of an underground stream cutting through the rock. She’d never seen this place before. She’d never come across anything like this near her home. How far from Havencross had they taken her while she was unconscious?
Three men rolled a barrel of spirits along the cavern floor. It clattered loudly along the rocky ground. Two women stood over an open crate, lifting out small packets and securing them to their corsets so they hung down around their legs but would be concealed by their skirts. No one seemed to notice or care that the ladies’ legs were in full view of every man in the chamber—least of all the two women. They laughed in soft undertones as they went about their clandestine business.
A stack of smaller barrels labeled “tobacco” lined the wall closest to her. The men disappeared into the tunnel. The women’s backs were toward her. In four quick strides, she ducked into the space between the tubs and the wall of the cave.
She was fooling herself to think she could ever make it out without being found. Utterly foolish. But she had to try. It was either die in the cave or die in the attempt. So she inched her way to the end of the stack of contraband.
Another round of thwacks announced the return of the barrel men. A plan quickly formed. As soon as the men pushed the enormous barrel into the chamber, she slipped out into the tunnel they’d just come through, praying with all her might she wouldn’t bump headfirst into Lord Chiverton.
Torches burned at intervals along the walls of this part of the cave. Though she was beginning to think the word cave did not fully encompass the system of twisting tunnels she found herself in.
More likely, this was an idle mine. In which case, she was probably near the old Tregavern Mine, the only one in the area in disuse. A few miles south of Havencross but still on the coast. Tregavern Mine bordered Squire Stroud’s land. If she managed to escape from the underground, she’d head there. He’d be able to send a runner to Mr. Tippet and rouse the rest of the Landguard.
If she escaped.
More voices came echoing down the passage toward her.
She ducked into a side tunnel to get out of the torchlight, withdrawing into the darkness.
The voices grew louder. One was unmistakably Lord Chiverton’s. His tall frame flashed into view for a moment as he passed along the main tunnel. He was walking in the direction she’d just come from. It must have been an hour or more since he’d roped her to the post beside Gareth. How much longer till he went to check on his prisoners and found one of them missing?
She was running out of time.
A whisper of cool air blew past her, chilling the back of her neck and rustling her skirts. Outside air was coming in from somewhere behind her. Mines had many shafts and air vents; if she could find one close enough to the surface, she might be able to get out.
She edged along, hurrying as fast as she dared to avoid falling into a shaft. She’d been going only a minute or so when the shouting reached her.
“Sound the alarm!” a man called.
“I want every passage searched,” Lord Chiverton called. “Light it up. Find her.” He did not sound at all pleased.
She hurried faster, her hands running along the sides, her body bent to protect her head. But not low enough. She smacked into a low ceiling rock.
She pressed her hand to where the swelling was already beginning to grow. No time to waste. The floor sloped upward, a welcome sign that she was climbing toward the surface.
The tunnel opened into a crossroads. In the complete darkness, her other senses awoke. The smell of coppery earth. The taste of the damp and tangy air. And the brush of a breeze across her cheek. A breeze that felt ever so slightly different than the cold bite of the mine.
She turned left just as the faint glow of a torch lit the tunnel behind her.
She ran now, not caring that she might fall to her death down a shaft that sank endlessly into the earth. How did Gareth stand it, working in the depths? Eternal darkness. Nothing but faceless rocks in every direction. And yet it was from these depths that the tin and copper came, providing wealth and livelihood to the people of Cornwall.
The hand she’d been trailing along the roof of the cave suddenly hit nothing. She stopped and looked up. Darkness, but different from the rock. This was the black of a moonless night. The stars were not visible, but their light gave the cloud covering the softest glow. A ventilation shaft. How far up it went, she could not tell. But if she made it to the top, she would be out of the mine and free.
She lifted her skirts, petticoat and all, and tucked them into the bust of her corset. If anyone found her like this, she’d wish she really was dead.
Pushing off the wall, she wedged herself into the shaft. It was hard to be sure, but the sky seemed almost within her reach. It had been a long time since she’d scaled the sides of a mine shaft. Many times her father had scolded her for behaving like a boy. What would he think of her now?
Pressing her body on one side and her legs on the other, she started up. Her foot slipped, and she crashed to the floor, her breath pushed from her body. She gasped a few times, then struggled to her feet, retucking her dress. The voices were getting closer, louder.
She tried again, working her way up slowly, by inches. Light now made its way down the tunnel. This was her last chance. With a few more heaves, she reached the top. If the shaft had been any longer, she never would have made it.
She pulled herself out onto the wet grass of the heath. It must have been raining while she’d been down there. She lay on her back, resting her aching legs.
The fog had lifted, but the night was still dark and the clouds hung low, threatening more rain. No matter the inky night—it signified nothing compared to the pitch black she’d just left behind.
A man’s voice rose up through the shaft.
She jumped to her feet, smoothing her frock down to cover her legs. She spun in a circle to get her bearings, but the only thing she was certain of was the sea to the west. It was enough. She headed inland, hoping to recognize her surroundings or find someone to help her. A farmhouse, perhaps. Or a village.
She ran, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she kept the sea to her back. And to watch for lights that might be following her.
The things Lord Chiverton might do to Gareth now that she was gone . . . Elaine shuddered. She half hoped Gareth would be unconscious. Then perhaps he might not suffer more.
A dark figure rose up in front of her. Elaine dove into the heather, keeping flat on the ground. Motionless.
But it was only a stone standing straight up out of the earth. She slowly stood and walked toward it. The old market cross. She’d guessed right. Tregavern Mine.
She turned her direction northward, toward Squire Stroud’s house. A mile or two up the lane, it was the closest dwelling where she could get help. She wished she’d chosen a black dress that morning to blend into the night. Especially when shouts began to reach her coming from outside the mine. They’d abandoned the search of the caverns and had taken it topside.
Lord Chiverton’s smugglers knew this part of the land better than she did. They made a living of hiding themselves or their goods in every nook and cranny. All she was sure of was that the road turning northward from the market cross would take her right to New Tor House, the home of Squire Stroud. Keeping to the road was risky, but it was also the quickest way to help and safety.
Her years in London had left her soft. Already she was gasping for breath, her lungs and legs burning. But Gareth was waiting for her.
And so she ran. Her arms pumping and her skirts flying around her legs. Her stockingless foot blistered as it rubbed in her shoe. Her breath came hard, and she cursed the damp of Cornwall that saturated the air. When she thought her lungs would burst, she slowed until she could run again.
Squire Stroud’s home loomed ahead. Tall and whitewashed, New Tor stood out stark against the night. She hurried up the drive and banged on the door. If anyone was in close pursuit, they would surely hear her frantic knocks.
After several minutes of pounding, the door opened. It wasn’t a servant. It was the squire himself. Fully dressed, with the buttons of his waistcoat stretching to almost bursting. His bald head reflected the glow of the candle he held.
“Miss Cardinham?” The shock on his face only deepened the blue of his eyes. “How did you get here?”
She crossed the threshold without being invited. Until she was inside with the door bolted behind her, Lord Chiverton might reach out with his talons and grasp her.
“I apologize for coming so late.” In truth, she had no idea what time it was. She paused to catch her breath, bending forward and dragging in a few rasps of air. “And for my state.” Red and black stains covered her dress. A rip in the hem exposed her leg up to the knee, and it was not even the leg with the stocking. Naught she could do about it now.
“How did you get here?” he asked again.
“I’ve come from Tregavern Mine. There are smugglers there moving cargo.” She panted as she spoke. “Lord Chiverton leads them, and they have Gareth Kemp held captive. You must help me.” Another pause to rake in some air. “We must send a man to rouse the Landguard. There’s no time to lose. Mr. Kemp’s life depends on it.”
Squire Stroud closed the door. He smiled at her with his gentle eyes and round face. “Come in. Goodness me, your head is bleeding.” He handed her a handkerchief.
She dabbed at her forehead, the linen coming away with a large stain of red. Must have happened when she hit her head.
“Come, come, child.” He motioned to the sitting room. “You are safe here.”