Anna Jacobs (24 page)

“Certainly. What would you like?” She knew it paid to stay on the good side of Frank, who was close to the master and could be even nastier if not treated well. Like master like man, they said, and she lived with proof of that, heaven help her.

“Get me anything you have. But plenty of it.”

She walked away, wondering at that. Fond of his food, Frank was. If he didn’t care what he ate, it meant something really serious had happened. She hoped it wouldn’t put the master in a bad mood. They’d all suffer for days if it did.

An hour later Frank set off again, his stomach comfortably full and his appearance that of a rich man’s servant, clad in black broadcloth and wearing a neat scratch wig that always made his head itch but which his master insisted on when they called at the houses of the old gentry. He’d written a note to his master telling him he had vital information about his niece that must be acted on immediately. After all, they couldn’t have Elkin getting hold of Miss Deborah’s money, could they?

Frank went to knock on the back door of the Finchcombes’ commodious new residence and ask for the note to be taken to his master, as a matter of urgency.

Within minutes the footman was back, looking down his nose at Frank but beckoning him into the house. He was shown into a small, plainly furnished parlour, and a minute later his master joined him.

“What’s happened!” Walter asked immediately the door shut behind the footman.

When Frank had finished his tale his employer growled under his breath. “It’s a damned nuisance, but you did the right thing coming straight to me. I’m not having anyone else benefiting from that stupid girl’s good fortune.”

“Elkin is dangerous,” Frank cautioned. “As nasty a villain as I’ve ever encountered, and his man’s the same. We shouldn’t face him without loaded pistols pointed at his heart and even so, we should be careful.”

Walter was surprised. “He’s that bad?”

“I think so. From something I overheard, I’d guess he’s been playing highwayman for a while—and to some purpose. The bullion robbery last year, I suspect, from something that man of his said one day when they thought I was out of hearing. Two guards and the driver were shot dead in cold blood, if you remember, sir. No one left to identify the thieves.”

Walter gaped at him.

Frank nodded again to emphasise his point. It might rankle that Seth had taken him for a fool, but it didn’t rankle enough to make him careless again.

“We’ll definitely take holster pistols and plenty of gunpowder and bullets, then.” A smile twisted Walter’s narrow, bloodless lips briefly. “After all, it’s my duty to rescue my niece from such a villain, is it not?” After chewing his lip for a moment, he asked, “Is her husband involved in any of the crimes?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Could we implicate him in something?”

“I doubt it. He’s got a lot of friends in the village who’d swear he was with them. He’s no gentleman, that one, hobnobs with innkeepers and all sorts of low folk.”

“He’ll have to be killed in the fighting, then. She’s no use to me if she’s not widowed. Remember that, Frank, if you want your share of the profit.”

“Yes, sir.” As if he needed telling! But he’d take care that it appeared to be done in self-defence. He wasn’t risking being hanged, not for anyone.

“Well, tell them to bring my carriage to the door, then go home and make the necessary arrangements then, while I find my wife and take leave of my host. We’ll leave for Marymoor as soon as I’ve had time to change out of these clothes.”

“If we pay for fresh mounts at the post inns, we’ll make better time.”

Walter frowned. “That’ll cause a lot of extra expense.”

“Nonetheless, we can’t afford to waste time. What if Elkin killed Pascoe and married your niece out of hand?”

“You’re right.”

Frank went out through the kitchen. He only hoped they’d get to Marymoor in time. He suspected that Elkin would act quickly once he decided to move, and he had a lot of respect for the man’s astuteness.

But he also had a lot of respect for his own master’s cunning. If Elkin thought he had bested Walter Lawrence, he was mistaken.

* * * *

Jem had made sure Seth overheard him talking about the stock his master was supposed to be buying at a farm on the other side of the village. He hoped Seth and Elkin would follow him and show their hand, though Elkin had, it seemed, gone out walking.

Riding at a moderate pace, as if enjoying the morning, Matthew listened for signs of pursuit, scanning the horizon covertly. He heard nothing, saw nothing. Was all this in vain? A couple of times he felt for the butt of the holster pistol which he had concealed beneath his coat and made sure the coat itself wouldn’t impede him drawing and cocking it. He had taken immense pains to keep his powder dry and to load the pistol with care.

Suddenly he caught sight of a horseman on the slopes to his left, standing behind some scrubby trees overlooking the lane. Most people wouldn’t have been noticed the solitary figure, but Matthew knew the shape of the horizons round here as well as he knew his own hand. He laughed softly. He had a couple of men posted at the farm already, so the pursuer would see him making his way there on his own, but he would be warned if any pursuer came close. He might be setting himself up as bait, but he had no intention of losing his life in the process.

Nothing happened on the way there, so he went inside, drank a glass of ale with Ben Horshley, whose farm it was, then they walked out together to the nearest field where Matthew studied the animals as if intending to buy. He felt more vulnerable here, his senses stretched to their limits, because this was where they were most likely to attack him. But Jem was even now keeping watch from an upper window at the farm and another man was in place behind the barn.

When the shot rang out, it came from much closer than he had expected and on the other side from the pursuer he had noticed. As a searing pain ripped along the side his body, he cursed and glanced quickly down. The bullet had passed along his side, ripping holes in his clothes and leaving a deep groove that was pouring blood. Taking a quick decision, he clutched Ben. “Pretend I’m mortally wounded.”

As he sagged against his friend, he heard a second shot ring out and another bullet whistled past close to him. He jerked, as if hit again, and pulled Ben down to the ground, hoping the assailant didn’t have another loaded pistol to hand.

Voices called out from the direction of the farm.

“Keep yourself low,” he muttered to Ben, letting his body sprawl motionless.

He was furious with himself for having underestimated Elkin, who had also set a trap within a trap. Whoever it was must have been up and in place during the night to get so close without being seen, because a watch had been kept at the farm since dawn.

“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig,” Ben whispered. “We need to carry you back to the farm and tend your wounds.”

“Well, don’t move me until you’ve checked that the intruder’s gone.” Matthew stayed where he lay, ignoring the pain in his side, his mind was already working on his plans. He’d have to let Jem drive him home in a wagon to keep up the pretence that he was dead. That’d take longer and there was no way of letting Deborah know in advance that he was all right.

* * * *

Elkin took Deborah to where a horse was waiting beside a wall. “You’ll ride pillion,” he said curtly.

She waited until he’d mounted, then stood on a chunk of stone and allowed him to pull her up behind him, hating to be so close to him, but not daring to refuse.

“Hold tight. We don’t want you falling and injuring yourself, do we?” With a laugh he urged the horse into a trot.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Why, to your mother. Where else?”

“And where is that?”

“You ask too many questions, Deborah. I prefer my women to speak only when spoken to, and in a more polite tone than you’re using.”

Remembering his threat, she swallowed a hasty retort and said nothing, but she took care to memorise the route. They were heading south, skirting the village, moving towards the Rochdale road, she thought.

“If we meet anyone, you are to say nothing,” he said. “Not one single word, not even a glance. Remember there is not only your own safety at stake, but your mother’s. You understand me?”

“Yes.” She prayed as she had never prayed before that they would meet someone she knew.

“Hell’s hounds!” Elkin muttered suddenly.

Deborah looked up to see John Thompson from the inn riding along towards them on an elderly nag. He looked rather sleepy, with a relaxed, amiable expression on his face.

“Look the other way,” Elkin muttered, half-turning to watch her. “If you try to signal to him in any way, I’ll make sure your mother pays for it, believe me.”

So she did as he ordered, hoping desperately that John would understand that something was wrong. He had given no sign of even noticing her for as they passed him, she heard him offer a simple, “Good morning, sir,” to Elkin.

A tear escaped her control and rolled down her cheek, leaving a line of coolness as it evaporated. Out of sheer pride she didn’t allow any other tears to escape. She had to stay alert. Perhaps they’d pass someone else she knew, someone who would take notice of her.

But they didn’t.

After half an hour, Elkin guided his horse off up a narrow track and soon they were completely hidden by the stone walls that separated the fields from the road. No chance of anyone seeing her now. Despair filled Deborah. Elkin was winning every trick, it seemed.

The lane led to a tumble-down cottage which stood on its own with no other habitation in sight, no stock or crops in the nearby fields. The place looked deserted, except that there were plenty of hoof marks in the dusty ground in front of it, some leading to an equally ramshackle shed at the side.

Elkin reined in the horse and said curtly, “Get off.”

She slid down as best she could, taking a couple of steps away as Elkin dismounted, then waiting for him to tell her what to do next.

A rough-looking young man came out of the shed towards them.

“Take the horse and see to its needs,” Elkin ordered. “I’ll be leaving again within the half hour.”

Relief surged through her. If he was leaving so soon and had servants here, there would not be time for him to rape her, surely? The mere thought of him having his way with her filled her with sick dread because she knew she wasn’t strong enough to fight him off. She realised he was glaring at her.

“What are you standing there gaping like an idiot for? There’s no help to be had near here.” He grasped her shoulder and drew her towards the cottage.

She didn’t even try to shake off his loathsome touch, but walked with her head held high and her expression as calm as she could manage. There would be bruises the next day where his fingertips were digging in, she was sure.

Inside the cottage it was very dark, because the shutters were closed across the one small window. As Elkin had banged the door shut, Deborah blinked her eyes rapidly and tried to make out their surroundings.

“Deborah!”

It was her mother’s voice. She took an involuntary step in that direction, but Elkin’s hard, bony fingers were there again, digging into the soft flesh of her shoulder and preventing her from moving.

She couldn’t hold back the word, “Mother?” and then, “Bessie” as she saw two figures sitting on a high-backed wooden settle near the hearth, where a low fire was burning. She was surprised they hadn’t come running across to her, but as her eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light, she saw that their ankles were tied to the legs of the settle, though their arms were free.

“Did I not promise to bring you to your mother?” Elkin mocked. “I’ll even ensure that you’re sitting where you can see them, though I’m afraid we’ll have to tie you up rather carefully. We can’t have you roaming the moors and getting lost, can we?”

An old woman, whom Deborah hadn’t noticed before, came forward from the shadows to one side. Her clothes were ragged, her sparse grey hair was lank and greasy, but her eyes were shrewd. “Want me to tie her up for you, Master?”

“Yes, Mag. And make sure you do a good job of it. Hands as well as feet for this one, because she’s young enough to give you trouble.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I know how to keep young women in order as well as old ones.” She cackled with laughter and grasped Deborah by the elbow, pulling her across to a crude but solid wooden chair. She shoved Deborah down, then tied her hands behind her, fastening the rope to the slats of the chair back. Then, kneeling slowly and painfully, she tied Deborah’s feet to the front legs of the chair.

“There! You won’t be comfortable, but you’re safely stowed.” Heaving herself upright she grinned at the young woman, then turned back to look at her master inquiringly.

“Thank you, Mag.” He strolled across and leaned over Deborah, lifting her chin with one finger.

She felt so helpless it was all she could do not to whimper.

Keeping his eyes on hers, he trailed his fingers across her breasts, laughing as she shuddered involuntarily. “Tonight, Deborah, you will be widowed and in my bed. By tomorrow at the latest you’ll be my wife. And if you have any thoughts of resisting me, look across the room and think whether you want to see your mother die.” He pulled out a pistol, walked over to Isabel Jannvier and cocked it, before holding it to her temple.

Isabel whimpered and shrank away from him.

Deborah saw a bruise on her mother’s forehead and wondered if Elkin had done that.

Bessie wasn’t even looking at them, but was staring down at her hands, which were clasped tightly together in her lap.

Elkin came back to slap Deborah’s face, hard enough to sting and make her jerk away. “You’re completely in my power now. All of you. And it’s very easy to shoot someone, Deborah. Remember that.”

As he walked outside, she sagged against the ropes and took a long, shuddering breath. When she looked up, she could see tears on her mother’s cheeks.

Would he really manage to kill Matthew? If so, she would find a way to kill him, if she had to wait years to do it. That she vowed.