Black Sheep's Daughter (27 page)

"You look like a caterpillar."

 If their giggles were subdued, it was still better than weeping. They managed to reach each other, but their tied hands made it impossible to get close enough to be useful. In the end they lay back to back, their shoulders pressed together, trying to pretend that the minimal warmth of that contact was spreading throughout their bodies.

 "I'm terrified," confessed Muriel suddenly in a shaking voice. "I shall never again pretend to be frightened when there is nothing to be frightened of. I do not know how you can be so brave."

 Teresa was terrified too, but admitting it could only distress her friend further. "Taking into consideration the atrocious situation in which we find ourselves, your composure is admirable," she said with deliberate pomposity. "Andrew would be prodigious proud of you."

 "And
...
Tom?"

 "And Tom."  She sighed. "You really love him?"

 Her only answer was an unhappy sniff. The silence that followed was broken by the complaint of the dilapidated stairs.

* * * *

  Marco started talking as soon as the connecting door between library and study closed behind them. "Andrew, I'm certain it is Harrison. I read in a newspaper an age ago that he escaped, but Teresa told me not to bother you with the news."

 "Why have you not told your uncle?  At least here is a clue of sorts."  Hope mixed with dread as Andrew remembered the slaver's threats.

 "He would not listen to me privately, and you know how determined Teresa was to keep that business secret. If you had not come, I must have blurted it out before everyone."

 "The duke knows about the
Snipe
already. Anyone else?  What of your cousins?"

 "John knows. I think Cousin Tom does not."

 "Well, he is not like to spread the news, and the more heads put together the better."  Andrew opened the library door. "Your Grace, Danville, Lord John, a word with you, if you please."

 The duke and his sons hurried to join them.

 "Uncle, I'm sure it's Harrison, the slave captain. He escaped before he was transported."

 Lord Danville looked at Marco blankly, then turned to his father. "What is this, sir?" he asked, frowning.

 Lord John, Marco and Andrew all started talking at once. Andrew won. He told a brief version of the rescue of the slaves from the
Snipe
, and then Marco went on to describe the trial, and explain how he had read about Harrison's escape in the
Times
.

 "I was going to tell you, uncle, but Teresa thought it unimportant. I wish I had!  So you see, it must be Harrison, and I daresay Lord Carruthers has a hand in it too."

 "Carruthers!  What has he to do with this?" asked Lord John, surprised. "I know he's a dirty dish, but kidnapping is going a bit far!"

 "Harrison named him as the owner of the
Snipe
," said Sir Andrew. "You know him?"

 "He is a neighbour, unfortunately," Lord John told him.

 "He cannot blame Teresa for the loss of his investment,” Andrew said, frowning. “The naval pursuit of his vessel caused Harrison to scuttle her. But without Teresa’s intervention the Africans would have drowned without Captain Fitch having proof of their existence. However, he might hope to recoup something from the ransom, and then leave Harrison to wreak vengeance."

 "Vengeance?"  The duke paled.

 "Yes," Andrew said grimly. "Whether you pay the ransom or not, sir, I doubt Teresa will be released unharmed."

 The horrified silence was ended by Lord Danville, who had been looking thoughtful since Marco named Carruthers. "I'll wager I know where they are," he said. "Let me see the ransom note, sir."  He took it from his father. "Yes, the meeting place named to hand over the money is behind Clock Cottage, by the Blue Ship Inn at The Haven."

 "The Haven?" asked Marco.

 "A tiny hamlet scarce three miles from here," Lord John answered him. "In the opposite direction from Billingshurst. How does that help us, Tom?"

 Lord Danville had all their attention. "Carruthers' place is near Loxwood. I saw a map once that showed the estate. It is an odd shape, long and narrow, and one end reaches nearly to The Haven. There's a wood there, used to be good pheasant shooting. You know how Carruthers has let the place go to rack and ruin— the house is in fair shape but he has no interest in farming or sport. He has not kept up the coverts and he dismissed the gamekeeper long since."

 "What of it?" demanded Andrew impatiently. He cared not a groat for the baron's coverts.

 "The gamekeeper's cottage was in that wood near The Haven. No one has lived there for years."

 "Let's go!" cried Andrew, striding from the room.

 His heart leaped within him. Here at last was his chance for a heroic rescue. He was determined to be first through the door of the abandoned cottage. He imagined Teresa looking up as he entered, the dark eyes widening, the glow of gratitude and admiration.

 Somehow her face, her eyes, were all that he could picture. Had she been tied up?  A pang of terror shot through him as he realised she might even be unconscious, then fury rose. If Harrison had harmed her, he should not live to see his next trial!

 Ten minutes later he rode out of the stable-yard, followed by Marco, Lord Danville, Lord John, Mr Wishart and Lord Jordan, all armed to the teeth.

Chapter 19

  Desperately Teresa inched away from Muriel. In her need for warmth she had forgotten Brawny must not know that they were strong enough to move. Her plan depended on his belief that they were weak, feeble creatures, but it was too late to put more than a couple of feet between them.

 He came in, a dirty bottle in his hand. If he noticed anything amiss he did not comment, and Teresa was encouraged to hope that he was as stupid as Scrawny Sid thought him.

 Taking no notice of Muriel, who had again pretended to swoon, he pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and ordered Teresa to open her mouth. "Guv'nor says to give yer a drop o' gin so's yer don't freeze to death afore he's ready. Bloody waste, if yer ast me."  He kicked her. "Open up!"

 She gave in and parted her lips, but she closed her throat, determined not to swallow. The vile stuff set her mouth on fire. She managed not to gasp in shock, and it ran out again, down her cheek to the floor.

 "I cannot swallow lying down," she protested in a tremulous  voice.

 He put the bottle down and hauled her to a sitting position. As soon as he let go of her to reach for the gin, she slumped over. Again he raised her up, and again she fell.

 "Untie me so that I can sit up," she moaned. "It is impossible to balance without the use of my hands and feet."

 Incredibly, it did not dawn on him to prop her in a corner. He looked at her in doubt.

 "You cannot be afraid of two such feeble creatures!" she said with scorn, careful to make her voice quaver, despite rising hope. "If we expire from the cold, how much 'fun' will you have?"

 He glanced suspiciously at Muriel, who looked half dead already. Reaching out, he wound one fair ringlet about a finger like a sausage. The girl did not stir. "Always did like 'em wiv golden 'air," murmured the big man. "I'll untie you so's you can get 'er moving. Never did fancy cold meat."

 He fumbled at the knots without success, then drew a knife with a rust-spotted blade and sawed at the ropes around Teresa's wrists. Fibre by fibre they parted, and he turned to her ankles while she flexed her numb hands. Feeling returned fast and painfully.

 "Now sit up and swaller some o' this gin."

 She pushed herself half way up and then collapsed. "I cannot. Let me warm my hands a little while you untie my friend."

 Muriel's bonds parted with still more difficulty. If the knife had ever had an edge it was long gone. By the time Brawny had finished the job, Teresa felt her hands would obey her. When he turned back to her, he found himself gaping down the barrels of a pair of pistols.

 "Drop the knife."

 Blinking in confusion, he dropped it. Muriel, miraculously recovered from her swoon, grabbed it and backed away from him, holding it in front of her with nervous awkwardness.

 He shook his head stupidly, then brightened. "If yer shoots me, the guv'nor'll 'ear it and come running."

 "I have a bullet for each of you," Teresa pointed out coldly, "and you may ask any of a dozen London bucks whether I am a crack-shot. I was brought up in the jungle, you know, surrounded by fearsome beasts. I have never shot a person before, but you are more like a poisonous snake and I shall not hesitate." The guns pointed unwavering at his heart. "Lie down on the floor, on your front."

  Grunting sullenly, he sank to his knees, his beefy face unhappy. "Yer won't get past the guv'nor," he said. "He's in the room at the bottom of the apples."

 "Apples?" asked Muriel, bewildered.

 "Stairs," Teresa explained with a grin. "Apples and pears—stairs. It's Cockney rhyming slang. Cousin John was talking about it one day and fortunately that is one of the words he mentioned."  Her eyes never left her target. "Go on, get down."

 Brawny stretched full length.

 "Teresa, he cut the ropes instead of untying them," wailed Muriel. "How am I to tie him up?"

 A moment of panic was sternly suppressed and Teresa glanced quickly around the room. "That bag, see what is in it. The shirt will do to tie his legs, and perhaps there is something else that you can use for his hands. Hurry."

 Muriel pulled the shirt from the shabby valise, followed by a pair of trousers which made her blush. The garments were ragged but most of the cloth was still good. She wound the shirt round the man's legs and knotted the sleeves as tight as she could. "I hope that will do," she said doubtfully.

 "It will have to. You, put your hands behind your back. Can you tear those
...
inexpressibles, Muriel?  They are too bulky to make a good knot."

 A few moments of effort proved the task beyond Muriel’s strength. She rummaged in the valise and triumphantly withdrew a grubby neckcloth. Soon Brawny lay trussed like a turkey-cock and at last Teresa dared put aside her pistols.

 She tested the bonds. "Oh dear, I hope they will hold!  If he wins free we shall be in trouble."

 The man had lain passive and silent all this time. She guessed that having surrendered he had not the wit to resist. However, if they left him here for any considerable period he would inevitably attempt escape, and she doubted the cloth, with Muriel's inexpert knots, would hold him.

 She could not bring herself to shoot him in cold blood, though, even just to disable him.

 Her eye fell on the gin bottle. Enough of that poured down his throat would immobilised him. Picking it up she found it nearly full. The trouble was that they must turn him over to administer it, and when they tried to move him he would likely rouse from his lethargy and struggle.

 She felt Muriel's worried gaze upon her as she sought desperately for an answer. There was nothing else in the little room that might help them—or was there?  The thought sickened her but a well-placed blow with a pewter pint pot ought to knock out even the undoubtedly thick-skulled Bert.

 "Don't look," she ordered Muriel, and brought it down on the back of his head as hard as she could.

 Since he did not voice any objection, she assumed the blow had worked. Gingerly she felt for his pulse, with a prayer that she had not killed him. Failing to find it, she bit her lip, then stripped off her glove and tried again. It disgusted her to touch him with her bare skin, but this time she found the pulse and breathed a sigh of relief.

 "Help me turn him over."

 Lying on his back, he was an unlovely sight. His mouth hung slackly open. She did not want to drown him so they rolled up the straw pallet and managed to stuff it beneath his head and shoulders. Then she cautiously poured a little gin between his yellowish teeth.

 He swallowed automatically. Judging by his breath, he had already been imbibing that day. Little by little Tersa emptied the bottle into him.

 He emitted an enormous belch and started to snore. Teresa and Muriel looked at each other and giggled.

 Teresa sat back wearily on her heels. "Well, that is all we can do. We had best go down at once before Harrison grows suspicious."

 Muriel helped her to stand. They went out onto the tiny landing. The door had been recently fitted with a simple bar lock, they found, presumably to keep them in. They lowered the bar into its sockets with as little noise as they could manage. Teresa eyed the dark, rickety stair with foreboding.

 "If we march down together perhaps he will think it is his henchman," whispered Muriel.

 "A nice idea, but the two of us together must weigh less than he, and I doubt we could stay in step. We must creep down the side as close to the wall as possible and hope that it is quieter there. At least there is a wall between the stair and the room. I shall go first. When I reach the bottom step, come after me."

 Muriel nodded and Teresa started down the stairs.

 Step by cautious step, holding her breath, she made her way down. Under her slight weight the cracking boards scarcely moved, their token protest no louder than the scurry of mice within the walls.

 On the bottom step she paused. It would be best, she decided, if she found out the situation before Muriel joined her. Her friend might alert Harrison by making too much noise, and she would very likely get in the way if sudden action had to be taken.

 Teresa twisted round and made shooing gestures, mouthing a silent "Wait!"

 Muriel nodded understanding. She looked pale and fearful, and Teresa was filled with gratitude for her steadfast help. Their situation was a far cry from the drawing rooms and ballrooms Muriel had been bred up to grace with her decorous presence.

 Now Teresa must count on the darkness of the stair enclosure to protect her. Moving by inches, she peered one-eyed round the end of the wall.

 Harrison faced her at an angle, sitting on a broken backed chair at a sloping table with his horse pistol in his hand. On the table lay the remains of a meal and, right beside him, an oily rag, a ramrod, a small vial and two leather pouches.