Practice to Deceive (7 page)

All thought of his throbbing head forgotten, the Corporal grabbed the brazier with both hands and pulled downwards. Little by little, grinding with the protest of iron rusted in place for years, it lowered, the sounds becoming so piercing at length that Penelope's heart thundered with the dread that at any instant they must be discovered.

Snatching up the candle that Killiam had replaced in the branch, Gordon dropped to one knee in the hearth, holding the flame high. “Jove! Here's the door now,” he exulted. “Good work, Rob! A trifle more, only.”

Crouching beside him, Penelope saw a section of the chimney wall sliding jerkily in upon itself, revealing an aperture sufficiently large for a man to step through. “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” she whispered.

A hand gripped her shoulder. Gordon was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his face. “And thank you,” he said fervently. “I'll confess I'd my doubts, but— Rob! That's enough! Do you stand guard now, whilst the lady and I go through.”

The Corporal's face fell. Penelope hesitated. More than anything in the world, she longed to go with him. But the creaking of the brazier might very well have been overheard. Reluctantly, she offered to stay and wait. “For if anyone comes, you must see that I am the only person whose presence here might somehow be explained.”

“The Corporal will deal with whatever chances. Come.”

Penelope offered no further argument but, allowing him to help her scramble up through the tiny doorway, she knew that whatever he had said, they still did not completely trust her. She thought, ‘Who could blame them?' and, following Gordon's hunched figure, was touched by the depth of devotion that had compelled him to walk unhesitatingly into what he suspected to be a deathtrap.

The flickering candle flame illumined only a very small section of the winding, cobwebbed walls. The air was thick with the smell of soot, the floor was uneven, and Penelope held her breath as they crept past the area of her Aunt Sybil's bedchamber. The tiny passage began to grow warmer, and by the time Gordon came to a halt, it was very warm indeed.

“Here is the other end,” he whispered. “Pray, Miss Montgomery.”

Penelope had been praying for some time. She heard him fumbling about, and then he swore under his breath and wrapped his coat skirt about his hand and gripped a heavy iron latch. Her heart jumped once more when a sharp thud was followed by an all-too-familiar high-pitched squealing. Gradually, their dim little passage was brightened by a rosy, leaping glow.

Over his shoulder, Gordon whispered, “Hold fast to your skirts, ma'am,” and stepped downwards. Beyond him, Penelope saw the wide hearth and generous fire that warmed her uncle's study. She heard a smothered groan from Gordon, but whatever he had seen that so affected him did not prevent his staying to help her. “Nobody about, at least,” he whispered, lifting her down the deep step. “Have a care, now. Everything's hot.”

As at the entrance, the passage opened directly behind the hearth, and the air struck Penelope's face with fierce heat. She held her skirts close and edged carefully around the glowing logs. The room was dim, lit only by the oil lamp on the desk that once had been her father's. Quentin no longer lay on the sofa and Gordon was running to the desk. She saw then that the prisoner lay huddled beside it, his wrists bound to one of the legs. She flew to kneel beside him. He looked quite dead, and she breathed a frantic prayer as Gordon reached with a trembling hand to feel for a pulse.

Quentin moaned faintly. His dark head rolled back, revealing his face deathly white between numerous bruises. A cut above his left brow had covered his eye with dried blood, but the long lashes of the other fluttered, and he looked up. Penelope's heart cramped with sympathy, and she could have wept with gratitude because he was still alive.

Blinking rapidly, Gordon laid a gentle hand on his brother's sound shoulder. “My poor old fellow,” he said huskily. “What a—a damnable fix you've got yourself into this time.”

Quentin's lips quivered betrayingly. The solitary green eye was suddenly glittering with tears, and for an instant there was an emotional silence. Then, incredibly, he managed a faint, irrepressible grin. He said weakly, “I thought you'd … never come. For Lord's sake, Gordie … find my sword. And … get me to a chamber pot.”

“I'll find the sword,” volunteered Penelope, her face very pink.

Quentin, who had not seen her because of his blind side, turned his head painfully. “Oh … my God!” he groaned.

Between tears and laughter, Penelope said, “There is a commode in the next room, Mr. Chandler. Quentin—can you stand?”

“Of course.” He peered at her curiously. “Ma'am … surely you're not little Penny Mont—” The words were cut off by a gasp as his brother slid an arm under his shoulders and began to lift him. His teeth clamped down on his lower lip, his eye closed, and he sagged helplessly.

Whitening, Penelope held his left arm and, between the two of them, they got him to his feet. Quentin swayed dizzily. Watching his face, Gordon asked, “How are you now, half-ling?”

“I…” Quentin whispered, “shall do … thank you.”

Penelope flew to the connecting door to her aunt's room. She lifted the latch, inch by inch. Her straining ears could detect no sound from within, and very gradually she opened the door. A small fire flickering on the hearth provided the only illumination in the deserted room, and the open door to the adjoining parlour revealed no light beyond. She gestured to Gordon, and he half-carried his brother over, murmuring softly, “Thank you, ma'am. Do you try to make it appear as though Quentin had escaped through the window.”

She turned at once, and heard him scold laughingly, “A fine way to greet me! And in front of a lady!” Faint but indignant, Quentin responded, “
You
should only know the joys of being … trussed up for hours!”

Penelope sped to fling open the window. The trees at this side of the house stretched their branches quite close, but it seemed unlikely that Delavale and his cohorts would believe that a man in Quentin's condition could have made the climb without falling. Nonetheless, to emphasize the ‘escape route,' she pulled over a chair and set it beneath the window sill. She found the sword-belt on the floor behind the desk. As she snatched it up, her frayed nerves were jolted by the sound of approaching voices.

Lord Delavale proclaimed in an irritated bray, “… tell you the fool is too weak by far to free himself! You likely heard something from th' stables, is all. Where's th' damned key?”

Guiding his brother's faltering progress back into the room, Gordon glanced to the hall door and hissed, “Into the passage! Run!”

Penelope flew. Gordon bent, threw Quentin over his shoulder, and followed. Heedless of decorum or the display of her pretty ankles, Penelope scrambled into the Passion Path. Gordon set his brother down and guided him around the logs, and Quentin struggled feebly to climb into the passage. A key rattled in the lock. It was no time for compassion. Penelope seized Quentin's shoulders and Gordon boosted him up. Quentin shuddered and became a dead weight in Penelope's arms, but he made no sound. The door burst open even as Gordon jumped in and began to pull his brother's legs from sight.

Delavale let out a howl of fury. “He's
gone!
The filthy scum got
away!
Well, do not
stand
there, you stupid dolt! Rouse the house! Call the grooms!
Horses,
man! And
fast!
Oh, may he rot in
hell
for this!”

There was no chance to close the passage door. Holding Quentin's head pillowed against her breast, Penelope shrank back, trying not to breathe so rapidly, and listening in terror to her uncle's maddened bellowing. He had only to look this way and he must see them, for the dancing flames must surely light their precarious hideaway. Through those flames she saw several pairs of male legs run into the room. The voices of Otton and Beasley added to the uproar. Milord's blistering accusations against everyone but himself were cut off as Otton said coldly, “We avail ourselves nothing with all this chit-chat! Chandler had help. He was in no case to have crawled as far as the window, much less climbed down the tree! Delavale—your pistols! Hargrave, your master's cloak. Come—we must scour the neighbourhood before someone else gets—er, claims the reward!”

And with slams, shouts, and curses, they were gone.

*   *   *

“At last!” Gordon stroked back the damp hair from his brother's forehead. “He's coming round.”

Penelope glanced up from her ministrations. Quentin blinked at her, and briefly there was such weariness and pain in his eyes that she asked with a pang of sympathy, “Am I hurting you very badly? I am no apothecary, I fear.”

“No … you are not.…” A trace of the mischief she so well remembered crept into his eyes. “For which I do not … intend to … grieve.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm, and bent shyly to her bandaging.

Gordon asked anxiously, “How are you, my great looby?”

“Very much better … thank you, sir.” With an effort, Quentin peered about. “Where the deuce are we?” And, becoming belatedly aware that he was half-sitting, half-lying in Killiam's arms, he said with an attempt at heartiness, “Rob, you old scoundrel! What? Have I … dragged you into this, also?”

“Aye. And never try to fob me off with your nonsense, Major. I'd hoped 'twas a clean sword cut you'd taken, rather than that ugly mess. A musket ball, eh, sir?”

“It went right through, so let us have none of your gloom. Thanks to—you all, I'm reprieved. And so soon as this lady is—is finished, we…” The brave words trailed off, Quentin's eyes widening as he became aware of the dainty bed on which he reposed, and the faint feminine scent that lingered about the pillows. “The devil! Never say I am—”

Penelope chose that moment to tighten her bandage and as her patient was thereby bereft of breath, she said gently, “But—you are, sir. And very improperly, I might add.”

He stared at her in dismay, his face so white and pinched that fear gripped her anew and she asked that Gordon please produce the flask of brandy he'd brought.

“I'd thought we were—well away,” Quentin gasped. “Are we still at Highview, then? Lord—if we are found, this lady—”

Gordon shoved the flask at him. “Take a pull at that, it'll warm you. Hold him up, Rob.”

“Here we go, sir. Do you know what I think? We may not be burying the poor Major, after all.”

Penelope flashed an irked glance at Killiam's craggy features. “Here, let me plump the pillows and then you may lay him back.”

“No such thing!” Quentin blinked a little as the brandy burned down his throat. “We must be away, ma'am.” He glanced at his brother. “Can we, Sir Knight?”

Gordon took back the flask and stoppered it, a faint grin curving his stern mouth at the familiar nickname. “We'll contrive, rabble. Though it may be a close-run thing.” He turned to Penelope, who had retreated to the washstand to remove Quentin's blood from her hands. “You are a valiant woman, Miss Montgomery. I know of no adequate way to thank you.”

She looked at him sharply. “I think you do, sir.”

“Well, if he don't, I do,” said Quentin. “Get my pestilential self as far from the lady as possible!”

“We'd have been away at once, if 'twere possible,” Gordon explained. “We only managed to carry you thus far undetected because Delavale was raising hell's own din outside. But to climb down the tree with all his bounty hunters milling about below would have been sheer folly.”

“It was folly to come in here after me in the first place!” Despite that harsh judgement, Quentin's expression spoke volumes, and he added earnestly, “I'm much obliged to you, brother.”

“Pish!” His cheeks reddening, Gordon looked to Penelope. “Well, ma'am? I'll get no sense from him. Can he travel?”

Quentin sat straighter. “Have I not said it?”

“You speak gibberish, as usual. You're weak as a cat.”

“Starved,” declared Quentin. “It grieves me to complain, Miss Montgomery, but your uncle sets a devilish poor table.”

His green eyes twinkled at her, his indomitable courage causing a lump to come into her throat. She had been fashioning a square from the sheet she'd torn up for bandages, and she took it up and bent over him. “I cannot deny that, alas. And this arm must rest in a sling.” She began to arrange the cloth about his arm, moving very cautiously. Not until she leaned closer to tie the knot did she commit the serious blunder of meeting his eyes again. The smile in them made her head spin, and she paused, staring at him.

He reached up to place his thin hand over her trembling fingers. “You always were a right one,” he said, in the deep voice that had brightened her dreams. “Penelope Anne … I owe you my life.”

Little ripples of a strange electricity were making her skin shiver. Her breathing became hurried and shallow. Dreading lest he see, and know, she looked down and was further flustered to see his hand clasped on hers. She noticed in an absent way that he wore a heavy gold ring on that hand, a beautifully wrought representation of a dragon's head, with two gleaming rubies forming the eyes. She freed her hand and finished the knot. “You owe me nothing, Major Chandler,” she said, marvelling that her voice could be so calm when her emotions were so riotous. “I struck a bargain with your brother. I have no doubt he intends to keep his given word.”

Gordon bit his lip and avoided her eyes. “You have not answered my question,” he evaded. “How bad is his hurt?”

They meant to leave her! Penelope fought down the urge to demand that their agreement be honoured. It had been a nightmarish day, and tears stung her eyes, but she would not cry—she
would
not! ‘Let them just try to leave me,' she thought fiercely. ‘Let them just try!' And she answered, “It is an ugly wound and much inflamed, but not infected, as I had feared at first. If he has rest and care when he reaches your hiding place, it should heal quickly.”