“I’ll get the horses,” Sebastian shouted, racing toward the back of the house.
“Wait!” Sir Dunnicliffe ordered, relieved when Peter drew to a reluctant stop just inside of the door, clearly bristling with impatience at having to stop and explain. “What’s happening?”
“By the look of it, Rogan, Scraggan’s son, has got Eliza,” Peter’s voice was merciless.
“Eliza Trelisk? Jemima’s sister?” Sir Dunnicliffe turned to frown out of the French doors, watching the Cavendish brothers tear across the manicured lawns after the group of burly men who were carrying a screaming young woman, presumably Eliza towards the woods.
“Yes,” Peter sighed. “Edward found her in Derby a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, so did Scraggan’s men. Edward managed to keep her safe while he sent word to us asking for our help. Eliza insisted on going to Padstow to see if Jemima was there, so Edward, Dominic, Sebastian and myself agreed to escort her and keep her from Scraggan’s clutched. We were all on our way to Padstow, when we got news of Jemima being held in Derby Gaol. Although we tried to get there in time, we –” Peter sucked in a breath, unable to say the words. He shook his head sadly, and flicked the man a stark look.
Sir Dunnicliffe shook his head regretfully, and turned to stare out of the French doors while he listened to Peter’s explanation.
“Scraggan set Jemima up,” Peter’s voice was raspy with emotion. “There is little we can do to help her now, but while I have breath in my body, they will not take Eliza too.” He didn’t waste any more time with explanations, and vanished.
Sir Dunnicliffe knew Eliza had recently been on her way to Padstow. He also knew that Edward had been accompanied by Sebastian and Dominic Cavendish, as well as Peter Davenport himself. What he didn’t understand was how Eliza had been captured by Rogan Scraggan while in the relative safety of Havistock Hall.
“We need to –,” he turned and found the room behind him empty.
Shaking his head, he stalked to the main hall and motioned to the man standing silently in the shadows beside the front door. Within moments, he too had simply vanished, so efficiently and so quietly, he could have been a ghost.
Sir Dunnicliffe decided to take advantage of not having any of the family members around and, instead of following them out of the house to help chase after Eliza, headed quickly toward the back of the house and the servants’ quarters.
It was time to put plan B into action, before any other unexpected events took place.
“God, what a mess,” he grumbled quietly, shaking his head at the speed at which his carefully thought-out plans were rapidly out of control.
CHAPTER TWO
She was so very cold.
It took all her concentration to simply breathe in and out, as she slowly became aware of her surroundings. The thick black fog in her head began to swirl around her, reluctant to relinquish its hold on her senses.
Sucking in a deep breath, she tried to ignore the acrid, slightly musty taste in the back of her throat, and the worrying churning of her empty stomach. Her head was pounding furiously, and her throat was so raw it was difficult to swallow. She ached from head to foot, which was bad enough in itself, but when accompanied by the pounding in her head, left her feeling decidedly ill. She couldn’t decide which was worse; the thick, black void that threatened to drag her down into oblivion and render her helpless, or the various ailments becoming more evident as time progressed.
She had the vague urge to run, as fast as her legs could carry her, but knew instinctively that her legs wouldn’t work. A teasing hint of something indefinably threatening lurked on the fringes of her thoughts for a few seconds, only to be snatched away by the swirling black mists threatening to suck her back under.
She lay perfectly still, and felt her confusion increase. She opened first one eye, then the other and stared at the dull, slightly cracked ceiling high above. Her breath fogged out before her as she breathed out, explaining why she was frozen to the core. She couldn’t ever remember being so cold and seemed to be covered with nothing more than a threadbare blanket.
Tentatively lifting her head off the table, she glanced cautiously around the room, confused to find it furnished only with the extremely hard bed she lay upon.
What had happened to her? Where was she? Why was she in a room with no heating?
Again, a whisper of memory appeared tantalisingly before her for an infinitesimal moment only to vanish again just as quickly. She knew there was something important she needed to remember, but her brain just wouldn’t cooperate.
It seemed the entire room was painted with the same dull, mossy green paint, and was completely unfurnished. The small window high on
the wall did little to allow any daylight in, leaving the room bathed in shadows. It was sparse, but better than where she had been.
That thought made her pause. Where had she been? Shaking her head, she slowly pushed herself onto her elbows, wincing as her stomach clenched in protest. Did she feel sick? She wasn’t sure. She had, but now? She didn’t know. She didn’t feel hungry, but something about her stomach didn’t feel right. She began to shiver as she sat upright, and tugged the thin blanket around her shoulders, trying to take stock of her situation. The room certainly wasn’t familiar to her. It seemed to be some kind of servants’ room, but she was fairly certain that she had never been in it before. So, where was she?
Outside of the room she could hear the low murmuring of what sounded like a group of people. Although she couldn’t decipher what was being said, she knew instinctively that they were close by. It sounded so domesticated that it made her feel like a visitor in someone else’s house. But whose house was she in?
Frowning in consternation, she searched the inner depths of her memory for anything - any clue, any hint - that would get her wayward memory to relinquish its secrets, but could remember nothing. It was as though her memory of life before the room had been completely obliterated, leaving nothing but an empty space and brief snatches of - something.
After several minutes, her reeling senses settled enough to allow her to slowly swing her legs over the side of the table. As she turned, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a cascade of tangled muddy-coloured hair hanging limply over her shoulder. Was that hers? It didn’t look as though it had been washed for some considerable time, and smelled awful.
Again, a wisp of a memory swam before her, this time accompanied by a tangible sense of fear that was so real she was driven to look over her shoulder. This time, the fear didn’t leave her, and she fought the surge of panic that began to take hold. Again, she felt the wild urge to run for her life.
She began to gasp against the tightness locked in her throat. The spectre of menace hung over her until she couldn’t stand it any longer and had to get out of the room. She desperately needed to get out into the open; to fresh air, and freedom. Freedom?