Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

“Is it sensible to let the woman I love be murdered?”

“Love her, do you? You should have thought of that earlier,” the man grumbled. “I wish to bloody Christ we’d never left the Highlands. Our peaceful life is at an end. You’ll be saddled not only with a wife but a mistress as well, one you lo-o-o-ve,” he mocked the word, “and we’ll never have any peace again.”

“There’ll only be one woman in Scotland, or wherever she chooses to live, one wife, and that will be Emma.”

“You’ll marry a whore?” Noonan took a step backward. “Don’t give me that look, my boy. I’m only saying what everyone else will.”

“To hell with you and everyone else,” Brandon said succinctly. “Are you helping me or getting in the way?”

He half expected more argument, and time was flying by. At least Aristide, the gelding, was growing calmer by the minute. He wouldn’t like being mounted, but he’d survive it well enough. He was a strong horse with good heart, enough to carry him the last two hours of hell-bent riding. He had to be.

But Noonan moved forward and cupped his hands, and Brandon didn’t hesitate, vaulting onto the horse’s back and landing as lightly as he could. Aristide jerked, but settled quickly enough, and Brandon gathered the overlong reins, looping them around his wrist. He glanced back at Noonan, ready to tell him goodbye, but the old man had already managed to get himself onto the back of Aristide’s twin, Apollo, with the grace of a man born to it, and Brandon remembered that Noonan was the best horseman he knew.

“Don’t just stare at me, you fool boy! Time’s a-wasting. We’ve got to rescue the maiden. No, not exactly a maiden,” he added judiciously.

“If I weren’t in such a damned hurry I’d plant you one for that,” he warned, letting Aristide settle himself as he turned him toward the shadowed road ahead.

“I’d like to see you try. Stop jawing.” Before he could even move, Noonan shot past him, Apollo taking his rider with grace and speed. Brandon dug in his heels and leaped after them, keeping his mind a merciful blank, concentrating only on the horse beneath him, the darkening road, and the absolute need for speed. If he thought about what Emma might be going through, what might have already happened to her, he’d go mad. All he could do was ride and throw caution to the winds.

Emma fell asleep. She would have thought such a thing would be impossible, trapped in a fetid conveyance stinking of death and putrefaction, a madman for company, two murderers roaming outside, but exhaustion hit her. She knew full well the dangers of a head injury such as the one she might have incurred when she smacked down on the marble floor, and her nausea could have been a sign of concussion. Fortunately there were more probable causes. Her head ached, but not unbearably, and her masses of thick hair would have provided better protection than one of those padded helmets worn into battle. Even a charlatan like Fenrush would have noticed if her eyes were uneven, another sure sign, and the chance of being concussed was only a minor concern when faced with imminent death. She simply closed her mind to the noise Fenrush was making, closed her eyes to the sight of him, and slept.

“Where’s he gone to now?” The hissed question came from Collins, and she opened her eyes to a darkness that was almost absolute. She was alone in the carriage—she could see just enough to ascertain that, and Collins was talking with his partner in crime just beyond the door of the closed carriage. She didn’t move, observing what she could from her position tucked in the corner of the seat. The sky was inky black—no trace of a moon broke through, no stars provided any relief. The wind was rustling through the leaves, and the scent of a coming storm brought back her childhood in the country.

Her entire body ached from being held in constraints for so long. She jerked at her wrists, and the rope tightened painfully. Her instincts told her it was well before midnight, but she could smell burning coals, and she knew they would put their plan into action before long. She had limited time before they put their filthy hands on her and dragged her out, but in the meantime she had to do everything she could. No errant knight would save her, since the errant knight in her life had no idea where she’d gone. It was just as well—she would never want to risk his life. She’d never really expected much of a happy ending for herself—this was simply in keeping with the choices she had made.

She moved her fingers, trying to work on the rope that bound her wrists. It was covered in something both warm and wet, and she knew it was her own blood. She dragged the rough hemp over her wrists again and again, enough that the moisture was making the bonds ties slippery around her flesh. It hurt like hell, but the more blood she could summon the more chance she had of pulling her hands through the knots, and she kept at it, sawing at her wrists with ruthless efficiency, until one hand finally slid free.

She swallowed her gasp of relief, pausing for a moment, then tugged her other hand free. Her arms were still clamped to her side by the heavier rope, and the knot for that was in the back. She squirmed, trying to dislodge it, but it was useless. Whoever had bound her had done so with ruthless efficiency—she was already having trouble breathing. She was trapped and freeing her hands had done her absolutely no good whatsoever.

And then she saw Fenrush’s abandoned surgical saw. It was on the seat opposite her—wedged into the back, and he probably hadn’t even realized he’d lost it. Collins wouldn’t know either, and she’d take any possible advantage she could get. She held very still, listening.

Neither of the men had taken any notice of her quiet exertions—they were too busy searching for Fenrush, who apparently had disappeared while she slept. If he was truly gone would they still follow his instructions, place her, untouched, inside the building, or would they do as they had wanted, rape and kill her and abandon her body by the side of the road? If she managed to gain possession of the saw it was, at least, something, but as a weapon it was hardly optimal. It could, however, cut through the ropes that bound her body.

She had to cross to the other seat without making a sound, a daunting prospect, but the longer she hesitated the harder it would be. She pushed herself up with her feet and tumbled across the narrow space, landing face first on the seat, her knees hitting the floor hard, noisily. She held still, listening, but her captors weren’t rushing the carriage, and she had to assume they were out of earshot. She tried to push up, but her knees were weak, shaking, barely able to support her body as she tried to lever herself up onto the seat, and she wanted to weep in frustration.

She couldn’t do it. Her cramped body couldn’t hold her, and sounds were coming from the surrounding darkness, moving toward the carriage. With one last, desperate push she managed to trap the saw with her sleeve before tumbling back onto the floor.

A moment later the door swung open. “In a hurry, Mrs. Cadbury?” Collins asked in a jovial tone. “Wouldn’t want to keep a lady waiting.” He hauled her out into the damp night air, the saw still shoved awkwardly up her sleeve. It split the fabric and cut into her skin, but there was already so much blood from her abraded wrists that it hardly mattered.

In the darkness, blood was black.

She was dropped on the ground, and she let out an involuntary cry of pain as the saw bit deeper into her arm. “Can’t have that, can we, Beedle? You got something you could put in her mouth to keep her quiet.”

The smaller man grasped the front of his trousers suggestively, grinning. “That I do.”

“I wouldn’t try it. She’ll bite yer John Thomas clean off,” Collins advised him, and Beedle squirmed.

She tried to scream, but Collins moved fast for such a big man, clamping a hand over her face, holding her jaw shut as she struggled, making strangled sounds of rage. He was too strong to fight, and he pushed some wadding into her mouth, almost choking her, before he hauled her up and over his massive shoulder.

“Bring the old man,” he added, moving forward into the darkness, and Beedle nodded. From her ignominious position she could see Fenrush huddled on the ground, making snuffling noises that reminded her of a pig hunting for truffles, and then Collins swung away, and she had no choice but to try to retain her balance without him feeling the steel of the surgical tool against her skin.

She waited. They were an eerie procession in the moonless night, moving through the trees, the rustling of the wind covering any sound they might make. It had to be past midnight already, and if their plan was to burn the Dower House with Rockite kettles, then they would have to go back and secure the pots of coals they had planned to use, leaving her time to work her way out of her bonds and warn the women.

It was a vicious way to fight against the helpless. Rockite kettles had come from the farmer rebellion of the fictional Captain Rock against the greedy landlords, and when flung at a structure they burned with infernal intensity. If they managed to fling them at the Dower House the women would be trapped.

She couldn’t let that happen. When Collins halted, sliding her down his body with revolting lasciviousness, she didn’t dare wait any longer.

She tried to scream past the gag, she thrash