Elizabeth did wash, hurriedly, wincing a few times at bruises but hardly noticing them. She was glad for the clothes because they gave her more freedom to carry out her plans to escape.
Miles returned with a loaded tray of food, and he lit candles in the dark tent. “I brought a bit of everything as I have no idea what you like.”
She didn’t bother to answer him.
“Does the gown please you?” He was watching her closely but she looked away. The gown was an expensive one, trimmed with embroidery done in gold wire. Most women would have been pleased with it, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice whether she wore silk or russet.
“The food grows cold. Come and eat here at the table with me.”
She looked at him. “I have no intention whatsoever of eating anything at your table.”
Miles started to speak but closed his mouth instead. “When you grow hungry enough, the food will be here.”
Elizabeth sat on the cot, her legs stretched before her, her arms folded, and concentrated on the tall, ornate candlestand in front of her. Tomorrow she would find a way to escape.
Ignoring the smells of the food Miles was eating, she lay down and forced her body to relax. She would need her strength for tomorrow. The long ordeal of the day made her exhausted body quick to fall asleep.
Elizabeth woke in the middle of the night and instantly she tensed, sensing some sort of danger but too sleep-befuddled to remember it. Within minutes, her mind cleared and quietly she moved her head to look at Miles, asleep in the cot on the other side of the tent.
As a child living in a household filled with horrors, she’d learned the art of moving about soundlessly. Stealthily, not allowing the noisy dress to make a sound, she tiptoed toward the back of the tent. No doubt guards were stationed all around, but at the back they’d be less alert.
It took her many minutes to lift the back of the tent enough to crawl under it. She compressed her body into a thin line and rolled, not in one movement, but inch by cautious inch. A guard walked past her but she clung to a bit of shrubbery and faded into its outline. When the guard had his back turned, she ran for the forest, seeking out and using every deep shadow. Only through years of practice, of dodging her brother Edmund and his “friends,” was she able to slip away so silently. Roger had chided her, saying she would make an expert spy.
Once inside the forest, she allowed herself to breathe and used her will to calm her racing heart. Forests at night were no stranger to her and she began walking at a brisk, easy pace. It was amazing how little noise she made.
When the sun rose, Elizabeth had been walking for about two hours, and her pace was beginning to slow. She hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and her energy was flagging. As her feet dragged, her skirt caught on shrubs, branches caught in her hair.
After another hour, she was trembling. She sat on a fallen log and tried to compose herself. Perhaps it was understandable that she didn’t have a great deal of strength, since the combination of lack of food and the ordeal of the previous day had taken nearly all of it. The thought of rest made her eyes heavy and she knew that if she didn’t, she’d never be able to continue.
Wearily, she lowered herself to the forest floor, ignoring the little crawly things on the underside of the log; it wasn’t the first time she’d spent the night in a forest. She made a feeble attempt to cover herself with leaves but was only half finished when she fell back, asleep.
She woke to a sharp poke in the ribs. A big, burly man dressed in little more than rags grinned down at her, one of his front teeth missing. Two other men, filthy men, stood behind him.
“Told you she wasn’t dead,” the burly man said as he grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her upright.
“Pretty lady,” said one of the other men, putting his hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. She went one way and his hand stayed where it was; the dress tore, exposing her shoulder.
“Me first!” gasped the third man.
“A real lady,” said the burly man, his hand on Elizabeth’s bare shoulder.
“I am Elizabeth Chatworth and if you harm me the Earl of Bayham will have your heads.”
“’Twas a earl that tossed me off my farm,” said one man. “Me wife and daughter died of the winter cold. Froze to death.” His expression was ugly as he looked at Elizabeth. She would have backed away but the log behind her imprisoned her.
The burly man put his hand to Elizabeth’s throat. “I like my women to beg.”
“Most men do,” she said coolly and the man blinked at her.
“She’s a mean one, Bill,” said another man. “Let me have her first.”
Suddenly, the man’s expression changed. He gave a strange gurgle and fell forward onto Elizabeth. Deftly, she sidestepped his falling form and barely gave a look to the arrow protruding from his back. As the two men were gaping at their dead companion, Elizabeth lifted her skirts and leaped over the log.
Out of the forest came Miles. He grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and his face made her breath catch. It was contorted with rage, his lips a single line, his eyes black, his brows drawn together, his nostrils flared. “Remain here!” he ordered.
For a moment she obeyed him and because of her hesitation she saw why Miles Montgomery had been awarded his spurs on the field of battle before he was eighteen. The men he faced were not unarmed. One held a spiked ball on a chain and expertly swung it at Miles’s head. Miles ducked while wielding his sword at the other man.
Within seconds, he had destroyed both men while barely quickening his own pulse. It did not seem possible that this killer could have washed her hair without so much as creating a single tangle.