In the Shadow of Croft Towers

by Abigail Wilson

  A softer male voice answered. “The captain said they was to return tonight. So stop your complaining and get back to watching. I don’t want to see this post empty again. Cor, then the captain will have both our heads. He’ll be here soon enough with the dogs.”

  “As you say.” His carbine swung down beneath the hedgerow. “Then you get on with it too.”

  A pair of boots crunched their way around the corner, leaving the baritone behind, mumbling to himself. “Blast you, Jenkins. Always acting as if you’ve a higher rank than me. Well, it won’t be long, will it, old man, before you’ve to get out of the service? Best hope you’re not cashiered for all your meddling.”

  A string of silence ensued before the remaining pair of boots began pacing again, down the length of the hedgerow, then back. I thought I heard Mr. Sinclair swear beneath his breath. As bad as our situation had been before, we were far worse off now—trapped like rats and the dogs due at any moment to search.

  Sweat dripped down the side of my face and turned to ice in the wind. Mr. Sinclair looked almost primeval in the moonlight, the branching shadows of the bush playing tricks with my mind. He sat there as if readied to attack, his eyelids narrow, his jaw clenched.

  The minutes ticked past and my initial fright turned to anger. How close we’d come to safety. How close I’d been to a family of my own. My thoughts blurred as tears threatened. Of course, I doubted very much the soldiers had even searched the house. Mrs. Chalcroft would never permit it, not after last time. If we could only get to our rooms, this part of the nightmare would be over. But if we were caught in the bushes . . .

  A loud clank resounded from far away as if one of the soldiers’ boots had hit an iron fence. It was probably one of the many men searching the premises, but it brought back a memory, one I’d nearly forgotten.

  My heart jolted to life, beating hard and fast in my chest. I reached out silently and gave Mr. Sinclair’s arm a squeeze, then motioned to the garden gate a few feet away.

  He nodded, but not as quickly as I would have hoped. He was in ignorance of the priest hole, for I’d not told anyone. Mr. Cantrell’s secret had been faithfully kept.

  Still crouching, I placed one foot at a time down the hedgerow, hoping the icy leaves beneath my boots wouldn’t give me away. Within a few steps, my hand caught the edge of the gate, and I waited there until I heard the soldier’s boots stomp to the far end of the wall.

  When he was but a pace from the corner, I sprang from the bushes and slipped through the gate, collapsing against the wall on the other side. My hands shook. I gasped for breath. It would be only seconds before Mr. Sinclair was at my side, so I used the time to locate the grate above the priest hole buried in the snowy brambles.

  There, I was surprised to see several branches broken at the opening and the overgrowth smashed down as if several people had trod about the area. The soldiers? I pulled on the handle. It was locked.

  Odd. It hadn’t been before.

  I bit my lip and jerked on the small door again, but it didn’t move. Dusting off the snow, my frantic fingers found the lock and my shoulders slumped. I cast a quick glance behind me in time to see the glow of torches bobbing over the stone wall. Dogs howled in the distance as footsteps grew louder along the path. I pressed my palm against my forehead. With limited hiding spots in the tiny garden, I’d found a way to make our pitiable situation even worse.

  A round of voices met my ears and I fought my way into a scraggly bush, out of the shifting light. There would be no room for Mr. Sinclair. I only hoped he’d stay where he was.

  But I was thwarted again as a silver flash of moonlight reflected off the gate and Mr. Sinclair slipped inside, closing the door without a sound behind him. Frantic, I waved him to the bush.

  “It’s locked.”

  “What do you mean? What’s locked?”

  “The priest hole.”

  A furrow spread across his forehead, and I grasped his hand, pressing his fingers down into the thick weeds at our feet. “Here.”

  He gave me an incredulous look. “You’re saying there’s a priest hole here? In the garden?” His fingers slid around the cold iron latch and he tried the square door.

  Nothing.

  He bent his neck forward. “How long have you known about this?”

  “Since the day after I arrived. Mr. Cantrell and I found it quite by accident. We were—”

  “Lucius, huh?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t locked then. I had hoped . . .”

  Mr. Sinclair fingered the lock, then looked up. “Lucky for us, it appears to be rusted through. See? All we need is a suitable distraction.” He glanced around. “Do you think you can climb that far wall, the one with all the ivy?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Take this rock.” He pressed something cold into my hand. “Once you reach the top, throw it as far as you can. Understand?”

  “Yes. But what do you plan to do?”

  “If we’re lucky, our friend out there will go and investigate. Once he’s far enough away, give me a signal. I’ll break the lock with the stone.” I saw the flash of a smile for a moment. “Nothing to it.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  He touched my cheek. “Have I ever failed you before? Better yet, don’t answer that.”

  I scrambled to my feet and made my way over to the wall, keeping a watch all the time for the soldier to cross the space on the other side of the gate. I didn’t have to wait long, for he sauntered by as if he hadn’t a care in the world, ignoring the shadowy garden.

  I tested the icy wet branches one step at a time, but my climb proved easy enough, and in a few steps I could see from the top. I shot one quick glance back at Mr. Sinclair before flinging the rock as hard as I could into the night. I didn’t hear the stone land, but it must have served its purpose because the guard shuffled around the corner in a hurry.

  I waved my hand to Mr. Sinclair and cringed as I saw him lift a huge rock. It came down with sufficient force, the crash echoing off the stone walls. I jerked my attention back to the lawn and my lips parted. I could count them like ants scrambling toward us at full speed. One . . . two . . . three uniformed men trudging through the drifts on the horizon.

  I flew down the ivy without bothering where I placed my feet and clambered back to the priest hole. “We have only a moment before the men arrive.”

  Mr. Sinclair met my gaze with one of his own. “Then we better hope this room is a well-kept secret.”

  I wondered if the soldiers had found it on the night of the search, but I kept the thought to myself.

  Mr. Sinclair grasped my wrists. “Jump and I’ll lower you down.”

  I didn’t hesitate, not even for the black abyss below me. I fell for a heart-stopping moment until Mr. Sinclair pulled against me and strong-armed me to the floor of the room. The darkness felt absolute, but I knew I must move out of the way for him to follow. Moonlight highlighted his form as he lowered himself into the hole, hanging on to the rim of the opening. He let go and fell into a heap at the bottom.

  I dropped to my knees. “Are you all right? Nothing injured, I hope.”

  He sat up. “Not graceful enough for you?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Within seconds he was back on his feet, his hands about my waist. “I’m going to lift you onto my shoulders. Do you think you can close the grate?”

  “I hope so. I’ll try.”

  “You better do more than try, my dear. Our lives depend on it.”

  He boosted me above his head as if I weighed no more than a small child. I found the flat part of his shoulders with my boots and released the grip on his arms. Gradually, I rose to my feet, his hands slipping to grip my legs.

  “Hurry.”

  “Right.” I was pleased to find the door but a few inches over my head. “Can you take a step forward?”

  We toddled a pace and I slammed the door closed before he lifted me down.

  I felt rather than heard Mr. Sinclair
laugh. “I thought you might do it a bit more quietly.”

  “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “No matter. They’d already heard us. We can only hope they aren’t certain where the sound came from.” He turned to the moonlit room. “I suppose we should hide. What’s all this stuff anyway?”

  It was only then I noticed dark shadows surrounding us, crates stacked clear to the earthen roof. “I don’t know.” A rank smell hovered on the air, laced with a sweet tinge. Perfume and . . . what? I wrinkled my nose.

  I froze at the sound of a soldier’s voice and dogs barking above us.

  Mr. Sinclair reached for my hand and whispered in my ear. “Follow me.” He led me to the far side of the small room, feeling his way along the wall until he pulled me down in a gap behind the crates where the stench was less noticeable. The space was narrow, but I was able to sandwich myself between Mr. Sinclair and a hard wooden box.

  “Not ideal, but it’ll do,” he whispered. “Are you still cold?”

  “A bit, but there’s no wind in here.”

  “Good. We may be trapped for a while.”

  I released a long breath, trying to tune out the muffled voices above. But it was no use. There in the dreaded darkness the minutes felt like hours as we listened to the search—shouts, bangs, footsteps. Finally, a quiet wind gusted over the iron grate as a light rain added texture to the eerie melody. The search of the garden had faded away.

  Mr. Sinclair squeezed my hand. “I believe the soldiers have moved on, but I doubt they will leave the estate until morning.”

  “Morning?” The word came out a bit louder than I’d meant it too.

  He pressed my fingers to his lips. “I’m so sorry, Sybil. Why didn’t I listen to you in town? We might as well have stayed at the inn for all the good the harried journey back did us. We were so close.” He glanced up at the grate. “But don’t worry. If we have to overnight in a hole, I have every intention of facing the consequences of my foolish decisions.” He lowered my hand to rest between us but did not let go. “You may be stuck with me after all.”

  So he meant to joke his way through our situation. Well, I couldn’t. The thought of his sisters brought pain to my chest. If we were forced into what he suggested, we’d ruin both of our lives.

  “I wish you’d never come with me,” I said aloud, and I meant it.

  I felt Mr. Sinclair stiffen and he opened his mouth to respond. But at the same time, the squeak of the garden gate resounded above our heads. Then a loud clang as the iron hit hard against the stone wall. Someone walked along the garden path.

  We both froze, not a breath between us. One of the soldiers had come back. Had he seen or heard something? Surely the priest hole would remain hidden beneath the brambles. The alternative was unconscionable. We would be hanged as traitors. Every hair on my arms stood on end.

  Boots crunched the gravel over our heads. Branches snapped and brush swished about like the man cared nothing for the wild little garden. I imagined him beating against it with his saber, stomping the plants under his boots. He was so close I could smell the tobacco lingering on his breath. My palms began to sweat.

  Then a voice rang out, causing me to jump.

  It was the baritone calling to the others. “Thought I heard something, but I guess I was wrong. Back to your post.”

  The soldier’s heavy tread passed out of the garden and my shoulders sank. I closed my eyes, glad I could hear once again over the pulse pounding in my ears. It was then I realized what I’d done in the darkness, clouded by nerves wound a bit too tight. Like a child, I’d crept into Mr. Sinclair’s arms—where it felt so natural to be. Embarrassed, I attempted to slip away, but he held me fast.

  “Sybil.” His voice sounded like a thought on the wind.

  He was warm. Secure. Goodness, what did it matter now? I leaned into his quiet strength, fixed by the steady beat of his heart. If only I could stay there forever tucked in his arms. It was such a blessed release to know if the worst happened, we would face it together.

  Gently, his chin pressed against my wet hair and he took in a deep breath, his arms tightening around my waist. What was happening between us? I wished I could read his mind, know what he felt, this man who’d risked his life for my sake, who’d stayed by my side nearly the whole night through. Could it be possible that he too wanted more, even with all the obstacles between us?

  My heart leapt wildly for answers, my muscles losing tension. Then, as if pulled by an unseen force, I glanced up, peering into the furtive darkness. I needed to know the truth. Did he care for me? But Mr. Sinclair’s face remained a silhouette. My lips quivered. He didn’t move. It was as if he could see me and was determined to learn every curve, every inch of my face, every subtle movement of my eyes. Could he read the thoughts that battled inside me?

  Like a crack of lightning, the silent wall we’d erected between us that day in the gamekeeper’s cottage crumbled to the floor. His hands found their way up my neck and into my hair, pulling me against him, his breath on my cheeks. His lips found mine in the darkness, and he kissed me, not as I’d imagined so many times as a young girl, but driven by a passion he’d kept at bay for far too long.

  A few short seconds and I’d finally glimpsed into his heart. How could I help but respond with a piece of my own? My pulse raced as my hands slid up his broad back, pulling him tighter against me. Goodness, I couldn’t get close enough. It was as if I’d discovered the depths of the ocean after merely sitting on the shore observing the waves, and how good it felt. How good he felt. I was lost to the mounting intensity between us.

  At length, he drew away, his hands steady at my chin. “Forgive me. I never should have done that. Heaven knows, I’d not meant to. Everything I’ve done tonight was to give you a choice.”

  “Mmm.” I found it hard to concentrate. A choice? “What do you mean?”

  “Lucius.” He pulled back. “He’s in the house, waiting . . . for you. You cannot tell me you are indifferent to him.”

  My head swam. Mr. Cantrell? “He has been kind, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, he isn’t you.”

  He grasped my shoulders and I thought he meant to kiss me again. Instead, he met my gaze. “Sybil, my darling, maddening partner, can you mean what you say? Even with all the trouble I’ve caused you? Heaven knows, I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you dripping beneath the tree in that ridiculous gown of yours.” His smile faded. “But have I cause to hope? A man without money or a proper future—I’m little better off than a real highwayman.” His face looked pained. “I don’t deserve you. As soon as Mrs. Chalcroft’s grandson is revealed, I won’t even be the heir to the Earl of Stanton.”

  Caught off guard, I fell silent for a moment. “You know none of that matters to me.”

  “You’d be a fool not to see that Lucius could provide you the life I never could.”

  All at once the grate above our heads flew open with a terrible squeak. I pushed Mr. Sinclair away. Candlelight poured into the hole, and just like that, the perfect bliss I’d reveled in faded to dread.

  We’d been found.

  26

  A ladder plunged through the candle-lit opening of the priest hole, crashing down onto the earthen floor. Mr. Sinclair guided me behind him as we stood to face what could only be a soldier bent on our immediate capture. I was surprised to see a pair of tasseled boots make their way down the rungs, followed by a green superfine jacket and a blond head.

  “Mr. Cantrell,” I cried.

  He spun around at the bottom, nearly dropping the light as he found his footing. His stark surprise faded to a hint of amusement. “Why, Miss Delafield . . . and Sinclair. What the devil are you doing down here?” His piercing gaze focused in on me. “At this hour?”

  Mr. Sinclair spoke calmly, but there was a question in his tone. “We could ask you the same, friend.”

  My momentary relief turned to concern as I heard other voices at the opening. “Are the dr
agoons with you?”

  “Certainly not. I have no use for an execution party.” He glanced at the crate beside him and gave a little laugh.

  Two additional men scampered down the ladder, joining us in the little room, dressed in trousers and coats, dirty from head to toe, the scent of salt and rum heavy on their breath. Mr. Cantrell directed them to some of the crates. “These two here, my good men, and that long one.” Then to me. “Don’t look so stricken, my dear. I promise you the dragoons are gone. I’ve paid the worthless creatures to turn a blind eye. As you can see, I’ve a few crates to unload.” He yelled over his shoulder, “Be quick about your business, lads.”

  “Smuggling.” A smile creased Mr. Sinclair’s lips, but I thought it a threatening one. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Ah, Sinclair. I should have known you’d disapprove. Must you always be the hero of everything? Don’t get me wrong. My aunt would be proud; however, tonight I’ll have none of your sermons on duty and honor. I haven’t the stomach for it. As you can see, this is merely a business venture that many men in my shoes have stooped to participate in.” He flicked a piece of lint from his jacket sleeve. “Since I’m presently short of cash, this room provided the perfect hideaway spot for a lucrative venture . . . among other things.”

  So this was Mr. Cantrell’s newest plan. Miss Cantrell had mentioned his next move might prove desperate.

  Mr. Cantrell raised his chin. “Do not fear, friend. I’ll not dirty my hands any further. I merely offered storage for a few days, nothing all that sinister.” He lifted his eyebrows, his gaze dipping to my trousers. “Of course, we have yet to hear what you two have been about this evening.”

  I reached for Mr. Cantrell’s arm. “Are all the soldiers gone?”

  “For the time being.” His indeterminate glare bounced back and forth from me to Mr. Sinclair. “Have you need of their services, my dear?”

  “No.” I cast a quick glance at Mr. Sinclair. “We’re more than pleased that you sent them away.”