“Are you referring to the fire you started, Mitchel?” Pippa shifted her stance to put the chopping table between herself and him.
A slow smile spread across his lips. “I assure you, I was here the whole evening, as was my father.”
Alone in the kitchen was no place to start this conversation, Pippa realized. She forced a smile to her lips. “I would like to see Mrs. Doyle now, if you do not mind.”
Mitchel paused and then pivoted toward the door. “By all means, Pippa. After you, my dear.”
Pippa crossed to the door and exited with Mitchel following close enough behind she could feel his breath hot on the back of her neck.
“Mrs. Doyle is in my father’s study. Down the hall to the left, across the foyer and down the right hall, last door on the right.”
As she made her way along the hall Pippa wondered just how safe she was in Mitchel’s presence. After all, she was sure it was he who had burned down her parent’s shop, if not arranged to have it done. She glanced behind. The house was quiet at this time of night. Too quiet. Perhaps she was not all that safe here with him. When they crossed the foyer, she spied the butler locking up for the night. She smiled at him, hoping his appearance meant a witness if Mitchel should think to harm her. The man tipped his head and went back to his task as they turned down the next hall. When they arrived at the end, Mitchel reached around her and opened the door.
Pippa hesitated on the threshold. The squire looked up from his spot behind the desk. Lord Rylee and Lord Atworthy rose from their seats across from him.
“Miss Nickel, what a surprise to see you here,” Rylee remarked.
Mitchel gave her a little shove inside and then shut the door behind them. “It seems Pippa here is in cahoots with our he-she, Lord Sedgewick.”
She caught her breath. “I do not know what you are talking about, Mitchel.” Turning to Lord Rylee she smiled, hoping he would help her out of her rather sticky situation. “I am simply here to enquire of my employer, Mrs. Doyle. It seems she has dismissed me despite promising earlier that we would return to the inn for the night, and my parents are waiting for me.”
The squire stood. “Your parents left this morning for London. I here tell, Miss Nickel, news like that travels fast in a small town, you know.”
Pippa clenched her shaking fingers in the skirt of her dress. “Yes…well, you see I am to leave tonight to join them.”
“I am afraid you will not be going anywhere, Miss Nickel,” Lord Atworthy drawled. “Do you think us all fools to believe you did not know all along your Mrs. Doyle was a spy, and a man?”
“A spy?” Pippa widened her eyes to feign innocence. “I have no idea to what you are referring, my lord. I of course did know Mrs. Doyle was…I mean, is, a he. I was paid to keep her…uh, his real gender a secret.” She lowered her voice, “I mean, if you enjoyed dressing up in women’s clothing and…the company of other men, so to speak, would you not want a discreet maid?”
“Please do not continue to insult my intelligence, Miss Nickel,” Lord Atworthy complained in a monotone voice. “You are a part of this spy ring. After all, we all know someone with the initials P.N. is a double informant. You are obviously the double agent we have all been searching for.”
Pippa recalled Heath’s mumbling aboard the coach the night they first met about the initials P.N. “But, my lord, I have no idea what you are talking about—”
“Save your lies, Miss Nickle,” Lord Rylee pulled a pistol from his pocket. “Shall we put her with her lover and dispose of them both together?”
Mitchel took her upper arm in a painful grip. “Well, we cannot just let her go.”
“I am not Heath’s lover,” Pippa gasped.
Lord Rylee snorted. “You are carrying his child.”
“I am not!” Pippa swung around to glare at Mitchel. “The babe I carry is Mitchel’s and ’tis not the first time he has taken advantage of an innocent with false promises.”
“An innocent?” Mitchel laughed. “A piece of loose muslin is all you are, Pippa. You wanted a title and thought, by spreading your thighs, you would get one. I made no promises.”
“Mitchel!” the squire thundered. “Is this true? Did you take this girl’s virtue and get her with child?”
Mitchel visibly blanched in the face of his sire’s anger. “I took nothing she did not offer, father.”
Pippa took advantage of the squire’s power over his son. “What about Mary Baglo, Mitchel? Did she too offer herself to you in exchange for your false promises? And did she offer to let you beat the child out of her and keep her a slave?”
“What are you talking about, girl?” The squire turned a red-eyed gaze on her that could melt a beeswax candle.
Mitchel squeezed her arm and she cried out from the pain as his fingernails bit into her tender flesh. “I simply rid myself of an unworthy heir to our estate, father. I am sure you would not want our good name to be soiled by a bastard child of a mere servant girl.”
“You are damned right, boy.” The squire shook his head with a look of disgust. “You have cast enough shame on me this night, Mitchel. Away with you while I clean up this mess.”
Mitchel shoved Pippa from him and slunk from the room.
The squire sighed. “Put her with Lord Sedgewick and we will deal with the two of them in due time.”
Pippa found herself being escorted from the house by the study terrace doors between Lord Atworthy and Lord Rylee. “Please, Lord Rylee, see fit to return me to the care of your friends, my aunt and uncle. I swear I will not say a word about any of this. After all, who would believe a loose merchant’s daughter anyway?”
“Stubble it!” Lord Rylee snarled and prodded her to move faster along the gravel path with a pistol. “What were you going to do about the child if your plan to pawn yourself off on me as a suitable bride worked? Would you have poisoned yourself to be rid of it, or tried to convince me the child was early when born before mere months after we wed?”
“I had no designs on you, my lord.” Pippa stumbled, as the sharp stones bruised her feet through the thin soles of her slippers.
Lord Rylee grunted. “A lie, I am sure. After all, you were ever so eager to climb into a future squire’s bed, why not a baron’s, or an earl’s?”
She did not bother to dignify his claim with a response as they came to the estate’s small stone chapel. Once ushered inside, Lord Atworthy tied her hands behind her back with his handkerchief and then pressed his hand on a stone in the wall darker than the rest. The wall slid open with the crunch of rock on rock. With a shove she was forced into the opening and down a narrow flight of crude stone steps. Goosebumps rose at the coolness of the passage way, and she regretted not taking up her cloak as she had left the kitchen with Mitchel earlier. At the bottom of the stairs she found herself in a large room lit by torches affixed to the walls. A crude altar was placed in the middle, and directly across from that, rows of manacles dangled from high up on the wall. A man’s form hung by the wrists in one set, slumped against the wall.
“You can keep the spy company,” Lord Rylee sneered and then pushed her to the ground at the figure’s feet. Their footsteps echoed as they retreated back up the steps and then the wall was slid back in place.
Pippa shifted from her bruised knees and got to her feet. She peered closer at the silent figure stretched taunt against the wall on the balls of his bare feet. Pink pantaloons hung in tattered shreds from his muscular legs. His bared chest was covered in dirt, welts, and sweat mixed with a red substance she could only assume was blood. A lock of blonde hair hung over his bowed head. “Heath?” When he didn’t move she stepped closer. “My lord?”
With agonizing slowness his head lifted. Black-rimmed blue eyes peered back at her from beneath swollen lids. Blood caked the side of his face, tinting his blonde locks pink in spots. His lips and left cheek were so swollen and deformed she wasn’t even sure it was him.
Tears slid from the corners of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
“Oh, Heath. What have they done to you?”
He grunted and his lips twitched as if he would speak, but no words slipped from his misshapen mouth; only bloody spittle escaped. With a moan and a grimace his eyes closed and his chin returned to rest against his chest.
Her sob echoed in their damp prison. “Heath? Oh, please do not be dead. You cannot die and leave me here alone.”
A shuddering sigh escaped him and to her relief his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Through a haze of pain Heath thought he heard Pippa calling him. Was he imagining it? His head was pounding so hard his stomach recoiled, but he forced his chin up with every last ounce of strength he had left. Through narrow slits, his blurry gaze settled and focused on the small figure before him. The fuzzy semblance of Pippa took shape. He tried to form her name in the mouthful of blood, but his swollen lips refused to move. Warm spittle oozed from his mouth as the look of horror on her face registered. He could only imagine how he looked. The fists of ten men had pummeled him until he actually wished for death to save him. Now as he stared at her he wanted to live, yet doubted there was strength left in him to try. His head swam, the welcome haze where pain didn’t exist claiming him and he relaxed into it.
He surfaced again with no idea if he had been out a minute, or hours. Soft sobs reached his ears. Even if he could open his eyes he didn’t need to look to know it was she. He should go to her, but he couldn’t. His body had neither the will, nor the power to move. An unbearable weight he couldn’t fathom stretched his arms. To console her he tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and filled with a metallic taste. With effort he willed his tongue to wet his lips; however, they were so swollen it could not pass between them. Forcing his eyes to open he tried to focus through puffed-up lids.
The room seemed darker than before. Perhaps it was merely his imagination, or maybe the torches were burning low; he couldn’t tell for sure. The odor of urine assaulted him. Was it coming from him? His whole body was damp and sticky, so he couldn’t be sure. A shape huddled at his feet, sniffling. He managed a moan and then grimaced at the pain it caused his ribcage.
Pippa looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “Heath?”
As she rose, so did the offensive smell. He wrinkled his nose.
Her lips quivered and she looked away. “I…I soiled myself. They tied my hands, and I could not…undress.”
He wanted to tell her it was all right, not to be embarrassed, but his battered lips couldn’t form the words. He tried to smile, groaning instead at the pain of trying to stretch the torn skin. Nausea assaulted him and he closed his eyes to drive it away. Bile rose in his throat and he dry heaved. Pain exploded in his chest and head. Spots formed before his eyes and the room dimmed. No, no. Must…stay awake…. Pippa…needs me….
He resurfaced. Now Pippa sat up against the altar. Her body wiggled as her face twisted in a frown of concentration. After a moment she sighed and became still, resting her head back against the stone. Her gaze darted around the room coming to a halt on the burning torch closest to her. With difficulty she staggered to her feet and crossed to it. He gleaned her intentions as she turned her back to it, bent over and raised the hands bound behind her to the flame. She whimpered as the fire licked at the tender skin of her wrists and hands before igniting the scrap of cloth binding them. Jumping away from the torch she struggled against the burning cloth. It finally gave and she jerked her hands free, spitting on them to soothe the singed flesh.
Such a clever lass, my Pippa…. His amusement was cut short by the blackness coming to reclaim him.
When he came to again it was dark. Was he blind? Maybe I am dead…. The pounding in his head was now just a steady ache. A woman’s cry jarred him. He raised his head, but could see nothing. His body cried out in protest, his limbs stretched to numbness. The cry came again. It was Pippa, he was sure. Where was she? What was happening? Was she being hurt, beat, or tortured? A third cry raised the hairs on the back of his neck. As he came fully awake, he detected heavy panting, half gasps and choked sobs.
He tried to form saliva, but failed. Forcing his lips apart he managed to croak, “Pip…pa?”
She sobbed and then answered from somewhere to his left. “Heath…I am afraid. It hurts.”
Bastards! How dare they hurt her! Anger gave him the strength to speak. “What…did… they…do?”
“Nothing.” A note of panic raised her voice, “’Tis the babe. I can feel blood between my legs. Ooh, it hurts…. I am going to die.”
Never had he felt so helpless. He tried to think of what to do, what to say to help her. Women bled to death on occasion after the birth of a baby, he knew. Was it possible after so early a birth? There was something done…. He groaned in frustration as he tried to make his sluggish mind remember. What was it? Bits of unrelated conversations swam through the choppy waves of his battered skull. Someone’s spouse miscarried…. No it was a courtesan…or maybe a whore? A doctor…or someone, packed the woman’s baby place with…with…cloth, yes, cloth to stanch the flow. “Cloth.”
“What?” Pippa moaned.
“Tear a strip…off…your petticoat. Stuff it…inside…to stop the blood.” He waited. A few moments later material rustled and then rent, the noise making him start. Material rustled again and then it was silent. “Pippa?”
“It is done.” A sniffle followed her claim.
His mind grew foggy. No, not again…not now! “Pip…pa…”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Pippa lay back against the damp, cold stone wall. The horrible cramps had faded. She touched the bit of material between her thighs. The blood on it was crusting and she could detect no new wet warmth seeping into the cloth. Shivering, she closed her eyes, weary but no longer afraid she would die. “Heath?”
When he didn’t answer she sighed. He had been silent since telling her to get some cloth. Was he dead, or merely unconscious again? Her stomach gurgled, the sound startling her in the dark. How long had they been down here? The torches had burned for a long time before they went out. They had been stuck in darkness at least twice as long. It was possible they had only been prisoners a few hours, yet she was certain it had been more than a day, possibly as long as two. Did the squire and his conspirators think to simply starve them to death? She would rather be shot than endure slow torture down here.
Something scuttled across her hand and with a start she shook it off. It was probably a spider. A smile curved her lips. Spiders didn’t bother her; there always seemed to be a couple in the store room. They weren’t so bad. After all they caught the annoying flies that seemed to buzz around ones head on the hottest of days. Her cousin Marcy on the other hand would probably swoon at such an itty bitty thing crawling on her. Cushioning her head with her arm she curled up and let her mind drift into slumber.
* * *
Pippa awoke with a start. Lying there in the dark she listened. All was quiet. There was no sign of what woke her. She sat up and felt the bit of cloth. It was dry and crusty still. Teeth chattering, she rubbed her arms to warm them. “Heath?”
“Yes, Pippa?”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “You are alive.”
“I did not want to wake you.”
In the awkward silence she struggled for something to say, yet could come up with nothing.
It was he who broke the quiet. “Did the bleeding stop?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His heavy sigh hung between them. “I am sorry I got you into this bumble-bath. I have windmills in my head. I have no idea what I was thinking, and right now thinking hurts.”
“It was not entirely your fault. If I had not been such a wet goose I would not have gotten myself in such a noddy position in the first place.”
“I suppose we can both agree we are each buffle-headed.”
“Speak for yourself, my lord.” Pippa snickered. “Aye, we make a good pair, right?”
“I would concur, Miss Nickle.�
��
Pippa sobered. “Are you all right?”
“My shoulders are screaming. Every breath I draw is painful, my throat is dry as a desert, and my head feels as if it were the turf under foot at the Brighton Cup horse race, but I am alive, for now, I suppose.” He paused. “How long have we been down here?”
Pippa got to her feet and dug in the cracks of the wall, pulling away chunks of wet moss. “I have no idea. A few days I think.”
“That long?”
She made her way to him, clutching the moss in one hand and with the other outstretched to feel the way. When her hand touched his bare chest, he jerked his head in surprise. “You were in and out of consciousness most of the time.” She traced his cheek down to his mouth with cold fingers and he flinched at the contact with his bruised skin. Pressing the moss to his lips she commanded, “Here, suck on this.”
Greedily he sucked until the piece became dry. She removed it and placed another to his lips. Again he sucked until the moisture was gone. Dropping it to the floor she stepped back, smiling as he smacked his lips.
“What was that?”
“Moss from the walls, it collects the moisture and I have been sucking it for the water it contains.”
“You are a bright lass, my Pippa.”
“I wish it were bright in here,” she returned. Had she imagined it, or had he called her his Pippa?
“Well if my face looks half as bad as it feels, you will be glad of the lack of light.”
“I saw it before the torches burned down. I did not hardly recognize you when they brought me here.”
“They did not harm you did they?”
The venom in his voice had her placing a gentle hand on his chest. “No, I am fine, except for losing the babe, that is, though I suppose it is for the best.”
Corseting The Earl Page 15
