“Water—Hill?” said Morris, doubtful. “Never heard of it, but—” He gasped as Rossiter’s hand closed crushingly over his wrist.
“Water … mill!” Gideon’s eyes narrowed to glinting slits. “My God! They have her at the old mill!” He was in the saddle again and wheeling his horse.
Leaping to catch the bridle, Morris demanded, “What mill? Where? Oh, Gad! You never mean yours? I mean—Promontory Point?”
Gideon nodded grimly. “Is a jolly jest, no? To hold my lady on the lands we have lost! And that damned mill is rotted and unsafe, Jamie. I only pray it did not blow down last night!”
He wrenched at the reins, but Morris hung on. “’Tis all of sixty miles!”
“Yes. I should reach there by eight o’clock. Half-past eight at the latest.”
“You’re mad! Your horse is tired now, and you’re not—”
“I’ll hire another. Let go.”
“You don’t know what you go into, you dolt! Wait ’til we can get help, at least.”
“Very well. You ride back to Town and bring Tio and whoever will come. I’m going on.”
“But suppose you’re wrong again?”
“Then I shall ride straight to Gravesend. Let go!”
“But, Ross! You cannot hope to—”
“Dammit! You waste time! Go and get Tio—but don’t tell him where Naomi is ’til you’re on the road. Stand clear!” Rossiter drove home his spurs. The horse plunged, and Morris jumped back. Crouching low in the saddle, Rossiter was away, galloping eastward in a desperate race against time.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Plaiting with intense concentration, Naomi was making good progress. Her improvised ladder looked crude and ungainly, but seemed strong, and she could only pray it would support her weight. Twice, she had come horribly close to being caught at her task, and only the mighty voice of the wind had saved her from being discovered as she’d made a wild dive for the cot to thrust her ladder under the blanket.
As the hours had passed the mood of her captors had deteriorated. She now knew that there were five of them, and at intervals three others came and went. They seemed to have small liking for one another, and became ever more contentious. There was another serious quarrel in mid-afternoon between Bill and the man with the high-pitched voice, who she thought was called Paddy. The Scot had cursed them furiously, and warned that they’d “have the lamp over,” the very thought making her heart stand still. They’d quieted at length, but they were surly with one another, and it was clear the wait was telling on their nerves.
The Scot brought her lunch, and she said in desperation, “Mac—you won’t let them kill me? You’re not that kind of man, I know it.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “In your worrrld, lassie, folks are gentle, belike. In mine, folks canna afford tae be.” Turning to leave, he said over his shoulder, “But dinna be despairrring, forbye. ’Tis only two o’clock, and ye’ve till midnight for your mon tae do as he’s bid.”
He went clumping downstairs. With her ear pressed to the door, she heard him say heavily, “’Tis a bonnie wee lass. I dinna bargain for murrrder, y’ken!”
“None of us did,” growled Bill. “But I don’t mean to go agin the Squire.”
Their voices were drowned by the clamour of the wind. Naomi huddled against the door. If it was humanly possible, Gideon would not let her die. Beyond all doubting he would give up the jewelled men in exchange for her life. There was no reason to be so afraid. He would come. Or he would arrange for her release. And if, for some terrible reason, he could not rescue her, she had her ladder. She did but need to strengthen the top loop, and she could try it out. The best time, probably, would be after they brought her dinner at about six o’clock.
She gave a start as the wind thundered against the house, and the floor shook. Dust filtered down from the loft until the air was full of it, and she sneezed violently. Retrieving her ladder and the much depleted blanket, she went to work again, trying not to think of what she would do if the window in the loft was too small for her to get out, or if the ladder did not hold her.
By about half past five o’clock her task was finished. She tugged and wrenched at the rungs, but they did not break, and she hid the ladder in the bedding, not daring to test it until after her dinner had been brought up. The wind seemed to be rising, the gusts battering the old house so that she sometimes thought that if she was to die here, it would be from the building’s collapse rather than by any evil scheme of her captors. There was no use trying to read, for it was quite impossible to keep her mind on the words. She washed, and tidied her hair, then sat on the bed and waited.
At last boots were clumping up the stairs. A different tread, she thought. The man who brought in her tray was a young giant. She’d identified all their voices by this time, and knew this must be the one they called Jolly. She thought he looked as jolly as a great big spider. From behind the slits in his hood his eyes gleamed at her. He put down her tray gently enough. She tried to get him to tell her when she would be released, or if anything had happened, but he just stared, then walked out.
She did not even look at the food, but set the tray aside, knowing they would probably not come for it until morning. If at all … Unwinding her rope ladder, she again inspected it anxiously. She had made six long thin braids, then plaited three together for each side, crossing and tieing them to form the rungs, and at the top she had fashioned a larger loop. Please God it would prove strong enough!
The wind roared, the men downstairs squabbled and bickered, and Naomi climbed onto the chair and made her first attempt to cast the rope over the plank. It fell short. Her following efforts sailed to left or right. Not once did the loop come near the protruding end of the plank. She tried until her arm was tired and she was so frustrated that she could have bitten the silly ladder. The room began to grow dim as the sun sank lower. It occurred to her then that she needed a weight, but there was the danger of it falling and alerting her gaolers. Still, the wind was making so much clamour, they’d likely think it just a branch hitting the house, or a loose board, mayhap. She searched about for something to use, and decided on the tin mug they had brought for her ale. She pulled a strand from the remnant of the blanket and used it to tie the mug to the top loop. “There,” she said proudly.
Back on the chair again, she gazed up at the plank, took careful aim, and threw. The ladder sailed far past the plank, fell back, then swung there. She gave a sob of chagrin, and pulled, but it was caught somehow. And with a numbing surge of terror, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming up to get the tray! Frozen, she crouched on the chair, staring at the door.
A great crash shook the room. The feet paused. Bill’s voice shouted, “What in hell was that?” and the steps retreated. Naomi gave a sob of relief, and not caring what had caused the crash, tugged desperately. Her ladder came free at last. She threw up a hand to protect her face as the mug plunged at her. It sounded as though they were murdering one another downstairs. She dare not go to the door to listen, but made another throw. Again she missed, and the ladder came swooping down. She caught it, but then dropped it entirely, clasping a hand to her thundering heart as a shot deafened her.
* * *
By the time Gideon reached the lane leading to Promontory Point it was ten minutes past eight o’clock. He had been in the saddle almost continuously for over twelve hours, constantly buffeted by a relentless gale, and had last eaten at seven o’clock this morning. By rights, he should have been exhausted; instead, he felt exhilarated. He was close to Naomi now, he was sure of it, and well before time. He had failed to find those accursed icons, but somehow or other he would win his lady to freedom.
Leaving the lane, he guided the tired horse into an apparently dense clump of formidable holly bushes and followed a narrow path invisible from a distance of six feet, which led through the holly and in amongst the trees, bypassing the lodge. Proceeding with every nerve alert along this escape route of his boyhood, his
caution was rewarded. Some half-mile beyond the lodge gates he caught a whiff of tobacco smoke and drew his mount to a halt. Seconds later, he could catch snatches of talk, sometimes clear, sometimes half drowned by the fury of the wind.
“…wonder the Squire left her in the hands of such … not leave a cur with Bill Forbes, and Paddy’s not…”
“Worse, if you was t’ask … Squire ’spected ’twould end long afore now.”
“Aye. You’d’a thought … would’ve paid up right away.”
He was very close now, and heard a sniggering laugh. “If he’d knowed where she is…”
“Good thing he don’t know, mate. Nobody … stuck out here in the wind, when we might be snug … more’n I can understand. Ain’t no one’ll never guess she’s here. Waste of our perishin’ time, was you to ask me.”
The other man sniggered again, and their voices faded as Gideon circled wide around them.
So his love was here! Thank God that this time he had not guessed wrongly.
The sun was going down when the great house came into view. It was painful to see it looking so sad and abandoned, with no ray of light showing from the many windows, no smoke curling up from the kitchen chimneys. The old mill loomed against the darkening sky, starkly picturesque. But here, where there should have been no light, were thin yellow gleams, widening when the wind disturbed the sacking or whatever had been used to cover the lower windows.
Dismounting, Gideon tethered the horse, stuck one pistol in his belt, and holding the other cocked and ready, crept nearer.
Smoke rose briefly from the chimney, to be at once whipped away by the wind, and the smell of cooking drifted on the evening air. There was no guard posted outside. He smiled grimly. Had they been his men, they’d have paid dearly for such overconfidence, but it stood him in good stead, for he had to leave the cover of the bushes and make a dash across the moat. He reached the other side, having heard no sudden alarms, and took refuge in a clump of hollyhocks. Scanning the old mill, he wondered where they kept Naomi. In their shoes, he’d have put her in the upper room and taken away the ladder to the loft where was the window, but they might have chosen to keep their captive where they could watch her.
A man’s voice rang out in anger, the words unintelligible, but followed by a crash and shouts of rage. Listening intently, he could detect no feminine voice. She could be gagged, of course, but he felt that was unlikely. Even men of their type would not handle a helpless female roughly. They were obviously a quarrelsome lot, however, and would probably become more so if they indulged in ale or gin after their evening meal.
He still had several hours to spare, and logically he should wait. Morris might bring help. If Tummet had been able to tell the others where to come, they might already be on their way. But to leave Naomi captive for one second longer than necessary was abhorrent to him.
He scanned the old building carefully, his eyes lingering on the chimney. If he was to climb up there somehow, and block the opening, the smoke would likely drive them out and he might be able to surprise them. It might imperil Naomi, however, especially if she was gagged. Besides, the only conceivable way to reach the chimney was to climb up the crumbling old waterwheel, which reached almost to the roof. He shuddered, and then was staggered by a mighty gust. A splintering sound, and he leapt for his life as a big branch crashed down, missing him by scant inches. He eyed it thoughtfully.
Minutes later, he again risked being seen as he dragged the branch to the west side of the building, struggled and strained to stand it on end, then gave a strong push, and raced around to the rear.
The branch fell against the window with a crash that was followed by startled shouts from inside. Screened by the branches of a vine Gideon heard the door open, then saw two hefty louts slouch around the corner.
“This damned wind,” snarled one, a north countryman to judge by his accent. “That perishin’ glass went all over me puddin’!” He started to drag the branch clear. “Coom an’ lend a hand, Paddy, it’s gorn and stuck itself in here!”
The second man joined him, grumbling that he’d be “bloody glad” when this night was done. Together they tugged at the branch.
Like a flash, Gideon was around the corner. His pistol butt crashed hard against Paddy’s head, and the man went down without a sound. His companion whipped around, one hand darting for the knife in his belt, but Gideon’s left fist was already whizzing into an uppercut that levelled him before he could raise the alarm.
From inside came a protesting voice. “Wotcher fiddlin’ at, Jem? There’s dust blowin’ inter everythink!”
Bending low under the window, Gideon made a mad dash to the front, positioned himself to the east of the door and cupping his hands about his mouth, turned away, and shouted, “Hey! Bill! Come an’…,” he mumbled indistinctly. “We can’t…”
A mumble of cursing and heavy footsteps. The door swung wide and a tall man stamped out, still cursing. Gideon was after him in a lithe spring, his pistol flailing. Bill went down, but Gideon heard a movement behind him. Jerking around, he was in time to see someone jump back inside the mill. He hurled himself at the closing door, smashing it open, sending the retreating man sprawling. A pistol barked deafeningly and pain burned across Gideon’s head as he launched himself over the fallen kidnapper, to crash into the young giant who had fired. A howl, and they were down in a threshing struggle. A mighty fist whizzed past Gideon’s jaw. With all his strength he rammed home a right that connected squarely beside the ear, and the kidnapper became limp. From the doorway a cultured voice demanded angrily, “What in Hades is going on here? I told you—”
Springing to his feet, Gideon whirled to meet this new threat, and then stood very still.
“Be damned…!” whispered the Earl of Collington.
Momentarily deprived of breath, Gideon recovered himself. “Very likely,” he said contemptuously.
Rough hands seized him, and his arms were wrenched back. A deep voice rumbled, “Sorry, melor. We was—”
“You were too busy guzzling gin to keep your wits about you,” snapped the earl. “Let him go, but keep a pistol trained on him.”
“What a consummate achievement,” drawled Gideon, straightening his ruffles. “To hold your own daughter to ransom.”
The earl spread his handkerchief on a deal table, then leaned against it, all graceful elegance. “You are not astonished, I perceive. Was I too lavish with my grief, perchance?”
“A little. But I was far from sure that you were involved.”
“Still, you suspected. Why? My lost—ah, chess piece?”
“Partly. But one of the ruffians who invaded Promontory Point had lost a finger. Naomi’s groom, Camber, has a hand mutilated by an accident. He wore gloves each time I saw him, but he fitted my man’s description, and later was seen going into the Derrydene house.”
“Yes.” Collington shook his head and said regretfully, “Poor Derrydene will pay for that bungle, I fancy. Still, I don’t see how that led you to connect me with this particular business. And be dashed if I can think how you guessed we had Naomi here.”
“Tummet told me, although he had to resort to rhyming slang. At the time I was not sure whom he feared, but now I recall that you held a pistol, and that Camber stood by me, also with a pistol in his hand.”
The earl nodded. “Astute. I’ll own I judged your man delirious. He babbled something about … his daughter’s medicine, as I recall.”
“He said ‘daughter—pill.’ Which rhymes with ‘water mill.’ Information he has by now undoubtedly relayed to others.”
One of the ruffians yelped, “Hi! Do that mean as there’ll be Bow Street Runners comin’? If it do, I’m slopin’!”
“You will leave when I tell you and not before,” said the earl in a voice of ice.
The big fellow they called Bill came in, holding his head painfully. His small eyes alighted on Gideon and narrowed. He sprang forward, whipping back his fist.
The earl snapped, “No!
We’ll have none of that. This is a matter between gentlemen.”
Bill hesitated, glaring in frustrated fury. “I ain’t no gent, and I gotta right! Knocked me dahn, ’e did!”
“I do not pay you to be knocked down.”
“You don’t pay me ’tall. We’re paid by the—”
The earl fixed him with a deadly glare and interposed in a low, rasping voice, “Do not dare take that tone to me, animal, else you’ll not live long enough to be paid by anyone!”
Bill’s eyes dropped. He muttered an apology and snatched at the gin bottle. The man Gideon had knocked down when first he entered had climbed to his feet and also decided to fortify himself with the gin. There was a small tussle, the bottle was sent spinning, and fell, the pale liquor splashing onto the dusty boards to the accompaniment of outraged howls.
“That could as easily have been the lamp,” Gideon pointed out. “A fine set of rogues to entrust with your daughter’s life!”
The earl smiled mirthlessly. “As a father, I fear I leave much to be desired. However, although Naomi is a tiresome chit, I do admire her spirit, and I assure you nothing will happen to her. I’d not have resorted to this nonsense save that she was my best hope of inducing you to return the icons.”
“If, for some peculiar reason, your main objective was to destroy my father, I fail to—”
“For some peculiar reason?” The earl’s handsome face twisted into a mask of hatred. “You are your father’s heir, Rossiter, and as such have no conception of what ’tis like to be a younger son! That was my miserable fate!”
“I really fail to see what your frustration has to do with my—”
“It has to do with your father because he caused it!”
Gideon stared at him, baffled. “My father caused you to be born a younger son?”
“No, fool! He was my friend, all through our school years. Such a good friend! We both were fourteen and my elder brother was escorting us home for the Christmas holidays when our coach was hit by flood waters. Ah, I see you are unaware of the incident. Allow me to enlighten you. My arm was broke and I was barely able to crawl to safety. Vincent was trapped in the coach. And who dived into the flood repeatedly, to save my so dear brother? Who kept his head above water ’til help came? My friend! My damnably courageous, interfering busybody of a friend! Mark knew my hopes! He knew what Vincent was. It would have been so easy for him to stop searching. But—no! Mark Rossiter had to show everyone how brave he was! And so he saved the snivelling cur. And condemned me to a life of purgatory! Living on the niggardly allowance Vincent made me, while he gambled away thousands at the tables. Scraping and scrimping to make ends meet for my family. Fighting to keep the estate from going to rack and ruin, while Vincent gave not a button for the old place. When I was sufficiently desperate and appealed to your noble father for help, he was all generosity. So gentle, so patronizing! Damn him! God, how I hated him!”
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