by Muir, L. L.
Had he a sharper fingernail, it might have cut the fabric and her skin with the pressure of it.
“So you see, you have brought about your own demise. Had you kept your little pen out of my business, I would be fat and happy. You would be... Well, you would hardly be here. And now, the only question is, how long can you hold on?”
He leaned forward, bringing his face within inches of her own, one hand pressed into the mattress along the right side of her body. The slight contact repulsed her, but she refused to let it show.
“I think, perhaps, you will not die today.” His voice was low, his breath foul. “‘Tis a fact, I would consider your little debt to me paid in full, and I would go so far as to let you go...if you managed to last, say, eighteen months.”
She did not react.
He frowned. His nostrils flared, but his voice remained pleasant as he sat back. “No. Too long. You could never last. Truth to tell, I could not last so long without tiring of you. Eighteen days, though? I think we might both last that long. And to give you hope, I shall make a little mark upon my beloved cane. One mark for every day you survive. In fact, you have survived an entire day already.” He stretched a foot to the floor and started to rise, then he froze. His eyes searched the short wall where his cane had been. His frown intensified. He looked to the door, then back at the fireplace, as if retracing his steps. Then he looked at her, as if expecting a confession.
Again, she did not react.
As he walked away, she peeked around her arms, not daring to lose track of his whereabouts. His fingers traced the spot where he’d rested the cane, then he moved to the door and slipped outside again. Perhaps he finally questioned his own sanity.
Someone patted her hand and she jumped. It was Northwick.
“Livvy darling, I am cutting the ties, but leave your arms where they are. Do you understand?”
She nodded. He was there. She’d felt his touch, and but she dared not celebrate, even silently. The devil was still among them. But she was not alone. And if she could have chosen one man on Earth to have come through that door, it would have been Northwick. It was the perfect moment in the middle of a perfect nightmare.
The tension disappeared from first one rope, then the other. A fleeting squeeze of her hand and he was gone. It was difficult to hold her arms in place, but she did so. The ache in her shoulders moved to the inside as her muscles struggled to maintain the pose. She dreaded what might happen next, while at the same time thrilling at the proof that Northwick was indeed there with her.
A quick peek showed her would-be rescuer poised behind the door, the wicked cane raised above his head.
The door opened. She watched between arm and footboard as Marquardt slid inside. He frowned at her, then looked to his right. His arms flew up in defense as his own weapon descended upon him. She heard it crack across his arm before it glanced away.
The cane came at him sideways, but he bent and blocked it with his shoulder. The wood fell to the floor with a rumble. The zing of a blade leaving its sheath made her pray it was Northwick’s. Everything was upside down to her. She watched the two forms crash into each other, then stumble away, beyond her vision. Then she remembered her hands were free.
Her body cried out at a dozen sharp pains as she sat up. She pulled the cloth from her mouth, around the rope, then reached back for the knot. The rope tasted of rot. Her arms were too sore to hold up, but she had no choice.
Finally the knot came free and she flung the disgusting thing away.
“Go!” Northwick’s voice boomed into the rafters.
She would love to have obliged him, but the manacle remained around her ankle. She tried to ignore the struggle going on behind her so she might concentrate on freeing her leg, but she could not help but look to see if Northwick was all right.
Marquardt had his weapon again and stood grinning, using his cane to block Northwick’s dagger.
“Where is Lord Ashmoore?” He took a swing at Northwick’s head, but it was easily avoided. They separated. “Why would he send another man to collect his woman?”
“She was never his,” Northwick said, then took a quick step forward.
Marquardt swung out. Northwick’s blade followed behind the swing and sliced a short trail up the other man’s arm. Marquardt backed against the wall, hissing in a breath. He looked at the gash, then laughed.
“Then whose is she?”
“Mine.” Northwick raised his blade and slashed down toward the other’s neck, but the blade hit wood and stuck. He freed the dagger and stepped back before Marquardt could take advantage.
“Wrong again, Northwick. She’s mine.” Marquardt pulled back his club and swung with all his might, grunting as he changed direction to come up under Northwick’s chin.
Too late to avoid the blow, the latter blocked the attack with his arm. The cane crunched the underside of his forearm. The dagger flew from his hand. He only grunted, though his arm had to be broken! His left hand clutched onto the cane, just below the knot, and forced it upward. Marquardt changed the direction of his efforts yet again and the knot struck an oil lamp hanging in the center of the room. The glass shattered. The oil splashed from the fireplace to the footboard.
Livvy turned her attention to the shackle. She had to get free and help Northwick!
A large trunk lay open upon the floor; the thing Marquardt had dragged from under the bed. There were other manacles there of various sizes, the smallest of which were stained brown. In fact, everything in the trunk suffered from the same stain. She looked for a key, but found nothing but tools; a chisel, a sledge, and a saw.
Then she realized the rot she’d tasted on the rope might well be blood!
“Why do you not go?” Northwick shouted.
“I am chained!” She rolled and pushed off the bed. Her left foot barely touched the floor, but she was able to reach the truck. She forced her hand amongst the gory collection and grasped the handle of the saw.
“Funny thing,” said Marquardt. “She has a manacle about her ankle. I just tossed the keys into the lake a moment ago. But I’ll be fair. If you can convince her to let you remove her leg, you can take her home with you.” He laughed so hard he lost his balance and in a trice, Northwick had him up against the wall with the cane across the madman’s neck, holding the thing in place with just his left hand, his arm leaning heavily against it.
Livvy could not risk watching any longer. She turned to the headboard. The end of the chain wrapped numerous times around the thick wood before the links were caught in a lock. She pulled on it, but the metal was secured. She placed the saw against the top of the rail that held her captive and worked quickly. Each time the teeth caught, pain jolted through her shoulders, but she kept on, fearing what might be happening behind her.
A few more pulls, then another, and the saw jerked free. She’d done it! But the new cut was far too thin for the chain to fit through, so she turned back to the trunk and grabbed the sledge. It was so heavy she had to drag it from the box and while she did so, she looked toward the men still wrestling for control of the cane.
Marquardt dropped a hand from the weapon and struck out at Northwick’s damaged arm. The latter cried out but did not let go. Marquardt was tiring. He grunted and gasped for air. Northwick pressed on.
Suddenly, Marquardt slid sideways along the wall, then out from behind the cane and dove for the floor. By the time Northwick was able to swing the mighty weapon with only one arm, Marquardt was rising again and scrambling toward her with the dagger in his hand.
“Bid farewell to The Scarlet Plumiere, Northwick!” Marquardt kicked the handle out of her hand and threw his body against her, pushing her onto the bed. With the dagger suddenly at her throat, she dared not move.
Northwick was right behind him but paused and held out the cane. “Here,” he said. “Take it.”
Marquardt looked from the cane to her and back again. He pushed the point of the blade into her flesh with his left hand and held out his righ
t for his precious stick. Northwick obliged by placing the end of it in his hand, but did not release it.
“Toss the blade and I will let go.”
Marquardt grinned and lifted the blade from her skin. Northwick slid the wood further into the other man’s grasp. Then Marquardt slung the dagger away from him, to the other side of the bed while he wrenched the cane out of Northwick’s grasp.
North backed away with his good hand raised.
Marquardt glanced at the headboard, then pushed away from her and advanced toward the man she loved. She lunged for the sledge, and tried to lift it to strike Marquardt, but was not fast or strong enough. She could not lift it high enough to even throw.
In horror, she watched the monster first strike Northwick’s injured arm, then lifted the club above his head. She screamed in warning.
Northwick ducked away, but not far enough. The wood caught him and spun his head as he crashed to the floor, his arms caught beneath him.
Hope died in Livvy’s chest at the same moment a flash of yellow light flared in the fireplace. It managed to lure Marquardt’s attention from the body at his feet. He frowned at the bright, living flame and she remembered him explaining they could not risk a fire during the day. Would that the smoke from such a small blaze had already brought attention to the island, and help for Northwick!
The flame jumped to another spot of oil. Then another. It appeared as if the fire itself had decided to walk out of the ashes. Small tendrils of smoke rose into the room instead of the chimney. The bold flame sprang forward and flared, then turned in Livvy’s direction, following the splatters.
Marquardt turned toward the door. The voices outside had changed. A hue and cry!
Thank God!
The fire moved beyond her vision, toward the foot of the bed. The light from it grew, proving how pathetic were the morning rays that had seemed adequate before now. Perhaps the dust had caught fire. Perhaps the floor. But at least it was moving away from Northwick. If they hurried, their rescuers could get him outside before the smoke became deadly, but they would need to hurry. Their voices were still so far away!
She’d nearly forgotten Marquardt. He watched her, his face vacillating between regret and satisfaction. She dared not move until he moved.
Finally, he shrugged his shoulders. “I will leave you both to it, then,” he said. “I think I’ll herd the servants back to my mother’s house and pay a call.” He bowed, then walked out the door, whistling.
She screamed as loud as she could, then bent back to the trunk to find a tool she might be able to manage. As soon as she was free, she would worry about dragging Northwick out the door—a neat trick if she could barely lift the hammer.
Marquardt’s whistling began to fade.
She could not imagine what to do with the chisel, so she turned back to the headboard. Kicking the wood frame apart would be impossible with bare feet, but she could brace them against the wall and pull on the chain!
She jumped back on the bed and did just that, screaming as she pulled with all her might. The wood gave a little. She checked the size of the gap she’d created. Not much progress, but progress just the same. She pulled and screamed again.
“Livvy, sweeting. Stop shouting.”
She sat up and turned. Northwick’s magnificent dark form stirred against the floor!
He lived! God was in his Heaven! Northwick lived!
Slowly, he arose, one arm hanging against his body. His other lifted and he gingerly felt his head. “I have had worse hangovers, I believe.”
Her view of him was suddenly interrupted by flames jumping between them and licking over the edge of the bed to the very place Livvy’s hair would have been had Northwick not spoken.
Their eyes met in panic, then he hurried to the side of the bed. She scooted to the edge and stood while he pulled the blankets off and tossed them onto the fire. The flames only grew.
“We need to leave,” he said.
“I would prefer to take my foot with me.”
Northwick pulled up his cravat and covered his mouth. “I hoped he was lying about the key.” He bent to the trunk and began digging.
She coughed and covered her face with her sleeve. The smoke curled into the rafters like a gathering army. He slammed the trunk closed, then grabbed the chain. Just as she had, he tested the lock, then looked closely at the headboard. Over her shoulder, she watched orange light crawling up the wall on the far side of the bed. It captivated her, but she forced herself to look away.
“You should go.” She had to yell to make her voice work.
He frowned at her, then noticed the hammer. With his good arm, he swung the thing as if it weighed no more than a pencil, but when it struck the wood, she felt it in her bones. After half a dozen such strikes, the rung she’d sawed through cracked and twisted away. Northwick slid the loops of chain off the top and handed them to her, then led her quickly, but carefully to the door.
She glanced back at the accursed bed and was glad it would soon go up in flames.
Northwick leaned down to kiss her but coughed instead. His smile promised he would try again later. She grabbed for the latch, to get him out of the smoke, but the door did not open. He moved her to the side and kicked it, but it held firm. He jumped over the flames nibbling hungrily on the dusty floor and returned with the sledge. She stood to the side and watched in awe as he attacked the door. How Marquardt had ever fought this man and escaped was a conundrum.
The heavy hammer broke through the wood and sunlight poured in the hole.
Northwick looked out, then back at Livvy. “He used the damned cane again! I’ll try to move it from the door.”
His arm fit through the opening, all the way to his shoulder, and while he was concentrating, she could not stop herself. She lifted her face from her sleeve, stepped close, and kissed him squarely on the mouth.
He smiled, then growled at her. “Livvy. We are about to burn alive. What can you be thinking?”
“I am thinking you have rescued me so often I had best begin thanking you for it, else it will take a lifetime to do it justly.”
“A lifetime? I rather like the sound of that.”
He extricated his arm and pushed the door open. Fresh air flooded past her skirts and the smoke chased them outside.
She was happy to hobble across the snow considering where she might be at the moment, had Northwick not rallied. Every bruise announced she was still alive. Every step, placed next to his dark boots, reminded her that God had spared the man she loved. That beloved hero led her toward the shore and a little path he promised would lead to the causey. He also promised to carry her over his shoulder before her toes froze.
Their path was blocked, however, by Marquardt, but the man took no notice of them as he was backing from the land-bridge, facing a mob of servants armed with pitchforks, among other things. And at the head of the mob, advanced Hopkins, sword in hand!
At least she thought it was Hopkins.
Marquardt chose that moment to turn away from his pursuers, but stopped moving altogether when he saw the pair of them cutting off his escape. He glanced at the cloud of smoke billowing into the heavens, then back at the cane now in Northwick’s hand.
Expecting an attack of some sort, Livvy braced herself. Northwick stepped in front of her, but Marquardt gave them a wide berth as he ran around them and back toward the cottage. After a stunned pause, Northwick followed.
“Stay here,” he shouted, but of course she could not.
The broken door was ablaze, as was the rest of the dwelling. The heat made it impossible to approach; the men could not possibly have gone inside. By the time she and the mob of servants reached the other side of the small island, Northwick was standing on the shore, at the edge of the ice across which she and Marquardt had made their frightening journey in the dark. Looking upon it now, it was yet another miracle she had survived. The traces of their original crossing wove across the expanse of ice not four feet wide. Half a step in either direct
ion would have led her to a watery grave.
A third of the way across the lake, staying carefully upon the footsteps from the night before, went Marquardt.
“He is getting away,” cried a woman.
Northwick glanced at the crowd, then at Livvy. “No. He is not.” He looked at the sunny sky and so did she.
“Warm day,” she whispered.
Northwick nodded at her, then turned his attention back to the lake.
Marquardt was nearly halfway across, but he’d stopped. His feet stood wide apart. His arms flung out. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he stepped back. A few steps more and he turned.
“Ho,” Northwick called. His voice traveled clear and strong across the water.
Marquardt looked up, grinning.
Northwick tossed the cane straight up, then caught it round the middle. The heavy knot dipped low over his back just before he threw it, like a javelin, toward Marquardt. Livvy thought it would run the man straight through, but it missed him; the tip of the thing seated itself deep in the ice between his feet, the sound of it ricocheting to shore and back again.
He laughed. “If I were a fatter man, Scarlet, I would have been dead by now! Your fault again, I’m afraid!” He wrenched his cane free, then turned toward shore. Holding his weapon out for balance, he hopped along the path he’d tried to take before, but this time, he did not pause.
But even as they watched, the ice began to shift beneath the villain’s feet.
Northwick pulled her to his side. “Do not watch, Livvy.”
She lowered her head, but watched just the same.
Marquardt lunged for a more sturdy piece of ice, but it shattered at his touch and he sank completely. His cane flailed wildly for purchase but only served to destroy what it touched. Marquardt resurfaced, gasping, laughing, only to disappear again.
