by Carola Dunn
"Yes," Andrew said grimly. "Whether you pay the ransom or not, sir, I doubt Teresa will be released unharmed."
The horrified silence was ended by Lord Danville, who had been looking thoughtful since Marco named Carruthers. "I'll wager I know where they are," he said. "Let me see the ransom note, sir." He took it from his father. "Yes, the meeting place named to hand over the money is behind Clock Cottage, by the Blue Ship Inn at The Haven."
"The Haven?" asked Marco.
"A tiny hamlet scarce three miles from here," Lord John answered him. "In the opposite direction from Billingshurst. How does that help us, Tom?"
Lord Danville had all their attention. "Carruthers' place is near Loxwood. I saw a map once that showed the estate. It is an odd shape, long and narrow, and one end reaches nearly to The Haven. There's a wood there, used to be good pheasant shooting. You know how Carruthers has let the place go to rack and ruin— the house is in fair shape but he has no interest in farming or sport. He has not kept up the coverts and he dismissed the gamekeeper long since."
"What of it?" demanded Andrew impatiently. He cared not a groat for the baron's coverts.
"The gamekeeper's cottage was in that wood near The Haven. No one has lived there for years."
"Let's go!" cried Andrew, striding from the room.
His heart leaped within him. Here at last was his chance for a heroic rescue. He was determined to be first through the door of the abandoned cottage. He imagined Teresa looking up as he entered, the dark eyes widening, the glow of gratitude and admiration.
Somehow her face, her eyes, were all that he could picture. Had she been tied up? A pang of terror shot through him as he realised she might even be unconscious, then fury rose. If Harrison had harmed her, he should not live to see his next trial!
Ten minutes later he rode out of the stable-yard, followed by Marco, Lord Danville, Lord John, Mr Wishart and Lord Jordan, all armed to the teeth.
Chapter 19
Desperately Teresa inched away from Muriel. In her need for warmth she had forgotten Brawny must not know that they were strong enough to move. Her plan depended on his belief that they were weak, feeble creatures, but it was too late to put more than a couple of feet between them.
He came in, a dirty bottle in his hand. If he noticed anything amiss he did not comment, and Teresa was encouraged to hope that he was as stupid as Scrawny Sid thought him.
Taking no notice of Muriel, who had again pretended to swoon, he pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and ordered Teresa to open her mouth. "Guv'nor says to give yer a drop o' gin so's yer don't freeze to death afore he's ready. Bloody waste, if yer ast me." He kicked her. "Open up!"
She gave in and parted her lips, but she closed her throat, determined not to swallow. The vile stuff set her mouth on fire. She managed not to gasp in shock, and it ran out again, down her cheek to the floor.
"I cannot swallow lying down," she protested in a tremulous voice.
He put the bottle down and hauled her to a sitting position. As soon as he let go of her to reach for the gin, she slumped over. Again he raised her up, and again she fell.
"Untie me so that I can sit up," she moaned. "It is impossible to balance without the use of my hands and feet."
Incredibly, it did not dawn on him to prop her in a corner. He looked at her in doubt.
"You cannot be afraid of two such feeble creatures!" she said with scorn, careful to make her voice quaver, despite rising hope. "If we expire from the cold, how much 'fun' will you have?"
He glanced suspiciously at Muriel, who looked half dead already. Reaching out, he wound one fair ringlet about a finger like a sausage. The girl did not stir. "Always did like 'em wiv golden 'air," murmured the big man. "I'll untie you so's you can get 'er moving. Never did fancy cold meat."
He fumbled at the knots without success, then drew a knife with a rust-spotted blade and sawed at the ropes around Teresa's wrists. Fibre by fibre they parted, and he turned to her ankles while she flexed her numb hands. Feeling returned fast and painfully.
"Now sit up and swaller some o' this gin."
She pushed herself half way up and then collapsed. "I cannot. Let me warm my hands a little while you untie my friend."
Muriel's bonds parted with still more difficulty. If the knife had ever had an edge it was long gone. By the time Brawny had finished the job, Teresa felt her hands would obey her. When he turned back to her, he found himself gaping down the barrels of a pair of pistols.
"Drop the knife."
Blinking in confusion, he dropped it. Muriel, miraculously recovered from her swoon, grabbed it and backed away from him, holding it in front of her with nervous awkwardness.
He shook his head stupidly, then brightened. "If yer shoots me, the guv'nor'll 'ear it and come running."
"I have a bullet for each of you," Teresa pointed out coldly, "and you may ask any of a dozen London bucks whether I am a crack-shot. I was brought up in the jungle, you know, surrounded by fearsome beasts. I have never shot a person before, but you are more like a poisonous snake and I shall not hesitate." The guns pointed unwavering at his heart. "Lie down on the floor, on your front."
Grunting sullenly, he sank to his knees, his beefy face unhappy. "Yer won't get past the guv'nor," he said. "He's in the room at the bottom of the apples."
"Apples?" asked Muriel, bewildered.
"Stairs," Teresa explained with a grin. "Apples and pears—stairs. It's Cockney rhyming slang. Cousin John was talking about it one day and fortunately that is one of the words he mentioned." Her eyes never left her target. "Go on, get down."
Brawny stretched full length.
"Teresa, he cut the ropes instead of untying them," wailed Muriel. "How am I to tie him up?"
A moment of panic was sternly suppressed and Teresa glanced quickly around the room. "That bag, see what is in it. The shirt will do to tie his legs, and perhaps there is something else that you can use for his hands. Hurry."
Muriel pulled the shirt from the shabby valise, followed by a pair of trousers which made her blush. The garments were ragged but most of the cloth was still good. She wound the shirt round the man's legs and knotted the sleeves as tight as she could. "I hope that will do," she said doubtfully.
"It will have to. You, put your hands behind your back. Can you tear those...inexpressibles, Muriel? They are too bulky to make a good knot."
A few moments of effort proved the task beyond Muriel’s strength. She rummaged in the valise and triumphantly withdrew a grubby neckcloth. Soon Brawny lay trussed like a turkey-cock and at last Teresa dared put aside her pistols.
She tested the bonds. "Oh dear, I hope they will hold! If he wins free we shall be in trouble."
The man had lain passive and silent all this time. She guessed that having surrendered he had not the wit to resist. However, if they left him here for any considerable period he would inevitably attempt escape, and she doubted the cloth, with Muriel's inexpert knots, would hold him.
She could not bring herself to shoot him in cold blood, though, even just to disable him.
Her eye fell on the gin bottle. Enough of that poured down his throat would immobilised him. Picking it up she found it nearly full. The trouble was that they must turn him over to administer it, and when they tried to move him he would likely rouse from his lethargy and struggle.
She felt Muriel's worried gaze upon her as she sought desperately for an answer. There was nothing else in the little room that might help them—or was there? The thought sickened her but a well-placed blow with a pewter pint pot ought to knock out even the undoubtedly thick-skulled Bert.
"Don't look," she ordered Muriel, and brought it down on the back of his head as hard as she could.
Since he did not voice any objection, she assumed the blow had worked. Gingerly she felt for his pulse, with a prayer that she had not killed him. Failing to find it, she bit her lip, then stripped off her glove and tried again. It disgusted her to touch him with her bare skin, but
this time she found the pulse and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Help me turn him over."
Lying on his back, he was an unlovely sight. His mouth hung slackly open. She did not want to drown him so they rolled up the straw pallet and managed to stuff it beneath his head and shoulders. Then she cautiously poured a little gin between his yellowish teeth.
He swallowed automatically. Judging by his breath, he had already been imbibing that day. Little by little Tersa emptied the bottle into him.
He emitted an enormous belch and started to snore. Teresa and Muriel looked at each other and giggled.
Teresa sat back wearily on her heels. "Well, that is all we can do. We had best go down at once before Harrison grows suspicious."
Muriel helped her to stand. They went out onto the tiny landing. The door had been recently fitted with a simple bar lock, they found, presumably to keep them in. They lowered the bar into its sockets with as little noise as they could manage. Teresa eyed the dark, rickety stair with foreboding.
"If we march down together perhaps he will think it is his henchman," whispered Muriel.
"A nice idea, but the two of us together must weigh less than he, and I doubt we could stay in step. We must creep down the side as close to the wall as possible and hope that it is quieter there. At least there is a wall between the stair and the room. I shall go first. When I reach the bottom step, come after me."
Muriel nodded and Teresa started down the stairs.
Step by cautious step, holding her breath, she made her way down. Under her slight weight the cracking boards scarcely moved, their token protest no louder than the scurry of mice within the walls.
On the bottom step she paused. It would be best, she decided, if she found out the situation before Muriel joined her. Her friend might alert Harrison by making too much noise, and she would very likely get in the way if sudden action had to be taken.
Teresa twisted round and made shooing gestures, mouthing a silent "Wait!"
Muriel nodded understanding. She looked pale and fearful, and Teresa was filled with gratitude for her steadfast help. Their situation was a far cry from the drawing rooms and ballrooms Muriel had been bred up to grace with her decorous presence.
Now Teresa must count on the darkness of the stair enclosure to protect her. Moving by inches, she peered one-eyed round the end of the wall.
Harrison faced her at an angle, sitting on a broken backed chair at a sloping table with his horse pistol in his hand. On the table lay the remains of a meal and, right beside him, an oily rag, a ramrod, a small vial and two leather pouches.
Teresa guessed that the vial contained oil, the little bags powder and ball. He had been cleaning and reloading his gun. At any moment he might decide to go upstairs to see what Bert was doing.
She moved back behind the shelter of the wall. He was holding his pistol: she could not hold him up as she had Brawny. She had to disable him before he could shoot her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip. Pretend he's a snake, she told herself fiercely, a deadly snake.
In one swift, fluid motion she stepped out into the room, raised her pistol in both hands and squeezed the trigger.
Harrison's gun clattered to the floor. He gaped at her then stared down in horror at the river of blood flowing from his wrist. "My God, I shall bleed to death!" he moaned.
"Grasp it tight with your other hand and raise it above your head," ordered Teresa crisply. "Muriel, come on down. We must make a tourniquet."
With the victim's grubby neckcloth wound round his upper arm, and the long barrel of his pistol to twist it tight, they managed to staunch the bleeding. The bullet had barely nicked his vein and they used their own handkerchiefs and strips of petticoat to bind the wound.
By the time they were done with their ministrations their patient had fainted from loss of blood. It was an easy matter to tie his ankles together with the bloodstained neckcloth.
"It does not seem quite right to tie his wrists together," said Muriel, frowning. "I know he is a dastardly villain and he intended to kill us, but I cannot like it."
"I know what you mean," Teresa agreed. "His hand ought to be kept in the air, too. I have it! Help me pull him over here by the end of the table. Suppose I tie the injured arm up against this table leg, like this. You stretch his other arm over there and tie his wrist to the other leg of the table."
"The very thing. The table is somewhat wobbly, but he is in no case to exert his strength upon it."
"And if he did, the top would fall on his face."
"I should like to see his face when he wakes," said Muriel, "but I daresay we shall be far away by then."
"I'm afraid not. Have you any idea where we are?" Teresa tied a last knot then went to the window and looked out. "Muriel, come and see!"
Muriel joined her and peered through the small, smeary panes. "It has stopped snowing. Quite a lot has fallen already, but at least it is not drifting."
"That is snow? It is beautiful! I never imagined anything like that."
"Wait till you see it on a sunny day. You will think yourself translated to another world. Walking in it is a different matter, though, even if we knew which direction to take. Oh Teresa, what shall we do? We are as much captive here as ever."
"But now we have the upper hand." Teresa moved back to the table, where she sat down and began to clean and reload the pistol she had fired. "Just in case Brawny Bert wakes up and breaks out," she explained. "At least we will hear him coming! I think we must wait till Scrawny Sid returns with the horse."
"Scrawny Sid?"
"The third man. Did you not hear? He went with a ransom note to my uncle."
"Then they will follow him back and find us!"
"I fear not. Bert may be a knock-in-the-cradle but Harrison has his wits about him. I imagine Sid found someone else to send with the message. Anyway, fit for the knacker or no, that unfortunate animal he’s riding will have to carry us away from here."
Muriel looked dubious but she said, "Luckily this is a well-populated part of the country. Whichever direction we go, we are sure soon to cross a road which will lead us to a village."
"And in the meantime, until Sid arrives, all we can do is wait."
* * * *
Andrew realised abruptly that, much as he desired to lead the rescue party, he had no idea which way to go. "Danville," he called reluctantly, looking back, "you had best go first to show us the road."
"I know where it is," said Lord John, riding up beside him. "Follow me."
Andrew stayed with him neck and neck. The viscount was not the sort to try to seize the glory of rushing first into the cottage, but his dashing brother was another kettle of fish.
They started down a hedged lane, then Lord John led them through a gate to ride cross country. All six gentlemen were mounted on the duke's hunters, which took hedge and ditch and stream in their stride. Marco gasped when he faced the first jump, but though he had never hunted he had spent most of his life on horseback. He let his mount carry him over after the others, and thereafter enjoyed the exhilarating sensation of flying through the air.
Andrew glanced back at his grinning face and envied the resilience of youth. The lad seemed to have forgotten his sister's peril.
And Muriel’s, Andrew reminded himself.
They soon reached the wood. Neither undergrowth nor fallen trees had been cleared for years, so their way was barred by a tangled mass of brambles and fallen trees. They rode along the edge looking for a way in, till at last they came to a narrow track.
"Hoofprints in the snow!" cried Lord John triumphantly, drawing rein. "A single file leading inwards. I'll wager it's the man who took the note to Billingshurst."
Mr Wishart leaned down in the saddle and studied the prints. "On a sorry nag, or an excessively tired one," he commented. “See how short its stride is.”
Marco had stopped beside Andrew. His face was white and pinched, the thrill gone.
Andrew leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. "We'll
find her," he reassured, trying to ignore the tight knot in his own chest. "Come on!" he urged impatiently and started forward.
There was only one way to go now, so he led the group. The track curved to the right. Then it straightened and a hundred feet ahead he saw a clearing with a tumble-down shack in the centre. There was no light in the windows, no smoke rising from the chimney, but the hoofprints led directly towards the hovel.
He held up his hand and the others stopped. "Back around the bend," he mouthed silently, gesturing.
Out of sight of the cottage they dismounted and tied their horses to nearby trees, then gathered to discuss the next move. They had left Five Oaks without pausing to plan.
Quickly they decided to move through the edge of the wood to surround the clearing, then one of them would creep up to the window and try to see what was going on. Unless he saw good reason against it, he would signal and they would all converge on the shack and break in with pistols drawn.
"I shall go to the window," said Marco. "I am smallest and fastest and it is my sister."
"It's my..." chorused Andrew and Lord Danville, then stopped, glanced at each other and flushed. The rest looked at them with interest, somehow divining that the missing words were not "betrothed" and "cousin."
Marco was already slipping through the trees towards the clearing, so the others hurried to take their places. Andrew moved to a position opposite the door with such a determined air that no one disputed his right to it.
Darting from tree to bush to rotting fence to ancient farm cart, Marco reached the window and crouched below it. Cautiously, he raised himself to peer in at one corner, shading his eyes against the reflected glare of the snow. Andrew saw his mouth open, then stretch in a broad grin.
The poor boy had lost his wits with horror, Andrew thought, aghast.
Marco, still grinning, stood up and waved. Andrew burst through the rickety door bare seconds before Lord Danville.
Teresa stood there with her pistol trained on a small man who lay prone on the floor. Over him bent Muriel, tying his hands with a filthy cloth. Behind them Harrison sprawled on his back, unconscious and bloodstained, a pistol lying nearby on the floor.
