by Candace Camp
She glanced to her right, where a copse of trees lay a little distance ahead. It was dark among the trees. If someone was there, it would be difficult to see them. She wondered if she was being foolish, letting her imagination run away with her because of the odd incident at the Tower yesterday.
“Mary? What’s wrong?” Rose turned to look at her.
“Oh—nothing, really. I felt … I don’t know … odd.” The other girls had stopped, too, and they looked puzzled. Mary had not told the others what had happened the day before. It seemed pointless to worry them, especially when she was not sure she’d actually seen their stepfather. She gave them a faint smile and shook her head. “Just a mood. Come, we’d best get back to the inn. They’ll be wanting to leave, I imagine, and we don’t want Miss Dalrymple lecturing us on being tardy.”
“All right.” Rose frowned, but refrained from pointing out that they had been gone only minutes.
The girls began to walk back to the inn. Mary remained alert to any sign of movement around them. She saw nothing, but she could not keep from casting an encompassing glance behind her as she went through the door. As she turned back, Rose shot her an inquiring look. Mary replied with a faint shrug and a grimace.
She was overreacting, she told herself. It was merely an odd feeling, a momentary shiver that she would normally have disregarded. Had she not seen a man who looked like Cosmo Glass yesterday, she would have thought nothing about it at all. There had been no one in the woods or anywhere around the path. Indeed, it was likely that she had not even seen her stepfather yesterday. He would not have followed them to London, and even if he had, he would have immediately tried to get money out of their new relatives, not skulked around watching them. Her imagination had simply run away with her. Still, she could not help but be glad they were traveling with Sir Royce.
The carriage ride that afternoon was much the same, except that Mary’s weariness and boredom seemed to arrive even earlier. Finally, they pulled into the courtyard of another inn and disembarked. Everyone was tired and ready for bed, so they ate quickly. Mary did not feel particularly sleepy, but she could see that her sisters were flagging—and Miss Dalrymple was practically snoozing over her plate.
Rose went to bed almost as soon as they climbed the stairs to their room, and she was asleep within a few minutes. Mary puttered about quietly, but with Rose asleep, there was little to do, so she soon climbed into bed. It took some time for her to go to sleep, but she must have dozed off, for a noise brought her awake. Mary turned her head and saw a man silhouetted against the moonlight that streamed in through the open window. Terror seized her throat.
The man was turned away from her, walking slowly and carefully toward the window. He was huge and strangely misshapen. In the next instant, Mary realized that the bed beside her was empty and that the intruder was carrying Rose away over his shoulder.
Chapter 13
Mary screamed at the top of her lungs and jumped out of bed. “Royce! Royce! Help!”
She ran toward the intruder, and he whirled, startled. He wore a cap pulled low on his forehead and his collar was turned up; a dark half-mask obscured most of the rest of his face. He turned and ran the last steps to the window and flung his leg over. Mary threw herself at him, grabbing for her sister’s arm.
“Rose!” She wound up clutching the man’s jacket instead and pulled on it for all she was worth, again yelling Royce’s name. The man let out a curse and jerked away from her.
She stumbled back, then righted herself and lunged forward again. There was the sound of a door crashing open down the hall, followed by running footsteps. The intruder shrugged Rose’s limp form from his shoulder and shoved her at Mary. Mary staggered backward under Rose’s sudden weight and crashed to the floor. The back of her head hit the bedpost with a blinding pain, and suddenly everything went dark.
“Mary! Mary! Wake up!”
She was aware of being held, a muscular arm around her shoulders, her head leaning against something hard and warm. It felt good and somehow reassuring, especially the rhythmic thumping beneath her ear. She was being jiggled, and next there was a sharp little sting to her cheek.
“Blast it, Mary! Wake up!”
She opened her eyes, and a man’s face swam above her. Her stomach lurched, and she quickly closed her eyes again.
“Mary! Thank God. Come on, now, open your eyes again and look at me. It’s Royce.”
Royce. She smiled to herself. In the next instant, full consciousness came back to her, and she remembered everything.
“Oh! Rose! Is she here? Is she all right?” Mary opened her eyes and struggled to sit up.
“She’s right here on the floor beside you. Don’t exert yourself. I think you’ve had a nasty crack on the head. What the devil happened? Why is the window open?”
“The man! He was taking her—he was taking her out the window.” She sat up despite Royce’s advice, and though her head throbbed painfully, she no longer felt woozy.
“The devil!” Royce released her and stood up, going to the open window. He leaned out, looking in both directions. “There’s no sign of him.” He turned to Mary. “Are you all right by yourself ? I want to take a look outside.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Go.”
He left the room, and Mary sat where she was, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. She reached one hand up to her head and felt around gingerly. With a wince, she brought her hand down. There was a sticky liquid on her fingers, and she realized that the wound must have bled.
She turned to her sister, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor beside her. “Rose? Rose, can you hear me?”
Mary tugged at Rose’s shoulder. She was lying on her side, but Mary’s tug rolled her onto her back. Mary smoothed the tangle of her hair back out of her face. Rose’s eyes were closed, her face still. For one terrified instant, Mary thought her sister was dead, but then she saw the slow rise and fall of Rose’s chest.
Mary shook her shoulder. “Rose! Wake up!”
What was the matter with her? Mary had been knocked unconscious, yet she had come to. Why was Rose still asleep? And how could she have slept through everything that had happened? She moved her fingers over her sister’s scalp, but she could find no bump. Rose did not even stir.
Mary struggled to her feet and lit the candle on the dresser. She found her handkerchief and dipped it in the washbowl, then returned to kneel beside her sister and bathe Rose’s face with the cool cloth. As she did so, her mind raced. Who was that man? And why was he trying to steal Rose?
Her thoughts went first to her stepfather. But the intruder had been far too large—Cosmo was a narrow, wiry man only a few inches taller than Mary. The man who had flung Rose over his shoulder had been much taller, perhaps even as large as Royce. Mary frowned as she wrung out the cloth and dipped it in cool water again. Her head ached, and her thoughts were fuzzy.
“Rose. Sweetheart, please wake up. What is wrong with you?” She took her sister’s wrist and found her pulse. It seemed slow but still strong. She patted Rose’s cheek as she called her name.
Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a moment later Royce entered the room. “I could find no one. I walked all around the inn, but there was no sign of anyone.”
Mary turned to him. “Did you slap me?”
“What?” He stopped and stared at her blankly.
“Earlier, before I came to. I think I felt you slap my cheek.”
Royce grinned and came farther into the room. “A loving tap, that is all. I was trying to wake you.” He set the candle he was carrying on the dresser and came over to kneel beside Rose. “She still has not awakened?”
“No. I think he must have knocked her out, though I cannot find a lump.”
“Who knocked her out? I still have no idea what happened.”
“I woke up a little while ago; I think I heard a noise. And I saw a man carrying Rose. I screamed and jumped out of bed and ran at him. He was trying to climb out the window with her. I grab
bed him, and we struggled. Then I heard you coming. And he threw Rose into me, and we both fell. I think I must have hit my head on the bedpost.”
“I don’t understand. Someone came into your room and was trying to take your sister?”
Mary nodded. “I know. It sounds mad. But that is what happened.”
“Who was it?”
“I have no idea. But that is not what concerns me now. Rose won’t wake up, no matter what I do.”
“You think he hit her on the head?” Gently Royce lifted Rose’s head and felt around her scalp. “I don’t feel a knot.”
“Neither did I.” Mary looked at him worriedly. “What should we do?”
“To begin with, let’s get her off the floor.” He scooped Rose up and laid her on the bed, and Mary followed to pull the covers up to her sister’s shoulders.
Mary stood for a moment gazing down at Rose, then she suddenly stiffened, raising her head. “Where is everyone?”
“What?” Royce looked at her.
“Where are Camellia and Lily? And Miss Dalrymple, for that matter. I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Clearly I awakened you.”
“And another chap at the end of the hall. He helped me search the grounds, though I think he believed you had had a nightmare.”
“Oh, God.” Mary whirled and ran out of the room, Royce at her heels.
“Perhaps they stayed in their room,” Royce offered.
Mary shot him a withering glance as she flung open the door to the other girls’ room. “Hiding? Those two?”
“I see your point.”
Royce had had the presence of mind to snatch up the candle as he left Mary’s room, and he lifted it as they walked into Lily and Camellia’s chamber. Two forms lay in the bed, and as they drew closer, they could make out the two sisters, both sound asleep.
Mary and Royce looked at each other. Royce held the candle so that the light shone directly on Camellia’s face; she continued to sleep peacefully. On the other side of the bed, Mary shook Lily’s shoulder. When there was no response, she shook it even harder. Finally, Lily frowned in her sleep, muttered something, and turned over.
“They’ve been drugged. It has to be.” Mary turned to Royce in dismay. “Or poisoned! What shall we do?”
Royce bent over Camellia, so close that Mary thought in astonishment that he was about to kiss her, but he only sniffed once or twice and straightened. “I’ve smelled that before. It’s laudanum.”
Mary relaxed a trifle. “Thank heavens. That is … you do not think they could have been given too much?”
He looked again at the girls. “They don’t seem to be having any trouble breathing.”
“True. And their color is good.” She paused. “But how could they all—it must have been in our food tonight!”
Royce nodded. “I can think of no other way so many of us could have been drugged.”
“But who—how—”
“There must have been some dish that all the others ate that you and I did not. Or something we did not drink.”
“I had no pudding. Rose did, but I’m not sure about the others.”
“I had none of that, either. And I didn’t eat the soup.”
Mary nodded. “Nor I. I ate a spoonful or two, but the turnips made it bitter—” She stopped, her eyes widening. “Do you think it was that? Perhaps that was why the soup was bitter.”
“It’s quite possible.”
“What should we do about them?” Mary asked, turning back to her sisters.
He shrugged. “I think we will have to let them sleep.”
“I suppose so.” It made Mary uneasy to leave her sisters in this state, but she had no idea how to wake them. Nor did there seem any purpose in doing so. “I will look in on them again later.”
“We’d best check on Miss Dalrymple. Do you know which chamber is hers?”
“The one on the other side of mine.” Mary led the way down the hall and knocked on the woman’s door.
There was no answer, and she knocked again more loudly. Finally, Mary opened the door and put her head in. She could make out the chaperone’s form on the bed, and the room was filled with the sound of her stentorian snoring.
Mary sighed and closed the door. “She apparently is in the same condition.”
As they turned away, the landlord came huffing and puffing up the stairs. A voluminous dressing gown was wrapped around his ample form, and a nightcap covered his bald head.
“Sir. Miss. Is there some problem? There was a complaint about the noise, you see, though I’m sure there must be an explanation. If I could be of help to you—”
“A fellow broke into Miss Bascombe’s room and tried to abduct her sister,” Royce told him bluntly.
The man’s jaw dropped. “I … I … I beg your pardon? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I have a large bump on my head to prove it,” Mary replied somewhat crossly.
“There is also the problem that several people in our party were drugged here tonight,” Royce added.
This statement had the effect of rendering the man speechless. His eyes bulged, and he wheezed out a few incomprehensible noises. He waved his hands in front of him as if frantically wiping something.
“No, no, I assure you,” he said at last. “Drugged? How could they be? We would never—no one in this establishment would do such a thing! I swear it.”
“It must have been put into our dinner,” Mary told him.
“No. No. Impossible. My wife herself cooked your meal. My daughters brought the trays to your parlor.”
“Then it would seem that it must have been done by one of them.” Royce took a step closer to the man, who immediately backed up, his eyes widening in alarm.
“No! No, I swear it. Why would we wish you harm? Perhaps they were not drugged. Perhaps they are merely …” He trailed off helplessly.
“We cannot awaken them. I smelled laudanum on their breath.”
“Perhaps they, um, took it themselves. For pain or—or they felt ill.”
“All four of them?” Royce asked skeptically. “It seems most unlikely.”
“We don’t even have any laudanum.” Mary looked the landlord in the eye. “You might not have thought it would do any harm. Just a little something to make a person sleep soundly. Perhaps someone paid you?”
“No!” The landlord’s head swung toward her, and he looked even more disturbed, if that was possible. “Never. This inn has an excellent reputation. I would never do anything to damage that. Not for any amount of money.”
“Then how did the laudanum get into the food?” Royce asked.
“Perhaps it did not happen at the inn. It was earlier.”
“We were in a closed carriage for several hours before we got here. It had to be done at supper.” Royce crossed his arms and regarded the man.
The landlord wilted, reluctantly admitting that the food, after preparation, was set on trays on the far side of the kitchen, waiting for the man’s daughters to take it up to the guests in the private dining room. So, apparently, were the pitchers of cider and milk. It had been a busy evening, and it was possible that the food had sat there for some minutes.
“So anyone could have walked by and dropped something in it?” Royce asked.
“Not anyone! We would have noticed a stranger in the kitchen, surely.” In the next instant, the landlord realized that this contention once again made him culpable, and he quickly backtracked. “Well, perhaps … that is to say, it was quite busy. My wife might not have noticed someone in that corner of the kitchen. It is right by the hallway. Someone could have nipped down the hall from the public room and dropped it in.”
Mary sighed. “I suppose there is nothing we can do about it now.”
Royce nodded and dismissed the landlord, who reiterated his assurances that nothing of this sort ever happened here. As the man trudged off down the stairs, still muttering to himself, Royce turned to Mary.
“Let’s get you to your room. I want to take a
look at that head wound. We should have tended to it long ago.”
“It was not the most pressing issue,” Mary pointed out, but she let him take her arm and propel her back into her room.
Inside the bedchamber, Mary checked on Rose, who was still sleeping, peacefully unaware of the turmoil about her. Royce dampened a washcloth and beckoned to Mary.
“Come here by the light.” He took her arms, turning her so that he could look at the wound. “You’re going to have a nasty bump. It cut the scalp as well.”
He parted her hair gently and held the wet cloth to the wound. Mary scarcely noticed the sting. She was far more aware of the feel of his fingers on her head. Royce’s breath ruffled her hair; his body was large and warm behind her. Suddenly she could think of nothing but the fact that he was standing so close to her. It occurred to her for the first time that she was in her bedchamber, inches away from a man—with nothing more than a thin cotton garment covering her.
A shiver ran through her, and her nipples hardened against her night rail. Had he noticed? Had his mind, too, turned to their physical closeness? Was he thinking now how alone they were, with everyone else fast asleep?
She could not help remembering that Royce, too, was not fully dressed. He had obviously yanked on only his breeches and shirt and come running when he heard her call, his shirt hanging loose and open at the top, exposing a V of his chest and a hint of his skin beneath, the dark circles that were his nipples.
Royce rested his other hand on her shoulder as he tended to her head. His hand was warm, and Mary could not help but remember his hands on her when he kissed her. She thought of his fingers gliding over her shoulder, caressing her, and her skin prickled. He moved, his hand sliding over a fraction to cup the curve of her shoulder.
She sensed him shift behind her, and his hand fell away. He cleared his throat. “Um, I think that is as clean as I can get it.” He moved to the washbasin and rinsed out the rag. “We should put something on it—I shall go ask the landlord if his wife has any sort of ointment.”
