She stilled, trying to make herself pay attention. She was so bloody tired. There it was again, that silly sound that probably wasn’t anything really, just something out of her imagination, woven there by her fatigue. Yes, that was it.
She slowly turned back to face the fireplace. The flames were dancing like the Cornish piskeys now, scampering and waving to and fro, always changing, shifting, their heat reaching out to her but she couldn’t feel it. She raised her hand to her face, or she tried to. Her arm dropped to her side. She was too overwhelmed by fatigue to move.
The noise came again, but she didn’t have the strength to turn. It was closer now and she knew it. She was now just simply waiting for it. Like a rabbit looking down a hunter’s gun, she thought, just standing here, waiting for that noise to come and get her.
How could a noise hurt her?
There was a soft murmuring beside her. She whispered, “What is happening? What is it?”
Soft sibilant murmurs came close to her ear, meaningless sounds, just nothing, really. She would have sworn that fingertips lightly brushed her hair. “You’re a whore,” that sweet dreamlike voice said. “A whore and you’ll die now, just like the other whores.”
“No,” she said. Her mouth was dry; it hurt to say that simple word. “No,” she said again. She felt arms close about her. She breathed in an elusive scent, then ever so gently, she was lowered to the floor. At last, for an instant, she felt the blessed heat of the fireplace, then it was gone and there was only coldness.
“North,” she said, then her head fell to the side and she said nothing more.
The wind was howling. There were swirling grains of sand in the air; the taste of salt was strong.
Without really realizing what she was doing, Caroline huddled down into the velvet cloak, then wondered why she was wearing it. Surely she hadn’t come for a walk without wearing something, but she couldn’t remember, couldn’t seem to grasp preparing to come for a walk.
It was dark. There was a quarter moon high in the sky to her left. Dear God, it hurt to open her eyes, but she did and she saw that moon, tasted the salt from the sea on her dry lips, and felt the bone-deep cold. She shivered then and came fully awake. She was tucked as far as possible underneath the jutting ledge of a large black rock. She knew where that rock was. It was very close to the cliff at St. Agnes Head. She knew too how she’d gotten there. Someone had drugged the tea. Someone had come to the bedchamber and made those odd rustling noises, then whispered in her ear that she was a whore and she was going to die, and then that someone had carried her away from Mount Hawke and brought her here.
What someone?
She stretched about, realizing her hands were bound behind her back, her ankles bound as well. She was leaning back, the main force of the wind off her, but the cold was hard and deep.
Where was that someone?
She was quite alone.
She knew terror that froze her brain and numbed her body. She saw her mother then, quite clearly: her beloved face, her green eyes bright with laughter, eyes just the same color green as Caroline’s, but then her mother’s face faded away and left only the memory of it. She’d not remembered that her mother’s eyes were green. “Mother,” she whispered. “Mother.”
She was alone in the dark of the night, the howling wind dinning around her. Surely it was a man who had brought her here, a man who had access to Mount Hawke.
Coombe? He’d come back, all smiles and sheepish looks, bringing with him North’s mother and sister, all to make him look like a saint, a reformed character, a man of conscience, to make all of them forget that he’d lied about Caroline meeting her supposed lover, Dr. Treath, that he’d possibly poisoned the oxtail soup that had made poor Alice so ill.
She heard a low moaning sound, close, too close. She huddled in on herself, wanting to escape it, knowing it was frightening, and then she realized it was coming from her, from deep within her, and the terror was now a part of her. It was over for her. She’d found North, but now after only months he would be alone again. No, no, he had his mother now and his sister. He wouldn’t become a brooding dark man again who didn’t laugh or jest.
She didn’t want North to laugh without her. She was selfish, but there it was. She didn’t want to just sit here and wait for the someone to come and stab her and push her off the cliff. She didn’t want to die.
She felt clearheaded for the first time. She didn’t feel much hope but she didn’t feel like rolling over and simply waiting for the someone to come and kill her. She tested the rope wrapped around her wrists. It was secure. She tried to pull her ankles apart. There was only about six inches leeway, not enough to run, barely enough to hobble along.
All right, then, if she wasn’t just going to give up, she had to do something. She felt the edges of the huge black outcropping rock. Ah, yes, there was nothing but sharp edges; she just prayed they were sharp enough.
She realized then that her hands were bare and they were cold, almost too cold now, and soon they would be numb. So her attacker had wrapped her cloak around her, but pulled no mittens on her hands. That wouldn’t be so bad, she thought, as she began to rub the rope vigorously against a sharp edge. Then she wouldn’t feel the pain, and she knew that was coming.
She gritted her teeth and sawed back and forth.
A black roiling cloud crashed against another, and the two of them covered the moon. It was terrifying, that complete, utter blackness. It seemed colder, the wind seemed louder. She could clearly hear the maddened waves crashing against the rocks at the base of St. Agnes Head, sending their freezing spray upward nearly halfway to the top of the cliff.
Move, dammit. She sawed faster. She felt stickiness and knew it was her blood. At least she felt it. That was something. She was breathless, with the pain from her hands, with the cold, piercing sharpness in her lungs. It hurt to breathe. She stopped a moment, drew a deep breath, and gently tugged at the rope.
It was loose.
She wanted to weep with the relief of it, the hope of it.
She went back to work. Soon the rope snapped and she was free. She brought her hands in front of her and stared down at them. They were red, abraded, and the outline of the rope was clear on her wrists. It didn’t matter. She was free and she was still alive. She quickly freed her ankles. When she scrambled to her feet she promptly collapsed.
Weak, she thought, she was too cold and too weak. She frantically rubbed her legs, her feet. Sharp stabs of pain shot through her legs. She ignored it as best she could.
She rose again, more slowly this time, hanging on to the rock. She didn’t fall this time. She took a step, then another, and another.
It was then she heard a horse coming. Actually, she felt the pounding of the horse’s hooves rather than heard it. He’d come for her. She wouldn’t just stand here and watch him come.
The cliffs were barren. What to do?
The beach, she thought, and picked up her cloak and skirts and ran northward along the cliff edge toward the beach path, only another fifty or so feet ahead. She would find a weapon on the beach, a rock or a piece of heavy driftwood. She would be able to hide against the base of the cliff at the back of the beach. The killer would have to walk down the steep path and that would give her time to plan, time to find a weapon, the chance to see who he was. Perhaps she would be able to take him by surprise.
She heard a shout. She heard a cry of sheer fury, then a string of curses, wafted away in the wind, that same wind that was deep inside her now, for she was gasping for breath, a stitch in her side, doubling her over. But she was nearly there, nearly to the cliff path.
The horse was coming closer. She could hear the shouts now, the curses, hear them blur and become indistinct. The wind was becoming stronger. No wonder there were no trees here. They would never survive this wind.
Her babe. Her hands went to her belly, as if holding her hands there would protect the child. She nearly lost her balance, flung her arms out to steady herself, then nea
rly plummeted down the cliff path. She caught herself, skidding to a stop sideways, sending a spay of rocks and dirt flying from beneath her feet.
She righted herself, stood there a moment, panting, listening. The horse was coming closer. Soon the man would be just above her, looking down, then climbing down after her. She had to hurry.
She skidded, ran, several times nearly going headfirst, but she had to be reckless, she had to or she could just sit down on the path and wait to die. Who was the man?
She stumbled and flew forward. She flung her arms out, breaking her fall, then rolled to the bottom of the path. She lay there just an instant, hoping she hadn’t broken a leg, then she rose. She looked back to see the cloaked man at the top of the path, looking down at her. Then he was coming down, as fast and recklessly as she had, his black cloak billowing about him, making him look like he was flying, looking like the Devil himself.
She ran as fast as she could over the wet clinging sand, looking wildly for a weapon, anything really, and she saw it then, a thick branch, but not too thick for her to grasp firmly. She grabbed it up, never breaking stride, and headed for the back of the beach. There were overhanging layers of shale sandstone, thick slabs of it, the porous rock cut away over the centuries deeply back under the cliff.
She would be trapped, she thought, stopping just a moment, her breath harsh in her ears, ripping pain through her chest. What to do? Then she knew that it was dark under that cutaway cliff and that would give her protection. But he would come for her and he was stronger. She would have to surprise him.
The black clouds suddenly cleared overhead and the moon shone down. She even heard a lone kestrel as it hovered. It was then she saw the vague indentations going upward beside the overhang. North had never mentioned this, nor had she noticed the outlines that surely would allow a person to climb upward. She didn’t question why the outlines, which were really actual footholds and handholds, were there or who fashioned them there. She didn’t think further, but raced to the first outline and hoisted herself upward.
Her foot fit quite nicely into the foothold. She grabbed a rock, surely a handhold there to aid the climber, and pulled herself up to the next foothold when she realized she couldn’t climb and carry the branch at the same time. She turned, saw the man below her, and threw the branch down at him with all her strength. She didn’t have much leverage, but she did the best she could. No, her chance lay in getting up there, before he did, perhaps she could get to his horse.
She heard him curse when the branch struck him, not hard enough, but it slowed him for just a moment.
She found a handhold and dragged herself upward to each foothold. Up and up she went until she was a good thirty feet above the beach. If she fell from here she’d surely die.
She stopped just a moment to catch her breath. She looked down to see him coming, sure and fast. She had to hurry. She looked up. Only about twenty more feet to the top. She just had to keep climbing and she would beat him. She’d have time to get his horse and ride away.
Suddenly there were no more handholds, no more footholds. They simply disappeared, or they’d never been there in the first place. She felt betrayed by the ancient people who had carved this upward climb. Why had they stopped? It made no sense. She looked about frantically, her bloody hands digging into the dirt around the jagged rocks, searching, searching.
To her right, yes, just to her right and straight beside her there was a foothold, but it would take all her strength to drag herself over to it.
Suddenly she heard a shout from above her, a man’s shout, and it was familiar. She felt a wild spurt of hope. Then she heard the report of a gun from below her. There was nothing else from above, not a whimper, nothing.
The man below her had shot her rescuer. North? Oh God, she couldn’t bear to think about that. She stretched as far as she could to her right, then heaved herself sideways, her hands frantically clutching at jagged rocks that seemed just beyond her reach, pulling herself until her feet found a hold. Then there was another, and it too was going sideways, back in nearly a straight line across the cliff edge. It made no sense, but she didn’t care. She just kept going, not thinking now, just making herself move.
She heard the man beneath her. She knew that he’d reached the end of the vertical handholds and footholds, knew that he wouldn’t have to take the time to discover they turned sharply sideways, going back along the face of the cliff.
Then, without warning, her foot slipped and she was hanging there, clinging to the rocks above her head, her legs dangling now, trying desperately to get a foothold but not finding one. Then he was there beside her, not more than six feet away from her, and she knew he was laughing because she would fall and she would die. Her hand slipped. She was flailing wildly but it was no use. She lost her remaining grip and fell, her scream of failure hurtling into the howling wind.
38
SHE GRABBED WILDLY at a gorse bush growing out of the cliff, and caught it. It slowed her but nothing more, then when it ripped out, she rocked hard sideways, her hip slamming against the cliff. It seemed to tremble beneath her weight. Then it gave, collapsing beneath her. She felt herself falling sideways, down, down, into dry musty air now, for the cliff had simply crumbled under her. She landed on her side on an incline and rolled another six feet to a smooth sandy flat ground. She lay there, panting hard, not wanting to know what had happened, not yet, simply because it had happened too quickly, a cliff collapsing beneath her and now she was inside the cliff itself, and she couldn’t seem to bring herself to accept it, much less understand it.
Her breathing finally slowed. The stitch in her side lessened. She felt her belly, but there was no pain there, no hint of cramping. The babe was all right, at least for the moment. Very slowly, she turned and sat up. The only light was from the moon high above the jagged opening her body had made when she’d burst through the earth.
She looked around, wondering what the devil this place was, then realized it had to be a cave, but it didn’t really look like any cave she’d ever seen before, not that she’d seen many, just one, and it had been small and dark and very damp. This cave was dry, the earth beneath her feet sandy and flat. She stood there, just looking around, querying her body, but all was well. Her hands were bloody and raw, but that didn’t matter. In fact, she welcomed the stinging pain. It meant she was alive.
The man would somehow get down here, then he would kill her, for she was now indeed trapped. If only she had a light. She walked away from the cliff face, inward, and she could still make out shapes. Perhaps the cave twisted back onto itself and gave out again onto the cliff and there was another opening. Of course there really hadn’t been an opening here, it had simply given way beneath her weight.
But surely the handholds and footholds had been planned apurpose just to get to this cave. But what had happened? It struck her then that there simply had to be another way out of here and maybe that way was upward.
She just had to find it. She kept walking slowly, looking, listening for the man, because she knew it wouldn’t be long before he found a way to climb down and get into the opening of the cave.
Whom had he shot atop the cliff? No, she just knew it hadn’t been North. But whom?
Suddenly she tripped. She didn’t fall, just stumbled and caught herself. By her foot there was something shiny sticking up out of the smooth, dry, sandy earth. She knelt down and freed it. It seemed to be circular and very smooth. It was shiny, a piece of jewelry of some kind. She wished she could go back to see what she had, but she had no intention of taking such a chance.
She slipped the jewelry into her cloak pocket and kept walking into the darkness.
From behind her, she heard an eerie call, like a ghost’s taunt on All Hallows’ Eve, a specter’s cry, all muffled and distorted by the cave walls. It echoed deep and dark, that voice that called like a beguiling siren, “Caroline, Caroline, you might as well stop now. I will have you soon enough and I will make you die very, very slowly. T
hat damned brat in your belly, that little bastard, will die with you.”
She began to shiver. She wrapped her arms around herself, felt the keening cries from deep within her bubble up, choking her, making her wheeze with fear. She forced herself through sheer strength of will to remain silent as the rocks on all sides of her. The voice came again, echoing and threading through the darkness, closer now, “Come here, Caroline. You’re more resourceful than the others, or perhaps you’re just luckier. Let me tell you about that pathetic woman, Elizabeth Godolphin. She whimpered, she was on her knees to me, begging me not to kill her, but I did, of course. She was even a worse slut than your aunt. I’ll tell you all about how your dear aunt died once I have you, Caroline. I want to see your face while I tell you how she tried to save herself, but she didn’t stand a chance. But her death was justice, she deserved it. No more about her now, not until I have you. Come out now, Caroline. You don’t want to make me angry.”
She shivered more violently. There was madness in that echoing eerie call. Madness and determination.
A weapon. She had to find something. She kept walking back into the cliff. The ceiling lowered, but it was still at least ten feet high. She turned a corner to the left. Suddenly it wasn’t quite so dark. She could make out shadows. Another opening, she knew it, there had to be another way, and she’d found it. She hurried now, running toward the vague glittery light, then stopped so fast she nearly fell over her own feet.
There, in front of her, on a long, very wide flat rock lay piles of gold—coins, jewelry, many armlets, bracelets, necklaces, so many of them—and there were loose jewels as well, spilling out of several gold chalices. And in the middle of all these jewels a mighty sword rose at an angle a good foot and a half into the air, its handle encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. It seemed to be embedded in the rock at least half its length. Good God, the sword must be at least four feet long. She just stared, her terror at bay for a brief second, realizing what she’d found.
The Nightingale Legacy Page 37
