This was the saving of him. His opponent hadn’t expected him to fall and was unprepared for Robert’s savage thrust below his ribcage. With a cough and a groan, the Spaniard toppled slowly backward, his eyes glazing over. The mocking smile was gone.
Robert pushed himself upright, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. He kicked at the body on the ground to reassure himself he’d have no more trouble from that quarter. Then, his foot aching like the devil, he limped up the last flight of steps.
He prayed there were no more of the villains remaining aloft. If there were, in all likelihood, Chloe was already dead.
Chapter Twenty
Chloe’s gaze was glued to the hatchway in the floor. Something calamitous was happening in the mill—she’d heard the sounds of a struggle below, and the sharp crack of a firearm. Her pulse pounded and her mind was in agony, fearing a ball to the head at any moment. She’d heard her captors threatening it.
“Chloe! Odd’s blood—I’m so sorry!”
“Robert.” Her voice was a mere whisper, her relief overwhelming.
There was such warmth in his eyes, she expected him to embrace her, but he hung back, his eyes roving over her. He mustn’t look too closely—she hadn’t been treated gently and must look like a scarecrow.
Her rescuer seemed to have fared little better. His hair was stuck to his forehead and his damp shirt clung to him as if glued. His face was covered in cobwebs and smuts, and his bare feet were black with mud.
What did one say under such circumstances? She was as close to fainting now as she had been when they first took her. “You look a mess,” was all she could manage.
“I’ve seen you looking better, too, my sweeting.” He shot her a brief smile. “Did they harm you?” He knelt behind her, sawing at her bonds.
“Just a slap when I protested at their abuse of the litter’s driver. Have you seen him? Is he all right? How did you find me?”
“Too many questions.” Robert helped her to her feet, but they were numb and she could barely stand. Holding her by one elbow, he pressed his thumb gently to the corner of her mouth. It came away red.
The heat in his eyes had been replaced by a chilling anger. “I’faith! I shall return to them what they have given to you, and more. Assuming any remain alive.” He shifted his gaze from hers.
Chloe chafed at her wrists, trying to rub some feeling back into them. She felt as though all her joints were painfully frozen.
Robert flung her bonds into a corner of the room, then sheathed his knife. It was then that she saw a pink stain slowly spreading out from a slash in his sleeve.
“Merciful heaven—you’re wounded!” She staggered across to inspect his injury but instead found herself enfolded in his arms, pressed hard against his chest.
“It’s all right, sweeting.” His voice was a soft murmur. “You’re safe now—that’s all that matters. Don’t worry about me.”
She clung to him, accepting the safe haven of his embrace, the soothing sound of his voice, and the hand gently stroking her back. It would be all too easy to collapse in a welter of tears now, prolonging that comforting—but stirring—embrace.
Nay, there was no time for passion. He must have much to attend to, and he’d need her help, particularly now that he was wounded. Forcing back both tears and temptation, she lifted her head to look at him, hoping her gratitude showed.
He gazed back at her, his eyes skimming over her brow, her hair, her lips. Then he released her and smoothed the hair back from her face before cupping it in both hands.
There was no mistaking his intention. That fiery heat was back in his brilliant blue eyes, and his gaze was fixed on her mouth. Bending his head, he brushed his lips lightly across hers. She thrilled at the gossamer touch, met the invitation in his gaze, and swallowed hard.
She stepped away abruptly. She’d already been imperiled once this day—now she was in danger again but of a very different kind.
“We must do something about that arm of yours. I can’t have my gallant rescuer bleed to death through lack of care.”
Robert seemed to come out of the daze he’d been in and glanced at his arm. “Indeed.”
“Take your shirt off.” Her lips still flamed from the tender salute of his kiss. Rather than give him any idea of how he’d made her feel, she must distract herself with practicalities.
She indicated the chair to which she’d been tied. “Sit down and I’ll bandage you up. Give me your knife—I know not what they’ve done with mine.”
She saw him surreptitiously wipe a smear of blood from the blade before handing it to her, and all thoughts of kisses and caresses fled. Their situation had been desperate, and he’d been forced to shed blood. In case the danger was not yet over, she must keep her wits about her.
Cutting into Robert’s shirt sleeve above his wound, she sawed gingerly through the cloth. He was then able to remove his shirt without too much pain. She examined the garment with a sinking heart—it was too begrimed to make good bandages. Turning away, she tucked her skirt up into her belt and tried cutting some clean cloth from her petticoat.
“What do you think you’re doing? You’ll cut yourself! Let me do it.” He sank to his knees in front of her and began carefully detaching a strip of linen.
She gazed at his bent head as he worked. This was a novel situation! Never before had she had a half-naked man kneeling at her feet, the muscles working in his broad shoulders as he cut away part of her petticoat. It was impossible not to be fascinated by his smooth skin and by the way his damp hair curled at the back of his neck. She would love to run her fingers through the luxuriant locks—but she must stay her hand, for that would make her a wanton. He’d been right when he said a brush with death made one feel more alive.
He rose, handed her the strip of linen, and sat down.
“I need some sort of pad.” It took all the strength she could muster to dispel her lascivious thoughts. “Wait—this will serve.” She fished in her bodice for her handkerchief, which she then folded and placed against the deep cut in Robert’s arm, bidding him keep it there.
She was no expert at wound dressing, but she used her common sense and felt she’d done a tolerably good job. He repressed a wince once or twice, but she steeled her nerve. As soon as she got home, she’d spend more time studying medical books and herbals. One never knew when such knowledge might be critical.
“Thank you. I’m in your debt. Now, Chloe—listen to me. You’ve been impressively courageous—I want you to be so just a little longer. There are some things I need to do in the lower levels of the mill before we go, and would prefer you to remain here. Have no fear,” he said quickly, as her eyes widened. “No one can get in except through that hatchway. I’ll leave you this dag to point at them—’tis usually a good deterrent.”
He handed her the gun and showed her how to hold it properly. “I suggest you walk about the room and get your legs working again. If anything goes awry, bellow through the hatch—I’ll be back in an instant.”
An uncomfortable ten minutes passed as she paced about the dusty floor, regularly gazing through the window and longing to be out in the fresh air again. She tried to close her ears to the sounds coming from below, but it was impossible to drown out the bumping and scraping—or the odd muffled curse. Robert was trying to spare her the sight of blood—mayhap even the sight of corpses. She couldn’t help but be grateful for his sensitivity.
How differently she felt toward him now! This morn, she’d hated him with the full force of wounded pride. Through his bravery today, he’d completely reversed her opinion. It was a struggle to come to terms with the admiration she now felt. He’d called her “sweeting”, a term of endearment she’d never received before. Then he’d kissed her with infinite tenderness. Could it be that he genuinely cared for her? But how could he, on so short an acquaintance?
Her reverie was interrupted by Robert panting up the steps.
“Let’s get out of this vermin-ridden relic.” He held out his
hands to help her descend. She looked neither to the left nor right as they left via the mill’s main door, afraid of what might meet her eyes. For a merciless killer, Robert had made every effort to treat his rescued damsel-in-distress with consideration.
“I’m glad I chose to wade through the water, and not take the path. No one would have been able to mistake my approach through this stuff.” He gestured to the banks along which they now made their way. These were smothered with rosebay willowherb, in some places nearly as high as Robert’s head. The slightest touch against the plants released a myriad of floating seeds into the air.
“I’m grateful you did, too. It was a most accomplished rescue.”
“I’ll be in trouble with Walsingham, though, and no mistake.” Robert grimaced.
Walsingham? She frowned. “My kidnappers said you worked for Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster, but I assumed they’d confused you with somebody else.”
He looked uncomfortable. “Ah, I haven’t yet told you, have I? I daresay I must, but now is not the time. God be thanked—my horse is still here.”
“So, it’s true, then? You do work for Walsingham?” Chloe was in no mood to be fobbed off.
“I do, but it’s a long story, and we need to concentrate on getting out of here, now. There’ll be time enough later for the full, sorry tale.”
His jaw was set, and it was clear he had no intention of answering her questions. He looked like a man on a mission, and that mission was not yet done.
He looked her up and down. “What happened to your bag and all your things? Did those sewer rats take them from you? What did they do with the litter?”
“I know not. I still have my hanging pocket and my spoon. They took my knife, of course.”
“Then let us hope your possessions may yet be discovered. I’ll send someone to look for them as soon as we get back to the White Hart.” He glanced up at the sky. “It must be almost five. I wonder if ’tis too late to capture the man I was meant to see at Ralston Hill?”
What man who’d been sent to meet him? What did Robert know of this business and the reason she’d been kidnapped? How had he known where to find her?
He rummaged in his saddlebags, produced a clean shirt, and pulled it carefully over his head. She could tell his injured arm was already stiffening, and her questions were forgotten. They must hurry back to the inn where some physick could be found—he’d been injured in her defense, and needed help.
“I regret to say that I’ve left my coat in the undergrowth near the mill. My sword also. But we have the dag, and I’ve hidden our enemies’ blades, so none can make use of them. Let us assume only one of their number is yet at large, and that we shall arrive unchallenged. Up you go.”
Hands about her waist, he hoisted her onto his mount, then climbed into the saddle behind her. “You’ll travel more comfortably in my lap. More safely, too, methinks.”
He gave her a crooked grin and settled her against him. She nuzzled her face into his neck to hide her blushes, and his arm tightened around her. She took comfort in his closeness—it quelled the trembling that now wracked her body and it helped her defeat the threatening tears.
The sun was westering as they started their journey back. The air had cooled, and though the sun’s rays still gilded the trees edging the road, a light breeze had sprung up. Chloe fervently hoped they wouldn’t meet anyone—her current situation was hardly one in which a young gentlewoman should be found. Whatever would her aunt and uncle say if they knew?
Mayhap that part of her that was Mistress Dela Riviere was now coming to the fore. She was beginning to be distracted from her woes by the dusty, musky smell of Robert’s body. She was captivated by the rise and fall of his chest, and by the taut muscles where her hands clasped him.
He had most certainly proved his worth today. Why—he’d even bled in her defense! Perchance she ought to reconsider his offer of marriage to protect her name. He’d not painted a pretty picture of wedded bliss, but the circumstances had been harrowing, so mayhap he should be forgiven for that. He seemed to like her well enough. He had a manor, he’d said, and doubtless a house in London, both of which he’d been prepared to put at her disposal. And if she was betrothed to Sir Robert Mallory, there would be nothing Lord Brooke could do about it.
Perchance she should encourage that interest she’d perceived in Robert, make the most of any future tender moment. Marriage to him might be exactly the solution she’d been looking for.
Chapter Twenty-One
Drooping from weariness and pain, Robert found that the ride to the inn with Chloe took on the quality of a dream. Luckily, Fate smiled on them—there were few people about, and none of them took much notice of the bedraggled riders sharing the same steed.
His lovely burden was barely awake when he reined the horse to a halt and slid her gently down to the ground. To his great relief, Tilshead came racing out of the inn and was able to steady Chloe as she roused from her daze.
Robert dismounted quickly, and regained possession of his prize, settling a proprietorial hand on her shoulder.
Tilshead sketched them both a bow. “Sir Robert. What the devil have you been up to?”
“Patience, fellow. And pray, watch your words—there’s a lady present. I’ve been saving the damsel, as you see, and putting a number of our foes out of action. They had her imprisoned at a derelict fulling mill. What have you been up to, sirrah?”
Tilshead looked smug. “I mustered the hue and cry and set an ambush at Ralston Hill. The traitor sent to parley with you was wounded, but he managed to run. The men are still tracking him now. It shouldn’t take long—he spouted curses at us, some of them in Spanish. I doubt he knows the area as well as the local fellows. Nasty looking creature, with half of one ear missing—shouldn’t be too hard to find. ’Tis a pity you missed the fray—it would have entertained you.”
Robert wasn’t pleased to hear that the man had escaped. “What of our captive, that weasel-faced cur?”
“Name’s Harris, it turns out. He’s still safe, if not quite so sound as he once was. He may be of further use to us. Is this your Mistress Emmerson?”
“Aye. Mistress, may I present Master Tilshead, a grizzled old mercenary now doing his bit for the local justices. Mistress Emmerson has had a trying time of it and needs to rest.”
Tilshead’s gaze dipped to his arm. A pox on’t—the knife slash was still oozing.
“Looks as if you need to do likewise, sir. Shall I send Sim for a sawbones?”
“It would do no harm—he can look Mistress Emmerson over, too, and make up a tonic for her. Where’s Whiteley?”
Tilshead stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Off up to London with your dispatch. There was a large party of wool merchants heading that way, escorting several wagons of cloth, so he’ll be well-protected. Shall I send Hazelthwaite and a couple of men to that mill? They can see if there are any more vermin to round up.”
Chloe swayed against Robert, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. The poor woman was exhausted and had eaten nothing since that morning. Come to think of it, nor had he. It would be a relief to hand matters over to the doughty Tilshead.
“There’s not much rounding up to do. One fellow may be able to give you information, but I fear the rest are beyond talking.”
Tilshead raised a questioning eyebrow. “How many did you kill, sir?”
“Four.” Robert cringed at the critical look in Tilshead’s eye. Four potential informants now dead—he could read the man’s thoughts. “I lost my temper,” he added, clenching his jaw.
Tilshead whistled between his teeth. “God forbid I should ever be around when you lose your temper, Sir Robert!”
“I shall endeavor not to lose it with you,” he promised. “How fares the litter driver? It looked as if he was soundly beaten, and he must have staggered some distance to raise the alarm.” Had the man not done so, he might never have stolen a march on the conspirators and wrested Chloe from their clutches. He might even now
be suffering from their brutal torture, and his precious dispatch would once more be in enemy hands.
“Beyond our help.” When Robert raised his eyebrows, Tilshead shook his head. “His heart gave out, poor soul.”
Robert’s fists clenched. “Let there be no more casualties in this battle,” he ground out. “I’ll have no more innocents endangered either. While I see to Mistress Emmerson, send word to Walsingham. We need trained soldiers and expert information gatherers to deal with these merciless dogs. Have a watch put on the mill in hopes the man who escaped you at Ralston Hill returns to their den. If he hasn’t shown up by dawn tomorrow, you may search the bodies, then dispose of them. Take anything you find straight to Walsingham.”
He felt Chloe stir and tightened his arm. “That done, I’d be grateful if you’d have the nearby outbuildings searched. We are owed two horses, a litter, and Mistress Emmerson’s luggage. Those can be sent back to the White Hart.”
Bidding the man adieu, he took Chloe’s elbow and escorted her into the inn, where a warm welcome greeted them. Chloe was borne away by Goody Hazelthwaite, eager to offer her washing things and refreshment. A physician was sent for, whom Robert sent straight up to Chloe before allowing the fellow to look at his wound. It was pronounced clean, lathered with a strong-smelling salve, and bound up with fresh bandages. Robert refused to take any tisanes, concoctions, decoctions, or nostrums, preferring brandywine—his usual remedy for pain.
He then drowsed in a chair in a private parlor, trying not to worry too much about what was afoot in his absence. Tilshead was a good man, and a trustworthy one, as was Whiteley. And if Walsingham was able to send help swiftly, they might be able to net every last plotter in this particular viper’s nest.
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 10
