But Noonan moved forward and cupped his hands, and Brandon didn’t hesitate, vaulting onto the horse’s back and landing as lightly as he could. Aristide jerked, but settled quickly enough, and Brandon gathered the overlong reins, looping them around his wrist. He glanced back at Noonan, ready to tell him goodbye, but the old man had already managed to get himself onto the back of Aristide’s twin, Apollo, with the grace of a man born to it, and Brandon remembered that Noonan was the best horseman he knew.
“Don’t just stare at me, you fool boy! Time’s a-wasting. We’ve got to rescue the maiden. No, not exactly a maiden,” he added judiciously.
“If I weren’t in such a damned hurry I’d plant you one for that,” he warned, letting Aristide settle himself as he turned him toward the shadowed road ahead.
“I’d like to see you try. Stop jawing.” Before he could even move, Noonan shot past him, Apollo taking his rider with grace and speed. Brandon dug in his heels and leaped after them, keeping his mind a merciful blank, concentrating only on the horse beneath him, the darkening road, and the absolute need for speed. If he thought about what Emma might be going through, what might have already happened to her, he’d go mad. All he could do was ride and throw caution to the winds.
Emma fell asleep. She would have thought such a thing would be impossible, trapped in a fetid conveyance stinking of death and putrefaction, a madman for company, two murderers roaming outside, but exhaustion hit her. She knew full well the dangers of a head injury such as the one she might have incurred when she smacked down on the marble floor, and her nausea could have been a sign of concussion. Fortunately there were more probable causes. Her head ached, but not unbearably, and her masses of thick hair would have provided better protection than one of those padded helmets worn into battle. Even a charlatan like Fenrush would have noticed if her eyes were uneven, another sure sign, and the chance of being concussed was only a minor concern when faced with imminent death. She simply closed her mind to the noise Fenrush was making, closed her eyes to the sight of him, and slept.
“Where’s he gone to now?” The hissed question came from Collins, and she opened her eyes to a darkness that was almost absolute. She was alone in the carriage—she could see just enough to ascertain that, and Collins was talking with his partner in crime just beyond the door of the closed carriage. She didn’t move, observing what she could from her position tucked in the corner of the seat. The sky was inky black—no trace of a moon broke through, no stars provided any relief. The wind was rustling through the leaves, and the scent of a coming storm brought back her childhood in the country.
Her entire body ached from being held in constraints for so long. She jerked at her wrists, and the rope tightened painfully. Her instincts told her it was well before midnight, but she could smell burning coals, and she knew they would put their plan into action before long. She had limited time before they put their filthy hands on her and dragged her out, but in the meantime she had to do everything she could. No errant knight would save her, since the errant knight in her life had no idea where she’d gone. It was just as well—she would never want to risk his life. She’d never really expected much of a happy ending for herself—this was simply in keeping with the choices she had made.
She moved her fingers, trying to work on the rope that bound her wrists. It was covered in something both warm and wet, and she knew it was her own blood. She dragged the rough hemp over her wrists again and again, enough that the moisture was making the bonds ties slippery around her flesh. It hurt like hell, but the more blood she could summon the more chance she had of pulling her hands through the knots, and she kept at it, sawing at her wrists with ruthless efficiency, until one hand finally slid free.
She swallowed her gasp of relief, pausing for a moment, then tugged her other hand free. Her arms were still clamped to her side by the heavier rope, and the knot for that was in the back. She squirmed, trying to dislodge it, but it was useless. Whoever had bound her had done so with ruthless efficiency—she was already having trouble breathing. She was trapped and freeing her hands had done her absolutely no good whatsoever.
And then she saw Fenrush’s abandoned surgical saw. It was on the seat opposite her—wedged into the back, and he probably hadn’t even realized he’d lost it. Collins wouldn’t know either, and she’d take any possible advantage she could get. She held very still, listening.
Neither of the men had taken any notice of her quiet exertions—they were too busy searching for Fenrush, who apparently had disappeared while she slept. If he was truly gone would they still follow his instructions, place her, untouched, inside the building, or would they do as they had wanted, rape and kill her and abandon her body by the side of the road? If she managed to gain possession of the saw it was, at least, something, but as a weapon it was hardly optimal. It could, however, cut through the ropes that bound her body.
She had to cross to the other seat without making a sound, a daunting prospect, but the longer she hesitated the harder it would be. She pushed herself up with her feet and tumbled across the narrow space, landing face first on the seat, her knees hitting the floor hard, noisily. She held still, listening, but her captors weren’t rushing the carriage, and she had to assume they were out of earshot. She tried to push up, but her knees were weak, shaking, barely able to support her body as she tried to lever herself up onto the seat, and she wanted to weep in frustration.
She couldn’t do it. Her cramped body couldn’t hold her, and sounds were coming from the surrounding darkness, moving toward the carriage. With one last, desperate push she managed to trap the saw with her sleeve before tumbling back onto the floor.
A moment later the door swung open. “In a hurry, Mrs. Cadbury?” Collins asked in a jovial tone. “Wouldn’t want to keep a lady waiting.” He hauled her out into the damp night air, the saw still shoved awkwardly up her sleeve. It split the fabric and cut into her skin, but there was already so much blood from her abraded wrists that it hardly mattered.
In the darkness, blood was black.
She was dropped on the ground, and she let out an involuntary cry of pain as the saw bit deeper into her arm. “Can’t have that, can we, Beedle? You got something you could put in her mouth to keep her quiet.”
The smaller man grasped the front of his trousers suggestively, grinning. “That I do.”
“I wouldn’t try it. She’ll bite yer John Thomas clean off,” Collins advised him, and Beedle squirmed.
She tried to scream, but Collins moved fast for such a big man, clamping a hand over her face, holding her jaw shut as she struggled, making strangled sounds of rage. He was too strong to fight, and he pushed some wadding into her mouth, almost choking her, before he hauled her up and over his massive shoulder.
“Bring the old man,” he added, moving forward into the darkness, and Beedle nodded. From her ignominious position she could see Fenrush huddled on the ground, making snuffling noises that reminded her of a pig hunting for truffles, and then Collins swung away, and she had no choice but to try to retain her balance without him feeling the steel of the surgical tool against her skin.
She waited. They were an eerie procession in the moonless night, moving through the trees, the rustling of the wind covering any sound they might make. It had to be past midnight already, and if their plan was to burn the Dower House with Rockite kettles, then they would have to go back and secure the pots of coals they had planned to use, leaving her time to work her way out of her bonds and warn the women.
It was a vicious way to fight against the helpless. Rockite kettles had come from the farmer rebellion of the fictional Captain Rock against the greedy landlords, and when flung at a structure they burned with infernal intensity. If they managed to fling them at the Dower House the women would be trapped.
She couldn’t let that happen. When Collins halted, sliding her down his body with revolting lasciviousness, she didn’t dare wait any longer.
She tried to scream past the gag, she thrash
ed and struggled and made as much noise as she could manage, hoping it might wake the sleeping house, but she already knew it was too little to help. Collins’s big fist came down, and the darkness caved in around her.
“Next time you want to rescue a damsel in distress, would ye at least plan it better?” Noonan demanded as they pulled their horses to a halt by the front gate of Starlings House. “I don’t suppose we can get a dram of whiskey before we go haring off?”
“You can do what you want, as long you alert the household and send help to the Dower House,” Brandon said grimly.
“I’ll stay with ye.” Noonan was long suffering but determined.
“No, you won’t, you’ll get help,” Brandon snapped. “I don’t know what they have planned, how many men are involved, but I can at least hold them off until help arrives.”
“Lad, you don’t even know if she’s here.”
“She is.” Brandon stared into the darkness. He could just barely see the outlines of the Dower House, but his instincts, which had kept him alive in conflicts that had killed all those around him, told him he wasn’t wrong. “Get moving!”
“One man against an army?” Noonan scoffed, but there was no missing the real concern in his voice.
She was here and she was still alive—he knew it in his bones, and suddenly all his fear vanished. There was time, he could save her, and relief and exultation filled him, wiping away his exhaustion. He would rip the heart out of anyone who had tried to harm her, he would take her to safety and never let her go again.
“No one’s going to hurt her,” he said, turning Aristide toward the winding road to the dower house. “I won’t let them.”
“Ye’re daft,” Noonan said, but he was already moving toward the main house, Apollo picking up speed.
Brandon started forward. He couldn’t very well thunder up to the rescue—even if he had enough rage to destroy an army he was still only one man, and he needed the element of surprise. He nudged the poor, exhausted horse onto the grass to muffle the sounds of his hooves and moved forward into the inky blackness.
Chapter 29
Emma could smell fire. She slowly lifted her head, ignoring the pain, and looked around her in the darkness. She was in a room, not one she recognized, and she’d been secured to a chair, upright. There were windows—the patch of dark sky was still marginally lighter than the walls, and she tried to jerk her chair forward. The house was silent, but the scrape of the wood against the floor was too soft to rouse anyone. She squirmed, trying to see if she still retained possession of the small surgical saw, and a gratifying tear at her skin reassured her. She would end up covered with scars like a pirate, assuming she managed to survive this night, and she didn’t care.
She must be in the Dower House, presumably in one of the attics. The house was still and silent—everyone would be asleep, and there was no terrifying crackle of flames licking at ancient timber.
But she could smell fire.
She jerked again in the chair, trying to make noise, making it thump against someone’s ceiling, but she couldn’t lever herself up enough for a satisfying sound. She tried it again, when a soft, eerie voice came to her out of the darkness.
“It’s useless to fight it, Mrs. Cadbury. This is payment for your sins.”
She froze, squinting through the shadows, and finally focused on Mr. Fenrush sitting placidly by the window, watching her out of glittering eyes. For a moment she was disoriented—what was he doing there? The fires had been set—she could smell the slow burning start of them—and he was still in the house.
She worked with her tongue, trying to dislodge the gag, but the piece of fabric was huge, and she was getting nowhere. She rocked in the chair again, hoping the repeated thumps might rouse someone, but she didn’t hold out any great hope. She knew from experience that these women slept like the dead—too many nights of working had trained them to sleep well and deeply when afforded the chance, and it had always been absurdly difficult to rouse them for morning classes in London. No one would waken to a muffled thump.
She would have to be more creative. Fenrush hadn’t moved, seeming relaxed and comfortable, and she tried to move her hand around to loosen the saw from sleeve.
She couldn’t move. The new ropes that bound her to the chair had simply been added to the old ones, and all the squirming and twisting and fidgeting got her nowhere. She couldn’t move her hand enough to reach the knife.
“You’re wondering why I’m here, Mrs. Cadbury?” Fenrush said in that still eerily polite voice. “I wanted to see you burn. Collins thought it an excellent idea, though I expect I shall have to reprimand him when we return to London. He’s become much too impertinent. I can’t abide impertinent servants.”
He might have been discussing the dismally crowded condition in the women’s ward, as he often did. His solution was usually to set the women out on the streets to fend for themselves while he made room for male patients with such debilitating conditions as a mild case of gout, just as Emma had fought him tooth and nail. His current logic made no sense—he could hardly watch her burn without succumbing to the conflagration himself.
She jerked the chair again, but he didn’t move, placidly watching her as he might observe a patient. “It’s too late,” he murmured. “The fires are set.”
His voice was softly cheerful, but she ignored him, concentrating on reaching the saw. The smell was stronger now, and She knew it wouldn’t be long before she heard the sounds of crackling flames, and by then it would be too late.
With sudden determination she flung her body onto the floor, making as much noise as she could, loud enough to wake the dead, she hoped, and the saw slid out of her sleeve, close enough to grasp. She rolled, banging the chair while she did so, kicking at the floor, and ended up with the saw clutched her fist.
Fenrush hadn’t moved from his spot near the window. She’d seen dementia in late-stage syphilis cases, and he had clearly slid into that foggy world, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking him harmless. When madness hit, patients could be extremely violent.
She twisted her wrists, managing to reach the first layer of ropes imprisoning her, and she sawed through it with surprising ease. No wonder she seemed to be bleeding everywhere—the tool was razor sharp, and as it severed the second course of ropes it tore into her dress as well.
Once her arms were free, the pain of blood returning to her muscles almost made her pass out. It ripped through her, and she wanted to scream, needed to scream. She yanked the gag out of dry mouth and shrieked at the top of her lungs.
“Fire! Get out of the house. Get out, get out!” she shouted, reaching down to free her legs and ankles. At last she could hear movement down below—voices and cries, as the women awoke.
Fenrush was still watching her. “It won’t do them any good,” he said in a sweet, practical voice. “There are fires at each of the doors. There’s no way out for them—I made sure of it. The whores must be destroyed by flame, so sayeth the Lord.”
She tried to push herself up from the floor, using the overturned chair, but she fell back as blood came screaming into her muscles. “No, he doesn’t,” she snapped. “I had most of the Bible memorized by the time I was twelve, and nowhere does it say whores must be destroyed. Almost every time they’re mentioned someone is saving them, and it’s only the Great Whore of Babylon who gets eaten and burned, and she’s not even a woman, she’s a city.”
Why in heaven’s name was she arguing about church doctrine when she could hear the increasing noise of the flames, the cries of the women? There was now an orange glow in the window above Fenrush’s body. She had to move, and now.
“Fornicator,” Fenrush said, his voice rising. “You are the Whore of Babylon, filth and degradation and everything that is evil. . .”
“Like murdering men for profit?” She needed to shut her mouth, concentrate of getting out of there, helping the occasionally feather-headed women to get to safety, not enflame a madman.
It was too late. Fenrush stood up, a fluid movement for someone of such wasted corpulence, and moved toward her, madness in his eyes. She tried to rise one more time, only to collapse again as he fell on top of her. He was clawing at her, screaming at her, tearing at her skin, and she managed to pull her knees up, just enough, to lever him off her, as she shoved up with the saw and sliced open his throat.
It was quick and simple—she’d cut into flesh a hundred times with a blade such as this, and there was no squeamishness in her nature. He struggled, falling back to clutch at his slashed neck, but it was too late. He was still kicking the floor when she finally managed to stumble to her feet and find the door.
She heard the hysterical cries from down below. The fire had reached the Gaggle, and nothing mattered, not pain or weakness, as she threw herself down the narrow stairs, into the blazing heat, to get to them.
.
The Dower House was on fire, flames soaring up into the night sky, and Brandon’s last bit of calm deserted him. Flinging himself from the horse, he started running toward the conflagration. Flames had engulfed the front entrance, and he could see women at the windows, trapped, desperate, and he knew Emma had to be among them, fighting for her life. He had to get to her, he had to get all of them out, he had to. . .
The cudgel smashed down out of nowhere, but he managed to jerk out of the way at the last minute, the blow that would have crushed his skull numbing his shoulder instead. It was the huge man he’d faced in the muddy field a few short days ago—he’d know those button-black eyes anywhere.
“Now, we can’t have you interfering with our nice bonfire,” the oaf said in a cajoling voice. “After all the trouble we’ve gone to. You messed with my work once—I can’t have that again, can I, Beedle?”