Page 24 of Lord of Mistrust

“Where’s the nearest watermill? It won’t be far from Ralston Hill, where they’re expecting me to give myself up to them.”

“There’s an old fulling mill up by the crossroads, but it hasn’t been used for years.”

Anticipation shot up Robert’s spine. A crossroads! This could well be the traitors’ hideout.

In moments, he’d been shown on the map where to find the place. The issue now was how best to conduct a rescue. If he raised enough men to storm the place, there was always a risk that Chloe would be hurt during the fighting. Besides which, there were none of Walsingham’s men for miles as far as he was aware, and he’d no expectation of seeing Tilshead or Whiteley before they returned to the inn at three o’clock.

He’d have to go alone. He would plan his strategy after he’d had a good look at the place—and if he needed reinforcements, he’d return to the inn for them. He knew Hazelthwaite had joined in many a hue and cry and could swing a club with some ferocity.

Robert reached into his secret pocket and pulled out his dispatch, “Sir—I’m going to the mill to rescue Mistress Emmerson. I charge you to tell no one where I’m gone unless I fail to return by nightfall. This packet must not leave your sight until either Master Tilshead or Master Whiteley returns. Pass it to whoever reaches here first, with the strict injunction that he takes it to London with all speed. Tell my other associate that no one is to follow me to the mill before nightfall—the safe delivery of the dispatch takes precedence over the preservation of my sorry hide.”

The landlord provided him with the swiftest horse in the stables. As Robert mounted up, he reflected bitterly on the damage he’d inadvertently caused Chloe. Had he not pressed his attentions on her, and undoubtedly been seen doing so by one of the traitors, she would have remained safe.

Damn him for a fool! He should never have allowed himself to be distracted by her. Now, she was paying the price of his folly. He would never forgive himself if any harm came to her. And nor would Sir Mortimer Fowler.

Chapter Eighteen

Chloe blinked painfully at the glare beating on her face through the empty window, and wished there was some way of finding distraction. Her mind refused to relinquish the image of her driver’s haggard face, as their attackers beat and bullied him. She’d never witnessed such brutality before, and she still felt sick.

She must take stock of her situation and decide what to do. Currently, she was tied to a rickety chair in a bare room, with bonds that cut painfully into her flesh. Her kidnappers had subjected her to no further violence after the initial slap on the face she’d received for going to the driver’s rescue. Her jaw still ached from the impact, and she could taste blood. She’d neither screamed nor spoken since then, only glared balefully at the ruffians who’d imprisoned her in the old mill.

With—so she thought—great presence of mind, she’d pretended to faint when they tied her to the chair. She’d remained apparently insensible ever since, in hopes of learning what was to become of her. Why her abductors had taken her in the first place was a mystery. Surely, there was no value in her as a prisoner?

What she’d gathered thus far—judging by the distinctive accent of the most senior rogue—was that some of her captors were Spaniards. One of the foreigners had since departed, leaving her in the custody of two men.

“Are you sure? Where’s her ring?” The speaker, who had a definite Spanish accent, kept his voice to a whisper.

Chloe peeped through her eyelashes. Her two guards were hard to see in the gloom, but the Spaniard was of a slim build and appeared well-dressed. The other man looked rougher, and brawny to boot.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Mayhap she lost it,” growled the latter. “Or that felon from Southampton who told Harris about the courier stole it. Once a thief, always a thief, say I.”

“Harris’ note described only two on the cart. This is certainly the woman he meant. She arrived with Walsingham’s man, Mallory, and they took a room together. Where is Señor Harris? He should have returned by now.”

“Ask her,” the Englishman replied. “Or better still, let me question her.”

Chloe shivered at the lustful menace in his voice. Now all was clear. Weasel Face—or Master Harris, to give him his true name—hadn’t been working alone. One of his cronies had seen her and Robert together and thought them husband and wife. They knew Robert worked for Walsingham, and she was now to be used as a bargaining counter for the release of Harris.

It would take but a word to dash their hopes, but what would become of her if they knew the truth? Nay, it was safest to let them believe she was Robert’s wife—at least then they had reason to preserve her life—for the moment.

She must have stirred when the full horror of her situation struck her, for the Spaniard was instantly between her and the light. She gazed up at him blearily, then shrank back in apparent fright.

“Have no fear, Señora. We have no plans to harm you now. I warn you not to scream since no one can hear you. Any noise from you will make us angry.” He leaned closer. “Your husband—he loves you, yes?”

She nodded rapidly, doing her best to seem like a terrified and helpless female. If she could put them at their ease, she might be able to outwit her captors.

“Then you will not wait long. My man will bring him here for you.”

It was a relief when he moved away from her. She couldn’t believe how numb she felt. Mayhap she should imagine this was a nightmare from which she’d awaken—then she could view her predicament with detachment and devise some scheme. Only—nothing was coming to mind just now.

How much had changed in the few short days since she’d met Sir Robert Mallory! Escaping her dull life had been a disaster. Had she truly been bemoaning the boredom of existence with Aunt Philippa and Uncle Matthew? At least she’d been safe with them. Would marriage to Lord Brooke actually have been a fate worse than death?

She’d grown up a lot in the last few hours. Now, her life was at stake. If she escaped this adventure with her skin whole, she vowed never to complain again.

What of Robert? Perchance her captors wouldn’t find him. Mayhap, considering the circumstances of their parting, he’d have no inclination to save her anyway. He could just tell the traitors she was no wife of his, and that they could do what they liked. He had other, more important business to attend to.

Nay—surely he’d not abandon her? He owed her that much after the way he’d treated her.

But what if he did come and was killed trying to free her? How could she live with herself then, knowing the cruel things she’d said to him? Moaning softly, she let her head droop forward as if she’d fallen back into her swoon.