Page 76 of Impetuous

Whatever last hopes Cassandra had that the knock on her head had been accidental were banished by the sight of the drag marks. Someone had intentionally hurt her, then hidden her in this odd place.

Cautiously she levered herself to her feet, groaning at the increased pounding in her skull. But after a moment everything settled down again, and she walked toward the door. She had little hope of it being unlocked, but she had to try.

As she expected, when she reached the stout wooden door and tried to push it open, it did not budge. With a sigh, she sat down, leaned back against the door and contemplated her surroundings once more. Where in the world was she? This place was so strange looking that she felt as if she could have been transported to another world.

She simply sat in a kind of stupor for a long time, the pain in her head gradually receding to a dull ache. After a time it came to her what this building must be—one of the round windmills she had seen here and there around Haverly House. None of them were in use now; Philip had said that they had been used to pump water out of the fens long ago.

The knowledge, however, helped her little. It only confirmed her suspicion that she had been stashed in a place where people rarely, if ever, went. She wondered if anyone would think to look for her here and, if so, when. She decided that she would be better off finding a way out of the place than sitting around waiting for the people at Haverly House to realize that she was gone and come searching for her.

She got up and examined the door again, going over the old-fashioned iron latch. It was quite sturdy, although it seemed to her that the latch was merely fastened and not actually locked. That meant that the door must be jammed shut from the outside, which took away the hope of setting herself free by somehow picking the lock. Since the door opened outward, there were no hinges on the inside that she could try to unfasten. She could think of no way to get out other than to batter down the thick wooden door, and that did not seem likely. She tried banging her hands against it and shouting, but that brought no response. The old door was so thick that she was not sure how much of the noise she was making even penetrated it.

After a time she stopped shouting and began to prowl about the room, considering her options and trying to ignore the hunger that began to gnaw at her stomach. She had doubtless missed tea. The light in the room was fading fast. She knew she would have to move quickly if she were to do anything at all. The windows were all too high for her to see out of, and she could find no way to climb up to any of them. She went to the dilapidated staircase, but after looking up at the treads, so many of them broken, missing or sagging, she knew that climbing up to the top of the windmill and trying to signal was out of the question.

Next she crisscrossed the floor, taking stock of the objects in the room. There were not many. She found a broom, which she supposed might be somewhat useful as a weapon if her attacker decided to return. There was also a length of coiled rope. She tried to figure out some way that she could use it to climb up to the lowest window, but there were no handy timbers or hooks to throw it across so she could climb. She found a broken chair, a few screws, a gear lying on the floor, and a small square of metal that she thought might have fallen from the machinery. She decided that either the chair or the piece of metal would be a better weapon than the broom.

She brought her finds over to the door and tried banging on it with each of them, hoping that someone might hear the sound, but after several minutes of fruitless effort, she gave up on that activity. She thought of tossing something through one of the windows. If there was anyone around, it might attract attention. It seemed unlikely that there would be anyone there, especially with night approaching, but at least it was something to do, instead of just sitting here. At least someone might notice the object lying there on the grass tomorrow and come to investigate.

For a while she tried hurling the few things she had at one of the windows. The gear was too heavy; she could not chuck it high enough to reach the window. So were the chair and the metal plate. She searched all over the defunct machinery for a smaller part that she might be able to use, but though she pulled and twisted, nothing came off. Finally she picked up the chair and began to bang it against the machine. After a good deal of smashing, one of the legs snapped off. She picked it up and hurled it at the window. Perversely, it sailed above the window. She retrieved it and tried again. On the fourth try the chair leg struck the paned window and bounced off harmlessly. But on the second try after that, it hit one of the panes just right and crashed through it.

Cassandra let out a shriek of exultation and jumped up and down. After a few minutes, however, she sank back down again beside the door. She had managed the feat, but what good had it done?

Her stomach growled, reminding her of how long it had been since she had eaten. The room was growing darker by the minute. The dirty windows made it seem even dimmer than it was. The machinery in the center was only a hulking shadow now, and shadows seemed to gather all around the room, wherever wall and floor met. Cassandra did not like the idea of being inside this building when it was completely dark.

She got up and went over to the chair, now even more broken than before. She whacked it against the machinery a few more times and managed to break off another leg. It, she thought, would make the best weapon. Taking it and the metal plate, she returned to the door and tried banging the metal plate against it a few more times. Finally she sat down beside the door and leaned back against the wall. She could think of nothing else she could do to call attention to her plight or to protect herself. At least she had a weapon in case her attacker decided to pay her a visit.

There was no reason for him to return, of course, but, then, there was no reason for anyone to have attacked her and thrown her in here in the first place. What good would it do? She could not imagine that anyone would personally dislike her enough to abduct her. The only person she could think of who did was Joanna, who was growing more peevish every day about the amount of time that Cassandra and Sir Philip spent together. But Joanna was far too lazy to carry out something like this. And how could she, small and pampered as she was, have managed to move Cassandra’s unconscious body from the abbey to this windmill?

No. It was patently absurd.

It had to have something to do with the treasure they were seeking, Cassandra surmised, and it was probably done by the same person who had broken into Chesilworth and tried to break into the library at Haverly House. The only problem was, she could not imagine what good it would do anyone to abduct her and lock her up. She and Philip did not have the Neville map yet, so they could not be hoping to steal that from her. There was, of course, the map they had found at Chesilworth. Obviously whoever had broken in there wanted it. But if that was what the attacker was after, why had he bothered to lure her out to the abbey and knock her over the head? It would have been easier, she would have thought, to try to steal it out of her room.

The only thing she could think of that would be accomplished by hiding her here was to delay their trip to London. But what good would it do to keep them from going there? It would give the thief a chance, perhaps, to find the book in London himself, but how would he know what to look for? She and Philip had found out the book’s identity only days ago, and they had told no one but their immediate families. It simply did not make sense.

The only way it made sense… Her mind skittered away from the thought. She looked around her. The darkness had completely overtaken the room now. She could make out nothing in the velvety blackness except the squares of the windows on the walls, slightly lighter patches in the dark. She heard a creak, and she jumped, her heart pounding.

Cassandra told herself that she was being silly to jump at noises. There was no one and nothing in the room beside herself. She had seen it all clearly enough earlier, and she was sitting beside the only entrance into the building. The mill was old, and it was bound to have a few noises: the creaks and groans of old wood, the settling of the walls. Perhaps the blades of the windmill even moved a little, setting off some noise inside. There was nothing to be scared of.

But her sage words could not completely eliminate the vague fear inside her, the instinctive uneasiness brought about by being alone in the dark in a strange place. And there was something to be scared of, she knew, even if it was not inside the building right now. Someone had put her here, and she had no idea when or how she was going to get out—if ever. Did her attacker mean to leave her here until she died from starvation?

But, no, thirst would do her in first. She had been uncomfortably aware for some time of a dryness in her mouth and throat, exacerbated by the heavy dust in the room. She willed herself not to think about that…or the emptiness in her stomach…or the strange noises in the dark. It was like trying not to think about an elephant sitting right in front of her.

She returned again to the problem of who had done this and why. Perhaps Philip was right about David Miller. It was rather suspicious that he had turned up right when she was searching for the map to the dowry. So what if he looked trustworthy and seemed nice? A coldhearted villain could wear a mask of normalcy. Philip’s argument made sense; David could have found the diaries but had no idea how to get the maps to the treasure and so had sold the journals in England, hoping that someone more knowledgeable would read them and lead him to the treasure. Or perhaps he had given up on being able to find the treasure until Mr. Simons had told him that Margaret Verrere’s descendants had bought the diaries, and then he had realized the possibilities.

Still, she could not keep from coming back to the same stumbling block: how could it help David Miller to lock her up in the old windmill? It made no sense. The only person who would benefit— She stopped, then made her mind return to the thought. She had to face it. The only person who would benefit from her being abducted—or dead—was Sir Philip.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IT WAS RIDICULOUS! Anger brought Cassandra surging to her feet, but there was nowhere to go in the dark, and after a moment she drew a calming breath and sat down. She rejected the idea out of hand. Philip would never hurt her. However, she reminded herself that it was dangerously foolish not to look at all the possibilities, particularly one as obvious as this.

Philip had seen the Chesilworth map many times; he could easily have made a copy. Now he knew what they were looking for in London. He would be able to find the book without her help. He could return home and search for the treasure. With her gone, he would have sole possession of the dowry.

Cassandra shuddered. No! She could not believe that. Philip could not have kissed and caressed her as he had, could not have made love to her so tenderly and then cold-bloodedly throw her in some old abandoned building to starve to death!

But she could not stop the coldly logical voice within her that pointed out that perhaps he had not been able to kill her when it came down to it, that he had thrown her in here, thinking that as long as he did not actually kill her himself, he would be able to ignore what he had done.

“No.” Cassandra shook her head fiercely, as if there were another person in the room arguing with her. Philip was not a coward; if he decided to kill, he would do it outright. And she would not, could not, believe that he would kill her. She did not try to fool herself that he loved her, but she was certain that he was not the sort of man who could make love to a woman, then kill her.

But he would not have to kill her. He would only have to delay her. Philip did not have to go to London himself to find the book. He had written to his man of business, asking him to find the records of his father’s sale of the book. He could also have instructed him to buy back the book when he found out who it now belonged to. All he needed to do was give his agent time to search for it. After all, he had already delayed them two days because of this “business” he had had to conduct with his estate manager. What if there had not really been any urgent business? What if it was merely a stalling tactic?