Page 12

Crouching, he dropped down from the sill and strode away from the window. He did not want to be discovered anywhere near it. Another unusual sound caught his attention—a female voice, distant, but definitely in this building, as though whoever was coming toward him had left a door open.

So, was a woman involved in this too? Or did she just happen to be passing? Visiting? A wife or mistress of one of his captors? Or the controller of everything...?

One of the bolts drew back, but Piers continued to pace, just in case his jailer had sharp ears and had heard him moving around.

“Stand back there. I’ve still got the gun.”

Piers halted, then took a few steps back as the second and third bolts were drawn and the familiar pistol appeared in the crack. The door opened, fully letting in more light than before. The sun had moved to shine in a window beyond his room. If only he’d had a clue where the building was, it might have helped.

Out of his sight, a door closed. He could see nothing beyond a small patch of sunlit hallway. Apart from his pistol-and-tray-bearing captor.

Grubby, once-white shirt and stained, thin brown trousers, old boots. The jailer paused, and for the first time Piers measured their relative heights. The man was a couple of inches shorter than he, but hardly small. Short brown hair brushed back off his face so Piers couldn’t tell how long it was at the front, but it was a light shade of brown. Long nose, though not so obviously broken as it had seemed before. No mole beneath the left eye.

So this was jailer number one, the man he had seen when he first woke up here. Either that or jailer number three, which was a depressing prospect.

The man met his gaze for only a moment. “Sit down.”

Since the instruction was accompanied by a twitch of the pistol, Piers moved back and sat on his blanket. He kept his expression sullen and dull. On the tray this time was a cup and a plate with another hunk of bread. No washing bowl.

“You didn’t drink your ale,” the man said, his eyes narrowing.

His ears were both flat against his head, his neck not particularly short or thick. Nor were his lips noticeably thin. Piers struggled for something, anything, to latch onto that might identify him.

“It tastes bad,” Piers said.

“Drink it. If you die, it will be by my hand, not yours.”

By moy ’and, very London pronunciation. But surely die had been pronounced much more purely. A result of travel? Or just the educated speech of a gentleman, heavily disguised? It was something.

“Drink it,” the man snarled.

Piers didn’t trouble to hide his reluctance. Letting his lips curl with distaste, he forced himself to drink. He swallowed twice. His thirst thanked him, almost made him drain the cup. But sense made him lower it, grimacing.

“Better,” grunted his jailer. “Give it here.”

Piers pushed it toward him and received the full cup in its place.

The jailer looked amused. His eyes were slightly almond shaped and crinkled at the corners in a ray of tiny creases.

Remember that. Almond shaped eyes, crinkled at the corners when he smiles.

The man shoved the plate with the bread on it toward him. “Got to keep your strength up for that common little wife of yours.”

Piers did not rise to the bait. He knew what people said about her and would not dignify this villain’s insults with a defence.

“Better pray you’ve kept her sweet,” the man sneered, “since your life depends on her doing as she’s told. If she prefers to be a widow...”

Piers made his brain go dull and blank, a trick which he knew reflected in his eyes because he had practiced it before a mirror when he was a boy. There were many ways to hide, and Piers knew more of them than whoever his captor was. That was his strength. He didn’t even glance at the window.

“Are you so short of the readies?” Piers asked, slurring very slightly. “I’ll give you whatever you want, if you just let me go.”

“In your drawers?” his jailer asked with contempt.

“If necessary.”

“Eat your dinner.”

Piers sighed. “It’s a limited menu.”