Love's Guardian (18 page)

She leaned back and shut her eyes, letting the pleasant sounds of the small creatures she heard in the underbrush soothe her. A nearby branch snapped. She opened her eyes, and a prickle of awareness spread across the surface of her skin.

She wasn’t alone.

Without warning, she was shoved forward and a cloth sack dropped over her head from behind, blocking out daylight. She clawed at the hands gripping the material, until another person yanked her to her feet. The bag fell below her waist, and her attackers wrapped it tight against her body, pinning her hands and arms. They wound a rope from her elbows to below her waist, cinching it tight.

She couldn’t breath. Her mouth opened to scream. Dust filled her lungs, choking her.

Think.
She stood still, trying to make out the muffled voices of her captors.

“Ye got her? That’s a good girl. Don’t struggle. Won’t do no good anyways, will it, Spider?” The man seemed to find that funny and started to laugh.

“Quiet, you fool. An’ don’t go usin’ my name again. Can ye carry her?”

“A mite o’ a thing like this?” One of the men hefted her up on his beefy shoulder, effectively cutting off even more of her air. “Just like a sack o’ potatoes.”

“Good, let’s go.”

“Wot about the horse?”

“Leave it. Don’t want nobody wonderin’ where we got it.”

She couldn’t tell how far they had traveled before they dumped her onto something hard. From the jerking and bumping motion, she assumed she was in some sort of cart.

She tried to work her hands down to reach her knife, but the sack had been tied tight. No room to maneuver.

Who were these men? The vision of Luther’s face as he’d left that morning came back to her. He had to be behind this, but what did he want? Did he think he could force her to marry him?

The cart lurched to a halt. One of her captors picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, then took her up a flight of stairs. They must have been somewhat narrow because he kept banging her into something, probably the wall. He carried her for a short time before dropping her onto a bed of some sort.

“She’s a pretty little thing. Ye sure we can’t hav’ some fun for he gets here?”

She heard lust in the beefy man’s voice and started to pray. In her current position, all she could do was kick, and that wasn’t going to stop them.

“The bloke wat hired us were right particular ‘bout that. You’d be sorry tangling with the likes o’ him.”

“Too bad. Ye gonna leave her tied in the sack? Don’t know as she can breathe.”

“Just loosen the rope. She’ll get out soon enough. Don’t want her glimpsin’ that ugly face o’ yours. Probably scare her to death. Besides, ain’t no way she’s gonna escape.”

Hands started an exploration of her body through the layers of cloth, beginning with her breasts. Swallowing the nausea bubbling in her throat, she edged away, but he pressed down on her stomach until she stopped struggling.

Spider spoke from a distance. “Stop that. You’ll be sorry if the man with the dead eyes hears about it.”

The hands stopped, and relief surged through her. The man fumbled with the rope, and the pressure on her arms and hands eased. As the blood flowed back into the area, she bit her lip against the pain. She would not give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d hurt her. After a moment, she managed to move her arms, though she still didn’t feel like she could control them.

“Come on, I got a cold ale downstairs. We’ll wait there till he comes.”

The door opened, then closed. The click of the key in the lock told her there would be no escaping that way.

Inch by inch, she worked her hand down under the loosened ropes to her boot. At last she grasped the familiar hilt of her knife, then maneuvered the blade up and under the ropes. They cut easily. She wiggled down, until she’d cleared the sack.

Daylight streamed through a crack in the shutters of the lone window, marking a spot on the plank floor. It must be late afternoon. If so, only a few hours had passed. She took a deep breath and gagged. The stench of fish and God only knew what else seemed to wrap itself around her. Only shallow breaths kept her from losing the contents of her stomach.

She sat up. Pieces of straw stuck out through the worn cloth cover on her mattress, and a grimy grey blanket lay across one end. She scrambled from the bed, uneasy with what might be living in the bedding. Only a crude wooden chair, shoved in a corner, decorated the room.

She tried the door. Locked, as she’d suspected. Muffled male voices came to her through the wood, but how far away the men were, or how many, she couldn’t tell. That left the window.

Of course, they’d nailed the shutters closed. Thank God the metal had begun to rust. She retrieved her knife, using the flat of the blade to pry the nails out.

How fortunate they hadn’t checked for weapons. A strangled laugh escaped her. Men assumed you weren’t armed, one of the advantages of being a woman.

How much time did she have before Luther arrived? She didn’t doubt he was the man with the dead eyes. Fear increased her efforts.

The last nail came loose with reluctance. She unfastened the latch and yanked. With a squeak of hinges, the shutter broke free.

She held her breath, expecting her captors to come through the door any minute. When they didn’t appear, she coaxed the other shutter open.

The windows were filthy from years of neglect. She brushed away the cobwebs, turned the latch, and shoved. Nothing happened.

She leaned all her body weight against it, hoping she wouldn’t break the glass. At last, it swung outward, the smell outside even more intense.

Her prison appeared to be in the rear corner of the building, on the second floor. Another stone structure backed up to it, perhaps sixty feet away. A porch roof sloped below her, extending the full length of the building. A tree grew at one end, a little further away from the roof than she liked, but it was her only chance.

She glanced down at her riding habit. What she wouldn’t give for her shirt and breeches. It took a moment to reach up under her skirt and remove the false rump. Without the enhancer, her habit had an exceptionally long train. She bunched up the excess material and stuck it into her waistband.

She brought the chair over to the window, scrambled out, then dropped with a thud to the roof a couple of yards below. There was no turning back now. At the edge, near the tree, she looked down at the thirty-foot fall. At least she’d worn her jumps today instead of her regular corset, and the light boning allowed for some movement.
Just pretend this is rigging
.

Taking a deep breath, she launched herself into the air and caught a branch, praying it would support her weight. For a moment, she hung precariously by her hands, then dragged herself up onto the rough barked limb.

She tried to crawl toward the trunk, but something held her back. Damn, she’d managed to catch the train of her habit in some of the smaller twigs. She yanked on her skirt. Somewhere below her, a door opened. An old man with shaggy gray hair stepped off the porch.

If he happened to look up, her blue habit would be clearly visible against the tree’s greenery. Heart pounding, she froze.

Alex watched from her perch in the tree as the man shuffled toward a huge mound of refuse and dumped his bucket of fish heads on the pile. He wore rough clothing, covered by a leather apron spattered with blood. He must be a fishmonger.

Could she be in Cheapside?
She’d only visited London’s commercial center once when she’d stolen out of the house with Cook. It had seemed like a fascinating place. People buying all sorts of wares, but Cook had warned her it could also be dangerous.

The old man rinsed his bucket in a trough nearby, and every time he turned her direction, she expected him to look up. After several minutes, he went back inside and closed the door. Relief surged through her.

She yanked on her skirt with all her might. A loud ripping sound filled the air, but the train broke free. With hurried movements, she gathered the excess material and inched toward the trunk, then searched for limbs that would support her descent. Climbing rigging was much easier. At least there you had even hand and foot holds.

When she reached the bottom, she leaned against the tree for a moment to get her bearings and catch her breath.

The bells of a church rent the air. The bright, happy sound was a definite contrast to the dingy buildings surrounding her. Excitement warred with fear. Wasn’t St. Mary-le-Bow supposed to be in Cheapside? The nuns would give her sanctuary. Perhaps they could get a message to Declan.

Keeping to the sides of the buildings, she headed toward the sound of the bells, thankful to be in an alley. She doubted her attackers knew she’d escaped, but she held her knife in the folds of her riding habit, just in case. Any man could be her enemy, until she heard him speak. Both her captor’s voices were branded into her memory.

She’d gone perhaps a quarter of a mile before her taut senses caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end. Someone was following her. With a quick side step, she ducked into a doorway and waited. No one passed, but she still couldn’t shake her apprehension.

After several minutes, she continued on, glancing behind her every few steps. When the ancient church reared into view, she increased her pace. Trying to avoid being seen, she skirted the open square in front of the building, as there were still several hawkers near the steps trying to sell their wares.

A woman’s voice filled the air, her worn face as craggy as the greystone used to construct St. Mary’s. Her Cockney accent was evident as she shouted a familiar rhyme. “Hot Cross Buns! One a Penny, two a Penny, all hot Cross Buns!”

Alex’s stomach rumbled. She longed to purchase the treat, but the fewer people who saw her the better. Besides, she hadn’t any coin.

Staying in the shadows, she made her way to the church’s side entrance, inched open the heavy wooden door, and stepped inside. Coolness swept over her, and not a sound echoed from the welcoming blackness. She put her knife back in her boot and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust, then closed the door and scanned the interior.

Lit candles cast a warm glow over a magnificent wooden altar at the far end of the church. It gleamed in the dim light, dwarfing the short, pudgy man in a priest’s robe who knelt, head bowed, at its base. The man began to pray, his words incomprehensible.

This cathedral was no different than most she’d visited. The vaulted space and grand design conspired to make people feel small, insignificant, when they entered the building. That philosophy had never made sense to her. She felt a greater awe at God’s creation when she stood on a ship’s deck, the wind blowing her hair and a brilliant sunset skimming the water’s edge.

Without making a sound she crossed to the corner and sat on the floor, her back propped against a bench. If she were being followed, they’d be here in the next few minutes. She remained alert, her muscles aching from the strain. The drone of the priest’s prayer echoed off the stone walls, his deep voice enhanced, as if he spoke into a barrel. If someone came for her, could he prevent a second abduction? Would he?

After about half an hour, she stood. If she
was
being followed, the perpetrator didn’t seem inclined to come into a church. Using her skirt, she wiped as much grime off her face and hands as possible, then she headed down the aisle toward the front of the church. “Father?”

The man jumped. She hadn’t meant to startle him, but the look on his face when he turned around was so comical she almost laughed. She’d forgotten how she must look.