Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle (77 page)

N o r a swam towards consciousness, acutely aware that her shoulder was a throbbing, aching mass of pain. How had it got that way? It felt like she'd been shot. She remembered. She
had
been shot. By that bastard Witherspoon too, she guessed.

She remembered being in the woods. Brandon had been there.

She'd been in his arms. He'd been frantic. She could hear his voice in her head, begging her to

to go home with him. Then

she had fainted. She had never fainted before in her life. She picked a rotten time to start adopting that womanish behavior.

She opened her eyes. The room was nearly dark, except for a small shaft of light coming in from the crack between two doors positioned above her. She was underground, but this wasn't the root cellar at The Grange. She shifted her position on the cot where she lay and winced at the pain in her shoulder.

Nora forced herself into a sitting position and took in the scene of her captivity. It was too much to hope that this wasn't a jail, that Brandon had somehow whisked her away to a secret underground room. That could only mean one thing. She had been caught. Caught and shot. Witherspoon meant to see her dead before she could tell someone about his secret plans. She had to get out of here, had to live long enough to tell Brandon.

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She should have told him earlier. She'd had ample opportunity. She could have told him

Day or any time

during the past weeks at the Hall. Now, it was almost too late.

She surveyed the room, looking for an escape route. The room was small, square and relatively clean as dirt rooms go.

It contained the cot she was on and a rickety table that held a ewer, basin and a bit of towelling.

The idea of cleaning up reminded her of something. Nora put a hand to her head. How much did her captors know? The wig was still in place and she breathed easier. Brandon was the only potential ally she had at the moment. She needed him safe and above suspicion. If her captors discovered The Cat and his betrothed were one and the same, he'd be unable to help her.

There were still unresolved

between them, in spite of

what he'd said in the copse, but he was all she had.

She had no way to reach Hattie and Alfred in Manchester.

Only Brandon knew what had happened to her and where she was. Hell,
she
didn't even know where she was. Word would spread, of course, as a trial date neared, unless Witherspoon decided to forgo a trial and take justice into his own clammy hands-a huge possibility.

If there was a trial, Hattie and Alfred would hear of it, but she didn't want them to risk their necks on a rescue mission.

She didn't want the Manchester slums to rise up and march to her side. Not that they would,

but she could well

imagine a few of them would try. She couldn't bear to see any of them hurt.

Ignoring her shoulder, Nora pushed herself into a standing position and began pacing the room,

out the stiffness

in her joints. The best way to make sure no one did anything foolish was to make sure she wasn't here for a trial. The longer she remained in this room, the more likely it would be that someone might try to play the hero.

There were obviously no windows, but there was a crude,

Scott

earthen staircase that led to the trap doors. Nora pulled herself up them and tested the doors with her hands. Her experimental pushes met with resistance. As she expected, the doors were barred from the outside.

She shouted a 'halloo', to determine if they had left her alone or if they'd posted guards.

A low, gravelly voice responded. 'Quit yer bellyaching.

You'll get breakfast soon enough.' Others laughed.

Nora went back down the stairs. There were guards, at least three or four from the sounds the guffaws. She sat down on the cot to rest from her exertions and to think. How would she get the door unbarred? How would she get past the guards?

Getting the door unbarred would be the least of her worries.

From the guard's comment, they meant to feed her. The door would be open once or twice a day when someone brought food. Most likely, a doctor of sorts would be allowed down too, to check on her bandage. She could feign a fever, draw him close to the cot and

him over the head with a table leg.

Getting past the guards was a much bigger concern.

While Nora sat mulling over her options, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Food was placed on the top step and the door closed again. She made a note of the procedure. Any information at this point would be useful. She would only get one chance to effect an escape.

Nora took the food, a bowl of gruel and dry toast, and a crock of water. She ate all the food for strength and so as not to attract bugs or rodents. The water she saved, unsure if there would be more to drink later in the day or if this was her sole ration for and washing.

The door opened again and a guard called down, 'There's a visitor to see you.'

Nora stood up from the bed, hope mingling with caution.

She prayed it was Brandon.

'I

you find your accommodations to your a

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Pickpocket Countess

frosty voice inquired with all the warmth of a January afternoon.

The visitor was Witherspoon. Nora swallowed hard and mentally girded herself for battle. Had he meant to come and finish what his bullet had failed to do last night?

She needled him, trying to determine his intentions. 'It's so kind of you to call on me in my home. After all, you've been polite enough to let me have free run of yours all these months.'

'Still cocky, I see.' Witherspoon was dressed impeccably in riding gear, Nora noted as he circled her.

'Truthful,' she retorted, keeping her chin up, trying to ignore the riding crop he kept slashing against his thigh as he studied her.

'I've come for some conversation, Miss Habersham. But I see you're not dressed for it.' Something cruel and cold flicked in his pale eyes.

'My wardrobe is a bit limited at this time.' Nora followed him with her eyes.

'No bother. Perhaps I should have said you're not undressed for it. Take off your shirt, or, if you prefer, I'd be glad to relieve you of it.'