Tiger's Eye (3 page)

From the voices she sometimes heard below, Isabella speculated that there were at least five men, and possibly six, holding her captive. Scraps of conversation she overheard led her to the conclusion that she was being held for ransom. On the surface, Isabella supposed she seemed an ideal candidate: the much younger wife of an earl, the oldest daughter of a duke. Her captors would have no way of knowing how tenuous her hold was on either man. Her husband openly admitted that he had married her for her large dowry, which had towed him, a hardened gamester, out of the River Tick. Her father had married her off to please Sarah, his new young duchess, who had, in six years of wedlock, already presented him with a brood of three, including the newest infant, his long-awaited heir, making Isabella herself both unneeded and unwanted. Neither man would be overly enthusiastic about parting with a large sum to regain that which they did not particularly value in the first place.

Although they would, Isabella was almost certain, pay the ransom. Not to do so would be embarrassing. If word of Isabella’s fate should ever leak out, a refusal would not look good to the
ton.
Sarah, the young duchess, might take to her bed over the expense, but the money would be handed over, however reluctantly. It was possible that the earl would be induced to pay it all out of what remained of Isabella’s dowry. Certainly that would be the solution Sarah would prefer.

At any rate, despite the possible slight impediment of a family quarrel, the ransom would certainly be forthcoming sooner or later. So all Isabella had to do was remain calm, cooperate with her captors, and cause no trouble, and she would eventually be released. She could continue her journey to London—though why her husband, Bernard, wanted her there still mystified her—as if nothing had happened. Or perhaps she would even be permitted to return home to Blakely Park. In any case, all she really had to fear was her husband’s wrath if he was forced to use her dowry. Nothing aroused Bernard’s anger more than having to part with funds on his wife’s behalf.

The first small indication Isabella had that change was in the wind came that evening, her sixth in captivity, when the man came as usual to release her to eat and use the chamber pot. When she was finished and he had reentered the room, he did not check the tightness of the blindfold as he always did. Thankful to be spared a tightening of the knot—she had kept it loose in deference to the headache that throbbed at her temples—Isabella did not wonder at his lapse until he was retying her to the bed. Her head turned sideways against the mattress in silent protest against the screaming pain of muscles forced to assume the same unnatural position in which they had been stretched for three endless days. The blindfold slipped. Isabella found herself looking right into her captor’s black-bearded face.

Isabella stared up at him in growing horror; he was looking back at her with a gathering scowl. Their eyes met. Isabella felt panic tighten her chest. Would he kill her, now that she had seen his face?

“Oh, the light is blinding me!” she babbled, her mind pricked into renewed sharpness by pure terror. Quickly she shut her eyes, hoping and praying that he would believe that the feeble glow cast by the candle he’d set on the bedside table was in truth enough to blind someone who’d been deprived of light as long as she.

To her surprise, instead of striking her, or retying the blindfold, he pulled it from her head and dropped it on the floor by the bed.

“Don’t matter, not no more. ’Tis at an end, anyroad.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than her. Then, candle in hand, he turned to leave the room.

“Do you mean—did you get the money, then? Am I to be released?” Isabella’s eyes flew open. With sudden, wild hope, she watched as the man looked back over his massive shoulder at her, his blunt-featured face twisting into a grimacing smile.

“Oh, aye, we’ll be settin’ you free, sure,” he said, and turned away.

“When?” Her voice rose shrilly. To be free again …! Only now, when the prospect of being safely released was at hand, did she realize how truly frightened she had been.

A careless wave of his hand was her only answer. He lumbered from the room, closing the door behind him as he left her alone again in the dark. Isabella lay there for long moments, flooded with relief. Soon she would be free of fear—free!

Then, slowly, she frowned. Her giddy anticipation faded as she realized that something did not seem quite right.

She had seen him clearly, could identify each and every feature. He knew it, and didn’t care. What did that tell her?

As Isabella worked it out in her mind, she began to shiver. There was only one possible interpretation: they had indeed gotten what they wanted—the ransom—but instead of releasing her as agreed, she was to be killed. That was the only solution that made any sense. The man had been so careful not to let her see him, or any of them, up until now, when it was all over. If they meant to let her go, common sense dictated that they should be doubly worried about concealing their identities. Once free, she could go to the authorities and identify them. If caught, they would certainly spend a long time in gaol. They might even hang.

The more she thought about it, the more certain Isabella was that she was right: the man didn’t care if she saw his face because they had already made up their minds to kill her.

Her heart seemed to stop. She could barely draw breath. Bound hand and foot, she was helpless to resist in any way. At any moment they might come in and shoot her, or strangle her, or smother her with a pillow, or …

Panic clouded her mind, sent her thrashing wildly on the bed. Frantically she jerked against her bonds, not caring how the rope cut into the flesh of her wrists and ankles, kicking and writhing with all her might as she fought to get free. The bedstead banged against the wall.…

“What’s goin’ on in ’ere?” Her captor was back, glaring at her from the open door, the candle held high as he surveyed her frenzied movements. Until now, she had been an ideal prisoner, causing no trouble, hoping that her meekness would make it easy for them to let her go when the time came. Now she knew that the time would never come. Again he had not bothered to conceal his face. Isabella stilled for a moment, fighting panic. She had to think!

Her eyes were wild as she stared at him, her chest heaving with terror that she fought to control. Would he divine that she had guessed what they intended to do? If he did, would he kill her now? She could not allow panic to consume her. If she did, she would stand no chance at all. There must be something she could do, some way …

“I said, what you kickin’ up such a dust about?” He took a step into the room. The candle’s golden glow bathed the bed. Above it, his face looked fiendlike, menacing. It was all Isabella could do to bite back a scream.

She could not give way to panic. Her wits were the only weapon she had.

“There—there’s a mouse in the bed,” she gasped in a squeaky voice that was caused by true fright. The inspiration had come upon her from nowhere. She let it take her, hoping, praying.… “Oh, please, it’s burrowing in the bedclothes! You must help me! Oh!”

Desperately she began to writhe again, jerking and thrashing and crying out, “Oh! Oh! Oh!” in shrill fear. The bedstead banged against the wall, scooted over the dusty floorboards. Scowling, the man approached.

“Help me! Help me! Oh! It’s—it’s right under me! Oh!”

“Oh, for Gawd’s sake,” the man muttered, and set the candlestick down on the bedside table. Isabella continued to whimper and thrash as he bent to untie her ankles. When they were free, she kicked wildly at the bedclothes, doing a praiseworthy imitation of a featherheaded female crazed with fear of a small rodent.

“Be still, or I’ll—” The threat was accompanied by a grunt as he freed her hands. Isabella catapulted off the bed, visibly shaking, while he scowled at her, then turned his attention to the rumpled quilt.

This was the moment, the only chance she might get. She had to incapacitate this big, burly man who was easily twice her size—but how?

“I don’t see no mouse.” He was pawing rather gingerly at the quilt. Isabella’s eyes settled on the filthy pitcher in its equally filthy bowl on the washstand not more than a pace to her left. From their grimy state, neither had held water for at least a year.

“It’s there, it’s there!” she cried, pointing as he cast a suspicious look at her over his shoulder. “Get it, oh, please, get it!”

Thus adjured, he turned back to the bedclothes. Isabella took a lightning step toward the washstand and grabbed the pitcher. He was still bent over the bed, but he was turning his head to look at her again.

“You—” What he was going to say, she never knew. Strengthened by terror, she brought the pitcher crashing down on the side of his head. It shattered. The man blinked once as she watched with horror, dreadfully afraid that she had done no more than annoy him and he would straighten up to his awful height and murder her on the spot.

Then he collapsed like a punctured balloon, sprawling facedown across the bed.

IV

F
or a moment Isabella stood frozen. But only for a moment. She had no idea how long he would remain unconscious, but she didn’t think it would be for very long. Should she tie him up? Foolish to waste precious time, especially when she doubted that any knot she tied would hold him. Her best use of these precious minutes would be to flee into the night.

Isabella raced to the door, stopped, and listened. She could hear the sound of voices from below. Of course, the other men would be down there, and Molly as well. If her caretaker didn’t appear shortly, one of them would undoubtedly come looking for him.

On that thought, Isabella closed the door and turned the key in the lock. On the bed, the man groaned and stirred. Heart pounding, Isabella ran back to hover over him. He was waking up!

Snatching up the brass candlestick he had carried upstairs with him, she snuffed the flame. Then, when he groaned again and lifted his head, she bit her lip so hard it bled and brought the candlestick crashing down on the back of his skull with all her might.

He sank like a stone.

Going out the door and through the house was out of the question. That left the window.

After bludgeoning him a third time with the candlestick for good measure, Isabella went to the window. It was high, and narrow, and thick with dust.

Praying it would open, she tugged at the sash. At last it moved one inch, two, with great reluctance. Finally she managed to force a wide enough opening to permit her to wriggle through.

The man groaned again. Cold sweat broke out on Isabella’s forehead. She ran back to the bed, lifted the candlestick high in the air, and brought it crashing down on his skull for the fourth time. This time the blow was so hard that his head bounced against the mattress.

He made no further sound as she went back to the window and slipped out. Only when her feet dangled far above the ground below did Isabella realize just how high up she was. The house was a two-story, rickety farmhouse; the ground sloped away from the foundation, making the drop seem much farther than it actually was.

There was no alternative. She had to let go and pray she didn’t break a leg, or her neck. Holding her breath, she squirmed backwards until only her head and shoulders remained inside the room. With another silent prayer and a last, fearful look at the still figure on the bed, she wriggled one last time, until her entire body was dangling from the window and she was hanging from the sill by her hands.

The edge of the sill bit into her palms. There was a tremendous strain on her shoulders. She could not hang on for long. Yet she was suddenly, wildly, afraid to let go.

Her feet in the soft half-boots scrabbled wildly for a toehold. There was none. The wind hit her, making her body sway.…

Isabella risked a look down. It was a mistake. Even through the wisps of mist that floated like ghosts through the darkness, she could see that the ground was far, far away, studded with what looked like rocks, and without so much as a bush to break her fall.

From inside the window came a groan. She let go.

Isabella landed with tremendous force on the balls of her feet, then pitched forward onto her knees. Her legs screamed a protest—but they worked. She didn’t waste so much as a second scrambling away from the house.

Behind her there were no sounds of pursuit. She cast one haunted look at the lighted window in the front of the house, then fled toward the line of trees that marked the end of the yard. She was just one long stride short of the woods, her skirt hiked around her bare knees as she ran like a hare with the hounds after it, when a tall shape stepped from the shadows to loom in front of her.

Isabella screamed.

V

“H
ush, now! Avast, lassie, don’t shriek!”

But the whispered words might as well have been in Arabic for all the attention she paid them. Thoroughly unnerved, Isabella let loose with another night-shattering scream even as the man grabbed her and clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Damn it, shut her up, Paddy! Why don’t we just send in a bloody bugle corps to announce our coming and be done with it?” The order and disgusted mutter that followed it came from another man, not quite so tall or massive as the first, but tall and massive enough to cow Isabella. Like the first man, he just seemed to materialize from the shadowy woods.

Caught in the grip of enormous arms that held her against a chest wide enough to belong to two men, Isabella knew when she was beaten. She went very still, her eyes huge with fright over the ham-sized hand that covered most of her lower face as well as her mouth. With her back to the first man, she was able to gain no impression of him except for his enormous size. But even by the wavering, mist-filtered light of the slivered moon, Isabella could see that the second man was riveting. He was tall, broad-shouldered and hard-looking, with an arrogant tilt to a head that was as perfect of feature as an ancient Greek coin. His hair was tawny gold, waving a little in the mist and secured at his nape, and if she wasn’t mistaken, if the fragmented moonlight was not playing tricks on her eyes, his eyes were the same tawny gold as his hair.