The Harlow Hoyden (30 page)

The long ride passed in silence.
Emma was done taunting the man and couldn’t stomach the thought of conversation with the toad, even if it meant learning more of his plan. She had little respect for Windbag’s intelligence, but she doubted even he would be stupid enough to reveal anything. For that reason, she was determined to wait him out. He would make a mistake at some point. People like he always did, and when the slip came she
would be ready. In the meantime, she kept her eyes trained on the passing scenery. She wanted to know where they were at all times. When they turned off the main road, she made note of the tall maple tree with the knotted trunk that marked the intersection. She wished there were some way she could leave an indication of their direction for Trent to follow. He was on their trail, she knew that.
What she didn’t know was how long he would remain so if they continued taking right turns and lefts.

They stopped once to rest the horses, but it wasn’t at a posting house. Windbourne didn’t let Emma get out of the carriage, but she saw through the window that they’d stopped at a large cottage with a thatched roof. Smoke was pouring out of the chimney, and the scent of fresh bread was in the
air. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d never partaken of the packaged lunch Mrs. Biggley had given her hours before. It was probably still lying on the floor of the curricle in a brown woven bag. As much as it pained her, she knew she’d have to ask Windbag for food. Hunger was a distraction she couldn’t afford. She must remain focused on her goal: escape. If Trent didn’t find her, then
she’d get out of this unpleasant situation on her own. It would be easier with his help, of course, but she was capable and intelligent and constantly extricating herself from scrapes. And really, what was being taken hostage except a rather large inconvenient scrape?

Emma watched Windbourne carefully, wondering what he was going to do. He had made no move to leave the carriage and enter the
cottage. Wasn’t he hungry? After all, she and Philip had interrupted his lunch in an extreme fashion. His roast had been one of the first things to topple in the struggle.

What would he do if he left me?
she thought, searching the landscape for more thatched roofs and smoking chimneys.
Would he have the coachman keep an eye on me? Would the coachman have a gun? Would he be inclined to shoot and
kill a gently bred young lady simple because his employer asked him to?
The answers to these question, she realized, depended on how deeply involved in Sir Waldo’s treacherous scheme the man was. If he was benefiting in some monetary way, then he would follow Windbag’s commands to the letter. But what if he was not? Why run the risk of Newgate and possible hanging just to satisfy an employer’s
wishes?

Emma decided she would like to have a moment alone with the driver, to get a feel for what his game was. Therefore, she looked at Sir Waldo and tried to assume a defeated pose. “May I please have something to eat?” she asked quietly, hoping she sounded faint. “I’m so very hungry.”

“You’ll eat when we get there,” he said, without even looking at her.

“Get where?” she asked

“To a little
place near Dover where I’m to meet with a confederate. After that it’s off to France for me.”

“And what happens to me?” she asked angrily, no longer looking defeated or sounding faint.

Windbourne shrugged and looked at her, his tiny lips curled in a sneer. “I don’t know what happens to you. I might shoot you before departing or I might leave you as a present for my French associates. They do
so love English women.”

Although the idea of being so ill used by any man—not just her country’s enemy—horrified and repulsed Emma, there was nothing in her expression that revealed the true state of her emotions. In fact, she smiled to let him know how little she thought of his threats.

This sort of behavior annoyed Windbourne greatly, and he turned away from her with a queer squeak that sounded
like the high-pitched bark of a little dog. Emma smiled again, this time with genuine humor.

They resumed their drive shortly thereafter and arrived at another cottage just as the sun was going down. Here Emma was brought inside. The dwelling was small and dark with shabby furniture and a low ceiling. She had barely entered the first floor before she was dragged up to the second. It was drearier
than the other, with a bed in one corner and a table and a chair in another. The floorboards were old and worn and seemed to be home to a prosperous family of mice. Emma tried not to be squeamish and bit down a cry of alarm when a mouse ran across her foot.

Windbag tossed her onto the bed and pushed her shoulders back. For one fleeting moment Emma felt terror, the sort she’d never before known.
Surely he wasn’t going to—

He took out a long cable of rope and tied her hands to the wrought-iron headboard. Then he tied her ankles together. The rough rope cut into her wrists, but for the moment she didn’t mind the pain. She didn’t even feel it, so great was her relief. The ropes were tight and she had no experience in extricating herself from situations like this, but they provided her with
an objective, with something to focus all her attention on. She would wriggle free of the ropes. She would. There was no doubt in her mind. All it would take was patience, stubbornness and a refusal to give in to pain. She had these qualities, although patience in less quantities than the others, and already she could feel the ropes loosening. Or was that just wishful thinking? she wondered.

When Windbourne was done securing the ropes around her ankles, he straightened up. “That should hold you for a very long while.” Taking the room’s only light with him, he crossed the rotted floorboards to the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Emma asked.

“Nowhere, my dear. I will be downstairs the whole time should you try to escape. Be warned; both I and my driver are armed and we both shoot to
kill,” he said, before disappearing down the stairs.

Left alone, Emma applied herself to the ropes with unprecedented vigor. The Harlow Hoyden had devoted her energies to many cherished goals in her lifetime, but nothing had ever mattered as much as this. It was not only that she didn’t want to die in a mouse-infested hovel outside of Dover, but that she also wanted—nay,
needed
—the satisfaction
of thwarting Windbag. She wanted to see him rot in prison. If he was sent to Newgate, then she would visit him once a month just to gloat.

The metal frame of the bed was not of good quality, and to Emma’s profound relief she found a rough edge. She discovered it quite by accident when she cut her hand on it, and although she could feel the blood trickling down her forearm, she didn’t care. Here
was something that would save her life.

After a while Emma heard the sound of approaching horses and her heart stopped in her chest. Could it be Trent? She fought even harder to free herself from the ropes, because that was the only thing she could do to help him save her. But it wasn’t the duke. Through the window by the bed she could see a carriage pull up. She watched Windbag go outside to
greet it. He had a candle in his hand, which momentarily illuminated the face of the visitor. The man had a well-kempt black beard, thin lips, heavy lidded eyes and firm chin. He would have been handsome save for the malevolent scar that ran across his cheek from ear to lip. Then the two men went inside. Emma could hear the sounds of scraping as they entered the large room. The walls of the little
house were thin but not thin enough. Try as she might she could not make out any words and quickly gave up the effort. She had more important things to do.

Progress with the ropes was slow but steady. She could feel the strands snapping one by one against the rough edge. The bands were loosening, and she could move her hands more freely now, which made the endeavor easier. The man stayed only
a half hour, and by the time Sir Waldo escorted him to his carriage, Emma’s hands were unfettered and all that was left was for her to untie the ropes that bound her legs. In an instant she was free, but she knew that she had to plan her next move very carefully. She could not behave rashly and risk the country’s security further.

The carriage drove away in the near total darkness, and Emma wondered
how far she would get on foot in unfamiliar territory. A horse would help. Yes, she thought, a horse would improve matters greatly. She was an excellent rider, and even though it was dark, there was a very good chance that she might reach Dover before midnight. She would have to steal one of Windbourne’s mounts. Where was the coachman? Was he watching the horses? She didn’t think he had cause
to. Windbag had seemed confident in his knot-tying abilities. As far as he was concerned, she was settled in for the night. Very well, she would steal a horse.

But running away went against the grain for Emma. She had plans for Windbag, big plans that did not include his sneaking away to France under the cover of darkness. How could she bring him to justice if he escaped?
I have nothing
, she
reminded herself,
no gun, no knife, no bow and arrow. I must save myself first and then worry about Windbag later. As soon as I get to town and warn the constable what’s amiss, I will come back here with a pistol. That is the best you can do. Accept it.

Emma opened the window and considered her options. There was a very frail tree to the right of the window, which may or may not hold her weight.
The second floor wasn’t particularly high, and she decided that hanging down and jumping offered the least chance of injury. It was only a fall of ten or so feet. This portion of her plan went without a hitch, and she crept silently around the house, quickly locating the horses and carriage.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered when her eyes met the back of the coachman. He was brushing down the horses
and singing an off-colored ballad to the tune of “God Save the King.” He seemed to be very involved in his work.

Curse it!
Emma thought,
now the onerous task of finding something heavy and hitting him over the head with it falls to me.

She began looking around for something useful in the moonlight. There was a pile of junk behind the cottage, and as quietly as possible she dug through it. There
were empty wine bottles, which she set aside in case she couldn’t find something better. The pile was made up of mostly useless items such as broken carriage wheels and old chairs. She had just resigned herself to the wine bottle when she discovered a rusted shovel. It was perfect.

From the coachman’s enthusiastic and off-key singing, she knew he was still hard at work. She crept up behind him
silently. Although she saw one of the horses’ ears twitch, it was silent enough for the man whose attention was focused exclusively elsewhere. He never knew it was coming, and he obligingly fell to the floor after one hit. Emma was relieved; she didn’t know if she would be able to do it again. The shovel was heavy, the man was tall, and it took all her strength to bring him down. Recalling Windbag’s
claim, she rooted through the man’s pockets, looking for firearms. He had nothing on him.

Sensing something was wrong, the two horses fidgeted uneasily. Emma knew it was better to waste precious minutes calming them down than to hop on without a care. Horses were high-strung creatures who behaved erratically when upset. Her life depended now on their constancy.

But as Emma was cooing sweet nothing
into their ears, she began to rethink her plan. Circumstances had changed now. She was no longer defenseless, and Windbag certainly wasn’t expecting her to waltz inside with a shovel at the ready. As far as he was concerned, she was tied to a bed in the attic. The element of surprise was one of the most important components of a successful campaign. It would certainly be more satisfying if
she could knock him out, rather than scurry off to safety like a frightened child. She was afraid, of course—their last encounter had not ended in her favor. But when had Miss Emma Harlow ever run from a challenge?

Having decided on a course of action, there was nothing to do but follow it through. She picked up the shovel and crept to a window. The curtains were closed, but through a tiny corner
she could see Windbag at a table eating his dinner.
The bastard! He knew I was hungry.

She went to the front door and opened it slowly. It did not make a sound, but the cold air rushed by and alerted Windbag to her movements.

“Smithers,” he said, without turning around, “fetch me another tankard of ail.”

Emma moved quickly, crossing the floor in a matter of seconds and raising her shovel. Just
as she was about to strike, Windbourne turned to see why Smithers had not answered him. She connected with his collarbone, which dazed him for a second, but just as she was about to lift the shovel again, Sir Waldo’s hand came out and reached for it. He gave the handle a violent tug with both his hands, but he could not break her ironlike grip. Then he tried another tactic, pushing her backward
against the table. He was stronger and heavier than Emma, and with all his weight on top of her, her legs gave out and she found herself lying flat on the table. The handle of the shovel was pressing against her jugular now, and although she used all the strength in her arms, she was unable to dislodge it. She could see the bright light of triumph in Sir Windbag’s eyes, and she turned her head to
avoid it. If she was going to die now and like this, then the last thing she saw would not be his smug beady little eyes. It was getting harder and harder to draw breath, but the fight had not gone out of her yet and she flailed her legs about, trying to make contact with his groin. Her actions only angered him, and he pressed down harder, so hard that Emma felt for sure her neck would snap. Any
second she expected to hear a crack.