Chapter 20
Annabelle was happy. It was a brisk summer day. She was above deck on the sparkling Brighton sea, on a big boat, the wind ruffling her skirts and the sun warming her body.
Her parents, indeed, most of the adults, had opted to stay below in the saloon and leave the children to roam under the watchful eyes of their governesses.
Yonder, Miss Jenkins and her colleagues sat on a slatted bench under a canopy, chatting and generally paying them little heed. Poor Miss Jenkins, Gaston called her, because of her unfortunate looks. She was not a handsome woman.
But that mattered next to nothing to Annabelle.
She loved Miss Jenkins, maybe more than anyone else in the entire world—even her parents, as shameful as that was.
But then, Miss Jenkins was the only one who didn’t mind how she looked, didn’t mind her patch, or her too-fine hair.
Didn’t mind when she chattered or cried.
Thanks to her propensity to burn in the sun, Miss Jenkins wanted Annabelle to sit in the shade. But Annabelle wanted to play with Gaston. He hadn’t argued about her tagging along for once. Maybe because there were other girls present?
In any case, she was doing her best not to make a nuisance of herself. She gazed on him, her heart swelling with pride.
He was holding court, as Mama termed it. Of course, the children present all hung on his every word. He was handsome and charming. The epitome of a Montrose.
Mother assured her that one day she would be pretty and resemble the rest of the family, as well.
“If her hair ever grows, and she loses that awful patch,” Gaston often muttered. When Miss Jenkins rebuked him for his hurtful words, he assured both of them he never intended for Annabelle to hear him.
He never apologized for saying hurtful words. But that didn’t matter. Not really. As Mother had assured her, Gaston would never be deliberately cruel.
Today, Annabelle had left the patch off.
Though her eyes would be tired by the end of the day from the effort it took to focus without seeing double, she could manage it more and more these days.
And it wasn’t as if she had very much choice.
It was either to leave the patch off, remain back at the rented villa with Miss Jenkins, or worse yet, come on the cruise, and stay in the stateroom, out of sight.
Her ears pricked up when one of the boys suggested a game of marbles.
She loved playing marbles and was quite dexterous, if she did say so herself.
Maybe it had something to do with wearing her patch. It meant her one “good” eye fixed perfectly on the marbles, helping her aim.
Whatever the reason, she’d beat Gaston out for some of his precious marbles the last time the two of them played. He’d be much more apt to let her join in the fun, knowing she wouldn’t embarrass the family.
“I say, you didn’t happen to bring any, did you?” the boy pressed Gaston, who seemed not to hear him.
“I did, Gaston,” she volunteered, eagerly.
Gaston, smiling his easy smile, slid her a glance.
And the first trickle of unease whispered through her. Because he had that hard gleam in his eye. The one he got when she’d vexed him.
“Good,” Gaston said. And she breathed a sigh of relief for having gotten that wrong. “Let us go below and retrieve them.”
Gaston held up a finger, silently urging her to wait as he cast a cautious eye toward their governess. Only when her attention was occupied did he gesture for her to follow him.
He led her below deck to the staterooms and waited patiently for her to collect her pouch.
“I’ll carry it, Belle.”
She frowned. “Where are yours?”
He gave her an affronted look. “Mine? I didn’t bring them.
We’ll share yours. You don’t mind, do you?
That would hardly be fair, as you’re only here thanks to my speaking on your behalf.
You know they didn’t want you to come, don’t you?
Your skin is too fair, your gait awkward, and, well, you have that vision problem.
But I said, let her come this once. She’ll do her best.”
Her chin wobbled.
“None of that, or I won’t let you play.”
She sobered immediately, though, inside, her belly felt funny.
In the hall, Gaston glanced up and down, then seemed to have an idea. “How about we play a bit of hide and seek?”
“But…what about marbles?”
“What about them? They’ll keep. With everyone above, what better chance to explore below? Come on. I know where we’ll go.”
“But…who’s coming to look for us?”
“The other kids, silly goose. They already know. They gave us a head start.”
And off they’d gone to the metal stairs, and down.
“But we’re not allowed—”
“We are their betters. We do what we want.”
She had no choice but to follow, though climbing down the narrow steps while wearing a gown and soft slippers was quite hard, despite the handholds.
“Over here,” he said when she finally reached the wooden deck where the staff’s quarters were located.
Only Gaston’s head and shoulders were visible. He’d found some sort of hole that half his body had sunk into. She stood stock-still.
“It’s a hatch, with stairs,” he explained, sending her his glowing smile. “It leads to the engine room. Come on.” And he dropped out of sight.
She crept forward and peered down. “It’s so dark. And noisy,” she complained. She glanced behind her, hoping someone would come and stop her descent. She did not want to go down there.
“It’s perfectly safe. It’s the best of all hiding places. Don’t be a ninny,” he shouted up.
The clang, clang, clang of his boots as he stomped each ladder rung into the belly of the ship rang in her ears. Still, she hesitated.
“If you don’t come, I won’t play with you, ever again, and I’ll tell everyone you’re not really my sister.”
He would.
She started down.
***
Sterling crested the hill and slowed his horse for the descent with the cart.
That odd compulsion he’d dismissed earlier, to find Annabelle and assure himself she was fine, was riding him harder now. Everything in him wanted to leap from the conveyance, abandon the cart and its cargo, and race back to the castle. Ridiculous, and he would do no such thing.
But he knew the moment he returned, he would give in to the urge.
A plaintive sound reached his ears. Rather like a bird singing, but off somehow. A wounded bird? Or…No. No, it couldn’t be. Not out here.
Och, but he didn’t have time for this.
Still, he stopped the cart. Listened. Heard nothing. Deciding it must’ve been naught but the wind, he picked up the reins.
Then the sound came again—and his blood ran cold.
Annabelle. She was either singing or choking.
Feeling only somewhat foolish, he shouted into thin air, “Annabelle?”
“Sterling?” came her instant reply. “L-Lord Randall? Is that you?”
The disembodied voice seemed to emanate from nearby, but she was nowhere in sight, and he should see her easily, as the recent snow had all but melted and the grasslands boasted no trees or boulders to obscure a person.
He vaulted from his seat in one swift move and executed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“I’m down here,” she said.
Dear God. She’d nearly given him a heart attack, messing about in the kilns.
He stalked to the line of defunct, earthen ramps that opened into the kiln pot chambers. Peering into the first hole he reached, he yelled, “What are you doing inside the kilns?”
Not there. He moved to the next.
“I was curious…”
He moved down the line, glancing into the holes, following the sound of her voice.
“…I only wanted to take a peek. But an earthquake caused”—her voice warbled as if she spoke through tears—“something to fall and block the opening, and I can’t move it.”
Finally, he located her. She gazed upward, her head tilted back. Even from here, he saw the soot smudges marring her skin. The pink-tipped nose. The fear.
His annoyance winked out. “I’m coming, Annabelle.”
He ran back to the cart, leapt onto the seat, and descended the hill with nary a care for his cargo. She could hardly get any more dead.
What the hell had happened? For a certainty, no earthquake had occurred. And how had she gotten past the barricades to the entrances in the first place?
He reached the base of the brick building and spotted five sealed keyholes. The sixth and final entrance, however, stood wide open, and he had at least one question answered.
Someone had removed the bricks and stone meant to dissuade people from entering the defunct mill.
He’d deal with that later. For now, Annabelle was his priority.
Before the horse had come to a complete halt, Sterling dropped the reins and jumped down, hitting the ground running.
Inside, he saw at a glance why she could not escape the kiln pot chamber. He muttered a vicious curse.
“Lord Randall?” Annabelle’s muffled voice barely permeated the barricade.
“Hold tight,” he called, striving to present an air of calm while a white-hot rage suffused him.
Someone had done this, purposely. There was no other explanation. Several bags of lime ash and clinker had not fallen, one on top of the other, thanks to mere happenstance. Bricks and stones had not accidentally landed in a stack before the one chamber inside of which Annabelle had ventured.
With no patience for an orderly removal of the items, he shoved at the heavy stack of stone.
The upper portion crashed down. He shoved again, clearing his way to the sacks of refuse, grabbing each one in turn to heave it away.
He’d no sooner flung the last of the bags than Annabelle scrambled out of the space on her hands and knees.
In the next instant, he found himself nearly taken off his feet by a flurry of warm, soft woman, as she threw herself into him, locking her arms around his neck and holding him as if she never meant to let him go.
Without hesitation, he hugged her close, smoothing one hand down her back as violent tremors coursed through her.
“Sweetheart, what’s all this?” he whispered.
She shook her head, face buried in his shoulder.