Chapter 3 #2
Nothing to worry about. She eased in a breath.
The highwayman wouldn’t bother such as herself.
Sir Westcott of the long limbs and wide shoulders wasn’t here to stir blushes.
All she had to do was act like a pathetic youth and cough a little to make them think Cass had caught his brother’s ailment. Perhaps then they would send her home.
Deep in thought, she passed into a dark dale and almost stumbled into a group of men.
“Who’re you?”
“Picard,” she said in the gruffest voice she could manage.
A big fellow she recognized as Crofton’s man, Butley, held a lantern and looked her over.
“You ain’t Lang Picard.”
“I’m his brother.”
“Picard’s with the gaugers,” another man said. “Best tie this one up.”
“Crofton sent me.”
Crofton’s man shrugged, grunted, and said, “Yeah. Heard him say somethin’. Reckon ye can do. He’s the last.” He beckoned, and they all fell in behind him. She blew out her lantern and tied it to her belt under the heavy coat as they walked.
She had no idea where they were going, but it was best to keep her mouth shut.
* * *
Wes leaned against a beech tree watching the transfer of crates to dog carts, holding his breath each time Sybil entered the old barn until she came out again.
He was near enough to hear the orders given by the overseer, a brute of a man in dark clothing who chided her and the others with each heavy load.
Case by case, cart by cart, the crates were loaded and the carts departed, some pulled by donkeys, others by men. Only three people were left—Sybil, the brute in charge, and a scrawny fellow in dark ragged clothes.
Sybil had gone in and not come out. One cart remained, and there was no animal to pull it.
“This here’s the last of ’em,” the thin man said. “Picard’ll pull it.”
Anger spiked in him, and he pushed away from the tree. Like hell she would. He was no warrior, but he had his fists and a bit of training with Gentleman Jim, and if all else failed, he had a knife in his boot.
Sybil struggled out juggling a crate.
As Wes drew nearer, he saw the scrawny bugger stick out his foot. Sybil tripped and the crate clattered with a sound of shattering glass. Liquid spurted, and the air filled with the strong fruity smell of wine.
“God’s bones, man.” The brute’s fist flew, just missing Sybil as she ducked.
Wes charged from the tree, decked the fellow, and shoved the scrawny one away.
“Come away from here.” He yanked Sybil up by the hand.
While the fool woman tried to pull away, two men on horseback emerged out of the darkness.
“It’s Crofton,” the scrawny one whispered.
“What’s afoot here?” One of the new arrivals rolled off his saddle.
Before anyone could answer, the brute who’d attacked Sybil bellowed. Wes dodged his fist, but a blow from the shorter fellow glanced off his shoulder.
“Stow your wids.”
Wes recognized Crofton.
“Your fists too. Loud enough to raise the dead, you are. Who broke those bottles? I’ll take it out of your hide, Butley. And who is this?”
Crofton approached Wes, who, still gripping Sybil’s hand, had pulled her behind him.
Someone yanked his wrist around and growled, “I’ve got him.”
Sybil. It was Sybil pretending a wrist lock on him. Had to be, since the four men stood before him.
He’d best play along.
“Sir Westcott Twisden,” Wes said. “At your service, Crofton. I saw yon shabby Jack nasty-face trip the lad carrying the crate. And this fat bully here beat on the wrong person for the offense.”
“Ain’t your business,” the shabby one said. “Anyway, you’re lying. Picard’s been slacking since he came.”
To call a gentleman a liar… Wes started to lunge for the fellow, then remembered Sybil hidden behind him.
The brute pointed their way. “’Twas Picard dropped the crate.”
“That true, Cass?” Crofton asked. He motioned to the fellow who’d arrived with him, and he and the big brute who’d smacked Sybil each grabbed one of Wes’s arms.
Sybil stood back and ducked her head at the lantern raised in front of her.
“’Twas the ghost,” she said. “’Twas Eddie Rose. I saw him. I can see him.” Crofton grabbed her chin and raised it, studying the mulish look she’d put on for him.
Not so different than what Wes had seen on her younger brother’s face when she’d asked them to help that afternoon.
Crofton grunted. “Is all cleared from the barn?”
“Aye, all ’cept the ones you wanted left,” the scrawny one said.
Crofton lowered the lantern. “Tie Twisden up and put him inside. This one,” he jerked his head at Sybil, “will watch him until we come back, and then we’ll decide what to do with him.”
“What of the gaugers?” the brute asked. “If Lang Picard brings ’em here—”
“If he does, they can take Twisden.” He sent Sybil a steely look. “You’ll keep your mouth shut and make sure Twisden does the same, or that brother of yours will hang for a traitor.”
* * *
Sybil held back the curse rising in her throat and watched as the thug tied Sir Westcott’s hands behind his back.
Threaten her, would he? If she was meant to stay and guard Sir Westcott… Well, she wouldn’t. As soon as the smugglers were on their way, she’d let him go and head home herself. What she’d do after that…
She’d find a way to battle Crofton. He wasn’t swindling her out of her home, or harming any one of her brothers. She wouldn’t allow it.
When Sir Westcott’s bonds were tied, they shoved him into the tomb-like interior of the old flintstone building. As she watched him enter, a hand clamped onto her shoulder and gin breath wafted past her ear.
“I’ll have Devil’s Dyke Grange, then, I will.
” Crofton chuckled, shoving her inside as well.
“Best leave him tied. You know how these lords and sirs are. He’ll have his way with you.
And if he doesn’t, if someone else finds you with him, it’s a sure bet he won’t marry you to save your reputation.
You won’t be so stiff-rumped about marrying me then. ”
The curse she’d held back exploded. Crofton only laughed again and slammed the door. The sound of the bar falling into place sent fear bubbling inside her.
Blast it all. She should have expected this.
Rage exploded in her, at Crofton, at Sir Westcott, at her own stupid self. She pounded on the door and shouted, but the creaking of cartwheels faded away into quiet and then a shiver went through her, panic clogging her throat and making her hands shake.
She took in a few ragged breaths and tried to steady her nerves. It was pitch dark in the barn. What she’d seen of the inside earlier wasn’t promising.
“Well, this is a fine pickle,” Sir Westcott said.
He’d moved close to her, too close. She nudged him away.
It was like trying to knock over one of the thick timbers that kept the roof in place.
“Perhaps if we work together, we can find a way to lift that bar,” he said amicably.
“Don’t be a bird-wit. Do you not see how well-sealed that door is?”
“Is there another door? This was what? A barn? A storage building? Might there be a door to a tack room? An opening in a hay loft?”
“I don’t know.” She’d seen the dark corners, not all of them filled with crates. The ceiling, though, had been swallowed in darkness.
“You had light before, and you were busy being bullied by that jackanapes. You probably didn’t notice the glimmer from up there.”
She craned her neck and glanced around. In the far end of the structure, a patch of fog lightened the wall, high up.
“Can we reach it?” she mused.
“If Eddie Rose is around, maybe you can ask him to help us.” He laughed. “Or maybe there’s a ladder? Ahem. Perhaps I can help look around if you would be so kind as to untie me?”