Chapter 4
The villains had taken pleasure in yanking Wes’s arms back and pulling the ropes to cut into his wrists.
It was a good thing, or he’d have flattened Crofton.
He’d save that until later. The tense silence coming from the woman standing next to him pained him. What a night she’d had, and though it was her own fault… Damn, but he should have jumped in sooner.
“I won’t harm you, Sybil,” he said. “May I call you Sybil? I heard what Crofton said—that last parting shot. I am a gentleman, and though you are an enticing bundle of woman, I would never force myself on you.”
Furthermore, he was inclined to be cautious. Enticing bundle or not, he wanted to know why she was out and about dressed as a boy and engaged in illegal activities.
“Let’s find a way out before Crofton returns, or before anyone else comes along and discovers us,” he said.
He heard an exasperated sigh. “You recognized me.”
“Yes, of course. Crofton did as well. Those other fellows must have porridge for brains not to have noticed.”
A loud huff followed. “I am still Miss Dunsford to you. If anyone else comes along, I can simply continue to pretend to be my brother.”
“Discovered in a locked barn, with me, a gentleman who’s tied up? Unless it’s one of your fellow free traders, whoever discovers us will free me and haul you off to the magistrate, and your secret will come out. Not that I would give evidence against you, but you must admit it would appear odd.”
She huffed again, and he heard rustling cloth and saw a spark striking and flaring into light.
“You have a lantern. You clever girl. Lucky, they didn’t take it away from you.”
She held the lantern handle with her teeth and moved behind him, grumbling.
Long moments passed as her hands moved exploring the ropes binding him, and she grumbled more.
“I have a knife in my boot,” he said.
Her exploration paused, and she must have set the lantern down, as the light shone about his ankles. “And I have one in mine also, but we might need this length of rope.”
“Quite right. Good thinking.”
“Do hold still. The knot is loosening. I can’t see well, but I can feel.”
So could he. Her words whispered tantalizingly past his neck, and he glanced over his shoulder. The brim of her hat nearly touched his collar, and he saw dark curls peeking out underneath.
She murmured an unladylike curse and continued to work.
It was shocking for a lady to curse, wasn’t it? He chuckled, thinking of his stepmother and grandmother. Once or twice when they thought he wasn’t around, he’d heard them swear.
Sybil must have removed the gloves she’d been wearing. The cold fingers touching his wrists unaccountably sent warmth up his arms and to other parts of his body.
She slid a finger under his cuff and his heart jolted. If she kept that up, he might find himself leg-shackled, and not unwillingly.
Perhaps before the night was over, he’d have a chance to warm her hands. And more. This godforsaken place was dark enough to have his thoughts embracing the notion of a tryst and a special license.
“Stop moving,” she said. “These knots are the devil.”
The scold shook him out of his lustful thoughts and brought to mind his stepmother’s treatment by a neighbor and friend of his father, who’d followed her to York in the spring and tried to importune her one afternoon while Wes was out.
Stepmama had absolutely forbade him from challenging the fellow because he was, she said, no worse than other friends of Wes’s late father.
His father. The late Sir Twisden’s passions had all been for his hounds and his hunting, not his duties as the local squire, not his wife, nor even his son. It had been Wes’s stepmother raising Wes to be a gentleman.
The marriage had been a mismatch for her, an impoverished young lady who hadn’t known his father at all before marrying him.
What did Wes know about Sybil Dunsford? He’d do well to slow down and not rush his fences with her.
But… what did Crofton say… You won’t be so stiff-rumped about marrying me then.
Crofton wanted to marry her?
A stubborn determination rose in him. Crofton wouldn’t have Sybil.
The bindings on his wrists loosened, bringing him back to the challenge at hand. While he’d been ruminating, she’d worked away until finally the ropes fell, and Wes shook out his arms and rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders.
He saw her rubbing her fingers, and he caught her hands up, holding them as she tried to pull away. Even in this dim light, he could see they were scratched and bleeding from working the hemp rope.
“Damn and blast it, I’ll take a horsewhip to those fellows, I will,” he said.
“Your wrists are not much better,” she said.
“I’m so sorry, my dear.”
The shiver that went through her coursed up his arms.
She pulled away. “And you should be. We wouldn’t be in this spot if you hadn’t decided to play Sir Galahad.”
“Sir Galahad, is it? I’ve never had the honor of rescuing a damsel in distress before. Did you think I would stand there and let you take a beating?”
She crossed her arms and huffed. “Yes, well, you had best be prepared to do more if we’re to find a way out of here.”
He glanced around. The light on the floor didn’t do much to illuminate the building’s interior.
He hadn’t exactly made a careful note of the structure either.
The walls were made of some coarse stone, probably flint, like those that he’d seen at Devil’s Dyke Grange.
The stone might provide toeholds to climb up to the window. On the other hand…
“Let’s look. Maybe there’s a ladder.” He bent and picked up the lantern and gathered the rope. The length wasn’t nearly enough to throw over a beam—if there were any beams handy—and reach that high window opening.
Somehow, they would contrive. Or not. And then they would be locked in here until Crofton’s men returned and they had to fight their way out, or until someone else wandered by or came searching and discovered them.
In which case, he would have to marry her.
Would it be a good round of fisticuffs tonight, or a trip to the altar with a challenging, delectable handful of a lady tomorrow?
The thought cheered him—either outcome would do. Or perhaps both.
* * *
Sybil ran her hands over the rough stone of the barn wall, feeling for footholds.
“There are a few crates here,” Sir Westcott said from a nearby corner.
The lantern light shimmered and moved from side to side as he searched for anything that would aid their escape. She heard a squeal of wood and a startled laugh.
“Gadzooks. Champagne. Perhaps we’ll take a bottle with us. Is this Crofton’s private cache?”
She ignored the question. “Can we stack the crates to climb on?”
“I said a few. I meant three. Not likely to be high enough.” The light bobbed, and he came and stood next to her. “No ladder around that I can see.”
He raised the lantern and looked up. “Those shadows… Does it look like there are beams up there? Part of a loft floor?”
The fog must have shifted, because a few stars glimmered in the opening and cold air drifted in. If there’d ever been a window or wooden door, it had long since disappeared.
“If we can get to the beams… Here.” He set down the bottle, handed her the lantern, and went to retrieve the crates, hauling them over one by one while she peered through the darkness at the wall.
When they were stacked, he set the lantern away and studied them.
“Let’s try this.” He arranged them two on the bottom and one on top so he could step up, and she handed him the lantern.
“That won’t work,” she muttered.
How long would it take Crofton to drop his cargo and return? They needed to escape soon.
“Nothing within reach,” he said, feeling around. “But up there…”
He hopped down and rearranged the crates, stacking them three high and took the rope and tied a loop with a slipknot.
“Now, if I can just hoist myself up—”
“Let me,” Sybil said. “I’m not as tall as you, but I have a good arm.”
Before she had to endure the expected lecture about ladylike behavior, his hands, large, strong, and sure came under her arms, and he’d set her atop the crates.
“Light as a feather,” he said, handing up the rope. “Can you manage the lantern as well?”
Breathless and heart pounding, her thoughts muddled in a war between feelings of vulnerability and… desire? Was that what she was feeling? Sir Westcott had picked her up like she was in fact as light as a feather, like she was feminine.
She prayed he really was a gentleman, else, with the feelings he was stirring she might find herself truly in jeopardy and liking it.
And then what would become of her brothers?
What would become of Devil’s Dyke Grange?
A man like Sir Westcott would not want to take on two lads, and he didn’t need her farm in Sussex. He’d probably want to sell it.
Sell her birthright. That thought tamed her wild longings.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
“Give me the lantern,” she said, finding his good manners suddenly irritating.
He couldn’t be that amicable. The men in her family—her father, her brothers, even Emmett—each would, in these circumstances, throw a masculine tantrum. Surely Sir Westcott would too, once they got out of here. He’d ring a peal over her all the way back to the Grange.
She raised the lantern and saw the jutting piece of wood he’d spotted. It might be the remains of a broken crossbeam.
It was a wonder the whole building hadn’t tumbled down. She tossed the knotted rope and missed the first two times. On the third try, the loop caught.
“The rope is on,” she said, handing down the lantern.
Thank heavens. Now to climb up and shimmy through the opening and pray that she didn’t break a bone going down the other side. The barn was on a slope that fell to a small stream. She had no idea how far the drop was.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to make this attempt?” he called up to her.
“Are you sure this rope would hold you? Or are you afraid I’ll leave you stranded here?”