Chapter 23 Magellan
Magellan
When Magellan woke up some time later, blind terror hit her first. Her hands were tied in front of her with rope, her mouth bound.
Night had fallen. The man who claimed to be her father had tossed aside his fine coat and hat.
He had a knife in his lap and was thumbing through Gwynedd’s diary by the light of the carriage lantern.
Magellan couldn’t stop the surge of adrenaline coursing through her. She started to twist and writhe, pulling at her wrists. The rope was rubbing her skin raw and cutting off the feeling in her hands. The rancid rag in her mouth made her want to vomit.
“You’re awake.” He gave her an assessing look. “What is this book? Why’s it so special?” He waved it in front of her. Then he seemed to realize she couldn’t talk. “If I take that off and you scream, I’ll cut you.”
Her eyes widened, and she nodded frantically in agreement. He took the rag off, not too gently, and she gagged, fighting the urge to throw up.
“It’s a diary from the sixth century.” She tried to sound helpful, her voice shaking as she looked around wildly for a way to escape.
“Why does his lordship want it?”
She had no idea who his lordship was. “Is that who had you kidnap me?”
“I ask the questions, girlie.” He pointed the knife at her. The nine-inch blade gleamed in the lamplight as his eyes swept her. “Didn’t know I was being paid to fetch someone so pretty. I may have to sample the goods before we arrive.”
He leered at her, and Magellan tried hard to calm her breathing before she passed out.
Her blood sugar was dropping dangerously low.
Garesh was the one who’d taught her basic self-defense before she went off to college in case she was ever in a scary situation.
This was beyond any scary situation she could have imagined.
Her brain felt fuzzy, her vision going in and out of focus.
If she died here, she would have failed Gwynedd. Would the world end?
Garesh was the one who’d always told her, “You are stronger than you can imagine—if you believe it.” Right now she had to believe it. She had no choice. It was either do or die.
She drew a deep breath into her lungs. Her only weapons were her feet, which weren’t tied.
Without waiting to deliberate, she brought both feet up blindingly fast and kicked the man full in the face with Vivianne’s heavy boots.
The man reared back in shock, his nose bleeding.
Enraged, he roared and backhanded her. She tasted blood and raised both feet again and kicked him in the chest with all her might over and over like a wild bucking horse as she screamed a primal scream born from the fury of wanting to live.
In the struggle, the man blindly swung out his knife repeatedly.
Only the basest instinct to survive gave her the strength to lean back and strike his face with her boots again and again.
The third time he lost consciousness. Blood was everywhere.
She didn’t know whose it was. Both her hands were still bound.
She was shaking too hard to use the knife to cut the rope.
The carriage barreled on in the darkness. Frantic, she looked around, needing to escape before shock rendered her immobile. The carriage door was locked but the window was just large enough for her to fit through.
With both hands still tied, she grabbed the diary, trying not to get blood on it, and tossed it in her bag.
Then she hitched up her skirts. She climbed halfway out the window and looked up.
The driver was sitting high up on the carriage toward the front.
If her kidnapper woke up, she was certain he would kill her. She had to jump.
When the driver slowed down for a curve, she flung her bag into the wooded darkness. Then she struggled to climb out of the window and hurled herself to the ground.
She forced herself not to cry out when she hit the dirt road and rolled to a stop.
Frozen, she waited in terror for the carriage to slow down, but the driver kept going.
She watched as the carriage light on the road grew dimmer and dimmer until it finally turned a corner and was swallowed up by the night.
For a long time, she could only lie there, in shock and gasping for air.
She sat up, fighting dizziness, and realized her arm was bleeding badly.
A cut ran down her calf too. She needed to find help before she passed out—and she needed to get off the road.
Once they realized she’d escaped, they would turn back to search for her.
Getting to her knees, she groped around in the dark until she found the satchel.
Forcing herself to stand, she wavered for a moment as the knife wounds began to throb.
She had no idea where she was. Surrounded by the dark, the night’s coldness crept into her skin, and she started to shiver violently from shock.
“I’m sorry” was all she could say over and over again, even though she had no idea who she was apologizing to.
To Gwynedd for failing? To the guardian?
All she knew was she never should have left Hereford Manor or allowed herself to get in that carriage.
She should have tried harder to convince Rhys.
She had caved in a moment of weakness when she should have stood by her conviction.
Now she was alone, lost in a time not her own, and she desperately needed help.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She kept saying the words like a mantra, putting one foot in front of the other and forcing herself to go on. She didn’t know how long she had walked until she crested the hill. Then she heard it:
Music.
Music sounded in the distance. A jubilant, rowdy song led by a group of fiddlers. Claps, cheers, and laughter accompanied them, calling to her like a siren’s song and forcing her to keep limping forward. For wherever there was music as joyful as this, there had to be sanctuary.
Within minutes she saw the glowing lights of the tavern and choked on a cry.
Hobbling toward the open door on the side of the building, she heard the sounds of pots and pans clanging from inside the kitchen along with a woman’s voice.
The woman’s commands rose over the den as she gave orders to the kitchen staff.
Magellan rounded the corner to stand on the doorstep and came face-to-face with the woman, who took one look at her and said, “Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus.”
Magellan promptly crumpled to the ground.
The woman knelt beside her and called out for help. “Curtis! Get Ned! And ready a room. We’ll be needing boiling water and fresh linens.” She cradled Magellan’s head in her arms. “Lass, who did this to you?”
Magellan whispered, barely able to get the words out, “Don’t let them find me.”
A fierce light came into the woman’s eyes. “No one’s going ta find ya here, love, or hurt you again, that I can promise.”
A group gathered around, their faces full of concern.
Magellan felt two burly arms gently pick her up and carry her upstairs.
She floated in and out of consciousness, vaguely remembering another man.
Whatever he was doing to her arm hurt like hell.
They gave her whisky to drink, but it didn’t stop her from screaming.
The burly man with gentle hands held her down while the other poured what felt like liquid fire on her cuts.
Magellan thought her whole body might go up in flames and disappear altogether.
The last thing she remembered was the pain when something sharp stabbed her arm.
The fiddlers were still playing somewhere in the distance, but she couldn’t hear them anymore.
She had been hurled into the silence of oblivion.