Chapter Three #2
If there was nothing left of her inheritance at that time, and her maid had told her how the Burkes had been spending her money as if spending were a new invention, that was the chance she had to take.
Marrying Cyrus Wolrige was a worse choice, one to be avoided at all cost. But, by God, if there was nothing left when it was finally safe to show herself again, the Burkes would pay.
They would pay anyway. For the first time in her life, Chantelle disliked someone enough to call the emotion hate.
It wasn’t pleasant. It went against her natural tendencies.
But for what they had tried to do to her, what they were forcing her to do, she would get even somehow.
With several changes of clothes, a few personal items, and the last of the money her aunt had given her to get home all tied up in a bundle, Chantelle tossed it out the window, then climbed out on the ledge herself.
She was fortunate that spring was already changing to summer so she could wear a thin muslin dress that was tied about her hips, making it possible for her to manage the climb down with ease.
She was also fortunate that there was only a half-moon that offered a feeble light to help conceal her progress until she was off the grounds.
It was nice to feel fortunate about something in this situation.
But she ran into her first obstacle almost immediately.
She hadn’t counted on the passing of time and the growth of trees.
Her tree, which had always been so easy to reach, was still there, but hardly recognizable.
The branch that had touched the house and been so easy to climb over now hung far above her head.
Even on tiptoes she couldn’t reach it. A lower branch would probably be in the right position in several more years, but now it was three feet below the ledge.
If she was going to use that tree to get down, she would have to jump for it.
Ten years ago she wouldn’t have hesitated, but then children rarely think of the possible results of their adventures.
Right now she was looking at a possible broken neck, broken bones at the least, if she missed the branch when she jumped.
It was worth hesitating over, but only for a few moments.
She still jumped. Yet she had no time to feel elated when she caught the branch, for she heard the crack as it broke with her weight, and she found herself hurtling straight for a collision with the wide tree trunk.
Before she could scream, she let go of the branch and dropped the last eight feet to the ground, rolling as she landed.
She stayed there, unmoving, taking note of the aches and pains on different parts of her body, giving a little prayer that none would be serious.
When she finally moved, it was with a sigh of relief.
Nothing was broken, though she would have a few bad bruises on one knee and hip, and it took her a moment to steady herself when she stood up and untied her skirt.
She had done it, she was free, and she wasted not another moment in collecting her bundle and moving silently away from the house in the direction of the cliffs.
This was familiar terrain. It could have been as black as pitch and she still would have found her way to the steep path that descended to the beach and the caves.
Hurrying, she reached the cliffs in five minutes, and then Chantelle was running down the path, safely out of sight of the house, smelling the warm salt in the air, hearing the waves breaking on the beach below.
Her playground, and the last place anyone would look for her.
Finally she felt she had come home, for that mansion from which she had just escaped was anything but home to her now.
Only this “home” was filled with interlopers, too, as she found to her chagrin when she reached the narrow strip of beach.
Twenty yards ahead, a small boat was pulled ashore, and outlined around it, three men.
Smugglers? Perhaps. With no lights in evidence, Chantelle doubted they were fishermen.
But regardless of who they were, she preferred not to be seen and slowly backed up toward the cliff path, where there was enough bramble and knotty trees to provide a temporary hiding place until the three men departed.
That plan would have worked out just fine, except there weren’t just three men, there were five. The other two had been sent down the beach in opposite directions to make sure their own nocturnal landing on the beach would go unnoticed, and Chantelle backed right into one of them.
She was simply startled at first, until a hand smelling of fish closed over her mouth, and then it was too late to scream, even if she were willing to risk it.
Better to talk her way out of this so her plans could proceed, and with that thought in mind, she didn’t struggle unduly as she was dragged forward to the beached boat.
It seemed an ominous portent that the moon should disappear just as she was brought face-to-face with the other three men.
In near total darkness, it was impossible for her to see if she might recognize any of them from the nearby village.
And when the hand covering her mouth wasn’t lowered so she could speak, she began to feel her first inkling of uneasiness, which quickly increased when they all began to speak at once in some gibberish she couldn’t make heads or tails of.
The laughter at the end she understood, though, and her uneasiness turned to fear.
Chantelle began to struggle then, but it was too late.
With five of them there, for the last man had joined them now, it was appallingly easy for them to get her into the boat.
A sweaty cloth was stuck into her mouth, a rope was wound around her a half-dozen times so her arms became useless, and one man’s bare foot pressed down painfully into her belly to keep her from rising from the bottom of the boat while the others settled in their places.
A fifth man pushed them off, staying behind on the beach.
What difference? There were still four surrounding her, four still talking that gibberish she didn’t understand.
The foot was removed from her stomach, but she didn’t try to rise, afraid to draw their attention back to her.
She needed time to think, to calm her fear.
There had to be a perfectly logical explanation for their taking her with them, for not allowing her the opportunity to explain what she was doing on the beach in the middle of the night.
She need only explain—but to whom? What if none of them spoke English, or French either, which was her second language?
Good Lord, if she couldn’t understand them, or they her, how was she to find out what was happening?
At least she didn’t have long to find out where she was being taken.
She was rowed out to a ship riding high in the water, which allowed for its anchorage so close to shore.
In short order she was carried aboard, still trussed up, and dumped in a dark cabin, the door slamming shut behind the two who had brought her in, leaving the room in pitch-blackness.
Fortunately, the rope wrapped around her had not been tied tightly, and with some squirming, shaking, and contortions, she was able to unwind herself.
Unfortunately, the door opened again just as she had finished, candlelight blinding her for a moment, and then fear took hold of her again, for the man standing there was like no man she had ever seen.
Swarthy-skinned, foreign-looking, with a sharp, hawklike nose and black eyes that normally were slightly slanted, but at the moment were quite rounded in surprise as they looked her over.
He was short, shorter than she, and thin.
She might even be able to overpower him, which idea should have calmed her nerves a little but didn’t.
He wore loose trousers and a white cloth that wound around his head, but nothing else, not even shoes.
The bare chest offended her; his staring offended her; that she was here was the biggest offense of all.
As she stood there facing him, she began to feel resentment in the worst way, which did wonders in making her forget to be afraid.
Motionless until now, she recalled the gag in her mouth and yanked it out, noting only briefly that it was just like the cloth wrapped about this fellow’s head.
“Do you speak English?” Chantelle asked imperiously. “Because if you don’t, you had better get someone in here who does right away. I demand—”