CHAPTER ELEVEN
Once Oliver left, Phoebe dressed in her night rail and climbed beneath the covers.
Her body was sore, but it was a pleasant reminder of what they had shared.
As tired as she was, sleep eluded her. Several minutes later, she heard a sound.
Had Oliver returned? The sound made Phoebe’s eyes open.
She rolled over and sat up, intending to light a candle, when two large, looming shadows descended upon her before she could register what was happening.
A cloth was stuffed into her mouth, and her hands were tied behind her back with an abrasive rope and tightened painfully; she would have cried out if not for the cloth.
Her body and mind suddenly registered fear, and she panicked, thrashing around.
“Stop. Or we’ll take Lady Emma as well.”
Fear seeped into her soul at the thought of Emma, and she collapsed to the floor. With her hands tied behind her back, she couldn’t get up. She gasped as a hood was pulled over her head, and one of the men lifted her into his arms, holding her tightly to his chest so she couldn’t move.
The door to her room creaked open. The soft footsteps of her kidnappers moved stealthily down the hall toward what she knew were the servants’ stairs, down into the kitchen, and out the door. The brisk night air instantly chilled her, for she wore nothing but her night rail.
She was shoved into a carriage and forced onto a hard bench.
One of the men tied her feet together, making escape impossible.
Tears pooled in her eyes, which was good because it triggered something inside her.
Anger. She was angry. Whoever was doing this would not prevail.
She would fight with everything she had to survive.
And she didn’t need to think long and hard about who had done this to her.
Her aunt and possibly her uncle. If it were the last thing she did on this earth, she would see them pay.
The carriage ride was long, hours long, as her body bounced on the hard bench.
She had no way to protect herself from being thrashed around by the bumps and ruts in the road.
It was as though the driver were purposely hitting every bump.
Her bladder was screaming for relief, and there was no way to get anyone’s attention.
Fortunately, the carriage came to a hard stop not much later.
The stop threw her forward, and she hit the front of the coach on the side of her head and shoulder, leaving her a jumbled mess on the floor and her entire body aching.
Indeed, she would have bruises from her head to her toes.
The door opened, and she was scooped into the same man’s arms as before—she recognized him by his scent. Body sweat and garlic, odors so strong they penetrated the hood and almost made her gag, which didn’t bode well with a cloth stuffed in her mouth.
He marched on his feet for a long while—it had to have been miles—before climbing some stairs, and a door banged open when he kicked it with his booted foot.
When the door closed behind them, she felt the warmth and heard the crackle of a fire.
He dumped her into a hard chair and pulled off her hood.
Phoebe blinked several times before she could focus on the dimly lit room. It was a small cabin, perhaps used for hunting. There was a sturdy older woman, dressed in clean but well-worn clothes, standing at the hearth, stirring something in a pot that made Phoebe’s stomach growl.
“What have you got?”
“A young lady to do with what you will,” the large man, missing one of his front teeth, said.
She didn’t see the other man. No doubt he had stayed with the carriage and the horses.
“It’s been a while since I had a young one to handle the cleaning and heavy lifting of firewood.”
The man went to the door, and she said, “Will you not stay for some stew?”
“No,” he mumbled, then opened the door and left.
“Well, what has my niece brought me?” she asked as she walked around the chair, looking at her with oddly familiar eyes. She pulled the cloth from her mouth, and Phoebe sighed in relief as she ran her tongue across her dry lips.
Phoebe glanced at the woman, trying to determine if she was supposed to respond.
“Don’t be tongue-tied, tell me your name,” she said as she approached. She took her chin in her hand and tilted her head from side to side, inspecting her like a side of beef.
“Phoebe. My name is Phoebe Windham.”
“Ahh, the daughter of William and Mary.”
“You knew my parents?” Who was this woman?
“Why, yes, of course I did. Mary spent some time with me many years ago before she ran off with William.”
“Is there any way you can untie me? The ropes are cutting into me.”
“Not yet. I need your promise that you won’t try to run away. You see, there’s nothing for miles but hungry wolves hoping for the tender flesh of a young lady such as you.”
Phoebe frowned, unsure whether to trust her. For now, she would believe her until she knew better. “I won’t run. I need a chamber pot.”
The old woman went to a cabinet and pulled out a large knife.
Phoebe’s eyes remained on the knife until the woman went behind her and sliced through the rope at her feet and hands.
With the freedom of movement, she rubbed her blood-covered wrists.
Her ankles had fared better than her hands. “The chamber pot?”
She pointed. “In that corner behind the screen.”
“Thank you,” she said as she stood, testing her legs and deciding they would work. She hurried behind the screen to tend to her personal needs. When she exited, the lady was placing two bowls of stew onto a rickety table.
“Pull over the chair you were sitting in,” she demanded as she poured wine into two glasses and broke apart one piece of crusty bread into two.
Phoebe did as she was told and sat at one of the place settings, waiting for the woman to start eating. She didn’t want to be rude. “Could you please tell me your name?”
“Hennie. Short for Henrietta.”
“Hennie. That is sweet.”
“I’m not sweet, girl, and don’t forget it.”
When Hennie started eating, Phoebe did the same, and to her surprise, the stew was delicious; she finished every drop. She drank all her wine and ate every crumb of bread. “Thank you. That was wonderful.”
Hennie sat back and patted her belly. “Yes, it was. Clean up. There are two pails of clean water just outside—one for washing and one for rinsing. Don’t go too far from the stoop. As I said, the wolves won’t hesitate to make a meal out of you.”
Phoebie knew wolves didn’t inhabit England anymore, but she would pretend otherwise. As far as she knew, there were no fierce animal predators in Britain. But didn’t mean there weren’t people out there wanting to hurt her.
After she cleaned up and washed the dishes, she came back inside the cabin to find Hennie stoking the fire. “You can take the bed in the room there,” she said, pointing with a wrought iron poker. “I will sleep out here by the fire. My old bones need the heat.”
Phoebe knew she lied. Hennie needed to sleep out here in case she tried to escape, though she wouldn’t actually do it—at least not in the dead of night.
Maybe during the day, if the opportunity arose.
And she hoped it would. What would Weston do when he found she’d gone?
What would Emma do? Would they believe she’d never leave willingly, no matter what lies her uncle and aunt told?
Tears slipped from her eyes as she allowed them to fall.
She went into the tiny bedroom and closed the thin curtain that separated it from the main room of the cabin.
She shivered at the sudden cold and opened the curtain again.
Having heat was better than privacy. She climbed beneath two scratchy wool blankets and pounded the pillow, trying to fluff the feathers.
Finally, she rested her head, pulled the covers up to her chin, and told herself she was warm and not shivering.
It felt like she was back in the attic. As sleep took over, she saw two golden-brown eyes glowing in the dark—eyes like Weston’s, but these belonged to an animal with a long snout and a big mouth full of sharp teeth.