“We do not need a crew. We will not be sailing.” Footsteps scraped the stone floor, and a door closed as if the man called Breage had left.
Her panic escalated. Her breathing faltered, caught in her throat again, but she crammed her eyes tighter shut and tried to regulate it.In, out. In, out.
“What are you planning?” The Swabian. “You don’t be thinking of taking her there—”
“What I think, good man, is not any of your concern.”
“Kill her now.” The words held pleading, as if death were a kindness. “Let Breage be doing it, and we can get rid of the body before morning and—”
“Swabian.” A second of stillness.
Then, low, “Yes?”
“How old are you?”
“I…don’t be knowing, sir. Sixty-two, sixty-three, mayhap.”
“An old man.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Old men are prone to malady. Or accident.” A long pause, as footsteps edged closer to her. “Or death.”
“You don’t have to be threatening me, sir. I’ve always done as you said before. Not going to stop now.”
“How very faithful of you. I am touched.” A hand swept down Eliza’s cheek. Then into her hair. “Go and get me a rope.”
Every nerve jerked, and she clamped down a scream, one second before he fisted her hair and pulled her head from the ground.
“Stand up.” He yanked her to her feet before she had a chance to move. Slammed her backward into a moist wall. Kicked an empty keg out of his way and let it roll. “Now, the rope?”
From behind him, the old man produced it.
“Hold forth your wrists.”
She thrust them forward, and as the coarse rope wound them together, she glanced around her. Some kind of tiny cellar room with kegs lining three of the walls and no window.No window.The words processed.No window. No escape.Everything was dark, except the yellow light of a candle on one of the kegs and another candle in the hand of the old man.
“Do come here, Swabian.”
Her eyes jolted back to the man before her. His brooding eyes, his lifting smile—the amusement skittering over his expression and making her weak. She flinched when he ripped the sleeve off her arm. Then his long, cold fingers caressed her skin, while the Swabian stood back and watched.
“No scars.” A whisper. He ripped the other sleeve. “You healed very well, Miss Gillingham. Do you remember now?”
“Sir—”
“Shut up, Swabian.”
“But she was only—”
“I said shut up!” The man turned and backhanded Swabian, until he stumbled back and cradled his cheek.
“Now go and see that Breage does not endanger us with any more mistakes. If anyone sees that ship, we shall all be quite imperiled.”
“Yes, sir.” The older man disappeared, and the room plunged into deeper blackness with his absence.
Vomit crept up her throat. “Who are you?”
He shoved her to the back corner of the room. A rat scurried out of their way.
