Gripping the sides of the ladder, he slid down, hurling the tablecloth off him once his feet hit the ground and shoving it under a pile of hay in the shed. Flinging the ladder on top of the mound, he spun onhis heel and fled to the fields, arms flailing around him until he entered the hovel.
Stings prickled his leather gloves. His hands shook so violently, it took several attempts to remove them. He could hardly believe what had happened. What was bound to happen.
Gently, he pressed his cold fingers against his eyes and cheeks, cooling the burn and soothing the swelling. He had not escaped without injury, but such was the way of an accident. A few stings would not kill him. He imagined how hundreds more of them would feel pierced into a lady’s delicate skin.
Such a tragic accident.
CHAPTER 27
Elizabeth startled awake with an ear-shattering slam.
An insect buzzed by her temple, and she swatted at it. A buzz that did not belong in her bedchamber crescendoed, pushing all but one thought out of her mind.
Bees.
Another bee buzzed by her face, then two, three, more than she could count.
Her pulse galloped, choking her with panic.
Calm. She needed to calm herself. Bees reacted to aggression.
Shaking her head to discourage the bees from landing on her, she shrank under her covers, pulling the blankets over her and tucking the edges under firmly.
Relax. Relax and listen, she repeated to herself over and over.
She was not dreaming. The beehive in her bedchamber was not a figment of her imagination. Her father had told her that bees react to panic and abrupt movements. She needed to maintain calm and act sensibly — difficult when she felt an insect crawl down her bare arm. Muttering an apology, she wrapped her fingers around the blanket’s fabric and squished the intruder, praying that it was not the queen for her father’s sake.
She could shout for help.
As soon as she thought it, she knew the plan was not a good one. Whoever opened her door was certain to get stung, and the house would be infested with bees.
If she could slowly make her way to the window, she could open it and the bees would leave. She would give them plenty of time — an hour? Two? — then she would cross her room to the door and pray she had waited long enough to lift her covers.
If only her bed were closer to the door or to the window, her decision would be much easier. But her bed was in the middle, the window to the right, the door to her left.
Where was the hive? Logic told her by the window. Between her bed and the window, where someone had tossed it. On purpose.
Someone really did want her dead.
Fear squeezed the air out of her lungs, coiled in her stomach. She could not breathe. Could do nothing with the heavy blankets stifling her. She kicked her feet free, a prick and the throbbing of flesh on her ankle recalling Elizabeth to her senses.
To remove the blanket meant certain death. But she could not endure this panic and uncertainty for hours.
Risking a few more stings, she wrapped the blankets as firmly as she could around her and lowered herself to the floor. Inch by agonizing inch, she shuffle tucked shuffle tucked over to the door, feeling for the familiar grooves through the blankets. When she found the crack between the frame and the wall, she leaned against it and pounded her fist, praying the maid or Mrs. Hill would hear the muffled sound.
Elizabeth pounded until her arm fell heavy at her side, and her longing to inhale fresh air overwhelmed her.
Pressing her ear against the door, she listened. Nothing.
Calming her heart and inhaling what stagnant air she could, she pounded more. Until her body was slick with sweat.
Gasping in the stifling heat trapped with her, she listened again, crying out when she heard Mrs. Hill’s heavy footstep approaching. The latch rattled and the door pressed against her, but Elizabeth leaned harder against it. “Mrs. Hill, please fetch Papa—”
“Miss Lizzy? Are you well? I cannot hear you, andsomething is blocking the door.” Another shove Elizabeth braced herself against.
Shouting through the covers, Elizabeth repeated, “Fetch Papa! Only Papa! There is a beehive in my room.”
That, Mrs. Hill heard. She exclaimed all the way down the hall to the tempo of her swift staccato steps.
