“Bacchus is safely tucked inside a crate.” He dragged me away from Ganymede. If only I could turn him into a statue of stone, but he was manhandling me with an alarming speed, forcing me farther away from Mr. Perry’s cottage.
“Where is Mr. Perry?” I demanded as I stumbled forward, trying to wrestle my arm free. A losing battle against his iron grip.
“He’s at the Jolly Wench, celebrating a night of good fortune with his friends. I’ve made sure the ale flows freely. You needn’t worry about him. He’s perfectly happy this evening.”
“Jim, where are you taking her?” Abigail’s plaintive voice camefrom behind us as he dragged me next to a copse of trees where a horse waited. “You promised me you wouldn’t hurt her. You said you would let her go once you got the treasure.”
“Silence,” he roared, pausing mid-step to swing the gun in her direction. Her eyes widened, and she burst into tears. I dared not jerk free only to find the gun going off and injuring her. But I had to inform Father or Mr. Harrington of where I was headed. Could I drop my handkerchief somewhere along the way? Would any of them notice my absence? A swell of panic bubbled up in my throat. I was truly abandoned, betrayed by one of my dearest friends.
“You said you cared for me. I thought we would leave for Gretna Green this evening.” Abigail hiccupped loudly and wiped her nose with the edge of her sleeve. Her nose was red from crying, and her hair mussed by the wind. She hardly appeared the same woman from the Hawkinses’ dance, where she kept the young gentlemen on their toes.
“I do care for you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Come here. Put them in my coat pocket.”
Like a meek lamb, she did as she was told, sniffling as she slid the jewels into his coat.
“Good girl,” he crooned before flashing me the most impudent smile. Bacchus indeed. Here stood the perfect representation of the god of wine and drink, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his full lips. Could I reach for the knife in my apron? Then again, what good would a knife do against a pistol?
“I have only one question,” I interrupted. “WhereisBacchus? He belongs in Mr. Perry’s field. The gems, the ring, and all of it belong to Mr. Perry. Why ask the woman you care about to destroy her father?”
I hoped referencing Abigail’s father would remind her of where her true loyalty ought to reside. She paled further, her gaze darting between Mr. Barron and me.
He waggled his eyebrows, enjoying himself far too much at my expense. “Does it really matter who ends up with everything?”
“Of course it matters. Mr. Perry will be devastated.”
He pulled me close, pressing the cold tip of the barrel against my temple until it hurt. “Don’t put ideas into her foolish head, Miss Littleton. Abigail’s loyalties lie with me first. Keep speaking, and I’ll kill you.” His hot breath fanned over my ear as he lowered his voice for my hearing only. “Or maybe her.”
“I beg you not to harm her or her father,” I said through stiff lips.
“You lied to me, Jim. If you loved me, how could you lie so?” An anguished moan ripped from Abigail as she covered her face with her hands while he cruelly laughed.
“Aye, I loved you, lass. Loved you well enough that no other man will touch you now. Go back home and wait for my signal. Don’t think for a moment that your father won’t pay the price if you refuse me.”
My gut roiled at the sordid implication, but Abigail pressed a fist against her mouth as if to contain her anguish. Our eyes met briefly before she spun on her heel and fled, dust whirling beneath her slippers before she disappeared from sight.
There was nothing I could do against Mr. Barron’s brute strength and a pistol pressed against my head. Somehow, I would wait for the right moment and make my escape.
Pocketing his gun, he tossed me onto the saddle and clambered quickly behind with an iron arm wrapped about my middle. So unlike Rafe’s, Mr. Barron’s grip terrorized. I reached into my apron and tugged the handkerchief free, sneaking my hand down to let it drop to the field while the horse charged into a gallop away from the field. Would Father notice I was late? At least at twilight Mr. Spencer and the Dixon boys would arrive to camp and watch over the field. Maybe one of them would spy the handkerchief.
But by then I could be hidden far from reach, or worse... dead.
I had relied on myself in the past, but now I had only God to hear my cry.
I had never been inside Mr. Cobb’s cottage, but it reeked of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke, along with a burned cast-iron pot moldering with leftover stew. I sat on a hard chair, my hands tied behind my back while the two men stood guard outside. Although the door remained shut, I could easily hear their conversation through a broken, grime-covered window stuffed with a rag. I tried to wiggle out of my restraints, but that and reaching the knife in my apron proved impossible. To my left, wooden crates were stacked and pushed against a soot-covered wall.
“But what of the bailiff and the groundskeeper?” Mr. Barron sounded frustrated, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger.
“They went runnin’ to the fields to put out the fires, just like you wanted,” Mr. Cobb replied. “But I haven’t seen you leave with any papers. Did you find what you were after?”
“No,” Mr. Barron snarled from the other side of the door. “And I’ve been through that blasted abbey for weeks. There’s nothing but chaos and disorder. The viscount’s records are as worthless as the man himself.”
“It don’t matter none,” Mr. Cobb replied carelessly. “I’ve done my part, settin’ fires and causin’ enough distraction. What about the money you promised me?”
Mr. Barron hesitated, his voice lowering. “I’ll pay you what I owe, once I get what’s mine.”
“And that is?” Mr. Cobb’s voice took on a dark edge. “You promised me a share if you claimed the estate. You can’t pull back now.”
“I told you—without those papers proving I’m Randall Hawthorn’s son, I have nothing! A record in a Bible or some will or testament. Even a diary entry. It’s as if I never existed. You think I want to be crawling around that cursed place every night? You think I enjoy pretending I’m less than what I was born to be?” Mr. Barron’s tone was sharp with frustration. “I deserve Hawthorn Abbey after everything my mother endured. But no—he made sure it all went to the one child he actually cared about, leaving me, the bastard, with nothing!”
