Still, he stopped the cart. Listened. Heard nothing. Deciding it must’ve been naught but the wind, he picked up the reins.
Then the sound came again—and his blood ran cold.
Annabelle. She was either singing or choking.
Feeling only somewhat foolish, he shouted into thin air, “Annabelle?”
“Sterling?” came her instant reply. “L-Lord Randall? Is that you?”
The disembodied voice seemed to emanate from nearby, but she was nowhere in sight, and he should see her easily, as the recent snow had all but melted and the grasslands boasted no trees or boulders to obscure a person.
He vaulted from his seat in one swift move and executed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“I’m down here,” she said.
Dear God.She’d nearly given him a heart attack, messing about in the kilns.
He stalked to the line of defunct, earthen ramps that opened into the kiln pot chambers. Peering into the first hole he reached, he yelled, “What are you doing inside the kilns?”
Not there. He moved to the next.
“I was curious…”
He moved down the line, glancing into the holes, following the sound of her voice.
“…I only wanted to take a peek. But an earthquake caused”—her voice warbled as if she spoke through tears—“something to fall and block the opening, and I can’t move it.”
Finally, he located her. She gazed upward, her head tilted back. Even from here, he saw the soot smudges marring her skin. The pink-tipped nose. The fear.
His annoyance winked out. “I’m coming, Annabelle.”
He ran back to the cart, leapt onto the seat, and descended the hill with nary a care for his cargo. She could hardly get any more dead.
What the hell had happened? For a certainty, no earthquake had occurred. And how had she gotten past the barricades to the entrances in the first place?
He reached the base of the brick building and spotted five sealed keyholes. The sixth and final entrance, however, stood wide open, and he had at least one question answered.
Someone had removed the bricks and stone meant to dissuade people from entering the defunct mill.
He’d deal with that later. For now, Annabelle was his priority.
Before the horse had come to a complete halt, Sterling dropped the reins and jumped down, hitting the ground running.
Inside, he saw at a glance why she could not escape the kiln pot chamber. He muttered a vicious curse.
“Lord Randall?” Annabelle’s muffled voice barely permeated the barricade.
“Hold tight,” he called, striving to present an air of calm while a white-hot rage suffused him.
Someone had done this, purposely. There was no other explanation. Several bags of lime ash and clinker had not fallen, one on top of the other, thanks to mere happenstance. Bricks and stones had notaccidentallylanded in a stack before the one chamber inside of which Annabelle had ventured.
With no patience for an orderly removal of the items, he shoved at the heavy stack of stone. The upper portion crashed down. He shoved again, clearing his way to the sacks of refuse, grabbing each one in turn to heave it away. He’d no sooner flung the last of the bags than Annabelle scrambled out of the space on her hands and knees.
In the next instant, he found himself nearly taken off his feet by a flurry of warm, soft woman, as she threw herself into him, locking her arms around his neck and holding him as if she never meant to let him go.
Without hesitation, he hugged her close, smoothing one hand down her back as violent tremors coursed through her.
“Sweetheart, what’s all this?” he whispered.
