Page 3 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

She darted into the hallway and pushed on a particular wooden panel, one she knew well. It opened with a click to reveal a narrow, hidden passageway running beside the corridor. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Instantly, the passageway was engulfed in darkness.

Her heart pounded. Never before had she attempted this in the depths of night, without the benefit of a candle. During the day, high, narrow windows provided illumination, but now, everything was dark.

She pressed her hands to the walls to guide her. The passage was barely two feet wide, and she edged sideways to make her way through the house. Cobwebs touched her face, but she resisted the impulse to brush them off lest she make noise and give her position away.

Footsteps sounded on the other side of the wall.

“Where the fuck did she go?” The harsh voice belonged to Cyrus. “She can’t just vanish.”

“The woman could’ve helped us.” She couldn’t be certain, but this voice seemed to belong to the blue-eyed highwayman, the one from Yorkshire. “But you frightened her, you dolt. Another winning strategy you’ve employed tonight.”

“Fuck you, Des.”

Blind, feet scuffling through the thick dust covering the floor, Clara fumbled down the passageway.

There was a room hidden at the heart of the house, a place designed by the manor’s original tenant to keep him safe from invaders. Yet as she shuffled through the secret passage, she couldn’t find the correct panel to get her to that room.

Barring that, if she could just find the right direction, she could reach a constricted staircase that led to the ground floor. From there, it was a maze that could, eventually, drop her off in the ground-floor pantry. And from there, she could use the servants’ door to get her into the kitchen garden, and freedom beyond.

But how was she to reach it? For all the time she’d spent in these hidden corridors, attempting it without the benefit of a candle or lamp—with terror churning in her gut—rendered the familiar route unknown.

Swallowing her fear, she pushed forward.

Her feet connected with the stacks of books she kept hidden in the corridor. They tumbled to the floor.

She winced at the sound.

“Did you hear that?” Des. Sounding close.

“A mouse,” Cyrus grated.

“She’s in the walls.” Thumps rapped against the wall. “Secret passages.”

“Like I said,” Cyrus spat. “A mouse.” He made a disgusted noise. “I haven’t time for this. Find her, Des. Then bring her to me.”

Clara didn’t wait. Hurried as best she could, but the corridor snaked in blind routes. She ran headlong into a dead end before spinning around and speeding in the other direction. Her heart pounded in her throat. All the while, the sounds of Des’s boots on the floor were close by as he trailed after her, separated only by the old, thin walls. She panted, struggling to breathe.

Where the hell were the stairs that led down?

At last, her hand brushed what felt like a rickety wooden railing. Except these stairs led up. Fear forced her to keep moving, and she ran up the steps, heedless of where she was heading.

The staircase led her to another passageway. Keeping her hands on the walls surrounding her, she moved and searched. If she remembered correctly…yes…that was right… Her fingertips brushed a lever, and she pulled it. A panel swung open.

She stepped into a chamber, exhaling at finally having more space around her.

Her exhalation turned into a cough as years of accumulated dust flew into her mouth and coated her lungs. Feeble light from the gibbous moon shone through a skylight and revealed a chamber filled with ghostly white shapes. Heavy, humped forms crouched on the floor. The attic. Holland cloth draped over unwanted furniture and leather-covered trunks waited for travelers that would never come. A few patched and moth-eaten dolls slumped against where the sloping ceiling met the uneven floor, and she bit back a curse as her barely cushioned foot stepped on a toy soldier.

Damn it, she’d trapped herself. There was no way out of the house from here. She rushed to the skylight, intending to push it open to emerge on the roof.

Her head spun at the thought of emerging on the roof of a three-story building. She reeled back.

Clara stared at the door to the attic. Perhaps she could slip out, ease down the servants’ staircase, and then make her way to the kitchen and then outside. Isaiah Deaver’s farm was a mile away, but if no one saw her leave the house, and she ran faster than she’d ever run in her life, she might, just might be able to make it to safety.

Isaiah was an elderly man. Should he possess any firearms, they’d be as antique as the man himself. Yet, if the highwaymen did manage to catch up with her at Mr. Deaver’s farm, she could potentially hold them at bay while Isaiah saddled his swayback mare and rode to fetch the law.

She took a step toward the attic door. Hesitated. Took another step. Stopped again.

The doorknob rattled.