Page 90 of A Debt Inherited

“Quickly,” Wickham said. “Before someone turns into the lane.”

Kerr’s grip shifted. “Walk.”

Her mind leapt to her father. No. Do not think. Count. She counted to five and lost the number at three. Her knees weakened. The man shifted again, got his hand lower, and the ground fell small beneath her. She tried to mark direction—left, a gate; right, the ditch; the hedgerow smelt of nettle—but the sack and the cloth made all sense slide.

“Take her,” Kerr said.

Hands changed—one pair to another. Wickham’s touch found her wrist, lighter, almost careful; she jerked from it and earned nothing but another settled grip that allowed for the movement and contained it at once. The other man remained near enough that she felt him before he touched her again: smoke, leather, and that cold, waiting stillness.

“Gently,” Wickham said.

“You are shaking,” Kerr said.

“It is the heat,” Wickham returned, and for a moment his breath was near enough that she felt the word upon the sack. “Go on.”

A step, another, then the ground altered beneath her feet. Wood. The hollow sound of it. A wheel’s faint roll. The smell of old straw and aged leather.

“Up,” said Kerr.

She set herself to fight, drew what breath she could through the linen, and stamped again for the bone of his foot. The stronger grip returned at once and lifted her clear of the attempt. For one impossible instant she was held wholly in his arms, the brace of him absolute—no struggle to catch, no gap to slip through. Weight left her heels; the press at her middle slackened only to gather her under the knees.

The sack whispered at her ear. The light, what little of it remained through the weave, vanished as they turned. The creak of boards sounded closer. The smell of straw rose.

“Careful of her head,” Wickham said, nearly tender.

The man carrying her did not answer. His breath was even, as if this cost him nothing.

She felt the edge of a plank against the back of her calves, then the world dropped from under her. Straw struck her shoulder. A board caught her hip. She twisted hard, blindly, and found only rough wood, stale chaff, and the press of the sack against her mouth. A hand came between her head and the side plank for an instant.

It pulled away and her head lay against wood and straw.

A boot struck the step. The cart dipped. Wickham’s voice came from forward and above, no longer beside her.

“Hold her,” Wickham said.

Kerr settled near her feet. His hand found the cord at her wrists and tested it once. She dragged her knees beneath her, meaning to kick, to roll, to find any purchase at all.

He caught both ankles with infuriating ease.

“No,” he said.

A second cord passed around her half-boots. She wrenched against it; straw scratched her cheek; the boards knocked beneath her hip. The cord drew close—not cruelly, not enough to cut, but enough to rob her of distance. Then another short pull brought wrist and ankle near enough to make standing impossible. She could bend, twist, and breathe. She could not rise.

Wickham climbed to the box. Leather creaked above her.

“Drive,” Kerr said.

The horse blew once. Leather tightened. Wheels lurched.

Elizabeth rolled against the boards, bound, gagged, blind, and moving farther from home with every turn.

Chapter 35

The cart was no carriage, but a low market cart with four iron-bound wheels and a patched canvas tilt drawn over bent hoops. The cover began behind the driving board and ran almost to the tail, leaving only a narrow rear gap where light, dust, and the smell of horse entered together.

Wickham took the board and the reins.

Kerr rode beneath the tilt with Bennet’s daughter at his feet.