Page 25 of Lord of Mistrust

She heard the two men leave the room and climb down the ladder which led to the floor below. As soon as their footsteps died away, she raised her head again. Dust danced where they’d walked, and the breeze of their passing wafted the grey cobwebs festooning the massive rods of the milling mechanism.

She glanced around. There were probably many ways of escape—an old watermill was not the most secure building in which to keep a prisoner. There’d be hatchways and inspection shafts through which someone small could climb—Sim from the White Hart, mayhap? Would Robert have the presence of mind to bring Sim?

For the next hour or so, in dismal solitude, Chloe’s fervent prayers wavered between her desire for Robert to rescue her and her desperate hope that he would not risk his life for her sake. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that her abductors would not keep their word. Robert would come to negotiate her freedom—and then they would both be murdered.

Only, Robert would probably be tortured before they killed him.

Chapter Nineteen

When Robert finally reached the crossroads, having kept off the highway as much as possible, the afternoon was drawing to its close. In the distance, he could hear the weary voices of the harvesters and the occasional clack of wheels as the full carts swayed back to the farmyards. The air was thick with flies, and his body itched uncomfortably, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat.

Anger kept him going. Each time he thought of that passionate but innocent woman in the foul traitors’ clutches, his stomach clenched in rage. Though it hurt that they hadn’t parted as friends, Chloe had said nothing to him that he didn’t deserve. She could have ranted and raved and threatened to destroy him—which was quite possibly in her power—but she had not. Which showed her to be levelheaded and forgiving—as well as stunning and enticing.

After the incident in the stable, he also admired her courage and power of recovery. Any other young woman would have gone to pieces with a gun pointed at her. But she’d kept her wits about her. Whoever won her heart would be truly blessed, and never in want of loving—or as much affection as a man could wish for.

Robert found himself envying the imagined gentleman. How very regrettable that he had spoiled his own chances.

He must put the shameful incident of that attempted seduction behind him. And forget that she’d refused his offer of marriage. What mattered now was to extricate them both from this mess in one piece—he would worry about the consequences later.

When the rhythmic trickling of the river reached his ears, he reined in and dismounted, then tethered the horse where it could drink and reach sweet grass. If the beast made any noise in his absence, it was unlikely to be heard over the roar of the millrace.

Sneaking up to the mill unnoticed would be hot, slow work. Stripping down to shirt and hose, Robert hid the rest of his clothing beneath a leafy bush of ground elder. Biting back his eagerness, he forced himself forward at a snail’s pace, unwilling to make any movement or sound out of keeping with the sleepy afternoon. It would not do to send up a flight of squawking rooks or clattering pigeons to give away his presence.

With infinite patience, he edged closer to the sound of gushing water, until the dark stems of goat willow in front of him were interrupted by a creamy mass of whitewashed brick and timber. This must be the abandoned fulling mill he sought.

The workings of watermills had not been considered an essential part of Robert’s training in espionage but, hopefully, he’d quickly understand the layout of the structure. As he crept nearer, he saw wooden steps leading up to a wide doorway. At their foot lounged a shadowy figure.

An arrow of hope shot through him. If there was a guard, then there must be something worth guarding—Chloe was here, for sure. He crouched low in the grass, taking stock of the situation. He ought to work his way around to the other side of the mill to come at the fellow from behind. But that would cut into whatever time remained to him. If he wasn’t at the rendezvous at five, Chloe’s life would be forfeit, and the plotters would make their escape. There had to be another way.

To his left, a roach leaped for a fly and disappeared with a resounding plop. That was a good plan—he could swim around, avoiding the path that led to the mill. He’d have to leave his sword behind, but taking to the water would buy him valuable minutes. Stowing his blade beneath a distinctive patch of briars, he removed his boots and nether hose and concealed those, too. Armed only with the knife in his belt, and his dagger between his teeth, he slipped into the water.

The noise of the millrace filled his ears. Water swirled around him as he bent low under the cover of the bank, fighting against the flow. Somewhere farther upstream, the ancient sluices controlling the water must be breaking up, or he would have struggled to make any headway against the frothing mass.

Up ahead was the great mill wheel, choked with weeds and debris swept down by the winter floods. It turned no longer but hung grey and dripping above him, an abandoned relic. The cascade poured over and around the wheel, its spokes and paddles bent and broken from the ceaseless onslaught. Shaking his head free of the spray, Robert clung to a nearby tree root and considered his options.

An opening above the shaft led from the mill wheel into the building—a maintenance hatch, mayhap. If he could squeeze through there, he might take some of the occupants by surprise.

He slipped and slid as he dragged himself up the wheel, his injured foot protesting at every step—but anger urged him on. Eventually, balanced precariously atop the wheel—and praying it wouldn’t shift—he tackled the little wooden door. This steadfastly refused to budge until he’d all but ruined the blade of his knife on it and eased it free. As soon as the hatch gave, he crawled through into the shadowy interior.

Pausing a moment until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he shook the moisture from his hair and brushed it from his body. The fewer drips he left to mark his progress through the building, the better.

Gazing around, he found he was in a broad, plank-floored room, full of huge cogs and massive wooden fulling hammers. He could just about make out a flight of steps leading up from the floor below and another, little more than a ladder, leading to the story above.

If possible, he should dispatch the main guard first. That would aid either Tilshead or Whiteley, if they came after him. Choosing the door that he assumed led to the external stairway, Robert crept forward and opened it as silently as he could.

His assault took all the strength, cunning, and speed that he could muster. First, he incapacitated the door guard with a blow on the head from a loose wooden board. Seizing the fellow’s dag as he lay sprawled upon the steps, Robert put his dagger between his teeth like a tar boarding an enemy vessel and returned to the interior.

He could hear muffled voices above. With infinite patience, he stole softly up the steps. The next chamber held two men, one of whom had his back to Robert. The other let out a startled oath. Dispatching the nearer one with his dagger, Robert used him for a shield as the other rogue readied a knife to throw at him. The weapon never left the man’s hand—Robert flung himself at the fellow’s legs, knocking the breath from his lungs, and the blade from his grip.

But this opponent was stronger than he’d have liked. They wrestled in the dust, the other man blocking his blows with sinewy strength. Fortunately, the fellow didn’t seem aware of the gaping hatchway in the wall behind him. With grim determination, Robert drove his foe backward. Then he spun with his back to the hole and suddenly relaxed his body, falling to his knees. Caught off balance, his opponent wavered on the edge of the opening. It took no more than a rough shove to send the man crashing out and downward. A sickening thud marked his arrival on the ground beneath.

Heart pumping fit to burst, Robert pressed himself into the shadows beneath the steps and listened. Had the sounds of their combat been heard above the rushing of the water? Had any sound penetrated whatever place Chloe was captive in? If so, he must move fast to save her.

Except for the soft drip, drip of blood easing slowly from the stabbed man’s wound, there was no sound from the rest of the mill. However, there were at least two more conspirators to deal with—assuming the Weasel’s information was correct. Robert had been fortunate just now, but would his luck hold? If only he had two guns rather than just the one—he could shoot first and ask questions later.

Offering up a silent prayer, he began his slow progress up the steps. When he realized the next level was deserted, he hurled his knife across the floor to draw his remaining enemies out.

A man cursed on the floor above and shouted down something he couldn’t make out. Holding the dag readied by his ear, Robert waited, and eventually heard stealthy footfalls descending the steps. The stairway was so steep and narrow, it was only possible to come down it backward. Knowing he had to incapacitate as many enemies as possible to ensure Chloe’s safety, Robert fired as soon as he had a clear shot.