Page 128 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Theo Hopkins’s office had been a small thing with books crammed into every crevice. Nothing had hinted at the wealth of the organization backing him. Or at least, I was pretty sure he was part of this, and they were behind him.

Mr. Big Hands had gripped my upper arm throughout the trip, hard enough to leave a ring of bruises. He’d steered me from the boat, up a long set of wooden stairs to the top of a cliff, and into the estate. We’d passed huge oil paintings, walked across an ancient red-and-gold rug, and climbed a cramped set of back stairs to this room, where they’d locked the door and left me.

I’d tried the door, but the lock held. Tried smashing the handle and picking the lock with a piece of metal I’d found in the closet. Tried opening the window to jump out into the worsening rain, but it was stuck fast from what must have been three centuries of repainting. The chair could have broken through the panes, but I’d stopped short because a twenty-foot fall might break my leg. Or worse.

Besides, glass shattering would alert them to my escape.

So I sank onto the end of the bed and squeezed my eyes shut. I forced my memory back to yesterday, to driving toward the ferry with Arthur. We’d shopped, showered, and we’d made love. I’d slept in his arms, and my life had felt surprisingly perfect for an instant, despite everything.

Now, I was a… what was I? Kidnap victim? Hostage? Leverage?

What was I going to do? My phone was gone, Arthur didn’t know where I was, and these men had been planning to kill me. The scheduled email had been the only thing that saved me.

The door was locked, the window wasn’t an option, and there was no other⁠—

I opened my eyes. From the far side of the little room, I spotted a detail I’d missed when I was too close to the door.

Above the door, where the wall met the ceiling, a transom window sat. They were common in Victorian buildings, when huge estates like this divided rooms into smaller ones. They’d add a wall, cutting a large windowed room in two, and use the transom to let light into the hallway or next room.

It was ten feet up, but if I could climb that high, I might be able to see out. See what was going on.

I brought the chair to the door, but it wasn’t tall enough. I carried the table to the door an inch at a time to keep it from scraping the floor and lifted the chair on top of it. The climb up my ramshackle scaffold took three tries, and the tabletop shook like it wanted to toss me to the floor.

My fingertips found the edge of the transom, and I held my breath. If someone were in the hallway, there’d be enough light coming through this window that I’d cast a shadow. They’d know what I was doing.

If it were Rick or Big Hands, they’d charge through the door and probably tie me to the bed.

I shifted to the edge of the window. The chair wobbled underneath me, but my grip on the window frame kept me from falling.

No one. Empty hallway.

They’d genuinely locked me in and left.

Did they know I wouldn’t try the window? Or did they have some sort of security outside I wouldn’t be able to get past?

I stood taller for a view farther up and down the hallway.

My attention snagged on a flash of brass at the top of the window. A swivel lock. And at the bottom, hinges.

This window didn’t just let light through—it let air through, too. I could open it. It fought me before giving way, but the panel finally tipped open, held at an angle by a chain to allow nothing more than a draft.

Through the crack, sounds hit me. Chair legs scraping. The far-off clink of silverware. Laughter. Dinner was being served downstairs somewhere.

If I broke the flimsy chain, I could open the window all the way. But could I get out?

It would be a tight fit, Gwen. And hopefully you wouldn’t land on your head.

I strained, listening. Did they all eat together? Would the noise be enough to cover me hitting the floor?

Stop thinking and go!

When I stood up fully, the small window’s sill was above my waist. Going through feet first would have given me control and a safe landing on the other side, but I wasn’t high enough up for that. Which left me one option. Headfirst.

I snapped the chain and eased the window down out of the way. I went through and got stuck at my breasts, squirmed free, and got stuck at my hips. I hung like a sheet over a laundry line, staring down a seven- or eight-foot drop to a broken neck. My toes searched and failed to find a foothold. I braced both hands on the sill and twisted until one hip came free. That gave me room to work a knee through.

Be quiet!

With my knee hooked over the edge, I pushed my shoulders up and pivoted. My other leg scraped through. For a second, I hung with one leg out, the other hooked on the other side of the wall.