Page 24

Had one of them just arrived? Did they operate in shifts? Now that he lulled them into the sense of his obedience and drugged stupidity, would it not be possible to overpower one man, even with a pistol, and get out? His quickness would take them by surprise...

And it would certainly be quicker than scraping mindlessly at a plank of wood...

He resolved to watch for his moment. In the meantime, he closed and hooked the shutter and eased himself down to the floor. He was sure breakfast would not be long and his fingers were sore...

He returned to his blanket, huddling inside it, largely to hide the state of his hands which were cut and bleeding. He closed his eyes.

To his annoyance, he heard a voice say distinctly, “...taking it now.”

An inner door closed and the familiar pattern of footsteps approached.

Two people in the house. Even if he managed to overcome one, the second would surely hear and be ready for him. He didn’t know the lie of the land and the double-barrelled pistol wasn’t necessarily their only weapon, just the one they chose to let him see.

Because they were pretending there was only one of them, to fool Piers’s already shaky identification...

“Awake there, my lord, and stand back!”

The bolts scraped, and the barrel of the pistol preceded one of his captors. The jumble of the man’s facial features could have been anyone. Same trousers and shirt, brown hair...

Piers watched through his lashes, pretending to keep his eyes closed. His jailer set the tray down in the middle of the floor and backed up to the chamber pot. His lips drew back and his nose flared with distaste. He muttered a curse beneath his breath as he lifted the pot one-handed and backed out the door with it. He came back with a clean one.

Piers doubted they had night soil men here. All the human waste was probably emptied straight into some open sewer never planned by the imaginative architect who had designed the area a century ago.

“Having a lie in, my lord?” his captor said sarcastically.

“What else is there to do?” Piers mumbled tiredly.

“Eat. Drink. Gawd, it’s cold in here. Been raining you know...”

Piers opened his eyes fully, willing them to dullness. Mainly he didn’t want his jailer noticing the draught from the glassless window.

No mole. Long thumb on the plate he’s shoving towards me. Jailer number one. The pistol was still pointing at him, still steady. But the hold was looser. He didn’t expect an attack.

Or he knew his accomplice was waiting in support.

“When can I go?” Piers asked.

“Not yet. Soon.”

There was no sympathy, no regret in the almond-shaped eyes, just a glitter of anticipation or perhaps triumph. Maybe they had heard from April that the ransom would be paid, which at least meant April was alive...

And yet the strength of his sudden loathing took him by surprise. He did not want them to be paid for what they had done, for what they had spoiled.

Afraid he would give himself away, he let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Inevitably, his captor swapped his almost empty cup for a full one and backed away. Piers felt a half-reluctant urge to keep him here. To lunge and flatten him with one mighty punch and take his chances with bullets and accomplices.

But already, the man was too far away for such tricks.

Next time, Piers thought. Next time, when their triumph is even closer and they’re even more convinced of my weakness, I’ll get him...

Or he’d get out the damned window.

He was scrambling back up to the sill when he heard the first sounds against the outside the wall. Something scuffing on stone, crumbling mortar or gravel trickling downward...and breathing.

He nearly let go of the sill in shock and struggled to haul himself back up into position on his precarious perch.

Who the devil...?