Page 7

His stomach rumbled, a mundane, almost homely sound in these surroundings. Going back to his cup of drugged and stale beer, he allowed himself one moderate mouthful. Apart from anything else, he would have to drink something in order to have anything to put in the chamber pot to disguise the fact that it contained largely doctored beer. Supposing his captor chose to empty it.

In his innocence, Piers had once raged against a world that had given him no choice. That world had taken too many members of his family, whom he could not save, and forced him from the academic life he had loved into the responsibilities of a landowning viscount, the nominal head of an arrogant and entitled family.

Now he understood what no choice really meant. To be helpless, completely at the mercy of another for the basics of life.

Well, he had worked out his options—in the end—and become the viscount in his own way. There were always options, and here, now, his rested on that high window.

He returned to stand under it and raised his arms above his head. Even standing on tiptoe, he could not reach the sill. Bending his knees, he jumped and caught the sill in both hands, dangling from it. With a mighty effort, he managed to haul himself up far enough to see that the sill was narrow, not like large ones at home that could be made into window seats. It might just be broad enough to stand on, with his heels dangling off.

The shutters were like two doors hooked together. If he could stand on the sill, he could easily unhook them. But more than the hook kept them together. They had been nailed shut with two angled nails hammered from one piece of wood into the other. He might be able to wrench them apart...

He had no idea how far away from the ground outside his room stood. The stone floor implied it was on ground level, but even if it was, there could be a sheer drop on the other side of the window. Like his bedroom at Petteril House, where he had once considered stepping out into sweet oblivion. A lifetime ago, before April.

A faint sound, like an opening door some distance from his own, jerked him back to the present. He dropped down to the floor, relieving his muscles, and loped back to his blanket.

Sitting down, he enveloped himself in it and stared at the door. Every detail he could discover about his prison could be of vital importance in his escape. Not least, his jailer. Piers was used to being underestimated. No longer hurt by that, he knew how to make use of it. And so he tried to make his whole face dull and unfocused.

His captor entered much as last night, beginning with a slightly mocking, “Morning, your lordship! You are well back from the door, yes? Still happy to shoot you if you ain’t.”

“I’m in the same place you left me,” Piers said dully, without raising his voice.

Presumably the man looked through the peephole, for the bolts then drew back and the door opened to reveal his jailer, as before armed with a tray and the same double-barrelled pistol. The open door let in more light, but of the quality that came from windows, not from outside. There was no sky, no rush of fresh air, only the glimpse of a plastered, internal wall, a hallway of some kind.

So he was not in an outbuilding. He was in a room within a building.

All this he took in while his jailer advanced. He appeared to be wearing the same or very similar clothing to last night. Short brown hair. His features...well, he looked like a stranger and apart from the clothes, there was nothing to inspire any sense of familiarity. But he had to take advantage of seeing him in this better light.

“That’s the ticket,” said his captor, carefully setting down the tray out of Piers’s reach. “Sleep well, did you?”

“Like a baby,” Piers replied.

“Not what your lordship’s used to,” the man mocked, taking the bowl from the tray. “Let’s have a look at your head again.”

“You take very good care of a man you’re happy to shoot.”

“Giving you a fighting chance, ain’t I? Bend your head.”

Piers obeyed. The man touched the barrel of the pistol to his throat and made a few half-hearted passes with the cloth against the wound.

“Looks fine to me.” His jailer had a small mole below his left eye, a long, bumpy nose that must once have been broken, thin lips and the shadow of a beard. He had a short, thick neck and one ear that stuck out very slightly from his head. He was, probably, in his thirties. His brown hair was short, though it flopped a bit at the front, almost touching Piers’s face.

On impulse, Piers lifted one hand from his bent knee and plucked one of the rogue hairs.

“Ouch,” the man exclaimed, backing off and cocking the pistol.

Piers felt his heart racing. No wonder. It had been a reckless, a stupid thing to do. Had he even noticed that the pistol hadn’t been cocked when he did it?

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Thought it was mine.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Only half awake, still.”

“Idiot,” the man said. “Here. Have some more beer. Give me that cup back.”

Obediently, Piers pushed the almost empty cup toward his captor and accepted the replacement. In addition, he got a hunk of dry bread on a tin plate. He picked up the bread and tore off a crust with his teeth.

“You didn’t finish it,” the man said, staring into his cup. He sounded almost like a parent with a child who wouldn’t eat what he was given.

“It’s horrible,” Piers said between chews.

His jailer’s lips curled. “Shall we get your lordship champagne next time?”