She was surprised they’d known the track was there, but a farm cart waited. The wiry man led her to the cart’s open back.
He released her arm only to seize her waist and hoist her up to sit on the cart’s straw-strewn bed. “Up you go.”
The instant he released her, Sophy scrambled away from him, toward the front of the cart.
His expression mean and malevolent, the wiry man caught her eye. “Remember—keep your trap shut, and the gent won’t get hurt.” The man glanced across as his companion staggered to the side of the cart and tipped and heaved Martin over the side.
On a gasp, Sophy lunged across and caught Martin’s head. The weight of his shoulders nearly flattened her, but she wriggled and managed to sit upright with his head in her lap.
The wiry man had watched her antics and chuckled evilly. “Well, more hurt than he already is.”
“Come on.” The heavyset thug shrugged his coat straight and climbed up to the cart’s front bench. “We’ve got what we were sent to fetch. Let’s get moving.”
The wiry man joined him. As his friend flicked the reins and the cart started rolling, the wiry one turned and fixed Sophy with a flat stare. “Keep your mouth shut and don’t try to scramble off or attract anyone’s attention. Not if you want him”—he nodded at Martin—“to live.”
Coldly furious, Sophy returned the man’s stare levelly until he sniffed and turned his back on her.
Immediately, she returned her attention to Martin. The first thing she’d done was slide her fingertips beneath the folds of his ivory-silk stock. She could feel his pulse beating strongly and steadily in his throat.
He’s alive, just deeply unconscious.
The heavyset thug had hit him hard. Possibly hard enough to crack his skull.
She’d worry about that later. Martin lay in a sprawl on the hard wood of the cart’s bed, half on his side with his long limbs tangled. She settled her thighs under his head, but he was far too heavy—even his shoulders were too heavy—for her to shift him enough to straighten his limbs. All she could do was cushion his head from the worst of the bumps.
She brushed the tumbled locks of dark, silky hair from his forehead, and as the cart rolled away from the manor, she set her wits to the task of working out what she could do.
CHAPTER10
There were benefits to being kidnapped by those with little imagination. The thugs were so oblivious to Sophy’s abilities that they didn’t bother tying her up and, most importantly, didn’t blindfold her. Consequently, she knew exactly where they were when the cart horses slowed.
After leaving the manor estate, they’d followed several old tracks over the moors to a shepherd’s hut, perched high on the flank of Loadbrook Moor. It wasn’t that far from the manor, yet very much out of anyone’s way, and she knew the hut was rarely used these days.
Despite the rocking and occasional jolting, Martin hadn’t stirred. She’d carefully felt around his head, fingertips gently probing through his thick hair, and had discovered a hideous lump the size of a goose egg on the back of his head. The heavyset thug had, indeed, hit him hard, but the wound hadn’t split his scalp. She’d given thanks for that and offered up several silent prayers that he would wake soon, with his wits intact.
She had a strong suspicion that she and he were going to need as much mental acuity as they could muster to deal with whatever this situation was. She had to assume it was an extension—an escalation—of the accidents that had been plaguing the steelworks.
Perhaps they were closer to discovering who was behind the attacks than they’d realized.
The cart rocked to a halt directly before the hut.
The wiry man swung down from the bench and came to the back of the cart. Impatiently, he waved to her. “Come along, Goldie—let’s get you inside.”
And that was enough. She narrowed her eyes on the weaselly man. “My name,” she informed him, doing a more-than-passable imitation of her grandmother, “is Miss Carmichael.” She leveled a censorious stare at the fellow. “What’s yours, Wiry?”
The man blinked.
The heavyset thug guffawed and elbowed his mate out of the way. “Don’t answer, but she’s got you there.” He clambered into the cart, then glanced back at Wiry. “Don’t forget. The master told us to take all due care and not harm a hair and all that, so just help her down and into the hut while I get the gent.”
“Be careful,” Sophy ordered as the heavy man bent and, with difficulty, hoisted Martin up. She scrambled to her feet and watched, but the man knew what he was doing when it came to lifting inanimate men. When she was sure Martin wasn’t about to sustain any additional hurt, she followed the heavy man with his burden to the rear of the cart and, without acknowledging Wiry, gave him her hand and allowed him to steady her as she jumped to the ground.
Immediately, she retrieved her hand and hurried after Martin. She ducked around the heavy thug, who, weighed down by his unwieldy burden, was doggedly clumping up the path, and reached the hut ahead of him. She pulled open the door, walked in, and paused to look around the rectangular space. It was much as she remembered it from her childhood, rough and rudimentary but not without the essential comforts.
With its head against the rear wall, a bed jutted into the room. It possessed a mattress in reasonable repair, covered with an old blanket. There was a small hearth in one rear corner and a washstand in the other. A rickety cupboard stood against the wall by the door, and a rough table, with a wooden chair on one side and a bench on the other, occupied the middle of the remaining clear space.
Sophy swung to watch as the heavy thug maneuvered his awkward burden through the door. She swallowed a protest when he just missed knocking Martin’s poor head on the doorframe.
She rounded the bed and stood ready as the heavyset thug halted on the other side, then jostled Martin off his shoulder, half dropping him onto the mattress. She leapt in to support his head and gently lower it to the lumpy pillow.
