The heavyset thug stepped back. “You two wait in here. The master’ll be along shortly.”
“Who?” Sophy whirled, but the heavyset man was lumbering through the doorway where Wiry had remained, hovering outside. The door swung snugly shut. She heard a bar rattle into holders outside and softly swore as she remembered that the hut’s door opened outward.
Even the shutters on the two small windows set in the front wall latched on the outside.
She dismissed any thought of immediate escape and returned her gaze to the large, worryingly unmoving and silent figure on the bed.
What can I do to make him more comfortable?
She eyed his shoes, but thought better of taking them off; they needed to be ready to run at short notice. She hoped very much that he would regain consciousness soon; it had to be at least half an hour since he’d been struck, and she was growing seriously concerned.
Thinking of him waking, she looked round. Surely the thugs had left them some water. She could use it to cool his brow; that might help.
She searched the room, even looking in the cupboard. She found bowls and a jug, but no water.
Irritated, she thumped on the door. “We need water!” When no reply came, she thumped harder.
After a moment, a muffled voice reached her. “Calm down. The master’ll be here soon, and we’ll see what he says.”
They kept talking of a “master.” Was she about to meet the mastermind behind the accidents as well as their abduction?
Who knew? She might finally learn what this incomprehensible situation was about.
With nothing else to do, she sank onto a stool beside the bed, stared at Martin’s face, and willed him to wake up. He didn’t stir. After a moment, she reached out and lifted one of his long-fingered hands, cradling it between hers.
Wake up—I need you.
And when had she ever thought that of any man?
But she needed to look into his melted-caramel eyes and know that in facing whatever was to come, he would be with her.
Determined to do something useful, she turned her mind to evaluating the likelihood of rescue. Oliver and Charlie knew she and Martin had gone for a walk in the gardens, but realistically, it wouldn’t be until she and Martin failed to come in for luncheon that questions would be asked and people would start searching.
The tracks had been dry, and anyway, why would anyone think of looking there? Even less likely was that someone would venture to the old shepherd’s hut.
She grimaced and, for Martin as much as for herself, murmured, “We need to rescue ourselves.”
Outside, a stir followed by a scraping sound heralded the door being hauled open. A man, younger and better dressed than the thugs, stood haloed in the doorway, feet braced apart, his hands on his hips, then he sauntered inside.
That was supposed to be a dramatic entrance, designed to throw me into a fluster.
The observation told her something of the newcomer, and indeed, as she focused on his face, her first thought was that he was far too young to be anyone’s “master.” She would have sworn he was no older than she and probably not even that age. Mid-twenties, she guessed, as his swaggering walk took him to the table, and he halted there, facing her.
His small eyes had fastened on her; he studied her as if he wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see. He was of average height and stocky build, and his features were doughy, somewhat unformed. He sported what looked to be a strawberry birthmark on his chin; it stood out against his pasty complexion and almost reached his thick lips. All in all, he was an unlovely specimen of youthful manhood, yet judging by the quality of his clothes, he wasn’t a workman of any stripe. His suit was a definite step up from those worn by his henchmen; to her eyes, his attire was that of a clerk.
The impression she received was that he was trying to appear more—and socially better—than he was.
She remained seated and, her expression impassive, regarded him steadily; she wasn’t about to help him by asking questions. Not yet. Let him open the conversation; she was curious to see where he led.
He studied her for a moment more, then smiled in an oily fashion and drew a folded document from his pocket. “Here.” He tossed the document on the table. “I’m told you can read.”
Sophy glanced at the document, but made no move to take it.
Watching her, the “master” reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small vial and a pen. He paused to inspect the pen’s nib, then grunted, “Good enough,” and set both pen and the vial, which contained ink, on the desk.
He caught her eyes. “All you need do, dearie, is sign this paper. There’s a place on the last page, and you’re supposed to make your mark on the bottom corner of each page as well. Full signature on the dotted line, mind. Soon as you do that, you and the gent”—his gaze drifted to Martin, and for an instant, his expression grew wary—“can be on your way.”
Sophy looked at the document; it appeared to be some sort of legal instrument. Curious, she reached out and lifted it from the table. She straightened it from the curl it had assumed in the man’s pocket, then swiftly scanned the four closely written pages.
