Chapter Six

      Fiona knew she had only one chance at escaping her dank stone-cold cell that reeked of mildew. If she failed to make her getaway the Collins gang would thereafter guard her like hawks. Also, they might kill her for making the attempt, thinking her too much trouble to contend with. Eventually her captors would realise she was who she said she was and they’d want to quickly rid themselves of her.

      She was thankful they had not yet discovered that she had little monetary value. Nevertheless Fiona didn’t relish the idea of being stuck with this motley crew for weeks while they tried to negotiate a price for her return with her stepfather. They’d certainly dispose of her rather than drag her along while trying to outrun their pursuers. Cecil Ratcliff would enlist the help of the authorities rather than part with any cash to have her discreetly returned. Her mother might weep and protest about the cost to her daughter’s reputation should the disaster be broadcast, but Ratcliff wouldn’t care about that.

      Fiona shifted position on the straw pallet on which she was perched. It had served as a very uncomfortable mattress last night, not least because she feared beetles were also using it as a bed. She had sprung up at one point when the night was at its blackest, having sensed a creature on her arm. Fidgeting to and fro, she studied the bed for movement, wondering if she’d been bitten by bugs.

      Her hands had again been tied, but her feet were free and the gag left off, no doubt because her screams would go unheard in this isolated spot. After her capture yesterday she had been dragged, kicking, into the derelict church and down into the crypt to be locked in. But she could hear the gang members coming and going. Fiona’s greatest fear was that her gaolers might all be shot and killed by the dragoons without giving her location, leaving her to starve to death in her grisly prison. Fiona knew she’d sooner perish quickly than endure that fate and it renewed her determination to flee for her life at the first opportunity.

      She started on hearing footsteps on the stairs, then the key struck the lock and she knew Sam was bringing her supper. He would untie her hands so she might eat, as he had earlier, when bringing her a lump of greasy pork she’d been unable to stomach. But he’d not been so squeamish; when he’d returned to again fasten her wrists, he’d gobbled up the meat before leaving her alone.

      The youth sauntered into the room and put down a plate of bread and cheese on the rickety stool below the window. The single-square pane was set high up and looked far too small for Fiona to slip through, even had she managed to reach it to break the glass. Earlier, she’d used the three-legged seat to stand on to test whether it would be possible to wriggle out into the graveyard. It had proved a fruitless exercise; the tempting glimmer of light had remained beyond her stretching fingertips.

      Awkwardly Fiona pushed to her feet by using her clubbed fists. The muscles in her legs were horribly stiff and unobtrusively she tried to ease them by flexing them beneath her skirts. In a moment, if luck were with her, she must run as fast as she could.

      Alarmed, Fiona saw the youth turn towards the door without approaching her. ‘What about my hands?’ she burst out. ‘I cannot eat like this.’

      Sam turned back, looking churlish. His master was above stairs and had told him to take no chances with the sly minx. ‘You can if you’re careful...see...’ Sam mimed having his wrists tethered in front of him and picked up a crust, taking it to his lips.

      ‘Please... I cannot... I have pins and needles because the twine is too tight.’ Fiona raised her arms. ‘See how white my hands have become.’

      Sam tutted impatiently, then, after a moment of pursed-lipped consideration, his conscience got the better of him and he drew a knife from a pocket.

      ‘Thank you, Sam,’ Fiona said in a shaky voice. ‘You’re kind...not like the other two...’

      ‘Don’t try to sweet-talk me.’ Sam spat. ‘I can be as tough as me pals. Don’t go thinking different.’

      Fiona nodded to humour him. ‘I can see you’re a strapping lad. Megan is your sweetheart, then?’ She held out her wrists for the binding to be cut, hoping that if she kept him talking she might eventually win him over and make him see how stupidly he was acting. Then he might not only free her hands, but assist her in escaping. He looked to be no more than seventeen, yet he was risking a premature and degrading end on the gallows by associating with Collins.

      ‘Ain’t telling you nothing, so keep quiet.’ Sam slashed the rope.

      ‘Megan will be distraught if you’re sentenced to hang,’ Fiona persisted.

      ‘I said keep quiet!’ Sam snarled and raised the knife to touch her throat.

      Fiona sadly realised he might be young, but he seemed as steeped in evil as his older colleagues. She stole a glance at the oil lamp on the floor. If she could just get him to turn his back for a moment she’d swing the stool at his head and dart outside. She didn’t want to hurt him, but then she feared that Sam Dickens would have no qualms about hurting her...perhaps fatally...

      ‘Would you light the lamp for me? It’s getting dark.’ Fiona indicated the brass implement on the cold stone floor opposite the stool.

      Sam muttered in irritation, but drew forth a tinderbox from a pocket and crouched down. Silently Fiona lunged for the stool, sending the plate of bread and cheese flying as she swung the wood with all her might at his bowed head.

      Sam grunted and toppled forward, but beyond that Fiona didn’t tarry to see what damage she might have done to him. She flew out of the door and up the narrow winding stairs, holding her skirts high to prevent them tripping her up. She could hear Sam groaning a vile curse after her, but Fiona plunged on, the thud of blood in her ears making her deaf to any more of his abuse.

      She cried out in despair as she felt a hand manacle her arm, dragging her up the final steps. Throwing back her head, she gazed in shock at the swarthy features of Luke Wolfson. But a glimmer of hope that he’d come to rescue her was soon quashed.

      ‘If this is the best you can do, Jem, I’m astonished you’re still at liberty. Can your men not even keep a woman under lock and key?’

      Luke pushed Fiona in front of him, but she sensed that his callous fingers held a secret tenderness.

      ‘She’s a spirited lass...these high-born women are bred to it.’ Collins was seated on the end of a pew and swigging from a bottle. Outwardly he appeared little bothered by his captive’s attempt at escape. Inwardly he was seething at Sam Dickens’s incompetence and the fact that this man had witnessed it. Jem was proud of his reputation as a ruthless villain and resented being shown up in such a way. ‘She’s been too spoiled by her doting papa, I’ll warrant. Though I imagine the duke might take a lash to her back when next he sees her.’ Jeremiah wiped his mouth with a hand. ‘This brandy is not as good as the last lot we took off the Frenchies.’

      ‘She’s not Thornley’s daughter, I’ve told you that,’ Luke said mildly. ‘Lady Joan is not yet turned twenty and this one is probably half a decade older.’

      ‘I’m almost persuaded to believe you...’ Collins’s tone hinted that he believed the opposite were true. ‘She says she knows of you.’