Cupping her hands, she scooped up a bit of the liquid and sniffed it. A bubble of mirth rose in her chest. It was wine, not blood. Hooting with relief, she splashed about in the very old, very sour, decanted Bordeaux. The hidden chamber shared a common wall with the vats in the winery. Too bad it was unfit for drinking.
How ironic, all this time she had been terrified of her grisly nightmare, when in reality it was trying to show her the way out of one.
Staggering to her feet, she sloshed over to the hole in the wall and stuck her head through the opening. The vat was tall, but the well placed wooden crosspieces offered a feasible path upward, and the room at the top promised light and a way out.
She scraped at the residue clinging to her arms then wrung the wine from her skirt and petticoats. The blood-red stains would never come out. She must look as if she’d barely survived the most brutal of attacks. Gathering the ruined fabric, she drew it up between her legs, and giving it a twist, tucked the material up under her cloth belt. Then she crawled through the jagged breech.
As she began the ascent, recollections of her tree climbing days surfaced. For once, trying to keep up with her brother Branwell would come in handy.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As Amberley Abbey came into view, the clouds finally gave way to the sun. They had ridden all night, stopping only once to eat, rest the horses, and relieve themselves.
“How about we circle them trees and come in from the far side?” Sam suggested.
“Sounds like a good plan.” Walker nodded. “Although riled up as I am, I’d rather charge the place full-bore, guns blazing.”
“I know, friend, but Trelayne could be hurt.”
“That’s the only reason I’m not following through with the urge. It looks like something’s going on topside. Do you see someone up there?”
“I do. Gonna make getting close unobserved a might tricky.”
“We could try a diversion,” Walker offered, “but I’d rather the two of us stick together.”
“I agree. We’ll have to take our chances, and hope experience wins out over a superior tactical position.”
****
Her freedom gained, Trelayne was at a loss as to what to do next.
Adjusting her clothing, she prowled around the lower level of the abbey but couldn’t find the coach or even one horse in the stable. How did Lucien plan to get to the coast in order to board a ship? And with no horse available, how did she plan to get away? If she left on foot, Lucien could easily track her down. Then she’d be right back where she started. At least now she had the advantage of surprise. To gain the upper hand on Lucien and render him senseless would make a great difference in her choices and chances.
Armed with a sturdy stick to use as a club, she abandoned the ground floor and gained the stairs leading toward the upper levels. Muffled voices filtered down from the rooftop, staying her ascent. Who was with him? Beatrice most likely. Or maybe Grimsby, that frightful hooligan who had driven the carriage. If they were all together, the jig was up. She couldn’t face down all three of them. Still, she couldn’t just stand there doing nothing. Realizing she had no choice, she tightened her grip on the club, and crept up the stone steps.
The top of the abbey was in the shape of a large square, edged with a low crenellated wall. A round tower speared up out of the middle, and lesser stone formations and collapsed partitions created random nooks, wind blocks, and shade. Huddled in the shadows, she peeked around a pile of rock. Beatrice and Lucien stood talking. Good, that made just two to one, and maybe Beatrice could be convinced to offer aid. No doubt the woman would be glad to see her gone, and as far away from Lucien as possible.
She shivered as a stiff breeze sprang up, plastering her wet wine-soaked dress against her body. She longed for her cloak—the one Beatrice was wearing. Lucien barked out a command then headed for the stairway. Scurrying sideways along the stone barrier, she waited until he passed, his footfalls in the stairway fading to silence. Now was her chance to speak to Beatrice and gain her assistance.
Setting the club aside, she stepped out into the open. “Beatrice,” she called. “I need your help.”
The woman gasped, her eyes wide with surprise. Then her expression transformed into one of horror. “Lord almighty, look at the blood. He’s killed you, and you be a ghostly apparition.”
Too late Trelayne realized her bedraggled hair and scarlet-stained clothes were frightening Beatrice.
“No, you don’t understand.”
She rushed forward, trying to reach the other woman before she made a commotion or started screaming.
“I didn’t really want you dead,” Beatrice cried tripping backward. “Keep away, keep away.”
“Don’t be afraid. Just give me my darn cloak, and we can talk.”
Tangled together in the billowing fabric, they stood face to face on the precipice of the wall.
****
Gaining the edge of the trees, Walker and Sam paused to consider their next move. The Abbey was at least a hundred yards away, and the land between here and there was open field, uphill all the way.
“Looks like we’ll just have to—” Walker stopped mid-sentence as a flash of burgundy at the top of the Abbey snared his attention. It was the same color as the cloak he’d given Trelayne yesterday. His mood spiraled upward at having found her. Then agonizing disbelief shredded all hope.
“Oh, God, no.”
She tumbled over the side of the parapet. Caught by the wind, the cape flapped and fluttered erratically like the fatal dance of a rare butterfly. Heart pumping, his breath trapped in his chest, he kicked his horse into action and galloped toward a destination he wished he’d never reach.
Reining in hard, he skidded to a stop, launched himself out of the saddle, and ran forward. Bile rose in his throat as he knelt beside the crumpled body. A knot of sorrow constricted his breathing as he gathered his beloved into his arms. She was wearing her golden heart necklace. The one matching Ophelia’s. By all that was holy, how could the hand of destiny be so brutal as to see him suffer such a tragedy of heart and mind twice in one Lifetime?
The hood of the cloak slid to one side. He forced himself to gaze upon her face. Shock and surprise replaced dread, nearly knocking him senseless. It was Beatrice, not Trelayne.
He sobbed with relief then struggled with guilt for being so pleased to find it was someone other than his wife. Poor Beatrice. He knew she’d had a hard life. Now it had ended in a terrible death. Easing her broken body to the ground, he closed her eyes, and wrapped the wool around her. As he removed the heart locket and slipped it into his breast pocket, alarm returned full force. Why was Beatrice wearing Trelayne’s cloak and jewelry? Where was his wife? What had they done to her?
He scrambled to his feet. Sam hurried to his side and gripped his shoulder as if to offer comfort.
“It isn’t her, Sam. It’s Lanteen’s woman. Trelayne must be inside somewhere. There’s no time left for highfalutin’ strategies, or worrying about being quiet, we’re going in.”
Pistols in hand, they stormed the Abbey. Halfway there, a shot rang out, missing Sam by a frog’s hair. Taking cover behind the capstone of an old cistern, they fired back. Two additional shots kept them pinned in place.
****
Trelayne clamped both hands over her mouth, stifling the scream threatening to tear from her throat. Then screwing up her courage, she peered over the edge of the wall, knowing what she would find, but still needing to look.
“Oh, Beatrice, I’m sorry,” she whispered and reached out, tears burning in the back of her eyes. She hadn’t meant for anything like this to happen.
Dazed and confused as to what to do next, she clung to the wall and tried to calm the wild beating of her heart. Then she recalled having heard gunfire. It must be Walker—he’d come for her. She must go to him. Sprinting across the ramparts toward the stairs, she crashed into Lucien.
“Here you are, my dove,” he said, wild-eyed and panting from running up the steps. “I see you took time for a hearty sampling of the monks’ wine.”
He slammed the door shut at his back and wedged a rock up against it. Then pistol in hand, he wrapped one arm around her, jerked her up against his chest, and licked her cheek.
“Not a terribly good vintage,” he noted. “Aged a bit too long. Where’s Beatrice?” He grabbed her by the arm and towed her back the way she’d come.
Trelayne pointed to the low wall. “She fell. It was an accident.”
“What the deuce.” He dragged her closer to see for himself.
A grimace of sadness captured his visage then his expression brightened. “Well, she wasn’t to come with us anyway. Move along.”
“Walker is here, isn’t he?” she goaded. “He’s found me, and now your plans are ruined.”
“On the contrary. He’s here but nothing has changed. Everything is ready. We leave immediately.”
He prodded her in the back with the muzzle of the pistol. Refusing to capitulate, she dug in her heels and balked.
“You’d best co-operate,” he threatened, “unless you’d like to join poor Beatrice.”
By the look in his eyes, she feared he meant every word. Giving in she followed. Besides, it didn’t matter; there wasn’t anywhere to go. They were trapped on top of the abbey. Lucien had made a grave error. There was no way off the roof other than down the steps. He had a weapon though. That was a worry. After the exchange of gunfire Walker would be aware Lucien was armed, but that wouldn’t stop her brave Captain from rushing to her rescue.
As they made their way around to the far side of the tower, the optimism she harbored dissolved away. Dumbfounded, she stopped dead in her tracks. A huge flying balloon awaited on the far side of the central tower. As if in a trance, she drew closer, mesmerized, as well as terrified by the grandeur of the orb.
Lucien lovingly ran his hand over the varnished silk. “Exquisite, isn’t she,” he crooned. “State of the art, as well as a work of art. And it cost a pretty penny, I’ll tell you.”
Predominately blue, the sides were embellished with signs of the zodiac, fleur-de-lis, and the frightful faces of lions and eagles. Only the splendor of the balloon rivaled her fear of it.
“It took five hours to fill,” he said with pride, kicking aside the still smoldering remains of wood. “But we’ve finished just in time.”
This was lunacy. She glanced around, seeking the quickest route to the steps and freedom.
“Even the gods are with us,” he declared, “it’s a perfect day for flying. Tonight we dine in Paris.”
As if equally anxious to take to the sky, the monstrous globe fought the tether keeping it earthbound.
“We’ll never make it. It’s too far. You don’t know the first thing about aeronautics.”
“Oh, but I do. I spent nearly a month with Charles Green. Took a crash course in ballooning as it were. Oops, poor choice of words. And it is not too far. Fifteen years ago, Green went all the way from Vauxhall Gardens to Nassau in one night. Why, we’ll be in France in a jiffy, ready to start a new life in a new country.”
With a crazed look upon his face, Lucien muscled her closer to the towering monstrosity. This could only end in disaster. It was true there had been a few successful crossings. But others had tried, and many had died.
“I can’t swim,” she uttered, doubting it would make a difference to Lucien.
“One must hope there’ll be no necessity for swimming. Now climb aboard, and we’ll be off.”
The fragile wicker undercarriage appeared barely large enough for two. She struggled in his grasp. “I won’t go. I would rather die here.”
Agitated at her refusal, Lucian waved the pistol in her face, all too ready to make her commitment come true.
“Do as I say or we shall both regret it. No matter what it takes, Trelayne, I’ll not be thwarted at this juncture. Perhaps I should give you more chloroform. Magical stuff that, although it does leave one with a wretched headache, or so I’m told.”
What should she do? Unconscious she’d be in no position to help herself or to escape when Walker breeched the rooftop. She gritted her teeth, and taking as much time as possible, climbed aboard.
Hurry Walker, she prayed, hurry.
Lucien scrambled in beside her, jammed the pistol into the waistband of his trousers, and reached to untie the tether. She yelped in surprise and grabbed the basket-rail as the craft lifted off with a jolt. Immediately caught in a cross-breeze, it lurched sideways, trailing a long second line behind.
As they drifted along just above the surface of the roof, she caught a movement from the corner of her eye. It was Walker and another man she couldn’t make out. Gripping Lucien by the lapels, she garnered his attention, making sure his back was toward the approaching men. At the run, and never breaking stride, Walker shed his hat and coat.
“Lucien, it isn’t too late. Let me go.”
He snarled, and pulled free of her grip.
“I know you were involved in my parents’ accident,” she divulged, trying to shock him into rational thinking. “And I can only assume you tried to sabotage the negotiations of the
Romney Maiden
. Save yourself. Go to Paris. Just let me go free.”
He remained silent, lost in the delusion they could run away and begin some idyllic life together.
As they drifted near the edge of the rooftop, her expectations for a quick rescue were dashed. Walker was too far away. Not meaning to, she groaned in defeat. Perceiving the change in her demeanor, Lucien glanced back over his shoulder. Then with a hiss of anger, he shoved her aside, and went for his pistol.
She grabbed his arm. The weapon discharged, sending a bullet through the floor of the wicker basket. Their struggle set the gondola to swinging wildly. Lucien lost his footing, and she struck out again, knocking the gun from his hand. It fell from the basket, clattering onto the rooftop. One leg over the side, she tried to follow suit. Too late—there was nothing beneath them now but a long sheer drop to the ground. Lucien grabbed her by the hair, and yanked her back inside the basket.
Walker, running at top speed, kept coming toward them. He must stop, it was pointless, he couldn’t reach them now. Then what he had in mind became apparent, and she screamed in alarm.