The rumbling grew louder. Turning my head to the side, I picked out the sound of wheels and a pair of horses. “Whoa, there,” Calhoun bellowed, bringing the caravan to a stop. Shifting and scraping came from what must have been the driver’s box, and two loud thuds hit the ground. “This way, Bertie. I’ve a need for a strong pair o’ arms.”
Boots thumped down the dock to stop next to me. I tensed, forgetting to breathe while I waited for the inevitable. “That one first,” Calhoun said. “I’ll hold the boat steady for you.”
A man grunted, and the boat dipped from his weight. His hands moved beneath me, pulled me effortlessly into his arms. He stood, swaying from the motion before stepping back on the dock.
“Gentle now, Bertie,” Calhoun breathed. “I won’t have her damaged.”
The man adjusted my weight in his arms. “Who you got here, Calhoun?”
“Never you mind, me lad. Just get her inside, and there be another piece o’ silver for you.”
It was absolutely Bertie’s business. Pulling a breath through my nose, I screamed as loud as I could past the binding. It sounded pathetic, but would convey the proper message. I screamed some more and twisted like mad for greater effect.
Bertie tightened his grip. “You found a feisty one, Calhoun.”
The more I twisted, the tighter his arms became. He continued to walk, making no further inquiries to my identity or indicating anything other than indifference to my plight. I finally fell still, panting through my nose from the exertion. A door creaked open. The filtered sunlight disappeared as I was tossed onto something soft.
“Good man, Bertie. Now fetch me trunk o’ bottles and tins.”
Heavy footsteps trailed away. I stared straight ahead at the dark canvas and waited.
“Miss Kilbrid,” Calhoun said. “Me lass will be joining you shortly to untie the sack and bindings. She’s got the Cailleach’s blood, so don’t be trying anything funny, or you’ll both be in a sorry state. Do you hear?”
I grunted a response.
“That’s a good lass,” he said, then lowered his voice, and I had to strain to hear the next words. “Get in there and make her comfortable. If’n she tries anything, put a bit o’ ice in her skin, but nothing more. We’ll be to the village in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and I want her ready.”
The caravan wobbled as the girl jumped in beside me. With nimble fingers, she untied the sack at my feet and slid it the length of my body. I wiggled from side to side to help the task along until the sack came off over my head. The freedom was intense despite the gloom, and if not for the gag, I would have sucked in a relieved breath of air.
She went to work next on the bindings at my knees and feet. When I twisted my back and bound wrists toward her, she shook her head. “These first,” she murmured, picking at the knots with extra care not to touch me. All the same, just being so near chilled me through. From the look on her face, she felt equal distress from the close contact.
Good. Fair was fair, and she deserved every bit of discomfort.
The knots were taking forever. She stopped once when Bertie reappeared to slide a black trunk and leather saddlebags inside. He paused to give me a curious look. Gagged, and with a mass of wild curls falling around me, I must have appeared the very image of madness. To be sure, I was as sane as any prisoner intent on vengeance. The truth must have gleamed in my eyes, for he stepped back in a hurry and shut the door.
The gloom deepened, and I squeaked out an impatient protest for her to hurry.
“It’s your own fault, carrying on like that.” She blew out an irritated breath. “I’ll have to cut them loose.”
She stood and moved a curtain aside, revealing the square outline of a small window. With a soft click, the window panel slid open, and gray light filtered inside. While the girl rummaged through a narrow cabinet, I wrenched my neck around to take in the details of what appeared to be a gypsy caravan.
Dark red paint covered the rounded ceiling and walls. Opposite the window, two rows of goldenrod-colored shelves ran along the wall, with spindly wooden guardrails to secure the dozens of glass jars filled with all manner of herbs and liquids. Several large barrels sat below the shelves, girded in place by ropes. A thin bench lined the wall directly behind the driver’s box, which had a small slatted opening to allow for easier communication. On the floor, coarse burlap scratched my cheek, and from the scent of mildewed hay, I was lying atop a sleeping pallet.
A whistle pierced the air. The caravan lurched forward, sending the girl tumbling against one of the barrels. She cursed and dropped beside me, metal glinting from one hand. I cried out, and tried to roll out of reach from the long blade.
“I’ll not hurt you,” she hissed and clasped the binding at my knees. “Hold still, or we’ll both be screaming.”
I froze, and in a heartbeat my knees and ankles were free. No longer restricted, the blood flowed freely, and I clenched my teeth against the prickling pain.