“This be me not answerin’ again. Told ya I wouldna. Now, lean yer pretty self forward and pull them drapes. That’s a way. Oh, Oh. Careful. There. Now, sit back and enjoy the ride. Don’t get no ideas.”
As the light inside the coach dimmed even more, Robert tried to assess the situation with a clear head. It was hard to do, as his awkward position was becoming more painful with every jolt and turn and his thoughts were occupied with the necessary task of avoiding the knife at his throat by maintaining his balance.
“Perhaps now you might let Mr. Newton up off the floor. He is dripping blood on your boots, and you cannot continue to hunch over him in such a manner if we are going any distance. Are we going any distance?”
Robert would have laughed if there hadn’t been the danger of slitting his own throat by doing so.
“Thinking of my comfort, are you, my girl? So kind. No, no. The boy will stay right where he is fer now. Won’t be long.”
Silence reigned in the coach for some moments as Robert, and likely Lydia, considered the ominous meaning of “won’t be long.” However, the villain’s idea of not long was not the same as Robert’s. The time seemed very long, indeed; he was still on his knees, after all—still in pain, and still trying to avoid the knife.
“I will do as you say if you remove your weapon from Mr. Newton’s throat—”
“Leave off, my girl. Knife stays right where it is till I say so.” There was exasperation in the villain’s tone.
“Holding a knife on Mr. Newton is counterproductive. If you cut … kill him, I will most definitely not cooperate.”
The laugh was nasty and harsh. “Yah, but till then, you’ll be a little lamb, now won’t you, my girl. Quiet little lamb that makes no fuss, no bother. So good I don’t need to tie you up. No need to put the gag to ya. So quiet and calm I won’t get twitchy—don’t want a man with a knife to get twitchy, do ya?”
“No, indeed. Twitchy would be disadvantageous.”
More likely fatal, but Robert was not about to quibble.
“Knew you’d see it my way.”
As the eon of ten or so minutes passed, the noise of the city diminished, and Robert was certain they were being taken out of Bath. The irregular rattling across cobblestones gave way to the haphazard ruts of packed earth. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the shaking or the dipping.
Finally, the villain directed Lydia to lift the curtain, allowing him and Robert a quick glance outside. The amount of greenery flashing by confirmed Robert’s fears; they were, indeed, passing through the countryside, well away from prying eyes that might alert the Watch.
As he squinted at the window, Robert’s pain-fogged brain was slow to understand the release of pressure on his neck and the unexpected rush of air behind him. Suddenly he was pitched backward through the door, out into emptiness. Robert landed hard in a tumbling, violent roll, and his momentum left him breathing in dirt, winded and confused … but only for a moment.
A scream brought him to his senses, and he was up and running before he could put two thoughts together. But his legs no longer worked, and he landed on his poor, abused knees, shouting out in useless frustration as the coach raced away.
“Lydia!”
*
Lydia glared. There was not much else she could do at this point and time as she was trussed like a Christmas goose.… Well, as she thought a Christmas goose might be trussed. She was not a cook, after all. Her bonnet lay in tatters on the coach floor, and her gloves were rags held on more by the rope around her wrists than the delicate stitching around her fingers.
And, the most insulting of insults, she was gagged.
As her only weapon, glaring really was quite ineffectual. The villain seemed unmoved by her outrage, frustration, and appraisal of his character. Breathing in as deeply as she could around the tightly bound rag in her mouth, Lydia decided that a scowl might penetrate the man’s calm better than the glare—but he seemed not to notice the change.
He was a thin brute with hardly any hair and a ragged ear; his complexion was swarthy in a weather-beaten way. Though he did not have the demeanor of a farmer, perhaps a fisherman? No, what was she thinking; he was a kidnapper. That was enough of an occupation for any man; it would keep him very busy.
Abducting innocent girls, asking for money—she thought this his most likely motive—collecting his ill-gotten gain, and then running from the law. Yes, that was why he was out in the sun. Running, running away. Coward!
Lydia tried to shout the word, but it came out more like a grunt than an accusation and only brought a smile to the villain’s mouth—revealing a maw of rotten teeth.
“Almost there, Missy.”
Lydia shook her head in disgust and turned her gaze to the window. It was not much of a view as Robert’s awkward exit had precipitated the trussing—despite her valiant struggle—and a reclosure of the curtain.
Lydia swallowed in discomfort. Poor Mr. Newton. What a terrible landing he must have had. She knew him to have survived; she heard him call out to her as they raced away. Flushing slightly, Lydia heard the echo of her name in her mind. So distraught, Robert Newton had used her first name. Highly irregular—she wasn’t sure whether she should mention this slip when she saw him next … whenever that might be. Perhaps it would be best to ignore the overly familiar address—after all, in distressful situations, it was easily done.
Despite the heartfelt conviction that she should not consider Robert’s possible condition, Lydia found her mind continually returning to that very subject. It became apparent that approaching it directly and then moving on would serve her better.
So, at worst, Robert had broken something—a leg, an arm, his head … yes, no, she wouldn’t get carried away. And at best, he was fit as a fiddle and chasing down the coach … or a magistrate. It was likely somewhere in the middle, and rather than allow her imagination any more rope, she should deal with her own pickle.
No sooner had that thought entered her head than Lydia felt the coach slow and negotiate a sharp turn—to the right. They continued to travel farther, but at a much-reduced gait and not for long, a minute. Perhaps two. Another sharp turn, this time to the left, and then the carriage pulled to a stop.
Lydia’s heart began to beat at a rate more akin to a brisk walk of some miles than a half-hour sit. Suddenly she felt that there was more security in the foreign coach than the out-of-doors and deplored the idea of stepping into the unknown.
For the first time in Lydia’s life, she didn’t know what awaited her. It was a very strange circumstance—one that she would not recommend to any but the most frivolous of persons.
The door was jerked open from the outside, and yet another thug made his presence known; he thrust his head inside, taking a long look at Lydia before turning to his mate.