She’d almost been caught once. She’d been pushing against the plank that was not quite as loose when she’d heard the lock slide against her door. Welly had barked a warning, but it hadn’t been necessary. Lorrie had slid in front of the planks to shield her work from view.
“Get up,” the man who opened the door ordered. She couldn’t see his face under the coat collar and lowered hat, so she had no idea if it was the same man who had brought her the bread and apple earlier.
Lorrie rose, her heart pounding. Her knees felt weak, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Had she been wrong about the men’s intentions? Would they rape and kill her now?
“What do you want?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
“Here.” The man threw her a length of rope. It fell to the floor, and Lorrie stared at it. Would they tie her hands?
“Put it on the dog,” her captor said. “We don’t want it running away.”
“Where will you take me?” Lorrie asked, bending to scoop up the rope. She saw now it had been fashioned into a sort of lead, with a loop around one end. She put the lead around Welly’s neck and tightened it enough so it would not slip off.
The man moved aside. “Out.” He pointed into the main room of the workhouse, which appeared empty at the moment.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked again.
“Walk or I’ll make you walk.”
Shivering with fear, Lorrie pulled her night robe close around her neck and held the leash in her other hand. She led Welly into the main room. The windows had been shuttered and the hearth was cold and dark, but she could see well enough to avoid bumping into the long table.
She’d expected the man to lead her, but he stood staring into the little closet. “What is that?” he asked.
Lorrie swallowed the panic. He’d seen the loose planks. She didn’t know how, as they still fell flush against the foundation if she did not push on them, but something had given her efforts away.
Lorrie turned slowly to peer into the closet.
“I…I don’t know what you mean.”
The man pointed into the closet, but when she followed the direction of his finger, he wasn’t pointing at the loose planks. He pointed at a corner where Welly had relieved himself.
“The dog needed to go out. He’s still a puppy. He hasn’t much control.”
He looked at her—at least she thought he looked at her. It was difficult to tell with his eyes so hidden. “I suppose you want me to clean it up.”
Lorrie didn’t know how to answer. She’d forgotten about it in her efforts to escape. She might be a duke’s daughter, but she’d spent most of her youth in the country. A little puppy pee didn’t upset her.
The man jerked his head toward a corner of the room, and Lorrie realized a man in a dark cloak sat there. She hadn’t been able to see him in the dark.
“Clean it up,” the first ordered.
The second said nothing while the first gave her a shove. “Outside.”
He opened the door to the small work shed for her, and she blinked at the bright sunlight, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. Welly barked and started forward, and Lorrie almost pitched down the two steps leading up to the door. She followed the puppy down, and he immediately lifted his leg to relieve himself.
Lorrie was aware of a growing discomfort in her own bladder, but her captor pointed to the small privy near the trees. “Hurry up. Take more than two minutes, and I’ll come in and fetch you.”
Lorrie hurried. She could think of little more humiliating than being interrupted while squatting in the privy. She felt better when she emerged, not only because the privy stunk, but because she could see her surroundings in the daylight. There was indeed a path leading away from the work shed. It was somewhat overgrown, but it had been worn over time and was still visible. It must lead to the big house, and surely that had not been abandoned.
She peered in the opposite direction, hoping to spot horses or a glimpse of the road they had traversed. But wherever the men kept their mounts and the cart, she could not spot them from where she stood. They were no fools, these men. No smoke poured from the chimney, no light shone from within the building. To all outward appearances, the place was abandoned.
Even if Ewan did come for her, how would he know to look here? He might walk right past it and never know she was imprisoned within. Lorrie couldn’t leave her escape to chance. She had to find a way to get out. Glancing at the shed again, she focused on the rear where she’d been held. From the outside, the boards she’d loosened looked slightly askew. She hoped the men wouldn’t look at them too closely. She hoped she could loosen them in time. Especially since she had no idea how much time she had left.
“Back inside,” her captor ordered.
“But we just stepped out. Can’t I take my dog for a walk? He needs exercise.” Anything to stall or to give her more time to look around.
“Get inside or I’ll make you.”
Lorrie swallowed. She did not want him to make good on his threats. As slowly as possible, she made her way back toward the steps. She tried to take in as much of the landscape as possible. She would need a mental map of the place when she had to run away, and as that would most likely be under cover of darkness, the better she knew the landmarks, the more likely she would find the path and be able to follow it. She had the fleeting urge to run, but a flash of color caught her eye. A few yards away a third man stood near a tree, keeping watch.
Lorrie knew if she ran now, she would not make it far.
Once inside the gardener’s shed, her captor shut the door and barred it. The other captor was back in his chair, and she wouldn’t have known he’d left his spot except that Welly’s accident in the closet had been cleaned up.
She went willingly back into her prison. Hoping to discourage the men from interrupting her again, she decided to make her demands now. “May I have some water?”
Her captor shut the door in her face.
“What about more bread?”
The lock slid into place.
Very well. She would just have to be very careful and ready for guests at a moment’s notice. Taking a deep breath, Lorrie sat and wedged her feet against a third plank. Closing her eyes, she began to push.
Nineteen
Ewan prided himself on his patience. In a fight, a hot head was almost always a liability. He knew Draven had wanted him for his brute strength, but Ewan didn’t consider his strength and size alone his only skill. He knew when to hit first, when to wait for the advantage, when to allow his opponent to tire himself out with impotent punches.
Ewan possessed considerable patience.
And it had all deserted him today.
He’d seen Jasper track dozens of times. He knew one step forward often meant two steps back. In Belgium there had been a week they’d circled the same two miles repeatedly, tracking a French spy.