Page 89 of Outrageous

“Andrew!” she yelled, unable to pull her eyes away from the prone figure on the floor. “Come quickly, it’s Godric—something is wrong with him. I think—he’s—” She heard motion behind her and turned, her jaw sagging at the sight in the doorway: Andrew with his hands in the air, Mrs. Crosby behind him, holding their pistol and wearing a very, very unpleasant smile.

“Been poisoned,” Eva said weakly.

Chapter 17

“He’d better be all right,” Eva said, her hands chafing against the too-tight rope Andrew had tied around her wrists—but only after the cook had made him remove his first, far looser, attempt.

“You do repeat yourself, don’t you?” the older woman asked as she and Andrew dumped her unceremoniously into the straw in the back of the cart. “I already told you—at least four times—that it is nothing but a sleeping draught. Now”—she turned to Andrew—“tie that around her mouth.”

Andrew looked from the neckcloth she thrust into his hands to Eva.

“Go on.” Mrs. Crosby poked him with the point of the pistol.

Andrew mouthed the word sorry as he reached for her.

“You don’t need to do this,” Eva said calmly. “I give my word I shan’t make any racket.”

Mrs. Crosby just laughed.

Once Andrew was done, Mrs. Crosby gave the gag a tug to make sure it was tight enough and then poked Andrew again. “All right, well done. Come along now.”

“Er, where are you taking me?” Andrew asked as they walked away. “Perhaps I might go with you and Eva—you could keep an eye on me that way. Wouldn’t it—”

His voice faded away as they moved out of hearing range and Eva furiously worked at the ropes binding her wrists and ankles, but there was no give. She groaned in raw, infuriated frustration. She should have known the woman was a rotten piece of work. She should have loaded the bloody pistol herself and brought it into the room.

Should have, would have, could have.

She thought back to Godric’s oddly vulnerable-looking form as he lay on the floor, his breathing shallow and a sheen of sweat on his gray-tinged skin. Oh God. What if Crosby was lying? What if she’d really poisoned him?

Why would she lie? You saw the look in her eyes. If she wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

That was true, and the thought cheered her. For all that the cook was clearly a bloodthirsty villain, she’d yet to prove herself a liar. Unless you counted the fact that she’d kept this maniacal facet of her personality a secret, of course.

The sound of heeled boots on cobbles heralded her return and Eva stopped squirming. The cook peered over the side of the wagon, the pale sun at her back, leaving her face in shadow.

“Now it’s just you and me, my lady.”

Something about her soft, almost gentle voice, made Eva’s spine tingle.

Mrs. Crosby climbed onto the seat, and then snapped the reins, sending the big old draught horse into a grudging walk.

“I’m sorry you are suffering such discomfort,” Mrs. Crosby said, not sounding in the least sorry, “but it won’t be for long.”

Well. That didn’t sound ominous.

They rumbled along in silence after that and Eva tried to look for landmarks. But they must have been in an area bordered by fields because all she saw was the occasional hedge over the high sides of the wagon. They couldn’t have ridden for more than ten or fifteen minutes when the surface of the road changed and Eva recognized the sound of wood on wood as they rolled over a bridge.

She gave a bitter laugh beneath the gag.

The cook turned slightly and said, “Yes, only one bridge was washed out, I’m afraid. The three of you were just so trusting. Of course Joe knew the truth, which is why he developed such a convenient chill and took to his bed.”

Eva wanted to bang her head against the wood. She’d wondered at the postilion’s heavy sleep, but hadn’t thought to try to wake him the three times she’d checked on him, believing he deserved the opportunity to rest.

“Don’t worry, my dear. Joe won’t take any permanent harm.”

The fact that the older woman could read her mind so easily was less than comforting.

They’d not gone much farther before a canopy of increasingly dense trees appeared overhead. Eva guessed this was the same wood they’d been in . . . yesterday? Could it have been only yesterday?