Page 12 of The Cutthroat Countess

“I’ll find her,” Elliot promised. “Let’s get you in a tree to wait.”

Once the raven was safe on one of the lower branches of a big yew tree, Elliot extinguished the lamp and set it near the trunk. The last thing he needed to do was rush into the house, drop the lantern, and set the cottage on fire.

“You wait here, Angus. Stay,” he added.

The raven quorked softly and began to preen himself. Elliot thought that was an excellent sign; if the bird was interested in personal hygiene, how injured could he be?

He’d taken a few steps toward the house when the back door opened, the light from inside spilling out and illuminating the environs enough that if anyone were to look in his direction, they would easily see Elliot standing like a post in the middle of the yard. Fearing that movement might draw their attention more quickly he froze rather than dropping to his knees or stepping back.

“—won’t be coming tonight,” one of the men said as he stepped outside. “But you’d better wait here in any case, and I’ll go back and see what ’is nibs wants us to do next.”

“You goin’ to that theater?” the man inside asked, his voice clear but his person hidden from Elliot’s view. “I reckon one of those circus bitches ’elped her escape us this morning. We ought to go and teach ’em a lesson.”

The other man laughed in a way that made the hairs on Elliot’s neck stand up. “Yeah, we’ll do that—teach ’em some manners. But not until we’ve got Wingate.”

He jolted at the sound of his own name, and something—a twig—snapped beneath his boot. The man who was outside spun around on his heel, his expression shifting to one of comic surprise when he realized who was standing right in front of him.

“Well, I’ll be! Look ’oo we ’ave ’ere!” he said, fumbling for a pistol tucked in his breeches.

Elliot didn’t hesitate. He drew his pistol, aimed for the torso, and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 25

Jo woke up with a pounding headache, and it took her a few moments to recall why.

And then her memories flooded back to her: the cottage, an unconscious Daniel Morrison, the two men who’d obviously attacked—

She gasped. “Angus!” The word came out harsh and raspy, as if she’d not spoken for years.

Jo struggled to her feet—or at least she tried to, because she realized that she was tied to the chair where she’d been sleeping.

She blinked to clear her fuzzy vision and glanced around the room. It was a plain bedchamber, something that you might find at a convent—which she’d hidden in once during her years in France.

There was a hearth on one wall, but it was empty and cold, no fireplace tools conveniently hanging on the metal hook that was set in the wall with four nails.

She looked around for something that she might use as a weapon, tugging on the rough rope that bound her wrists and checking for slack.

But whoever had tied her had done a thorough job. And there was nothing but a bed, a second wooden chair—like the one she was sitting in—and a screen that she assumed hid a chamber pot.

Right now the hook—a rough-hewn, cast-iron thing—was looking like her best option. If it didn’t work, then she’d go see if there was a chamber pot and hope it was ceramic so that she could smash it on . . . Jo glanced around for something that would break thick ceramic. Other than the iron hook, there was only the stone hearth, but that would make a great deal of noise.

Well, she could figure that out if and when the time came.

But first things first.

Jo inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly several times, until her head felt clearer. Her feet were tied together, but not to the chair. She smiled and pushed up carefully, then took tiny, shuffling steps toward the hearth. She had to stop twice to rest her shaky legs, but she made it without causing a lot of racket and carefully turned her chair until her back was to the hook.

She bit back a whimper of pain when she raised her arms and realized that somebody must have wrenched her shoulder at some point.

After a few moments of contortion, she had the rope against the metal and began to saw her hands back and forth.

Some rough part of the cast iron was catching on the sisal rope, but the process would be a long one. She was just about to take a rest when she heard heavy footsteps beyond the door.

She only had enough time to lower her hands and push a foot away from the hook before closing her eyes and letting her face go slack.

“Oi! Whatcher doin’ over there?” a voice she didn’t recognize muttered. Heavy footsteps thumped toward her, and a hand bit into her shoulder and shook her. “Wake up, girlie!”

It was easy for her to play a rudely awakened person with a head injury.