Page 77 of Impetuous

He could only use estate business as an excuse for so long. But if she were kidnapped… Well, he could buy some more time, at least a couple of days, while they searched for her, and maybe a few more days for her to recover. The agent could find the book; then Philip and Cassandra could go to London as they had planned. He could go through the motions of looking for the book, and they could return in defeat. Except that Philip would actually have the book and the map.

Cassandra felt sick. It made awful, slimy sense. Indeed, it made sense no other way. If there were someone else—David Miller or an unknown person—looking for the book, it would not help them to lock her up. They needed the map she held and the map in the book, neither of which kidnapping her would gain them. It would help only Philip. And it was a note from him that had sent her to the abbey.

She leaned back against the wall, hot tears leaking from her eyes. It could not be Philip! No matter how much sense it made, she refused to believe it. She loved him. Surely she could not have been so mistaken in him. She could not love a man so deceitful and greedy. And why, she thought, grasping at straws, had he made love to her if he felt so little for her that he did not care if she stayed in an abandoned building for a couple of days, scared, hungry and thirsty? Making love to her would not have furthered his plans.

She remembered how suspicious she had been of him about Silverwood, and how terribly wrong she had been. This was the same sort of thing. She was leaping to conclusions without enough evidence. Her mistake about Silverwood had made sense logically, but the truth had not been in it. It was the same this time. She would not condemn him on the basis of a few suppositions.

But, despite her resolution, the doubts returned again and again throughout the night. Alone in the dark, she found it hard to believe in anything, harder still to curb her fears. Every noise made her jump. No matter how tired and sleepy she was, she could not bring herself to close her eyes. It would leave her too vulnerable. Eventually her eyelids grew heavy, and she had to force them open. She nodded off, discovering it only when she was jerked awake by another noise or a bad dream. Heart pounding, she would sit there in the dark, struggling not to give in to the frantic urge to scream that clawed at her throat.

It seemed years before the windows of the windmill began to show as paler squares. Even then, it took Cassandra a moment to realize that the dawn was coming. Gradually the forms in the room grew more distinct. Her fear lessened. She knew that she was in exactly the same position that she had been in all night, but somehow now it seemed more bearable. She leaned her head back against the wall, letting her eyes drift closed and, finally, she fell into a real sleep.

She awakened to find herself curled up on the dusty floor beside the door. She blinked and sat up slowly, adjusting to the bizarre reality in which she found herself. It was quite light in the room now, and much warmer. She realized that the morning had advanced. She wondered exactly what time it was. She also wondered what had awakened her.

Slowly she stood up, stretching her aching muscles. She was sore and stiff all over, and felt uncomfortably sticky and dirty. Her mouth tasted awful and was so dry she could hardly even work up any saliva. She thought that she would kill for a sip of water. Hunger was next on her list of discomforts.

Since it was morning, she decided to try banging on the door again. It had seemed pointless during the night, but now there might possibly be someone passing by the windmill who would hear her. She picked up the metal plate and tried banging it against the door until her ears hurt from the noise. Then she walked around the room a little, trying to ease her sore muscles. It was on her second lap around the large room that she heard the sound.

She stopped dead still and waited, trying to identify what the noise had been. Then it came again. It wasn’t from inside the building with her. The faint sound came from outside and it sounded like…voices. Cassandra stiffened, disbelieving. There it was again. The sound of a boyish call.

“Help! Somebody! Help me!” she shrieked, looking up at the window high above her. It was the one in which she had broken a hole last night. Perhaps now her voice had a better chance of carrying. She continued to yell.

When she paused for a breath, she heard the distinct sound of voices again. It was much closer this time, and it sounded like boys yelling. Then, blessedly, came a familiar adolescent voice. “Cassandra! Halloo! Cassandra!”

“Crispin!” she screamed joyously. “Hart! Crispin! It’s me!”

“I hear it!” she heard one of the twins cry, and a moment later the voice was much closer. “It’s over here! The windmill!”

Cassandra was jumping up and down, yelling herself hoarse, and now she rushed back to the heavy door and began to bang the plate upon it again. There were more excited voices, and she heard Hart say plainly, “Why, look! The door is blocked. Richie, go fetch Sir Philip!”

There were more noises, and suddenly the door creaked open. Both boys were pulling on it, but they could open it no more than a foot. However, that was plenty for Cassandra to rush through.

“Crispin! Hart!” She threw her arms around both of them. “Oh, I’ve never in my life been so glad to see anyone!”

The two boys babbled out questions while Cassandra held them, alternately laughing and crying.

“Whatever were you doing in there?”

“I say, did you know that you’re covered with dirt?”

“We’ve been searching and searching ever since teatime yesterday, when you didn’t come back!”

“Yes, and Sir Philip and the servants kept at it all night, with lanterns, looking through the fields and woods and everywhere!”

“He wouldn’t let us,” Crispin added in an aggrieved voice. “He said we had to sleep. But we could hardly sleep a wink, could we, Hart?”

“No, and this morning, we set out as soon as cook gave us some bacon and bread. Sir Philip made us bring one of the grooms, but that’s good, isn’t it, because now he’s gone to get Sir Philip.”

“He went back to the abbey again. I don’t know why he thinks you are there.”

“Aunt Ardis keeps moaning and crying and saying for sure you’re in the river, but I don’t know how she could think you would be so stupid as to fall in a river. Joanna wanted to help Sir Philip search, but he snapped at her that he couldn’t have her slowing him down. He told her to either go on her own or go back to the house.”

“She didn’t look half-mad,” Crispin mused gleefully, and both boys chuckled at the pleasant memory of their cousin’s frustration.

“Look!” Hart turned away, pointing toward the horizon. “There he comes now.”

A horse and rider were tearing along the road, and as they watched, the graceful animal slowed a fraction, gathered itself and soared over the stone fence. It thundered straight toward them. The rider was distinguishable now as Sir Philip, and he pulled up at the last moment and flung himself out of the saddle, running across the last few remaining feet toward them.

“Cassandra!” His face was etched with lines of worry, and he held out his arms to her.