Page 80 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

He turned and called to the farmer, “What lies that way?”

The farmer looked back. “It’ll eventually land you near the church, but along the way, there’s just the brass mill. Not much else.”

Kit saluted the farmer, then, grim-faced, sat, picked up the reins, sent his horses pacing forward, then swung them in a tight arc and plunged down the narrow lane.

CHAPTER 16

Sylvia struggled to make sense of what was happening. Hillary had all but flung her to the ground so she was sitting with her back to the side of the huge stone platform on which the brass was pounded into sheets. He’d squinted at her for a moment, then gone off muttering, apparently searching for something.

She tugged and twisted, trying to free her hands. The lad, at least, knew she was there. She had no notion who he was, but he’d known her; perhaps he was a friend of one of the schoolboys. Regardless, she had to believe that he would find and tell someone eventually.

She wondered whether she could get her feet under her and, hobbled though she was, make a dash for the door, but Hillary loomed out of the shadows to her left, clutching several lengths of rope.

He came to stand over her, his boots thudding down on the floorboards, one on either side of her knees.

She glared up at him, but he appeared oblivious. Indeed, he seemed to be smiling to himself.

“This will do nicely,” he muttered, then he reached down, seized her bound hands, and hauled them high.

Sylvia gasped as her arms were wrenched.

Hillary didn’t seem to hear. He drew a small knife from his pocket and, with a quick flick, sliced through the cord binding her wrists. With one big hand, he held both her wrists while he maneuvered to wind separate lengths of the heavier rope around each of her gloved hands, the ropes passing over her palms.

Then he released her left hand, leaned to her right, and secured her right hand to the base of the railing of the stone platform, tying the rope securely so her arm was stretched wide.

Confused, she stared, then Hillary stepped to her left and secured her left hand in a similar position on her other side.

Hillary drew back and surveyed his handiwork. There was nothing in his gaze as it passed over her to suggest he saw her as anything more than an inanimate object—a prop for some scene he was constructing.

Her gaze on Hillary’s face, Sylvia felt cold dread run icy fingers down her spine.

What in all the heavens is he planning?

“I can see a roof on the right,” Ned reported in a hushed whisper. “’Bout a hundred yards on.”

Kit slowed his horses to a walk and looked. An old, lichen-covered roof loomed beyond a stand of trees; it appeared to cover one large building, with an add-on to the rear. Several tall stone chimneys pierced the roof, also toward the rear of the building.

“Presumably that’s the brass mill,” Smiggs murmured.

Kit nodded. Has Hillary stopped there or has he gone on?

Kit was debating his options when the bushes lining the lane ahead rustled, then a figure burst through, yanking his jacket free and stumbling into the lane.

“Jack!” Kit managed to keep his voice muted.

Jack caught his balance, swung around, and saw them, and the relief that washed over the boy’s face told its own story.

Then Jack started running toward the curricle, waving at them to stop.

Kit drew on the reins and halted the bays.

Jack raced to the curricle’s side and, as Kit stepped to the ground, looked at him imploringly. “That blackguard who’s calling himself Hillary took Miss B into that old building there.” Jack pointed at the brass mill. “He tied her hands and gagged and hobbled her, and I couldn’t rescue her in time.”

Smiggs, Ned, and Ollie had leapt down; they gathered around.

Kit dropped a hand on Jack’s shoulder and gripped reassuringly. “You’ve rescued her now.” He glanced toward the mill, then looked at Jack. “Where should we leave the curricle?”

Jack scratched his ear. “Best leave it here, I’d say—otherwise, he’ll hear, and God alone knows what he’ll do.”