The cobblestones were old; she had to watch her feet. She picked her way around the corner, idly wondering what the weather in England would be like-and almost walked into a man.
With an “Oh!” she looked up.
Caught her breath on a gasp as not one but two men gripped her arms hard, one on either side.
The man on her left-black-haired, dark-eyed, nut-brown skin-leered as he pressed close-and pressed the tip of a knife into her side. “No sound.”
She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She could feel the cold bite of the knife-with just a touch it had sliced through her gown. The slightest push and it would cut into her.
Apparently satisfied she comprehended her danger, the man-unquestionably a cultist even though he wasn’t wearing a turban or black silk scarf but instead was enveloped in a hooded cloak indistinguishable from countless others-glanced across the stable yard to where a third cultist, similarly disguised, waited.
The third man nodded. The man on her left urged her forward. “Walk quietly. Make no sound and we will let you live. Pray none of your friends notice-if they do, we will have to kill them.”
She had no choice. Even if she swooned they would simply drag her along. But once they reached the street, someone would see, would notice…
Her hopes died as they rounded the far corner of the auberge and she saw a dogcart waiting. They half lifted, half pushed her onto the front bench. The man with the knife followed and sat beside her. The third man took the reins and climbed up to sit on her other side, while the other man climbed on behind.
Wedged between the cultists, the horrendously sharp knife still pressed threateningly to her side, she had to sit silently and be driven out of the lane, into the square, and away.
Gareth was thinking of calling a halt for luncheon when Dorcas came into the side yard. She looked around. A frown formed on her face.
When her gaze returned to him, he raised his brows.
She walked across to him. “Have you seen Miss Emily?”
“Not recently. She was out here about an hour ago, but went inside again.”
Dorcas shook her head, looking toward the street. “We can’t find her. No one’s seen her, not since…well, it must be since she spoke with you.”
A chill coursed through his veins, but Gareth told himself not to leap to conclusions. “If she’s not in her room… is there anywhere else she might go to fill in time?”
“Not that I can think of. And…well, I don’t want to cause a fuss that might be unnecessary.” Dorcas met his eyes. “There haven’t been any sightings of cultists for days-no one’s come into the common room to say otherwise.”
“We haven’t seen or heard of anyone lurking around, either.”
“So there’s no reason to suppose anything dreadful has occurred.” Dorcas looked across the yard, then drew in a breath and rushed on, “But to go off somewhere without telling you, or me, especially now, when we’re all so on edge…that’s very unlike Miss Emily. Still, perhaps-”
“No.” Grim, Gareth caught her eyes as she looked at him. “You’re right. She wouldn’t vanish of her own accord. Which means-” He cut off the thought, instead said, “We search. Find whoever you can, and search thoroughly upstairs. I’ll get Bister and our recruits to check outside, while Mooktu and I will talk to the Perrots and search the ground floor. We’ll meet in the common room as soon as we’re done.”
Eyes wide, Dorcas nodded and hurried back to the auberge.
Grim-faced, Gareth turned to the men in the yard.
The search didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, Gareth strode into the common room to find Dorcas already there, the normally stoic maid wringing her hands, a worried Arnia standing beside her.
“She is not upstairs,” Arnia said.
Gareth turned as Perrot, who had gone himself to check his basement while his sons checked the stables and outbuildings, joined them.
The auberge keeper spread his hands. “There is no sign.”
“All our carriages and horses are still here,” one of the sons added.
Mooktu arrived from the kitchens and storerooms. Grimly, he shook his head.
Watson and Mullins rose from the table where they’d been waiting.
The front door crashed open and Bister barreled in, Jimmy on his heels. “She’s been taken by three men in a cart. They headed south.”
Gareth strode toward them. “Who saw them-and when?”
Bister was nearly out of breath. “Two old geezers outside. About an hour ago. And yes, they’re sure-they noticed because they thought it odd that in this weather she had just a shawl on over her gown-no cloak-while the three men in the cart were well wrapped up. Hoods drawn an’ all, so no one saw their faces.” Bister looked at Dorcas. “They said she was wearing a pink gown and had a purple shawl. Brown hair up.”
Dorcas paled. “It was a lavender gown.”
Bister nodded. “Like they said-pink.” He looked at Gareth. “It was her.”
Tight lipped, Gareth nodded. “Any advance on ‘south’?”
“Bister and I ran to the end of the street,” Jimmy put in. “There were lads at the corner, lounging about-they remembered and showed us the road the cart took. It’s not a main road-seems it goes south along the coast a ways.”
An angry rumble had been growing from the locals. Shock was quickly giving way to outrage. Now someone called out, “That’s the Virgejoie road.”
Gareth glanced at Perrot.
The auberge owner clarified, “It is the road that leads to one of the old aristo-family homes-a chateau.”
“Who lives there now?”
Perrot spread his hands. “No one. It has been deserted since the family fled during the Terror.”
“What condition is the chateau in-is it liveable?”
Numerous local men pulled faces, tilted their heads, then one vouchsafed, “The outbuildings and barn are derelict, but the main house still has walls, shutters and doors, and most of its roof.”
“Fireplaces, too,” another put in. “One could shelter there even in this weather. Gypsies sometimes do.”
Gareth exchanged a glance with Mooktu as the exclamations and rumblings rose anew. “That’s where they’ll be.”
Mooktu nodded. “They’ve taken her so you will come for her-they will wait until you do.”
He meant “wait before they do anything drastic” the cult was well known for forcing men to watch as they tortured their loved ones. His heart like lead, Gareth nodded-tried to push his reactions, his emotions down enough to think.
He had to think or he’d lose her.
He wasn’t going to lose her.
Perrot tugged his sleeve. “You have to let us help.” The auberge owner gestured to the crowd thronging the common room as the locals who’d come in for lunch were joined by a steady stream of others, alerted by yet others who’d gone out to spread the news. “This cult-they have played us for fools. They have attacked and carried off the lady while she was here, under my roof, and we scoffed and thought you were safe.” Like an aging bantam, Perrot stuck out his chest. “You must let us expunge this stain on our honor by letting us help you get her back.”
Many locals, young and old, cheered and clamored in Perrot’s support.
Gareth glanced at Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, waiting, ready for action, to one side, then he raised his hands and waved to quiet the crowd. Into the ensuing silence he said, “Everyone who wishes to assist-we’ll gladly accept your help.
He sent Bister, Mooktu, and Mullins to circle past the cult’s pickets. “They’ll have more than one or two along the road into the estate, close enough to town to have time to race back and warn those at the chateau of our approach. Take positions between them and the chateau, as close to the chateau as possible without being seen
