Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,90

the horses,” huffed the footman.

“Here they are, my lord!” exclaimed the porter, trotting back into the hall. “They’re in the pockets like you said.” He pulled out an old flintlock from a deep pocket.

In two strides St. Ryne was at his side, relieving him of the pistols and slinging his own coat over his shoulders.

“Thomas, can you handle one of these?” he asked, handing him a pistol. Thomas nodded. He turned to Branstoke. “Thank you for the horses. I don’t know when—”

“Say no more. Just save her and don’t ever let her go again.”

St. Ryne nodded once curtly then reached out to squeeze his shoulder, silently thanking him for all his efforts on their behalf. “Give my compliments to Mannion,” was all he said, then he followed Thomas out the door.

After Thomas related the events of the evening, the ride to Larchside was hard and grimly silent, each man alone with his thoughts. For St. Ryne it was the longest ride of his life. If what Thomas said was true, then Bess must have forgiven him. Why else would she plan to return to London?

Oh, Bess, he silently called, don’t give up.

What a consummate fool he had been. He remembered the Amblethorp rout when he first saw her and thought she looked fragile. She didn’t appear the shrew until he goaded her. He had been blind to the clues as to her real nature, so intrigued was he to play Petruchio. Now he could only hope that her shrewish mask would again give her strength.

They were surprised, when they turned into the drive leading to Larchside, to see the manor ablaze with lights. Without a word they laid their heels into their mounts and galloped up the drive. St. Ryne was off his horse and running for the door even before the horse stopped. The door flew open before he reached it.

“Oh, my lord, thank heavens you’re here!” Ivy exclaimed. “We got the Atheridges locked in the kitchen pantry.

“And Bess?” St. Ryne asked anxiously.

“Tunning still has her.”

“Who’s we?” asked Thomas, tethering the horses.

“Peter and me. We forgot he were here, too, Thomas. After you left I got to worryin’ and thinkin’. Then I remembered Peter so I roused him and told him all. Together we captured ol’ hatchet face and when Atheridge came creeping back, we bagged him, too.”

St. Ryne grabbed her. “Can Atheridge tell us where Tunning’s taken her?”

“Already done that, leastways where they’re headin’. You were right, Thomas,” she said looking past St. Ryne. “That harness did break, not three miles from here. Caused a devil of a fight atween ’em, says Atheridge.”

“Damn it, woman,” roared St. Ryne, “where’s Elizabeth!?”

“Hav—Havelock Manor.”

“Where’s that?”

“About seven miles by road,” said Thomas. “But I thought that burned down.”

“Atheridge said one wing’s sound and Tunning's takin’ her there, but they had to go the last four miles on foot on account one horse ran off when it were unhitched and the other come up lame.”

“Come on, Thomas,” ordered St. Ryne grimly, swinging around to the horses.

“Have a care!” Ivy called after them.

Tunning shoved Elizabeth and she stumbled, falling onto the makeshift bed. She drew her cut and bleeding feet close to her body as she huddled in the corner, silently watching him as he laid a fire in the massive hearth.

She was cold, colder than she had ever been before, but she refused to let Tunning see her weakness. At first, during the long walk, he delighted in prodding her and laughed when she fell. He even removed the gag in an attempt to goad her to speech, but she doggedly remained silent, only glaring at him.

As the miles stretched and the cold penetrated their bones, he became quiet and morose, occasionally muttering to himself as he was now. At the moment, she feared him more, for it seemed there was little left of the civilized man. His mind was captured by the notion of revenge upon her.

He turned his head from the fire he built to look at her and laughed. The sound sent shivers down Elizabeth’s spine. She wondered how long he intended to toy with her. She moved her hands, testing the bonds, drawing in her breath sharply to prevent crying out when the rough rope bit into her chafed wrists. She relaxed. Even if her hands were free, she doubted she could have escaped, so damaged were her feet. As the piercing cold eased, she felt her feet burning and sharp pain shooting up her calves. She doubted her