Penny gasped as Fothergill seized the moment to release her arm and lock his arm about her shoulders, once again placing the knife at her throat.
Nicholas swung around at the sound, but froze when he saw Fothergill’s new position.
Fothergill backed, dragging her with him to the side of the room opposite the fireplace. With the knife, he indicated the mantelpiece. “Open the priest hole.”
Nicholas studied him, then slowly walked to the heavily carved mantelpiece. He took as long as he dared, but eventually twisted the right apple. Farther along the wall, the concealed panel popped open.
Fothergill stared at it. “I’m impressed.” He motioned to Nicholas. “Prop the panel wide with that footstool.”
Still moving slowly, Nicholas obeyed.
“Now walk around the bed, and sit on the side, facing the windows.”
Feet dragging, Nicholas did.
“Keep your gaze fixed on the sky. Don’t move your head.”
Once assured Nicholas was going to obey, Fothergill urged her forward. He steered her to the corner of the bed, closer to the priest hole. When they reached it, he turned her so her back was to the bedpost; the tip of his knife beneath her chin held her there while, with a violent tug, he ripped loose the cord tying the bed-curtain back.
He lifted the cord, gripped it in his teeth, then grabbed first one o
f Penny’s hands, then the other, securing both in one of his on the other side of the bedpost, stretching her arms back so she couldn’t move. Only then did he take his knife from her throat, deftly placing it between his teeth as he removed the cord and quickly used it to lash her wrists together, effectively tying her to the post.
She mentally swore, searched desperately for something to slow things down, to delay or distract.
Fothergill tied the last knot, took his knife from his mouth, and moved around her; silent as a ghost, he glided toward Nicholas.
Who was still staring, unknowing, at the windows.
Penny kicked out as far as she could—and managed to tangle her feet and skirts in Fothergill’s boots. Fothergill staggered, tried to free himself, tripped, fell. His knife went skittering across the floor.
“Nicholas—run! Go!”
Penny fought to keep Fothergill trapped, but he rolled away, wrenching free of her skirts.
Nicholas sprang to his feet, took in the scene, saw the knife lying free. His features contorted. Instead of obeying Penny, he flung himself on Fothergill.
“No!” Penny screamed, but too late.
Rolling on the floor, Nicholas grappled with Fothergill. Even had he been hale and whole, it would have been an uneven match. But Nicholas was injured and Fothergill knew where. Penny saw the punch aimed directly for Nicholas’s injured right shoulder, saw it land, heard Nicholas’s shocked, pained gasp. Fothergill’s next blow plowed into Nicholas’s jaw and it was over. Nicholas slumped unconscious; Fothergill clambered to his feet.
Swearing softly, continuously, in French.
From beneath lowered brows, his gaze locked on Penny.
She screwed her eyes shut and screamed—
He struck her savagely with the back of his hand.
Her head cracked against the bedpost, pain sliced through her brain. She sagged against the post, momentarily nauseated, dizzy, her wits reeling.
Fothergill swore viciously in her ear; she understood enough to know what he was promising. Then he moved away.
She dragged in a breath, forced her lids up enough to see. Through her lashes she watched as he swiped up his knife. Hefting it, he turned to her, then his gaze went past her—to the priest hole.
The glittering boxes distracted him. She didn’t move, sagging as if unconscious. He walked past her without a glance, paused on the threshold of the priest hole, then stepped inside.
Should she scream again? She had no idea whether there had been or would be anyone in the front of the house to hear. Her head was ringing; just thinking was painful. If she screamed again, now he had the knife once more in his hand…