Gripping her hands in her lap, she mentally urged Hillary to go faster. She needed to see her father, needed to hold his big hand.
Finally, they were through the village, and Hillary slowed for the turn into the Shallows. Seconds later, they were bowling along, with the river—the Avon—murmuring darkly beside the road.
She raised her head. Through a break in the trees, she glimpsed the church tower again. Nearly there—
Hillary swung the gig sharply to the right—so abruptly Sylvia nearly lost her grip and went flying. She half smothered a shriek as the gig shuddered and plunged at breakneck speed down a short track and into the clearing before the brass mill.
At the last second, Hillary hauled on the reins, and the carriage slewed, throwing Sylvia against his shoulder.
It was a shock to come to a halt.
Before she could even drag in a breath, Hillary seized her hands, first one, then the other, wrapping a fine cord around her wrists and cinching the cord tight.
Sylvia stared at her now-bound hands, then she jerked her head up and looked daggers at Hillary. “What on earth—What?” She gasped as Hillary tore off her bonnet and looped a scarf about her face, tugging the scarf tight and knotting it into an effective gag.
Her heart was racing. Sh
e fought to catch her breath. What on earth was going on?
Hillary spared not so much as a glance for her as he leapt to the ground, rushed around the horse to reach her side, then he hauled her down and half dragged half carried her toward the mill, until he could shove her to sit on a bench set against the mill’s front wall.
Sylvia landed hard. Before she could blink, Hillary had crouched and wound another strand of cord around her ankles, hobbling her. Stunned, she fell back against the wall.
From inside the mill, she heard slow, heavy footsteps heading for the mill door farther along the wall.
The mill was never locked as the fires to melt the metal were kept constantly stoked, and a watchman was always on duty.
She looked at Hillary, who had stalked back to the gig, and horror crept up her spine as she saw him draw a heavy iron bar from the gig’s footwell. He strode to the mill door. Holding the bar down beside his leg, he hauled the door open and walked inside.
Sylvia sucked in a breath—as much as she could—but she couldn’t push any real sound past the gag. Desperate to warn the unsuspecting watchman, she drummed her feet on the ground, but this close to the river, moss covered any available soil; her soles raised nothing more than soft pats.
She heard cheery voices—Hillary’s and the watchman’s—then a heavy thud reached her. The watchman had hit the ground.
She slumped against the mill wall as panic stole through her.
She glanced at the gig—then sat up as she saw the lid of the boot slowly rise.
A tow-headed lad peered out. He saw her, and his eyes flew wide. Quick as an eel, he slipped to the ground.
He started toward her—just as she heard Hillary’s heavy steps returning.
Violently, she shook her head at the lad. No! With her eyes, she signaled to the door, willing him to understand.
The lad’s eyes swung to the door, and he halted. Then he turned tail and whisked around the gig, freezing where Hillary wouldn’t see him.
Sylvia sagged with relief. Then Hillary reappeared in the doorway, and panic surged once more.
She kept her eyes locked on Hillary and prayed he wouldn’t spot the lad. If the boy could get away, he could summon help...
But the lad was likely from Bristol. He wouldn’t know where they were or which way to go to summon help quickly, and there were no houses along that stretch of the river.
She didn’t have time to think further. Hillary strode out and halted before her.
She kept her gaze apparently lowered, but watched him from beneath her lashes. With his Good Samaritan mask long gone, he was surveying her coldly through narrowed, piggy eyes.
Then a chilly smile curved his lips. He reached down, seized her arm, hauled her up, and propelled her before him into the mill.
* * *