No one would look for her until Warrington had done his worst.
“I cannot give you what you want.”
“I know that,” Warrington snarled, his eyes rolling in a way that made her doubt his sanity. “Don’t you think I know that?” Clawlike fingers grasped her arm and pulled her toward the east wall against which her large wardrobe stood. “I will die before getting what I want, but at least I’ll claim the vengeance I deserve.”
Farah struggled, knowing that if she went anywhere with him, her life would be forfeit.
A soft knock sounded on her door. “My lady?” Murdoch called.
“Get rid of him,” Warrington hissed, shoving the gun so hard against her, it wrenched her neck.
“I—I’ve turned in, Murdoch,” Farah called, her voice surprisingly steady. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Ye’ll want to know this,” Murdoch pressed. “I’ve a telegram from Argent in London … It’s about your husband.”
“Murdoch, please, I can’t be bothered. Don’t come in here!” she cried, praying that he would find the urgency in her voice strange and send for help.
A second ticked by before her door exploded open, shattered by the strength of Murdoch’s burly shoulder.
Warrington fired, and Murdoch fell.
Farah screamed. She tried to jerk out of Warrington’s grip, but his hand clasped about her arm like an eagle’s talon. Blood spread from Murdoch’s side, seeping into the gray wool of his vest. He was breathing, gasping for air, the shock of the bullet having knocked the wind from his chest.
“Murdoch,” she cried. “Murdoch, can you hear me?”
The pistol was shoved through her curls and against the back of her head. “You’ll come with me, or the next bullet goes in his eye.”
Panic faded, and a cold sort of calm resolution stole through Farah’s veins. Murdoch couldn’t leave Tallow, not when they’d just found each other. The gunshot would bring the household, and the next person through that door would be Warrington’s next victim.
“I’ll go,” she said. “Just don’t kill him.”
Warrington jerked her toward the wardrobe, opened the latch with one hand, keeping the gun trained on her, and hurled her through her new dresses until she tumbled out of the false back, barely maintaining her balance.
The other side of her papered wall and velvet drapes was nothing but cold stone lit by a few sporadic torches. It was like stepping back in time two hundred years.
“What is this?” Her tremulous voice echoed down the dank stone corridor, interrupted by only a few other openings, presumably from different manor rooms.
Warrington gave her shoulder a rough shove forward. “Walk,” he commanded.
The cold of the stones and close, arid stench seemed to reach through the thin fabric of her gown. Farah hugged herself and plodded forward, the dank, uneven earth beneath her slippers making sounds she dare not identify.
“Northwalk Abbey was built in the sixteenth century by a papist earl,” Warrington informed her conversationally. “It’s said he hid condemned Catholic priests here, and smuggled them out of the country by way of Brighton.”
“Surely you didn’t bring me here for a history lesson,” Farah said imperiously. “Where are you taking me?”
Warrington’s gun jabbed at her shoulder. “Just like you entitled monarchists. Don’t even know where your titles come from. Don’t acknowledge the innocent blood that’s been spilled so you can have your castles and your tenants.”
“That’s not me,” Farah argued. “I only want what my father intended for me to possess. What makes you more entitled to it than I?”
They came to an abrupt drop, a steep set of wooden stairs that led down into a dark abyss. Farah glanced over her shoulder at Warrington, who kept the gun trained on her as he took a torch from the wall. “Climb down.” He gestured to the stairs with his pistol.
Farah stared into the dark. She didn’t want to go down there. What if she never came back out?
“Move, or I’ll set those pretty ringlets on fire.”
She could feel the heat of the torch on her skin as he thrust it toward her. Gathering her gown above her knees, she gripped the rough wooden banister tightly as she took the first step.
The light from his torch followed her down, and Farah could hear the heavy bouts of his breath as they descended.
The smell hit her first. Death, filth, and excrement. She held a hand to her mouth to contain her gag reflex. The torchlight touched a pile of animal bones she’d rather not identify. Then the rough pallet of filthy blankets, and finally, the old bucket he must have been using as a chamber pot.
Her stomach heaved, and Farah swallowed against the sting in her cheeks and the saliva flooding her mouth. “You’ve been living here?” she asked, horrified. “All this time?”
“I told you, Northwalk is my home.” He placed the torch in an ancient metal sconce, never once looking away from her. “Your father, Robert, promised it to me.” He spat the name. “Promised you to me, so that I may be part of its legacy.”
“Why did he do that?” Farah asked the question that had been on her mind since she’d been old enough to understand. “What did you have on him to get him to acquiesce?”
Warrington spat on the ground, his eyes becoming wells of black hatred in a face that was ghostly white for lack of sun. “You would think so, you useless bitch.” He stepped toward her, and she backed away, her heart pounding wildly. “I was eighteen when you were born, and had already been licking your father’s boots for a year. Did you know that in the queen’s army it’s money not aptitude that makes you an officer? Your father was a privileged earl who’d only ever shot at foxes and peahens, and I’d been infantry since I was fifteen, having lied about my age. I had to shine his shoes, brush his coat, pin medals he never earned. And all the while, I pretended to love him like a brother. Convinced him he couldn’t do without me.”