“Tell him no,” Rowena said. “If it were up to me, that’s what I would do.”
“Even if he were to inform you that he could find no more work in the theater and as a consequence his landlord was about to throw him into the street—in which case he would be forced to come and take shelter with us?”
Rowena sagged against the side of the table, remembering Edward Bosley’s last visit. “How much does he want?” she asked.
“Twenty pounds. For now.”
“And twenty pounds again next month, I’ll wager. Very well, I’ll see that the money is sent.” Rowena returned to her chair and forced herself to take a spoonful of porridge. “Now, about the savage, Father—”
He scowled up at her, eyes narrowing sharply behind his spectacles. “No, Rowena,” he said. “I know where this discussion is leading, and there’s no use—”
He broke off as Thomas burst into the hall. The husky Cornishman was out of breath. His fleshy face was as pale as a slab of lard.
“’Tis the savage, sir!” Thomas gasped. “He looked to be asleep, so I told Dickon to open up the door and get the slop bucket. The bastard jumped poor Dickon and got him by the throat! I managed t’ get the door shut, but Dickon is locked in the cell with the savage—that is, if ’e’s not kilt by now!”
“Bloody fool!” Sir Christopher was on his feet. “See what you’ve done!” he said, turning angrily to Rowena. “Your so-called kindness did little more than lessen the creature’s fear of us! Now there’ll be the devil to pay!”
“Oh, hurry, sir!” Thomas’s eyes bulged wildly. “The red ’eathen keeps screamin’ something about a key! If we don’t get down there…” The rest of his words were lost as he wheeled and raced back toward the corridor. Sir Christopher, feeling his arthritis, labored after him.
Rowena bumped her hip as she plunged around the corner of the table. The heavy key ring at her waist jangled as it struck wood.
Pausing, her father shot her a stern backward glance. “And where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“I’m coming with you,” Rowena said. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“Haven’t you done enough harm already? Stay up here where you belong!”
“With all due respect, Father—” she began, but this was no time for an argument, and they both knew it. With an indignant huff, Sir Christopher turned on his heel and hobbled furiously toward the corridor. Rowena caught up her skirts and rushed after him. Dickon, for all his size and strength, was the gentlest of souls, an innocent creature with the mind of a child. He had grown up on the manor and, as a youth, taught her to ride her first pony. She could not bear the thought of his being hurt. As for the savage—
Rowena forced all concern for the dark-skinned prisoner from her mind as she pressed past her father in the narrow corridor. This was no time for sentiment. If it came to a choice, Dickon would be the one saved. The savage, for all his worth, would be destroyed like a rabid dog.
From the top of the stairs she could see the yellow flare of torchlight on the walls. She paused while her father, his breathing alarmingly labored, came up behind her. He was too old for this ordeal, Rowena realized, her own heart pounding. His reflexes were too slow, his judgment too impaired by his years. She could not allow Sir Christopher to pit himself against the primeval strength and lightning instincts of the man in the cell.
She alone stood a chance against the savage.
Murmuring a plea for forgiveness, Rowena turned, pressed a hand against her father’s chest and shoved him backward into the corridor. Before the stunned old man could react, she wheeled and flung herself into the dark stairwell, pausing only long enough to slam the door and bolt it fast behind her.
“Rowena!” Sir Christopher pounded impotently on the massive oaken planks. “Open this door at once! Open it, I say!”
Closing her ears to his cries, Rowena hurried down the stairs, down and down, into the very maw of danger.
Fear hung in the dank cellar air, its presence so acrid that she could almost taste it. In the hellish glare of the torchlight, Thomas stood outside the cell jabbing a long wooden pike through the bars. The savage had backed into a shadowed corner, just out of his reach. One muscular brown arm was wrapped around Dickon’s throat. The other gripped the hapless servant’s waist.
“Keep back, mistress,” Thomas warned as she moved closer. But Rowena scarcely heard him. Her attention was riveted on the drama in the cell. She could see the glint of firelight on Dickon’s bulging blue eyes. She could see terror in every line of his plump, gentle face. Behind him the savage was no more than a black shadow, but she knew he was watching her.
“Key!” His voice rasped out of the darkness, pleading, demanding. Rowena felt the weight of the brass ring at her waist. One of the keys, old and rusted, was a twin to the key Thomas had used to open and lock the door of the cell. But she had no key that would free the prisoner’s manacled wrists and ankles. Her heart sank as she realized there might be no such key, except, perhaps, aboard the ship that had carried him to Falmouth.
“Rowena!” Sir Christopher’s muffled voice rumbled through the locked door as she glided like a sleepwalker toward the bars. “Have you gone mad? Let me in!”
Rowena pretended to not hear. Her father would be frantic, she knew, but a tragedy lay in wait here. If she did not act swiftly and courageously someone would die in this wretched place.
As she drew closer she could hear the whimpering sounds that came from Dickon’s throat. His face was an ashen lump above the dark band of the savage’s arm. Thomas was still jabbing uselessly with the pike. Rowena laid a hand on his arm. “Stop,” she said in a low voice. “You’re only threatening him. It won’t help.”
He hesitated, and for the space of a heartbeat Rowena feared he would argue. But Thomas was a servant and she was mistress of the great house. In the end he withdrew the pike and backed reluctantly away. From the top of the dark staircase, Sir Christopher continued to pound and rage. “Mind the door, Thomas,” Rowena said. “Keep my father safely out of this. Don’t let him interfere or you’ll answer sorely for it.”
“Aye, mistress,” Thomas muttered, his voice weighted with reluctance. He would answer sorely in any case.
Rowena could feel the savage’s black eyes on her as she fumbled with the cord at her waist, freeing the ring of keys. Her unsteady fingers found the oldest and rustiest among them and thrust it into the lock.
The corroded mechanism balked for a moment, then the tumblers clanked into place and the door opened.
Rowena could see the savage clearly now. His height and bulk filled the far corner of the cell. Black hair streamed in his battered, feral face. Black eyes glowed amber in the dancing torchlight. He looked like the devil incarnate, she thought. Only the sight of Dickon’s blanched face and bulging eyes kept her from bolting to safety and locking the door behind her.
“Hold on, Dickon,” she muttered, clutching the ring of keys. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”
Brave words. But Rowena felt her spirit quail as her eyes met the savage’s desperate gaze. There was a fair chance she could fool him long enough to free the terrified servant. But what would the savage do once he discovered that none of her keys would unlock his manacles?
She stepped into the cell and felt the stench of fear close around her, thick and dark and fetid. Beyond the barred door, even her father had fallen silent. She could hear nothing but the crackle of burning pitch, the labored sound of Dickon’s breathing, and the drumming of her own heart.
Dickon’s pale eyes bulged in the torchlight. Behind him, the savage seemed no more than a tall, black shadow. Only his arm and his massive fist had substance where they caught the light. She could see the chain now, passing in front