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 of the groom’s plump, white throat. A single jerk would be enough to break his windpipe.
Swallowing her terror, Rowena forced herself to speak. “Don’t be afraid, Dickon,” she said gently. “I won’t let him hurt you. See, I’ve brought the keys. That’s what he wants.”
Dickon’s eyes flickered in response. His breath gurgled in and out, blocked by the pressure of the chain against his neck. “Let him go.” Rowena spoke slowly and clearly to the savage, holding the key ring just out of easy reach. The Indian made no response.
“I said, let him go!” Rowena’s hand dropped onto the bruised knuckles of the powerful hand that gripped the chain. The light contact sent a shock up her arm, a sensual chill that jolted through her veins. She felt the responding jerk of his hand. It took all her self-control to keep from leaping backward.
“Key! You open!” He rasped the words, shaking a manacled wrist in her face. The motion tightened the chain around Dickon’s neck. The groom gurgled in terror.
“Let him go!” Rowena ordered, punctuating the words with emphatic gestures. “You let him go, or no key. Understand? No key.”
“I…kill.” The chain tightened across Dickon’s throat. “Kill him…kill you.”
Rowena’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her petticoats. She willed herself to stand tall and speak fiercely. “You kill, you die!” she said. “Right here. Right now.”
Thomas moved the torch closer to the cell, shining the light directly in the savage’s eyes. The black pupils contracted sharply. Then slowly the chain slackened against the groom’s throat. The links slithered in the torchlight, and suddenly Dickon was free. He stumbled forward, half paralyzed by fear.
“Go on, Dickon,” Rowena said softly. “You’re all right now. Thomas will let you out.”
Dickon lurched toward the door of the cell. Rowena heard the ancient hinges creak behind her as Thomas opened the door. Then the iron bars closed. She was alone in the cell with the savage.
Her savage, she reminded herself. She had come to save him as well as the hapless groom. Now he stood before her in wretched majesty, his shackled arms extended, his eyes squinting in the torchlight.
How long could she play this game of pretense? And where would it end?
Rowena was about to find out.
Chapter Four
