Mary Jo Putney Read Online Free Page B

about rescuers, but if she was saved by a short fat ancient with three wives, she’d fall at his feet in gratitude.
    She clung to her handhold and gazed blindly out the window as the sun rose in the sky, then began to dip toward the horizon. The wide grassy hills of the downs gave way to woods and fields and villages.
    How long would it take for pursuers to catch up with the kidnappers? They were traveling almost as fast as a mail coach. They’d made a brief stop at a coaching inn to change horses. The carriage stayed on the side of the yard and she wasn’t allowed out. Flannery and O’Dwyer remained with her, O’Dwyer pointing a razor sharp dagger while the driver and guard watched over the changing of the team.
    Remarkable how much more frightening a dagger was than a pistol. A pistol could kill her quickly, while O’Dwyer’s vicious smile said that he’d enjoy carving her into bloody pieces. She tried not to look at him. “I need to go to the necessary,” she said coolly. “And I’ll require food and drink unless you plan to starve me to death.”
    “We’ll find you a nice little bush once we get going again,” Flannery said, enjoying her discomfort. “We’ll get food the next time we change horses.”
    They did indeed stop a mile or so beyond the coaching inn. Flannery escorted Sarah into a copse and watched while she relieved herself. It was the most humiliating moment of her life.
    Back to the carriage and the pounding pace. They were headed west into the setting sun. When they changed horses again, Curran, the guard, handed a basket of food and drink into the carriage before they raced off again.
    Flannery investigated the basket. “Eat this.” He handed Sarah a cold and disgustingly greasy mutton pie. She was so hungry she ate it in small, wary bites, though it settled badly in her stomach. The saltiness of the pie made her even thirstier than she’d been already. Hoping to wash the greasy taste from her mouth, she asked, “Do you have any small beer in there?”
    O’Dwyer pulled a jug from the basket and took a deliberate swig, then handed it to her. Restraining a desire to kick him, she ostentatiously wiped the mouth of the jug before drinking. Instead of small beer, the vessel contained harsh, cheap whiskey. She began to cough, feeling as if her throat was on fire. O’Dwyer laughed uproariously and even Flannery smiled.
    Furious, Sarah upended the jug and let the spirits pour out on the floor. “If this is what you drink, no wonder your brain has rotted!”
    “Damned bitch!” O’Dwyer grabbed the jug before all the whiskey was gone. He looked ready to strike her, but a hard glance from Flannery caused him to drop his hand. Muttering under his breath, he finished off the whiskey.
    Sarah resumed watching the passing countryside. At least the kidnappers didn’t want to kill her, or they would have done so already. That and the knowledge that her family would come after her at full speed were her only sources of comfort.
    Though she’d never been sick in a carriage before, the jarring ride, greasy mutton pie, and whiskey roiled in her stomach nauseatingly. She felt so wretched that at first she didn’t notice that the carriage had stopped again.
    Flannery opened the door and ordered, “Get down and don’t say a word or you will deeply regret it.”
    She clambered from the coach and found that they were by a pier with a yawl moored in the water beyond. There was land visible on the other side of the water, but the distance was so great that she guessed that they were on the bank of the Severn River where it had broadened unto the Bristol Channel on its way to the sea.
    A hard hand grasped her elbow. “Come along, your prissy grace,” O’Dwyer said. “We’re going for a little sail.”
    Her heart sank. They could be heading anywhere, and this would make rescue much more difficult. As O’Dwyer marched her along the pier to a dinghy, she looked around for help, but she saw no one. This