Page 24 of Wild Devil

“You think that this is all to punish you, I’m sure,” she says, her voice barely audible. “It’s not. We are but pawns in a much larger game. I’m sure that Michael wouldn’t even acknowledge our existence unless he was forced to.”

“Forced,” I echo, tasting the word. “How do you mean?”

For the umpteenth time, her eyes dart to the doorway, but when they return to me, I notice a steely resolve that wasn’t there before. It gives her the strength to sit straighter with her head held high, and further fractures the mask of Michael Heywood’s wife.

“You know what I mean,” she says. “You aren’t the only one here under duress, and I know it’s hard for you, Frances. I do.” She slips from the rim of the tub to her knees and cradles both of my hands against her lap. I barely manage to tighten my fist to ensure the blade is hidden from view—though it is the least alarming detail regarding my fingers. They’re still coated in fresh blood, as is the once pristine skirt of Catherine’s pretty dress. There is no indication that she cares or even notices.

“You think you’re the only one forced to conform to his wishes? You aren’t. You think I stood aside and let Hale die with a simpering smile on my face, but it is far from the truth…” Her voice breaks and her fingers grip mine tightly as she draws in a steadying breath. “You may not believe me, but I tried to help him. In my own way, I did.”

I give one of her hands a reassuring squeeze. “Then help me. You can do that right now. Just help me get out of here.”

“I can’t,” she insists. “I mean it. The place is surrounded. If I speak too loudly, Michael’s men will be here in a heartbeat. You have no idea the pressure he’s been under. The things he’s been into to secure his election… I saw them in the barn, and God, I didn’t want to believe that he could?—”

“What?” I press as she trails off. “Tell me.”

She sighs. “You know I can’t.”

I don’t know why I’m so disappointed—but I am. “Fine,” I snap, rising to my feet. “Then just take me to my cell until the wedding?—”

“But I can show you,” she whispers as if I’d never spoken. Tilting her head back, she watches me silently before lurching upright. As she approaches the door, she whispers over her shoulder, “Follow my lead and keep your eyes downcast. We have an hour before Michael and the others arrive. Just… Stay close to me.”

She tosses the used rag aside and pries open the door, peeking beyond it for one of my father’s men. I assume a guard is nearby because I hear her cheerfully say, “The poor thing bit her tongue on the ride over and got blood all over herself. We need to use the big sink in the kitchen to get her cleaned up. Is that okay?”

The guard must give her the go-ahead because she reaches for my hand and pulls me along.

“This way.”

I do my best to keep my head down while taking in every inch of the place that I can. As far as figurative prisons go, it’s a step up from the windowless back room of the church, but far less inviting. From the faded décor and dated furniture we pass, it’s obvious that Catherine hadn’t been lying about where we are, at least. It looks like the sort of dusty museum to old money that a family as wealthy as Colton’s would maintain long after its heyday if only for the status symbol of it all.

Surprisingly, that doesn’t narrow down any potential locations. It never occurred to me to pay attention when he waxed poetic about his family’s many estates. Focusing on where I am won’t do any good either way. My sole concern now should be finding a way out.

The place is huge, and I note a large guard presence. Catherine was right. I can feel several pairs of watchful eyes tracking our every movement past a dusty drawing room and into a narrow kitchen. There, Catherine rushes to close the door, muttering something sweetly about privacy. The second the door slams shut, she takes my hand in a bruising grip, her voice low.

“We only have a few minutes. Listen to every word I say, and don’t question.”

The unusual sternness in her gaze convinces me to nod.

“Good. Now get on your knees and crawl.” She points to the far wall of the space, past a large fridge.

“W-What?”

“Please, hurry!” She tugs on my wrist, urging me to my knees over the polished, though worn, marble tile beneath us. “That way,” she whispers. “Don’t make any noise. Just do it.” At the same time, she flips on the water faucet and raises her voice, her tone jovial. “Oh, you’ve sure made a mess. We’ll have to wash your hair, you poor thing—” From over her shoulder, she once again glances at the wall.

Taking care to make as little noise as I can over the creaking floor, I inch in that direction, still clutching the razor blade against my palm. It feels like an eternity before I finally reach the row of cupboards. At a glance I don’t find anything even remotely worth the secrecy.

Peeking my way again, Catherine motions for me to open the nearest cupboard. I do and find what must have been an old laundry chute with a latch in the floor. When I look back at Catherine, she mimes lifting the lid, and mouths, “Slowly.”

I obey, struggling to move the heavy lid without making too much noise. Beneath it is a dark void that must extend all the way to the lower level. I can’t make out anything in the pitch darkness.

But I can smell. Is that…

Sweat, musk, and unmentionable substances that could only come from human beings crammed into one place for an extended amount of time. A chill runs down my spine and I have to consciously remember to lower the lid quietly. Still, I’m sure I make more noise than necessary as I leap to my feet and back away from that cupboard as quickly as I can.

“Oh dear, these stains just don’t want to budge,” Catherine says, still babbling to herself. “Let me try some soap.”

Taking a handful, she smears it on my dress, then washes off the remaining stains with water. As a knock rattles the door, her hands shake.

“Just a minute!”

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