Page 90 of Never Beguile a Duke
“How do I know that you actually requested the money?” Winifred shrugged as best she could with her hands bound behind her back. “Perhaps you merely want an excuse to kill a future duchess.”
A cruel laugh slipped from his lips. “I don’t need an excuse to take your life, Miss Webb. I need a reason not to.”
Heavy footfall reverberated on the staircase, and Mr. Curtis disappeared, taking his overwhelming earthy scent with him.
When she could no longer hear him, Winifred jerked her arms again, trying to rip her hands free of the rope. Again, the rope did not loosen.
She released a frustrated scream, then, fearing the return of Mr. Curtis, clamped her lips together to stave off the horrific sound and froze, waiting for the vibration of footsteps on the staircase. But he didn’t appear, and after several tense minutes, she relaxed her muscles and exhaled a long breath.
If she couldn’t yank her wrists free, perhaps she could fray the rope on the edge of the chair. Leaning to her right, she rubbed her arm against the wooden back upright, seeking a rough portion in the smooth column. Not finding a coarse section, she repeated the search on the chair’s left side and received the same disappointing result.
“I can’t do this without my sight,” she said, wiggling her nose against the tight scrap of cloth fastened around her head.
Craning her neck to the side, she rubbed her face against her shoulder, but, with her hands bound behind the chair back, she couldn’t bring her shoulders high enough to reach the blindfold. Then, she bent forward and raised her leg, but she wasn’t flexible enough to touch her knee to her face, and after several failed attempts, she gave up the idea of using a body part.
What else could she rub her head against?
The wall!
Pushing against the rough floor, Winifred edged her chair backward, scooting inch by inch until her fingers smashed into an exposed wooden support beam. She tipped her head back, catching the blindfold on the beam’s uneven surface, and slid down, dragging the cloth from her eyes.
Dim light crawled in from the doorway leading to the staircase, highlighting the dirty floorboards upon which her feet rested. If the chamber contained windows, Mr. Curtis had covered them before he abducted her.
The unfinished room resembled that of an attic, and considering she hadn’t frozen to death without her shoes and stockings, discovering herself inside a structure didn’t seem a surprise. However, many buildings had attics, and without any further hints, she couldn’t determine her location.
Her gaze swept over the undistinguishable chamber. The only other item, aside from the broken wooden chair Mr. Curtis flung at the wall, was a dust-covered chest, hidden in the shadows of the far corner, and most likely unseen by her captor.
Did the trunk contain anything she could use to free herself?
Glancing at the doorway again, Winifred waited a beat, listening for Mr. Curtis’ footfall. Then she scooted the chair to her right, wincing as the legs scraped against the floorboards. She paused again, hoping Mr. Curtis wouldn’t reappear and catch her.
She continued in this manner, sliding and waiting, until the side of her leg bumped into the metal-bound wooden chest. Praying the lid wasn’t locked, she rubbed her calf against the top of the trunk.
The lid lifted two inches, but she couldn’t maneuver her leg higher. A creak reverberated from the floor beneath her. Breath catching in her throat, she gently lowered the top back into place and waited for the wrath that would certainly accompany Mr. Curtis’ discovery of her current location.
Seconds crawled by, but he didn’t appear.
Exhaling the breath, Winifred rotated the chair one-quarter turn, then placed both feet on the trunk’s lid. She pushed up, using her toes to shove the top open. It flew backward with more force than she intended.
She kicked her leg out, inserting the appendage between the lid and the wall. The wooden cover smashed into her ankle, and she bit down on her tongue to prevent a scream from slipping out. Gently resting the lid against the wall, she lowered her leg, ignoring the discoloration spreading toward her foot, and leaned forward, peering into the half-filled chest.
In the dim lighting, she couldn’t discern anything more than dark shapes. Having no other option to search, Winifred dragged the chair flush against the chest and, praying nothing stabbed her, hooked her leg over the side. Her foot sank into the chest’s contents, and squishy material closed around her toes, caressing her skin.
“Clothing,” she murmured, rooting her foot deeper into the chest.
Her toes brushed against the sharp corner of a small box buried beneath the apparel. Shoving the container against the side of the chest, she worked the box up to the lip. The container caught on the metal trim, refusing to budge.
Wincing, she added her injured leg to the chest and, using both feet, flipped the box up and out of the trunk. The small container hit the floor with a thud and popped open, revealing an ink set with an ink well, several quills, and a quill knife.
Winifred’s heart leaped.
She just needed to determine how to get the knife from the ink set into her hands. Then, she could cut herself free and escape Mr. Curtis.
I won’t get far without shoes.
Her eyes dropped to the chest.
“Knife first,” she said, forcing her gaze back to the small box. “Then address the footwear issue.”
