grand fireplace. Antique rugs and old French furniture covered the floor.
Clair looked down, flinching at the sight of the bruises and cuts on her legs beneath the cheap cotton dress. Memories of her days in captivity churned up like smoke. She remembered the man with the cold eyes. She remembered his powerful companions. Most of all, she remembered Nina’s last phone call. That night she had been frightened, her voice low and whispered. “Come to England, Clair. I need you. I was so wrong about him. And the other men, the ones who come here for meetings—they are even worse. I know he does not trust me. He has kept me here locked inside for weeks. He uses my computer to send you e-mails from me. Trust nothing that you receive that way. Say nothing to him in turn. But try to have this number traced. It’s blocked, and I have no clue where they have taken me. Hurry, Clair. I’m afraid. So afraid that he means to—”
Clair closed her eyes at the memory of what she had heard next.
Her sister’s sudden, indrawn breath. The sounds of a struggle.
“You were warned, Nina.” Clair would never forget that cold, aristocratic English voice.
That was the last that she had heard from her sister.
Was this the place where they had taken Nina months before?
Wincing at the hammering pain in her forehead, Clair struggled to her feet. Dizzy, she pressed a hand to the silk-covered wall, focusing her thoughts. There were two doors to the room, one leading outside and another to a small closet. Something seemed to pull her footsteps beyond the doors to a section of wood paneling that almost seemed….
Familiar?
She traced the wooden molding, edge to edge. When Clair pressed harder, a latch clicked. She stood stunned as a small door opened. Narrow steps descended in a tight curve down into the darkness.
No time to think. No time to wonder how she had found that secret latch. The danger was too close.
Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall. Forcing away her pain, she followed the steps downward.
Ian filled another hot water bottle and then gave Churchill his final dose of medicine. Their last mission in Paris had nearly crippled the animal, but the dog had begun to recover.
In the weeks since their return Ian had been fiercely protective, warning that the animal could not be put to service again until all his strength was recovered. Churchill sensed that protection and offered his loyalty in return.
Frowning, Ian studied the scars on the animal’s legs. Finally the marks had begun to fade. But the dog still woke in the night, shaking restlessly, listening for gunshots.
They both woke that way, Ian thought wryly.
Suddenly the big dog turned, rigid and alert. He stared at the door to the kitchen and trotted forward. His head tilted.
Listening.
Ian opened the door and stood beside the rigid dog. The abbey was silent. No sounds of cars or guns or lethal attack.
And yet his dog did not move.
Had the woman in the library awoken?
“Track, Churchill.”
The dog shot away, bounding up the stairs. Ian was close behind.
But when they reached the library, a trail of blankets led across the floor. Blood covered the corner of the carpet. Their intruder was gone.
Smothering a curse, Ian followed the line of tangled blankets and saw where the last one had fallen in a heap beneath the portrait of Nicholas Draycott and his family.
Both doors in the room were closed. The only way out was through the door Ian had just used. The closet held only coats.
And yet over the years he had heard stories of hidden stairways and secret doors in this ancient house. Ian searched each wall now, focused on the wood beneath the Draycott portrait where the blankets had fallen.
Beyond the wood he heard a faint squeak.
A small door sprang open. In the shadows he saw another blanket where darkness shrouded the narrow steps of a hidden passage.
Churchill stood alertly, ears pricked
Clair looked down, flinching at the sight of the bruises and cuts on her legs beneath the cheap cotton dress. Memories of her days in captivity churned up like smoke. She remembered the man with the cold eyes. She remembered his powerful companions. Most of all, she remembered Nina’s last phone call. That night she had been frightened, her voice low and whispered. “Come to England, Clair. I need you. I was so wrong about him. And the other men, the ones who come here for meetings—they are even worse. I know he does not trust me. He has kept me here locked inside for weeks. He uses my computer to send you e-mails from me. Trust nothing that you receive that way. Say nothing to him in turn. But try to have this number traced. It’s blocked, and I have no clue where they have taken me. Hurry, Clair. I’m afraid. So afraid that he means to—”
Clair closed her eyes at the memory of what she had heard next.
Her sister’s sudden, indrawn breath. The sounds of a struggle.
“You were warned, Nina.” Clair would never forget that cold, aristocratic English voice.
That was the last that she had heard from her sister.
Was this the place where they had taken Nina months before?
Wincing at the hammering pain in her forehead, Clair struggled to her feet. Dizzy, she pressed a hand to the silk-covered wall, focusing her thoughts. There were two doors to the room, one leading outside and another to a small closet. Something seemed to pull her footsteps beyond the doors to a section of wood paneling that almost seemed….
Familiar?
She traced the wooden molding, edge to edge. When Clair pressed harder, a latch clicked. She stood stunned as a small door opened. Narrow steps descended in a tight curve down into the darkness.
No time to think. No time to wonder how she had found that secret latch. The danger was too close.
Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall. Forcing away her pain, she followed the steps downward.
Ian filled another hot water bottle and then gave Churchill his final dose of medicine. Their last mission in Paris had nearly crippled the animal, but the dog had begun to recover.
In the weeks since their return Ian had been fiercely protective, warning that the animal could not be put to service again until all his strength was recovered. Churchill sensed that protection and offered his loyalty in return.
Frowning, Ian studied the scars on the animal’s legs. Finally the marks had begun to fade. But the dog still woke in the night, shaking restlessly, listening for gunshots.
They both woke that way, Ian thought wryly.
Suddenly the big dog turned, rigid and alert. He stared at the door to the kitchen and trotted forward. His head tilted.
Listening.
Ian opened the door and stood beside the rigid dog. The abbey was silent. No sounds of cars or guns or lethal attack.
And yet his dog did not move.
Had the woman in the library awoken?
“Track, Churchill.”
The dog shot away, bounding up the stairs. Ian was close behind.
But when they reached the library, a trail of blankets led across the floor. Blood covered the corner of the carpet. Their intruder was gone.
Smothering a curse, Ian followed the line of tangled blankets and saw where the last one had fallen in a heap beneath the portrait of Nicholas Draycott and his family.
Both doors in the room were closed. The only way out was through the door Ian had just used. The closet held only coats.
And yet over the years he had heard stories of hidden stairways and secret doors in this ancient house. Ian searched each wall now, focused on the wood beneath the Draycott portrait where the blankets had fallen.
Beyond the wood he heard a faint squeak.
A small door sprang open. In the shadows he saw another blanket where darkness shrouded the narrow steps of a hidden passage.
Churchill stood alertly, ears pricked
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