The Barefoot Princess Read Free Page B

It was to the kitchen at the back that Amy made her way, followed closely by Pom and Miss Victorine. Pom bent to descend the steps to the wine cellar, the sail flapping against his thighs, Lord Northcliff unmoving.
    In the small room carved out of the rock beneath the house, Amy and Miss Victorine had created a living area for His Lordship. Not so grand a living area as existed in Lord Northcliff’s manor, but it would suffice for his needs for the three or four days he would remain here. In the small room was a bed, a table, a pitcher and basin, and a case full of dusty books. The cot had been placed under the high window where he could receive what light came in. Beneath it sat a chamber pot. A rocking chair was placed against the wall.
    And bolted to the stone wall beside the bed was an iron manacle, rescued from EdmondsonCastle.
    Amy herself had ventured into the dungeons to get that manacle. She had frowned at the rust on the various implements of imprisonment. She had decided on this particular manacle, and a scrubbing with oil had proved her decision to be a good one. The manacle and the chain connected to it were not as good as she might have hoped, but—it had a key. A key that worked in the lock. Because heaven knew she didn’t want to keep Northcliff longer than necessary.
    The straw mattress crackled as Pom placed Lord Northcliff on the narrow, iron cot and unwrapped him from the canvas.
    Amy handed Miss Victorine the lantern. Not without trepidation, Amy pressed her fingers to the vein in Lord Northcliff’s throat. His heart beat strongly, and he gave off such a heat that she wondered if, on some unconscious level, he was aware of the indignity done to him and raged against it.
    Hastily she pulled her hand back. “He’s very much alive.”
    “Thank heavens!” Miss Victorine had insisted on dressing up to fetch Lord Northcliff back to her home, just as if he were a guest rather than a victim, and now she wore her finest purple cloak trimmed with a collar of aged ermine. The drooping, purring cat added an element of living elegance. She had styled her mass of white hair into a coiffure fashionable fifty years ago, and with Amy’s expert help, she had dabbed rose on her wrinkled cheeks and faded lips. A velvet beauty patch adorned her upper lip, and her gray brows had been tweezed to a thin, arching line. Now she bustled about like a hostess caught unawares. She lit the stub of a cheap candle and added coal to the fire in the small iron stove.
    Pom pulled off His Lordship’s boots, leaving his white stockinged feet dangling off the edge of the bed.
    Then, with careful precision, Amy placed the manacle around His Lordship’s ankle and snapped it into place. The crack of metal against metal made her step away and rub the goose bumps that rose on her arms. “There,” she said bracingly. “He can’t free himself.”
    “Oh, dear.” Miss Victorine stood with the candle tilted, the wax dripping on the floor. “Oh, dear.”
    Gathering the sail under his arm, Pom bowed to Miss Victorine. “I’ll leave His Lordship t’ ye, Miss Sprott. Call me if ye have need o’ me.”
    Miss Victorine gathered her composure. She righted the sputtering candle and patted Pom’s arm. “We won’t call you. There’s no reason for anyone to know what you’ve done here, and I promise we would die rather than betray you to His Lordship.”
    “I know, ma’am. I appreciate that.” Pom clumped up the stairs to the backdoor.
    Amy followed to let him out, and the wariness learned through years of poverty and deception made her inquire, “No one in the village knows what we’ve done here…do they?”
    “Haven’t a clue.” Pom tipped his fisherman’s hat, stepped out of the kitchen and disappeared into the gloom composed of fog and darkness.
    What had he meant by that? Amy wondered. Did he mean the villagers hadn’t a clue, or he didn’t know if the villagers had a clue?
    Yet she saw no use in worrying now. The deed