Page 125 of All Scot and Bothered
“Better not. The Lord Chancellor said we needed her alive,” answered an unfamiliar man.
“Can’t have her waking up and screaming, though,” Winston said dispassionately.
“I’m more likely to scream if my bloody leg festers,”whined the stranger with a waspish voice. “We could gag her, I suppose.”
Winston made a heartless noise. “Just a small dose. If it’s too much and she doesn’t wake again, I don’t think it’ll be that much of a tragedy for anyone.”
Cecelia was screaming already, she just couldn’t seem to get her throat to work. She desperately wanted to struggle but hadn’t the strength. The needle pricked her arm and she could feel the liquid oblivion course through her. She struggled against it like a swimmer in a riptide. Quickly, as she was overtaken by the darkness, her last thought was of Ramsay. Could he be counted among those who would mourn her?
Or had the way she’d left things truly turned his heart back to stone?
When Cecelia next woke, she knew exactly where she was, in a manner of speaking.
The smell was unmistakable. Loamy and musty, but… this time mixed with an acrid char.
She was underground.
An acid wash of panic crawled down her flesh, biting like a thousand tiny insects. The fear anchored her in the moment, sent her heart pumping hard enough to wash out the vestiges of whatever venom swam within her blood.
If she didn’t give over to the terror and allow it to sweep her away, she could use the fear. Hone it to help her escape.
Testing her limbs, she found her feet free, but her hands were not. She swallowed another surge of panic, this one threatening to overwhelm her.
What she needed was information. Knowledge helped to combat fear.
What could she glean right away?
She lay on her side on the floor in a dim room. The only light filtered from somewhere behind her. The floor against her cheek was gritty with dirt or sand, but smooth and hard beneath. Her hands remained tied behind her back.
What did she remember?
She’d been reading by the fire at Elphinstone Croft.
Jean-Yves had rushed in, kicked something out the door, and slammed it shut.
“Someone is outside.” He’d pressed a pistol into her hand and then went to the bedroom where the rifle was kept. They’d sent Phoebe into the loft, gotten rid of the loft ladder, and then crouched in the bedroom with their guns.
“Who is out there?” Cecelia had whispered around the terror in her throat.
“I do not know. Lord Ramsay has gone after them.”
She’d felt safer, then. Surely Ramsay could take on the world. He was a mountain of a man with tireless reserves of fortitude. He was a soldier, a Scot, and a war hero.
She’d been so certain they were safe.
So how had she been captured? How did she end up beneath the earth?
Finding the ground untenable, Cecelia squirmed and maneuvered until she could roll to her knees. From there, she stood.
Oh God. This couldn’t be happening. She was underground. Beneath the earth. Trapped. Locked.
Again.
She fought a flare of breath-stealing panic, looking around for any clue that might help her. She found a source of light, a tiny window in the door of her prison. A tiny, lovely window.
The etched glass she recognized immediately. Shewasn’t just beneath the ground; she was beneathherground. Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies.
A sinister face appeared in the glass, and she jumped, letting out a cry of shock.
