Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

Even as these thoughts passed through her mind she was carried swiftly across the room. The man stooped, but not quite far enough, for something scraped across her back. She knew then where she was being taken, and braced herself for an unpleasant journey, for she well remembered the narrowness of the passage she had seen. The succeeding moments were as uncomfortable as she had feared; the men had to pass her on from hand to hand, like a sack of potatoes, since it was impossible for them to descend the stairs carrying her.

In spite of her resolution she fell into a sort of half-swoon, as a result of the stifling air and the rough handling. A sudden blast of icy air roused her and she began to shiver. The sack was not very warm, and it was her only covering, besides her nightgown. Again she was transferred to a man's shoulder. The man began to run, jolting Marianne painfully. Her bare feet tingled with cold.

She had now reached a plateau of complete detachment and was surprised at her own control – although the doctor could have told her that this was not an unusual symptom in cases of emotional shock. The man who was carrying her came to a stop. Hearing horses stamp and snort, and the creaking of springs, Marianne postulated a conveyance of some sort. Then another voice spoke, and her abnormal self-control shattered.

"Damn you, what took you so long?

You've bungled it somehow; there are lights springing up all through the house. Here, hand her up and be quick about it!"

The voice, the arms that grasped her shrinking body and flung it down onto a soft, yielding surface… Bagshot!

Very well, said the small silent voice, no longer so cool; very well, you may as well faint now. So Marianne did.

She was awakened by a tingling, sharp discomfort in her nose and instinctively turned her head away. She kept her eyes obstinately closed; but she imagined the enclosing bag had been removed, or slit open, for she could see dim light through her lids.

"Clever of me to have had the foresight to bring along smelling salts," said a familiar, hateful voice. "I know you are awake, my love; don't pretend." Fingers grasped her chin in a tight grip and forced her head around.

Marianne opened her eyes. The sight of the yellow, unhealthy face and twisted smile, only inches from her own face, made her stomach lurch. She could still taste tobacco, though the muffling gag had been removed, and her lips were dry and stiff.

"You will not escape," she said faintly. "You cannot hope to succeed in this -"

"Vile plot?" Bagshot grinned wolfishly.

"How very unoriginal, my dear. But then I never was interested in your mind, you know." His smile turned to a grimace of utter malignancy. "No one plays tricks like that on me with impunity. I'd have tired of you soon enough if you had been sensible; but after what you did, I'd have followed you to the ends of the earth." Marianne shivered, and he added, with a return to his suave manner, "Sorry to have removed your warm sack; I wanted to make sure those bungling idiots had snatched the right girl."

He leaned toward her. Marianne shrank back into the corner as far as she could. Her hands and feet were still bound, so she could not move easily.

"How much did you pay Victor to help you?" she asked, with some forlorn hope of distracting him from his obvious intention.

"Much less than I was prepared to offer for such a prize," was the gloating reply. "He patronizes the local tavern; one of my men heard him complaining in his cups and fancied he would be the tool we were looking for. What did you do to the poor fool? He seemed quite bitter about you. But I can understand his feelings; you really are a delicious little morsel. I'm not sure I can contain myself till we reach the cozy nest I have prepared for us."

With a horrid parody of delicacy he put out his hand and untied the ribbon at the neck of Marianne's gown. She could retreat no further. She bent her head and bit him on the finger.

With a howl of pain he pulled back, shaking the wounded member. Then he lifted his hand and would have struck her if the trap on the ceiling had not opened to show the coachman's face. Marianne could not make out the words he shouted; but Bagshot understood. His face turned even blacker with rage, if that was possible, and with a muttered oath he opened the window and put his head out. Then Marianne heard it too – voices shouting, a distant rumble of hoofbeats. Her heart pounded with hope and excitement.

Bagshot banged on the trap. "Faster, damn you," he shouted.

They were already traveling at considerable speed, but now the coach began to sway wildly as the coachman urged his steeds on. Bagshot paid no more attention to Marianne. Drawing a pair of pistols from his pocket, he stationed himself at the window. Marianne bit her lip to keep from crying out. Common sense warned her not to attempt any foolhardy act of heroism, bound and helpless as she was; and really it seemed unlikely that Bagshot could hope to hit a moving target when the coach was going at such speed.

Suddenly a dark mass rushed past the open window. Marianne caught only a glimpse of it, since Bagshot's head and shoulders filled most of the space. Swearing obscenely, he let out a fusillade of shots. Then, with a rending crash, the coach reeled to one side, rocked violently, and overturned. Marianne was crushed by the weight of a heavy body; her ears were deafened by cries and curses and the screech of cracking metal.

Bagshot had been thrown against her, but he had not been rendered unconscious. He moved almost at once, scrambling out the window, which was now directly over their heads, since the coach was lying on its side. As soon as he was gone Marianne felt it would be safe to scream, which she did with extreme vigor. The sounds of struggle continued outside. Between screams she strained her ears, trying to discover what was happening, but heard only indistinguishable cries of rage and pain.

The sounds finally died away. Marianne emitted a final scream, the loudest of the lot, and sank back, breathless. For an interval nothing happened; she had time to wonder, despairingly, if her rescuers had lost the fight, before the square of light marking the window was obscured by the black silhouette of a head and shoulder.

"Marianne," a voice said. "Speak to me! Are you conscious? Are you unwounded? Are you – er – unharmed?"

The voice was the last one Marianne had expected to hear. Dizzy with surprise and joy she managed to croak, "I can't talk. I am hoarse from screaming."

The door was wrenched open and with some effort Marianne was extracted, rather like a very large puppet from a deep packing box, for she could do nothing to help herself. Her feet had barely touched the ground when she felt herself clasped in Roger Carlton's arms.

As all admitted, the real hero of the evening was the thirteenth Duke of Devenbrook. When the rescue party reached the castle they found the boy dancing up and down on the steps in a frenzy of frustration at not having been allowed to join the pursuit; but the praises of the men and the admiring comments of Marianne restored his self-esteem, and he was delighted to explain how he had discovered the plot – too late to prevent its being carried out, but just in time to make rescue possible.

After the housekeeper had tended Marianne's bruises and wrapped her in a dozen blankets, they settled down to discuss the adventure. The Duchess alone had slept through it all, and it was unanimously agreed that she should know nothing of what had transpired.

"For it is settled now," Carlton said. "Bagshot will be some time recovering from the thrashing he received, and he knows that if he tries another trick of that nature, he will be charged and imprisoned."

His speech was not as crisp as usual, thanks to a swollen lower lip. The satisfaction with which he gazed at his scraped knuckles left Marianne in no doubt as to who had administered the thrashing referred to. Feeling that his ego was in no need of reinforcement, she turned to Henry.