Now Ebenezer was in league with Samuel Scammell. Her marriage portion was to be divided between them and she would have no say in the matter.

There was nothing for her in Werlatton. She watched where the stream ran strong and calm past the pool’s entrance, and she thought that she must leave. She should go with the stream, seeing where it led, and even though she knew that it would be impossible to run away, she knew too that it would be impossible to stay.

She stood up, sad in the afternoon sun, and walked slowly back toward the house.

She entered through the side passage that led past her father’s study. The lawn was pungent with the smell of newly scythed grass, the sunlight so bright that she was temporarily blinded when she walked into the darkness of the passage. She did not see the man who stood in the door of her father’s room.

“The bowels of Christ. Who are you?”

Her shoulder was gripped, she was pushed against the wall, and the man grinned at her. “Sweet God! A little Puritan maid. Well, well.” He tilted her chin up with his finger. “A ripe little piece of fruit.”

“Sir!” It was Samuel Scammell’s voice. He hurried out of the study. “Sir! That is Miss Slythe. We are to marry!”

The man let her go. He was big, as big as her father had been, and his face was scarred and ugly. It was a broad face, hard as leather, with a broken nose. At his side was a sword, in his belt a pistol, and he looked from Campion to Scammell. “She’s yours?”

“Indeed, sir!” Scammell sounded nervous. The man frightened him.

“Only the best, eh? She’s the answer to a Puritan’s prayer, and no mistake. I hope you know how damned lucky you are. Does she have it?”

“No!” Scammell shook his head. “Indeed, no!”

The man stared at Campion. “We’ll talk later, miss. Don’t run away.”

She ran. She was terrified of him, of the smell of him and the violence that he radiated. She went to the stable-yard that was warm in the sunlight and sat on the mounting block and let the kittens come to her. They rolled about her hand, fur warm and sharp-clawed, and she blinked back tears. She must run away! She must go far from this place, but there was nowhere to go. She must run.

There were footsteps in the archway to the yard, she looked left, and there was the man. He must have followed her. He came swiftly toward her, his sword clanging against the water trough, and before she could move he had seized her shoulder and pushed her once more against the wall. His breath stank. His leather soldier’s jerkin was greasy. He smiled, showing rotten, stained teeth. “Now, miss, I’ve come all the way from London so you’re going to be nice to me, aren’t you?”

“Sir?” She was terrified.

“Where is it?”