"But take care not to lose her on the way, Thompson," he added, opening the door for me with a sardonic bow.
I leaned weakly against the door of the privy to which I was shown. Being out of his presence was a relief, but a short-lived one. I had had ample opportunity to judge Randall's true character, both from the stories I had heard and from personal experience. But there were those damnable flashes of Frank that kept showing through the gleaming, ruthless exterior. It had been a mistake to make him laugh, I thought.
I sat down, ignoring the stench in my concentration on the problem at hand. Escape seemed unlikely. The vigilant Thompson aside, Randall's office was in a building located near the center of the compound. And while the fort itself was no more than a stone stockade, the walls were ten feet high and the double gates well guarded.
I thought of feigning illness and remaining in my refuge, but dismissed it—and not only because of the unpleasantness of the surroundings. The unpalatable truth was that there was little point in delaying tactics, unless I had something to delay for, and I didn't. No one knew where I was, and Randall didn't mean to tell anyone. I was his, for as long as he cared to amuse himself with me. Once again, I regretted making him laugh. A sadist with a sense of humor was particularly dangerous.
Thinking frantically in search of something useful I might know about the Captain, I latched on to a name. Half-heard and carelessly remembered, I hoped I had it right. It was a pitifully small card to play, but the only one I had. I drew a deep breath, hastily let it out again, and stepped out of my sanctuary.
Back in the office, I added sugar to my tea and stirred it carefully. Then cream. Having drawn out the ceremony as long as I could, I was forced to look at Randall. He was sitting back in his favorite pose, cup elegantly suspended in midair, the better to look at me over.
"Well?" I said. "You needn't worry about spoiling my appetite, since I haven't got one. What do you mean to do about me?"
He smiled and took a careful sip of the scalding tea before replying.
"Nothing."
"Really?" I lifted my brows in surprise. "Invention failed you, has it?"
"I shouldn't care to think so," he said, polite as usual. His eyes traveled over me once more, far from polite.
"No," he said, his gaze lingering on the edge of my bodice, where the tucked kerchief left the upper swell of my breasts visible, "much as I would like to give you a badly needed lesson in manners, I am afraid the pleasure must be postponed indefinitely. I'm sending you to Edinburgh with the next posting of dispatches. And I shouldn't care to have you arrive damaged in any visible way; my superiors might consider it careless of me."
"Edinburgh?" I couldn't hide my surprise.
"Yes. You've heard of the Tolbooth, I imagine?"
I had. One of the most noisome and notorious prisons of the period, it was famous for filth, crime, disease, and darkness. A good many of the prisoners held there died before they could be brought to trial. I swallowed hard, forcing down the bitter bile that had risen at the back of my throat, mingling with the swallow of sweet tea.
Randall sipped his own tea, pleased with himself.
"You should feel quite cozy there. After all, you seem to prefer a certain dank squalor in your surroundings." He cast a condemning glance at the soggy hem of my petticoat, sagging below my gown. "Should be quite homelike, after Castle Leoch."
I rather doubted that the cuisine at the Tolbooth was as good as that to be had at Colum's board. And general questions of amenities aside, I couldn't—could not—allow him to send me to Edinburgh. Once immured in the Tolbooth, I would never get back to the stone circle.
The time to play my card had arrived. Now or never. I raised my own cup.
"Just as you like," I said calmly. "What do you suppose the Duke of Sandringham will have to say about it?"
He upset the hot tea on his doeskin lap and made several very gratifying noises.
"Tsk," I said, reprovingly.
He subsided, glaring. The teacup lay on its side, its brown contents soaking into the pale green carpet, but he made no move toward the bellpull. A small muscle jumped in the side of his neck.
I had already found the pile of starched handkerchiefs in the upper left-hand drawer of the desk, alongside an enameled snuffbox. I pulled one out and handed it to him.
"I do hope it doesn't stain," I said sweetly.
"No," he said, ignoring the handkerchief. He eyed me closely. "No, it isn't possible."
"Why not?" I asked, affecting nonchalance, wondering what wasn't possible.