Stones of Fire

58

Cædmon, without a doubt, you’ve been a pompous ass.

Ashamed of himself, Cædmon hoped that a heart-felt apology would smooth things over. If it didn’t, he would woo Edie with lamb jalfrezi and cardamom pudding. He glanced at the brown takeaway bag clutched in his hand, hoping the peace offering would lead to improved relations. And that improved relations would lead to something decidedly more intimate. More romantic.

As he climbed the well-worn treads that led to their garret room, he wondered if the day would ever come when he could make a full confession. When he could freely and openly tell Edie about the pain of love lost, of vengeance sought and claimed, of his eventual emergence from an alcohol-induced fog. He thought that because of her own travails she would understand. Maybe even accept.

‘And a warm fuzzy hug would be nice too,’ he said aloud, chortling.

Still laughing as he reached the top of the stairs, the chuckle caught in his throat.

The door to their room was ajar.

Afraid of what he would find on the other side, he slowly pushed the door all the way open and entered the room. At a glance, he could see that some sort of commotion had taken place. Almost immediately his gaze landed on the large dark patch that stained the tousled coverlet. Setting the brown bag on the dresser, he walked over to the bed. His heart painfully thudding against his chest, he placed his hand upon the wet spot. He breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t blood.

Edie was still alive.

Maybe not as well as she might be, but definitely alive.

Thank God.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Virgin bag on the floor next to the bed, upended, emptied of its contents. He next scanned the room, searching for a ransom note. There wasn’t one, although he didn’t need a scrawled scrap of paper to know Edie had been kidnapped because they wanted him.

Stunned by the abduction, he went into the bathroom, heading straight for the sink. Turning on the cold-water tap, he rinsed his face.

He knew the drill: wait for further instructions. Eventually he would be contacted. If their plan had been to kill Edie, they would have left her corpse behind as a warning to him. But there was no sprawled, blood-splattered body. Her abduction was simply a means to an end.

He reached for the neatly folded bath towel and dried his face.

Taking deep, measured breaths, he walked back into the bedroom. Again, he checked the room, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. When the time came to confront his enemies, he didn’t want to stand before them defenceless. His gaze alighted on the upholstered chair. The chair where Edie had sat earlier, filing a broken nail.

Having no recollection of her returning the file to the shoulder bag, he walked over to the chair. The file not being in view, he slid his hand around the chair cushion. Coming up empty-handed, he removed the cushion from the chair.

There, between two squashed crisps and a boiled sweet, dully gleaming in the lamplight, was the nail file. While hardly a honed broadsword, it would have to do.

He replaced the cushion.

Bloody hell, but he wanted a drink. Needed a drink to –

Not on your life. You need your wits about you. She’s yours and she needs you.

Lowering himself into the lumpy chair, he inhaled the exotic scents of cardamom and cumin mingled with the more prosaic smell of lemon-scented bathwater.

Wait.