Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  "Yes, James was very clever to arrange my death, was he not? It put you off the scent wonderfully."

  Hawke's expression didn't change. "And what's your price this time?"

  "Oh, you'll find out soon enough, my dear husband, if you'll just step in and let the driver go about his business. I vow we've been following you about for the better part of two hours. Such an ardent lover!" she mocked, laughing coldly.

  But Hawke was prepared now and refused to be baited. Lazily, he settled his broad shoulders back against the opposite side of the carriage and folded his arms across his chest. He looked for all the world as if he were engaged in a routine social call with his wife rather than the most important errand of his life.

  He found one source of satisfaction in the encounter, however, for he discovered that he had not a jot of feeling left for his wife; he was released once and for all from her deadly coils.

  But Hawke could not enjoy the knowledge, for he knew that the woman who had rescued him from Isobel lay right now in the hands of his ruthless enemy.

  * * * * *

  "Wake up, wench! This ain't no gentry ken, nor me no upper 'ousemaid neither!" A surly female voice penetrated the haze of Alexandra's nightmare.

  First pain, then darkness. Abruptly, Alexandra woke to a harsher nightmare. "What — what place is this?" she whispered, her tongue awkward with sleep and cold.

  "La-la! The fine lady wants to know where she been brought!" A slatternly old woman, lank tresses drooping beneath a grimy mobcap, angled into view beneath the circle of light from her upraised lantern. " 'Tain't Bedford Square, I can tell ye that!" The woman threw back her head and laughed riotously, revealing a row of brown, uneven teeth.

  Alexandra shuddered and huddled against a wall covered with grime from years of mildew and dripping water.

  With a muttered curse the old crone sent her heel flashing against Alexandra's shin. "Get up, doxy! The gentleman wants ye, though fer the life o' me I can't see why. Nothing but a scrawny little chicken, that's all ye be!"

  "Is the boy here?" Alexandra asked urgently. "Is Pence here?"

  "Boy? Plenty o' boys 'ereabouts, as ye'll see soon enough. Now, 'urry up!"

  "What has Digger done —"

  "Digger!" the old woman spat back. "That's one name ye best use careful, my 'igh an' mighty miss." The woman darted a nervous glance into the darkness behind her. "Now get up, an' no more talk."

  Alexandra tried to stand, uncurling her legs slowly, for the cold and damp had set her old wound throbbing. Irritated by the delay, the woman jabbed Alexandra sharply in the ribs so that she fell back against the grimy wall.

  "Move it, wench! Be rest enough fer ye tomorrow!" Her mouth curled into a secret smile as she pulled a length of fabric from beneath her arm. With surprisingly gentle fingers the crone shook open the cloth to reveal a gown of crimson satin trimmed with insets of black lace at the neck and hem. For a moment she ran her fingers jealously over the rich fabric, then cursed and threw the dress at Alexandra. "Put it on, damn ye!"

  Slowly, Alexandra raised the gown, appalled by the deep, plunging neckline. It was the costume of a Cyprian! "I most certainly will not!"

  The harpy grinned and leered at Alexandra. "Reck'n ye'll enjoy 'avin' Digger put it on fer ye then!" Her raucous laughter echoed in the darkness, making Alexandra's skin crawl.

  Faced with that appalling alternative, Alexandra reluctantly unbuttoned her sedate gray gown. When the crimson satin was in place, she caught her breath in embarrassment, tugging vainly to cover the brazen expanse of flesh now revealed. Then she set her teeth and forgot about modesty. She had her survival to worry about.

  "That way." The older woman pointed into the darkness, holding up the lantern to cast a pale circle of light upon the straw-covered floor.

  Slowly, Alexandra moved along the damp wall in the direction the woman pointed. She grimaced as pain shot through her ankle, then resolutely thrust that from her mind too.

  Think! she told herself. She might have only one chance to escape. She had to be ready when it appeared.

  The lantern flickered across a greasy flight of stone steps that led up from what appeared to be some sort of subterranean chamber. Stiffly, Alexandra negotiated the slippery stairs, and as she climbed higher, the air changed. Now she smelled the pungent scents of fermented tea, tobacco, and horse dung, along with the salty tang of the ocean. In the distance she heard the steady slap of water upon a stone barrier and the rhythmic creak of timber.

  They must be at the docks, Alexandra realized. She'd smelled these scents before, outside the East India Company godowns in Calcutta. If there were ships, there were sailors. She had to believe they would help her.

  "Step lively, else ye find that limp gettin' worse," the woman behind her ordered, punctuating the command with a cruel jab to Alexandra's back.

  At the top of the stairs the lantern revealed a rough planked door. The woman brushed by Alexandra and tapped lightly. "Tell 'im the gentry mort's ready!" she called to the face that appeared briefly. Then the door yawned open with a squeal of rusty hinges.

  From inside the room drifted a cloud of tobacco smoke and the stench of cheap spirits. Alexandra coughed as her companion thrust her forward into the large, dimly lit space. It was a warehouse of some sort, Alexandra decided, frowning at the wooden crates arranged in a rough circle. Two lanterns at opposite ends of the room cast overlapping circles of light onto a dozen or so men, who stared at her as they leaned against the crates or squatted on the dusty floor.

  Alexandra had seen men like these before, skulking on the Calcutta docks in the shadows of the great East Indiamen. These were not sailors, for they lacked the bronzed strength and squinting eye of men years before the mast.

  No, these were men who lived off the sailors and off the sailors' cargo. Their skin was pallid and soft, like that of scuttling creatures who teemed in dark places. Not one of them moved nor spoke, but their eyes probed her, missing no detail of her face and form, and their cold-blooded assessment of her body in the satin dress made her shudder.

  At the opposite end of the room a squat, stooped figure emerged from the gloom. "Well, Mazie," he said coldly, "what 'ave we 'ere? A fine pigeon to be plucked, for all she's got so little down. But enough where it counts, I figure, an' mebbe even all the same red color," he added, laughing shrilly.

  As the man came closer, Alexandra saw that his face was almost gray, in sharp contrast to the reddish-brown scar running from his forehead to the corner of his thin mouth.

  Behind her, the woman snorted and spat on the floor close to Alexandra's feet. "Skinny little 'en, she be. Beats me why ye'd want to —"

  The squat man rounded on her, his face twisting into a scowl. "Mean to tell me my business, woman?" he snarled.

  "Nay, nay!" the woman cried, recoiling in fear. "None o' my affair."

  "Aye, an' ye'd best remember that," he hissed, "else the morrow find ye workin' the roughest flesh marts in Whitechapel!"

  Abruptly, he turned and signaled to one of the men. "Fetch the boy!"

  Pence! If Pence was here, this man must be Digger. Suddenly, Alexandra shivered with cold and embarrassment at the brazen scarlet dress she wore — the only spot of color in that great grim room of black and gray. She did not speak but furiously fought to absorb any information that could help her escape. All the while, she felt the eyes of Digger's men watch her like snarling, fearful dogs waiting for the scraps their cruel master might toss from the table.

  The next moment, Pence was dragged in.

  "An' now we're all right and tight, fer our Pence's come back to us, an' 'is gentry mort too."

  "Leave her alone, Digger, ye—" the boy cried, but his words were cut off by a well-aimed kick to the ribs. Pence sagged slightly, grinding his teeth, but he did not flinch or cry out.

  "Ah, Pence," Digger said mournfully, "ye could o' been the best, the very best. But ye couldn't see the way o' things, could ye now? Not that Digger's king o' these streets an' all 'er
e do my biddin'. Now ye'll die fer it, my boy, an' suffer a bit first. 'Ere's my army to witness it, right, fellows?" The men scattered around the room hooted and stamped on the floor in approval.

  Alexandra watched in growing panic, but she dared not move nor show any sign of weakness before this pack of ravening dogs.

  "Mr. Stubbs!" Digger commanded. A thin man with one arm cut off at the elbow jumped up to proffer a length of coiled leather. The boy was forced forward and stretched over a crate, his arms fully extended, his back bared.

  "Now let's see what it takes to make ye cry, boy!" Digger's voice was soft with menace. The next moment, his whip snaked through the gloom and cracked down against Pence's back, while the men crouched in silence, eager to see the boy's misery. But Pence denied them that pleasure, and their eyes grew sullen and angry. Alexandra caught back a little sob as she saw the slash of red that oozed from the welt across the boy's back.

  "Oh, lad, I've plenty o' time, never ye fear." Again the leather snapped, this time in the opposite direction, making a perfect X on Pence's back.

  Alexandra twisted her hands tightly as the boy turned rigid, struggling against his pain. "How much to let him go?" she demanded abruptly.

  A score of hostile eyes turned upon her.

  "Ye offerin' to pay fer the boy?" Digger asked with mock civility. "But ye've nothin' to pay with!" Behind her the harpy lifted Alexandra's reticule and turned it inside out, to the resounding laughter of the men. "Or mebbe ye mean to pay in some other way," he snarled.

  "I've funds at my disposal," Alexandra said coolly, summoning up all the haughty disdain she could muster. "Gold enough to secure the boy's services for the rest of his life. Why not spare yourself this trouble? He's an irritating pest, as anyone can see, and answers to no master but himself."

  "True enough," Digger said with sudden interest. " 'Ow much ye offerin'?"

  "One hundred pounds," Alexandra said firmly, and the onlookers set up a flurry of jeers and laughter.

  "Quiet!" Digger roared, and the noise immediately ceased. "Why, the lad could make that much in one night, 'e could! No, we'll jest 'ave to see the thing through my way. But never ye mind, dearie — ye'll 'ave yer uses yet."

  For a third time the whip arched high in the darkness, then snaked down across Pence's back. This time the boy slumped over and did not move again.

  "Enough!" A new voice broke into the silence caused by Pence's collapse. "Leave the boy!" A tall man moved slowly into the circle of the crates. Something about him was vaguely familiar to Alexandra. "Ah, the governess!" he said languidly as he walked toward her. "I doubt not that this costume suits you better than the last."

  Telford, Alexandra thought, fighting the icy tendrils of fear that gripped her at his approach. His face was lean, his eyes as flat and colorless as that night when he'd attacked her at the yew grove. He was dressed in the style of a gentleman, Alexandra saw, although his cravat was not entirely white and its folds were slightly askew.

  "You interest yourself in the boy?" His voice was toneless and slightly bored.

  "Yes, and shall pay well to see him released."

  "It may not come to money at all, my dear," the man said. "A simple matter of cooperation may suffice." At her sudden stiffening he shook his head in amusement. "No, not that sort of cooperation, at least not if you prove useful in other ways. I need your assistance at persuasion, my dear. You are very good at persuasion, I think — almost as good as I." He was very close now, and his colorless eyes assessed the harsh rise and fall of her chest in the abbreviated gown. He held out his arm in an elaborate gesture of courtesy. "Shall we discuss the matter further?"

  "And the boy?"

  His thin lips curled. "Such concern for one sniveling brat! The boy will be unharmed, provided you are successful."

  In a daze Alexandra placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her out of the circle of lights. They passed through a door and came to a flight of wooden steps, where he waited politely for her to precede him.

  Climbing the narrow steps was hard going. When she reached the top, Alexandra found herself facing a small room fitted out as office and sleeping quarters. An oil lantern, a bottle, and several empty glasses rested upon a large wooden crate next to a desk littered with papers. Her eyes flashed to the room's sole window, but she could make out nothing in the grime that covered the pane.

  Without a word her companion moved to the crate and filled two chipped glasses with wine. "The Duke of Hawkesworth has forced my hand, you see." He turned and offered her a glass, shrugging indifferently when she refused it. "The divorce, you understand — or perhaps you do not understand at all. Hawkesworth finally intends to make good on his threat to divorce my sister. It is you, my dear, who have brought him to that point after all this time. You should be very pleased with yourself, for there are few women who could have done it. But such a rupture would leave my sister and I — how shall I say? — sadly circumstanced. So Isobel had to die. Or at least appear to die."

  Alexandra shivered at such cold calculating evil. How much money had the pair wrested from Hawke over the years? she wondered grimly.

  Isobel's brother seated himself carefully in the room's only chair and offered Alexandra a seat on the bed, which she stiffly refused.

  "Which brings us to you, my dear."

  "How can I possibly be of interest to you?"

  "Do not let us play at cat and mouse, Miss Mayfield. Or should I say Miss Maitland? You see, I know everything about you. Hawke has had his man looking into your whereabouts for a considerable time, and it was through his unwitting lapse that I discovered your identity. Yes, we may even count ourselves cousins, which explains your striking resemblance to my sister. The connection was severed in our grandfather's time, I believe. A charming irony, is it not? And yet so nice to keep things within the family."

  "You do not answer my question," Alexandra said flatly, her head spinning with this new intelligence.

  "Then I shall do so now. I need the Duke of Hawkesworth's signature on a document that will tender a certain sum of money to me upon my demand, with no questions asked. Upon his signing you will be rid of me and my sister forever. It is as simple as that."

  Somehow, Alexandra knew, studying those flat, colorless eyes, that the matter could not be nearly so simple. "How much?" she asked finally.

  "One hundred thousand pounds."

  Her gasp was loud in the small room. "He could not give you half that amount."

  "Such an innocent!" Telford said chidingly. "He can offer that much and more besides, but I am not a greedy man. Enough to settle Isobel and myself for life with the comforts we have come to enjoy — we ask no more than this."

  "One hundred thousand pounds would buy you a kingdom and a crown," she said flatly, "and break Hawke in the bargain. But perhaps that is your intention."

  "It had entered my mind, yes," Telford drawled. "But you have very little choice, Miss Maitland, for if you refuse to help us, your young friend will find his just deserts at Digger's hands, and your beloved duke will find his at mine. So come, give me your answer, that we may be easy."

  "Very well," Alexandra said finally, for she could see no other way out of the trap he had set so cleverly, using her as bait.

  "Excellent! Now, would you care to seal the bargain with this quite tolerable port before the duke arrives? No? A pity to waste it." He drained both glasses, then poured himself another and turned to survey her with cold leering eyes. "I fancy Hawke will be especially pleased by your attire. It leads a man to all sorts of speculation, I can assure you."

  "You'll never succeed!" Alexandra said fiercely. "One way or another, he'll see you punished for this."

  "Ever the optimist! But you are quite wrong, my dear. If your dear duke does not do precisely as I say, you will never see his face again, I assure you." Telford straightened suddenly, alerted by a slight sound from the warehouse below. "Ah! Here, unless I am sadly mistaken, is your hero come to you now."

  Chap
ter Thirty-Seven

  A pair of pistols were trained on Hawke's back as he lunged into the small room, half staggering, half pushed by two of Digger's brawniest men. Although a ragged wound oozed blood from his temple, Hawke would have been more than a match for either man — maybe for both — had they been weaponless. His eyes flickered across the room to Alexandra, seated motionless on the bed with Telford close beside her.

  At the sight of the blood on Hawke's forehead she had stiffened, and only the severest willpower kept her from crying out. But she did nothing and said nothing, for Telford had warned her precisely what would happen if she did not do what he told her.

  "So, my dear brother-in-law, you are arrived at last. How long has it been? Two years? Three? You'll pardon me if I don't ask you to sit down." Telford's cold fingers slid up Alexandra's arm and played suggestively across the creamy expanse of skin bared at her chest. "Just look who is here, my dear! It is your lusty employer, come to rescue you."

  "Let her go." Hawke's voice crackled with menace, and his two guards stiffened warily.

  "I think not, my dear brother-in-law. She is worth so much more to me here. You always had excellent taste in women, and I am happy to see you still do. She is remarkably like Isobel, is she not? But not nearly as inventive in bed, I should imagine." Telford's pale eyes glittered maliciously. "I shall let you know. If you are still alive, of course. Yes, the little governess — or should I say Miss Maitland? — stays."

  A muscle flashed at Hawke's jaw, and he looked down at a piece of straw dangling from his sleeve. "Mayfield, Maitland — one woman is much the same as another."

  "Ah, so you've received Bartholomew Dodd's report. It's only fair, of course. I learned of it myself through the men he set upon the inquiry. How do you fancy bedding the daughter of a man you drove to suicide?"

  Hawke's eyebrows rose, and his nostrils widened in faint distaste. "Really, Telford, one despairs of ever shaking the mud from you. You must constantly betray your father's vulgar origins."