“For as long as I want,” he corrected softly.
Jane turned before glancing back at Evangeline. “Tell them Neal Pam-pem-what?”
“Pemberton. My stepfather.” Evangeline hugged the clay pot to her chest. “Your uncle will know what to do. Go.”
With a gasp, Jane twisted away and took off running.
A chilling smile played at Neal’s lips. Tears rolled down the child’s dirt-stained cheeks.
Evangeline burst out. “Please let Rachel go. We—we both know you’re here for me.”
“That’s right. I own you,” he reminded her, eyes hard. “Come closer, stepdaughter. I know how tricky you are when it comes to escaping. You’ll never see the attic again, little witch. From here on out, it’s the pantry for you.”
Evangeline’s vision briefly faded at just the mention of that horrible dark space. God, how she hated that wretched pantry. But she hated the terror in Rachel’s eyes even worse.
She inched forward warily, knowing every step toward her stepfather was another step toward her own slow death, even if she managed to gain Rachel’s freedom. She was fairly certain she wouldn’t survive another night incarcerated in the suffocating blackness of the pantry.
The moment Evangeline was within arm’s reach, he snatched the pot from her with the hand he’d previously been using to muffle Rachel’s screams.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded.
“D-dirt.” Evangeline reached for the little girl. “Can you please let Rachel go now?”
Neal spat at her shoes, reared back, and hurled the pot at the gazebo. The clay vessel shattered on impact, showering damp soil against the side.
A tiny bit of green fluttered to the ground.
Evangeline bit back a hysterical laugh. A seedling. Gavin had given her a seedling. Wherever she’d gone, she could’ve planted her own blackberry bush, and thought of him every time the flowers bloomed and the berries budded. He’d given her a living thing, something that grew, that blossomed, that thrived. Or would’ve thrived, had her stepfather not thrown it against a wall.
Neal shoved Rachel forward. The little girl scraped her knees on the rough dirt, but didn’t cry out. She scrambled to her feet and stared wide-eyed at Evangeline, who now had Neal’s hand across her mouth and his knife digging into her side. He sliced through her gown and into her skin. Not enough to kill her—just enough to hurt, to terrify. She couldn’t go back with him again. She couldn’t.
Evangeline lifted one leg and kicked him in the knee.
He cursed and flipped her up into his arms, slicing her anew in the process.
Rachel burst into tears.
He tore through a row of bushes, laughing as the brambles scratched Evangeline’s exposed face and ripped one of her slippers from her feet.
“Evangeline!” came Susan’s panicked voice from somewhere across the fields. “Evangeline! Come back! He’s out there! He’ll kill you!”
Too late.
Chapter 45
Gavin’s relief at seeing the true murderer taken into the constabulary’s custody warmed him throughout the long ride home, but his euphoria disappeared the moment Blackberry Manor rolled into view.
His sister, his nieces, the Stanton chit, and quite possibly every single one of his servants crowded the front lawn and ruined porch. As his homecoming never previously heralded an all-hands-on-deck welcoming party, Gavin doubted his afternoon was taking a turn for the better. Particularly since Evangeline wasn’t present.
He leapt from the horse a few seconds too early and almost took a header into a clump of rocks. He hauled himself upright and ran toward his porch.
“What happened?” he shouted, trying not to fear the worst. Which would be what? That Evangeline had left forever? That would be the worst for him, but surely not cause for his servants and houseguests to await him out-of-doors, hands wringing, faces drawn.
“It’s Evangeline,” the Stanton chit stammered, eyes watering.
No.
“What happened?” he demanded again. Instead of sounding fierce, the words came out…scared.
“The bad man cut her,” Rachel said, voice quivering. “Then took her.”
Gavin’s hands convulsed into fists. No.
“Neal Pemberton,” Jane confirmed. “Her stepfather.”
He was wrong. This was the worst possible scenario. He’d sworn to protect her. And failed.
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca wailed, and threw herself into her mother’s arms. “I’m sorry!”
“What happened?” he said again, wishing the blackguard was right in front of him so he could tear the son of a bitch apart with his bare hands.
Jane took a deep breath. “When I went to see my miniature, the twins snuck outside to play hide-and-seek. We hunted for them right away—servants glimpsed them heading to the blackberry fields—but we could only find Rachel. She thought Rebecca was hurt, but Rebecca was just still hiding.”
Rebecca’s sobs grew louder.
“Miss Pemberton said if she could talk to Rachel, she’d find Rebecca, so I took her to the gazebo. Except when we got there, he had Rachel captive. Miss Pemberton sent me to get help.”
Rachel’s lower lip trembled. “Miss Pemberton made him take her instead of me, and he poked her with his knife two times.”
Gavin’s lungs seized. Oh, God. Why hadn’t he been here to save her?
“He…” the Stanton chit began, then faltered.
“Just tell me,” Gavin growled.
“She was trying to get away, so he hit her. In the face.” The Stanton chit swallowed and pushed up her spectacles. “She stopped struggling and went limp. He shoved her into his carriage, and that’s the last we saw of her.”
Gavin whirled to face his staff. “Ready my carriage,” he ordered his coachman. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
He stalked up the porch steps, pushed through the crowd of people, and headed toward his front door. Neal Pemberton had included his home’s exact location when he’d requested Evangeline’s immediate return. It was twilight now, but if he rode all night, he’d be able to make it by dawn.
“What are you going to do?” the Stanton chit asked.
Gavin stared at her over his shoulder. “What the devil do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to kill him.”
“You can’t just…kill him.”
He snorted. “I’m fetching my pistol and a swordstick. One is bound to do the trick.”
Rose stepped forward, one hand on each twins’ shoulder. “He’s her legal guardian, Gavin.”
“Not if he gives her to me…or dies.” He flashed a lethal smile. “His choice.”
Chapter 46
Evangeline drifted in and out of consciousness during the long ride back to the Chiltern Hills. Every bump, every rut jarred her until the vicious thudding in her skull swallowed her completely into darkness.
She hated the dark.
It wasn’t until they arrived and her stepfather dragged her from the carriage that she realized, at some point during the journey, he’d bound her at the wrists and ankles. She had to hop from the carriage to the house. Each awkward landing clacked her teeth together and set her brain pounding anew.
Her stepfather laughed and tugged her along faster.
He shouldered open the front door and shoved her inside so hard her chin bounced against the dusty wood floor. She lay there, tongue coated with blood from the impact, and fought the overwhelming sense of helpless desolation brought on by the unwelcome sight of her childhood home. After a moment, she pushed up with her bound fists and struggled to her knees.
Neal ignored her in favor of locating his bottle of whisky. Evangeline spat blood on the floor. She watched him until he disappeared from view just behind her.
How could she have ever believed Gavin to be a monster? This was a monster. Gavin was…Gavin was…wonderful. Although he’d made his fair share of mistakes, he’d risen above his past. He was capable of both change and love. Was she? She’d told him
once that all wives were subjugated. Perhaps that wasn’t so. Perhaps it depended on the men they chose as husbands. She’d lost a very, very good man.
Lost forever, because by trading her freedom for Rachel’s, Evangeline had surrendered herself to her stepfather’s custody. His legal custody. He’d never let her out of the house again, unless it was in a casket.
His footsteps prowled up behind her. Slow, precise thuds of his leather soles against the wooden floor. The footfalls stopped. His fingers twisted in Evangeline’s hair, yanked upward. An involuntary squeak escaped her throat as several strands ripped from her skull.
She clamped her mouth shut tight. She hated to show pain. It brought him too much pleasure.
He let go, smacked her on the back of the head, circled into view. Smiling, of course.
With a smirk, he wiggled the keys and was gone.
Evangeline struggled to her feet and hopped toward the front door. She was just turning around to twist open the handle with her bound hands when her stepfather strode back into the room, another glass of whisky in his hand.
“Now, now,” he drawled. His brows arched. “What did I tell you I’d do if I caught you trying to escape again?”
Oddly, it took her a long moment before she could recall his threat. She’d no doubt blocked the possibility from her mind. She’d rather he kill her right here and now than lock her up in that godforsaken pantry.
“Ah.” He smiled. “I see you remember now. It’s not so very terrible in there, is it? So very dark, so very small, so very tight? We’ll have to see if you still fit inside.” His fingers squeezed her upper arm as his voice dropped dangerously.
“I won’t go in there,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“You will.”
When he pulled on her arm, Evangeline’s knees gave way beneath her. She thudded heavily to the ground, legs limp, eyes wide with terror.
“Get. Up.”
Her lungs wheezed. Her body shook. Her pulse faltered. She couldn’t move.
Neal bent down, hooked the fingers of his free hand through the rope binding her ankles, dragged her dead weight across the room feet-first. He hauled her down the corridor to a tall narrow door that haunted her nightmares.
He flung open the door.
An icy draft rippled across her skin. The gaping maw of the long-abandoned pantry yawned blacker than ever in the absence of both sunlight and candles. What if he lost the key? What if he never released her? What if he left her to die?
He tugged her toward the open doorway. “In you go.”
“Not again.” She shook her head from side to side. “No. No!”
He hauled her forward by her ankles, dropped her legs, kicked her shoulders inside with the heel of his boot.
She thrashed, ready to die before being confined in that tiny slice of hell. When he reached down to shove her face into the darkness, she bit him. Hard.
“Little bitch.”
He hurled his glass of whisky over her head. It shattered behind her, sending a pungent spray of sticky liquid and tiny shards against the back wall. He kicked her the rest of the way inside, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to maybe break the bone.
No. He hadn’t broken any of her bones this time. She was lucky. Ha. Lucky. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t shut the door and lock her inside. If she was lucky, he’d just kill her and have done with it. If she was lucky—
The door slammed shut with enough force to blow strands of damp hair from her face. Keys jangled. The lock snapped in place.
Evangeline opened her mouth, but the darkness swallowed her scream.
It was worse than being lost in the walls at Blackberry Manor. So much worse. The pantry was darker. Smaller. Tighter.
Her limbs were bent. Cramped. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. The air was cold, dank, stale. The shadows smelled like sweat and liquor and fear. Or maybe that was her. She was a shadow now, too. She was nowhere and nothing.
Cobwebs clung to her cheeks and arms. Were there spiders in her hair? On her face? In her clothes? She yanked at her bound wrists. The twine dug into her skin until blood coated the bindings, but still she could not break free.
Something brushed against her toe. A rat? There. Skittering across the floor. She couldn’t see, but she could hear them. Lots of them.
Rats could smell blood. Her wrists and ankles were wet.
They’d be on her soon. Sniffing her. Licking her. Biting her. She couldn’t fend them off. She couldn’t get away. She couldn’t do anything but suck in great panting lungfuls of dry, dusty air and flail her bound limbs against the locked pantry door.
And scream.
Chapter 47
Evangeline awoke in total blackness.
She reached out for Gavin and—couldn’t reach, hands bound—pantry—Gavin was just a dream. The back of her head thumped dully against the floor. She writhed in the dark, struggling against the twine that bound her bruised ankles and raw wrists.
No. She would escape even if she had to chew off her arm. Where were the rats? Perhaps they could chew her arm off for her. She bit back a hysterical giggle. No chewing. Rats must be asleep. Focus.
She rolled to her side. Twisted. Grappled for her ankles. The binding was too tight to slip more than the pad of one finger beneath the cord. Too tight. Too tight. Digging into her skin. Hurt. Pull anyway. Pull.
Nothing.
Her heartbeat quickened. She tugged on the twine. Sweat dampened her skin. The shadows shifted. She couldn’t breathe. Listen. Wheezing gasps. Her breathing was too shallow. Short, desperate gulps of air. Calm down. Try. No panting. No passing out again. Must escape.
Her ankles throbbed. Her feet were numb. Her wrists were numb. Could she free her hands? Keeping her elbows tight together, she folded her arms until the back of her right wrist grazed her chin. Tight. Hurt. Ignoring the biting pain and the slick, tangy blood coating the cording, she bared her teeth and sawed at the twine, tugging and pulling and yanking and chewing.
She gasped, recoiled, spat. What the hell was that? Cobwebs? Hair? No. Thread. A bit of the twine had unraveled. Good. Try again.
Tears streamed down her cheeks when she finally bit through one of the strands of bloody twine. Her teeth tore at the rest of the cording, ripping the rope from her burning wrists. The dusty air stung the open wounds. Free. Her hands were free.
She lay back, arms raised, and rotated her wrists until feeling returned to her fingertips. So dark. The walls were closer, tighter, she was sure of it. Closing in. Suffocating her. No. She freed her wrists, she could free her ankles.
How? She scrabbled at the twine until her fingernails tore. Still tied. Still helpless.
A faint knocking noise. Someone paying a call? If they came inside, she could scream for help. That was why her stepfather never allowed an outsider inside.
She lifted her head. Tried to scoot toward the door.
Ouch. Something thin and sharp sliced the back of her calf. What cut her? She flopped around, patting the floor until her fingers closed around a sovereign-sized shard of glass. Smelled like whisky. A sharp piece of the tumbler her stepfather had thrown. Sharp enough to cut her—sharp enough to cut twine?
She sawed at the cording. Her fingers flayed as much as the rope, but at last a strand snapped in two. She yanked the twine free, massaged her tender ankles. A thousand prickles burst along her skin as blood rushed to her numb feet.
Voices. Whose voices? Neal, of course, and…Gavin? Here? Could it be possible?
Evangeline leapt to her feet, fell back down, and then hauled herself back up gingerly with one hand clutching the locked doorknob. It was Gavin.
She banged her fists against the unforgiving door and screamed his name. Evangeline could see nothing. She could only listen.
Noises. Scuffling. Rapid footfalls.
Gavin’s voice: “Evangeline! Where are you?”
Neal’s voice: “None of your business.”
Gavin: “I’m making it my business.”
>
The door handle jiggled.
Neal: “You can’t have her. She’s mine.”
Gavin: “I’m hers. Now open that door.”
Neal: “Never. She disobeyed me. She knew the punishment.”
Gavin: “What? Get her out of there. Give me the key. Now!”
Scuffling. Fists connecting with flesh and bone. A thud. Cursing. Struggling. A yelp of pain. Keys jangling.
A crash.
“Evangeline, I’m going to get you out of there. Stay strong.” More jangling. “Damn it.” Hollow clicking. “Not this one either. Damn it.”
The door swung open and Evangeline tumbled out into the hall.
Gavin caught her before she hit the floor, stared at her in horror. “What the hell did he do to you?”
She could only shake her head and cling to him.
“Come on,” he hugged her tightly. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“You can’t.” Neal hauled himself up from the floor. “I’m her legal guardian.”
“Not for long.” Gavin swept Evangeline into his arms, carried her to the receiving room by the front door, laid her on the sofa closest to the crackling fire. “Please,” he said softly, kneeling before her. “Will you marry me?”
She nodded, touched his hand. “I would love to.”
It wasn’t until she saw his eyes widen that she realized even now, even under these circumstances, he hadn’t been completely convinced she’d say yes.
“Gavin.” She smiled up at him. “You are a good person. I love you.”
He grinned. “I love you.”
“Touching,” Neal drawled as he lounged against the doorway. “But she shan’t marry you without my permission.”
“Then you shall give it.” Gavin searched his pockets. He pulled out a pistol, set it on the cushion by Evangeline’s feet, then pulled out several sheets of folded parchment.
She stared at the parchment, the pistol, then Gavin. He was so calm, so rational. Not railing at top volume or throwing vicious punches like the murderous madman he’d been made out to be. Which was good. One madman in the room was enough.
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 34