While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0)

by Shana Galen

“For heaven’s sake, do not keep him waiting!” She peered back into the ballroom. “Oh! I see my friend Lady Melbourne coming, and she always has the best gossip.”

  With that, the duchess hurried through the door to intercept her friend. Francesca was left standing alone, surrounded by brightly colored lanterns and torches. For the first time that night, she wasn’t the center of attention, and the freedom felt good.

  She made a quick survey of the lawns and terrace just to be certain. No one was about, which didn’t surprise her. Most of the servants were indoors assisting with the ball, and now that she was away from the main house, all was quiet. A short distance from her were the buildings of the stable complex, the tack house, and her hospital. She stared at them, wondering if Ethan and Selbourne were there. She walked lazily around the terrace, then tripped down the steps. She wouldn’t go far, just around the lawn, keeping in the light from the house.

  The delightfully cool November air and the blissfully open space of the lawn rejuvenated her after the crush of so many people inside. She took a deep breath, admiring the view she so loved. It was as familiar to her as the lines on her palm or the sound of her name. Spontaneously, she flung her arms wide and twirled around, exulting simply because she was alive.

  A hand grasped one of her out-stretched arms and snatched it roughly behind her back. With a yelp of surprise, Francesca lost her balance and fell to her knees. A jolt of pain hit her as the gravel bit her skin through her thin gown. Instinctively, she twisted her head to see who held her, but the man’s other hand came up and knocked her face forward, covering her mouth before she could scream.

  No, no, no! she shrieked against the hand.

  Only a garbled mumble was audible. She scrambled forward but was hauled by her hair against the body of her captor. He shoved a foul piece of cloth inside her mouth. Over that, he cinched a gag, the material pulling at the tiny, delicate wisps of her hair at her nape when he knotted it in back.

  She knew without thinking that this was the same man who had attacked her before. He had come back and intended to finish what he’d begun. Francesca whipped her head to stare at the house. Safety was so close, but even if she managed to free her mouth and scream, no one would hear her. The guests were inside enjoying the ball, and the music and loud voices would drown out any cries she made. Of course, she would be missed, searched for, but by then it would be too late.

  Her captor grabbed a fistful of her hair again. “Get up,” he growled. With a jerk on the knot of her hair, the man pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, knees bent in pain. He pushed her forward, away from the lights of the house, into the darkness.

  Each step took her further from safety, further from the ball. She had to get away. He pushed her again, and she tripped, twisting as she did so. Her sudden movements left her captor slightly off balance and, ignoring the shrieking from the roots of her hair, she stomped down hard on his foot. His grip faltered, and she struck out again, clawing at anything she could lay hold to, punching and tearing at whatever her fingers encountered. When he jumped back, she pulled free with a wrenching twist, reeling at the jagged stab of pain as a several strands of her hair ripped out.

  But the stinging burn of pain was nothing compared to her panic. She staggered forward, tripping over her long skirts, then hiked them up and ran. The sharp stones of the path bit through the sensitive skin of her foot. Somewhere she’d lost one of her slippers, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but escape. He was behind her, blocking the path to the house, so she cut toward the stables, praying someone—a servant, a groom—anyone would be there.

  Behind her she heard her assailant grunt, swear, and then follow her with quick, heavy footsteps. She pulled at her last reserves and increased her speed. Topping a small rise in the path, she saw the stable complex before her. Her heart sank at its deserted appearance, but she kept running. It was her only chance.

  Hoping the stables only looked abandoned, she screamed. The sound was barely audible. She would have ripped the gag off, torn the foul cloth from her mouth, but she needed her hands to hold her cumbersome skirts at her knees. Her overtaxed lungs gasped for air, but she told herself to keep moving. She was almost there.

  She raced down the small hill, conscious that her attacker was right behind her now.

  His footsteps were louder. Pounding.

  Just a few more yards. If she could just keep ahead of him...

  Cutting pain bit into her foot, and she floundered. It was all the opportunity her pursuer needed.

  Merciless arms gripped her, throwing her to the ground. She thrust her hands out in a vain effort to ease the fall, but her cheek hit the hard dirt and she tasted bitter earth on her lips. Her breath knocked out of her, but not her will to fight. When the man’s hands gripped her around the waist, lifting her to her knees, she kicked and squirmed. He swore again as she wrested one arm free and twisted to claw at his face.

  Instead of flesh, she felt the rough material of a hood. She grasped the material and pulled, but the man managed to take hold of her wrist, wrenching first it, then the other, behind her back. She fought for breath as he secured her with what felt like a coarse length of rope.

  “I came prepared,” her captor panted from behind her. “Did you think you could escape me a second time?”

  Using her bound arms, he dragged her to her feet. She still faced away from him, and he pushed her forward, toward the woods. Her heart seized. She’d have no chance among the shadowy, silent trees. She prepared to fight again, but then he seemed to change his mind. He shoved her in the direction of the dark tack house.

  Through blurry tears, Francesca looked longingly at the stables. There was still a chance Ethan and Selbourne had gone there. But nothing stirred in the silence. There was only the stomping of hooves, the rustling of horses settling in for the night, and the man’s ragged breath at her back.

  She dragged her feet and pulled away from her attacker as he prodded her the short distance to the tack house. When they reached it, he shoved her against the building, opened the unlocked door, and pushed her inside.

  She stopped fighting then. She needed to conserve her strength, what little remained, for the next opportunity of escape. She had three choices—the window beside Ethan’s makeshift desk, the door she’d just come through, or the small back door, which was rarely used and might even be locked.

  The main door was her best hope, but her assailant was behind her, blocking it. As if reading her mind, he leaned close.

  “Planning your escape? Won’t your lover be disappointed when you fail to meet him?” His voice was low and hoarse. “That’s why you were outside, isn’t it, Cesca?”

  She flinched, her entire body convulsing at the obscene sound of her private nickname on his tongue.

  He knew her. And she knew him too, though she couldn’t place how. From the beginning there had been something familiar about his voice, though he tried to disguise it. But something about the way he clipped his words tickled her memory. She forced herself to be calm, more observant, listen carefully.

  He wheeled her around, clutching her neck with one hand. With a quick jerk, he pulled the gag from her mouth, then yanked the foul cloth out as well. She coughed, tried to breathe, but his grip on her neck tightened.

  She stared into the darkness that was his face.

  “I want your mouth free,” he rasped. “I want to hear your feeble pleas for mercy.”

  His fingers flexed on her throat, and she looked into the black holes of his eyes. It was too dark in the room for her to see their color, and they were shadowed by the hood, but enough light spilled through the window so she could see they glittered coldly.

  “Who are you?” she wheezed, forcing the words through the clench of his fingers on her neck. “Why are you doing this?”

  He laughed. It was a high-pitched, hysterical cackle that scared her more than anything else he’d done.

  “Because you deserve it, you little bitch.”

  He
pushed her back a step, and she struggled to maintain her balance.

  “Why? What did I ever do to you?” Her last words were a barely audible gasp as his fingers flexed, all but cutting off her air.

  “I think the question,” he said, trapping her against the plank serving as a temporary table, “is what will I do to you?”

  He shoved her down hard, and she felt a splinter from the edge of the wood cut into the bare flesh just above her gloved elbow. With her arms still secured behind her, she was forced to twist sideways. She felt his hands under her skirt, groping, and began to kick and thrash again. “No!”

  He laughed, but though the sound made her shudder, she didn’t stop fighting.

  Not here, not in this place, was all she could think. Not where Ethan had touched her, kissed her, caressed her. Anywhere but here.

  She struck out wildly and managed to lodge her foot in some soft part of him—stomach or groin—then used the added leverage to push away. She drew her legs up and rolled awkwardly across the plank of wood. Arms still useless, she fell over the side of the table, hitting her temple on the edge as she did so, then cutting her mouth on the rickety chair below.

  It wasn’t a long fall, but it knocked the breath out of her. She had to struggle to rise. She could see the outline of the back door now. Nothing was blocking her way. But it was no use. Her attacker strolled around the side of the table, taking his time, taunting her with his unhurried steps, while she fought frantically to make her body obey. She had just gained her feet when he reached her, snatched her by the hair, and dragged her to her full height, which was still far inferior to his.

  “You don’t give up easily, do you?” His hooded eyes stared down at her, and she heard amusement in his voice. His hand closed over her throat, squeezing it brutally and cutting off her supply of oxygen again. “Keep fighting me, Cesca. I like it.”

  She was jolted again by his use of her name, then gasped when he pressed her back against the table. He fumbled with his breeches with one hand while the fingers of the other were bars caging her throat. Francesca managed a swallow as she felt the hard press of his male member against her stomach. She knew what was coming next and bucked against him, trying to slide away. But she was trapped between his legs, helpless with her arms bound and her air supply limited.

  His shadowed eyes seemed to laugh at her, and she wrenched her head away from him, glancing out the window.

  And saw her salvation.

  Strolling down the path from the stable to the tack house were Ethan and Selbourne. She caught only a glimpse of the men before her head was twisted back and her vision started to fade under her attacker’s tight fingers. Her skirts were tossed up and she was pressed harder against the table. Everything around her began to blur and the man’s actions seemed excruciatingly slow. She wondered, as she felt the man tug her legs apart, if she had only imagined seeing Ethan. Then she welcomed the blackness closing in on her.

  She began to fall. The hole was dark and deep. There was no pain, only peace.

  But her peace was interrupted when she felt a sharp jab, and her lungs seized and snatched at a trickle of oxygen. With effort, she opened her eyes and felt her assailant’s tense grip on her neck slacken further. She gulped the air greedily. His hands on her legs stilled and, when the blackness before her eyes began to fade, she saw that his hooded face was turned to the door.

  Blood rushed to her head, was loud in her ears, but she heard what her attacker had clearly heard. Voices. She sagged in relief, wanted to laugh, to cry. Her elation was short-lived. With a rough shove, her captor dragged her off the table and thrust her underneath. A moment later he was beside her. His hand scrambled across her face until he found her mouth and locked over it.

  Hunching beside her, he whispered, “Do you feel this?” He jabbed her ribs with a weapon—something cold and hard. “Do you?”

  She nodded, terrified.

  “I have another as well, and if you so much as breathe, I’ll shoot your lover and his brother, then use my knife to slit your throat.” He shoved the muzzle of the pistol into her for emphasis.

  She gasped at the sharp thump of pain.

  “Do you understand?”

  She nodded again, a new fear engulfing her.

  The door creaked open, and she sent a silent message to Ethan to leave, to go before the madman beside her hurt him too.

  “—left it on the desk and forgot it when Pocket buttonholed me.” It was Ethan’s voice, and though she feared for his life, the velvet sound of him washed over her, comforting her.

  She heard him step inside and approach the plank she was crouched under. “Is there a lamp somewhere?” Selbourne asked. His voice was farther away, still in the doorway.

  The man beside her stiffened. Francesca’s heart rammed against her chest. She need only make the smallest sound to alert Ethan and Selbourne of her presence, yet if she did so, this man would undoubtedly kill them all. She was dead anyway. Could she possibly justify taking Ethan or his brother with her?

  “I can go back to the stable and get a lantern,” Selbourne offered. Above her, Ethan paused before the desk.

  “Don’t need it.” She heard him say. “I know my way—”

  There was an audible creak as her captor inadvertently leaned against the ramshackle chair beside the desk. The man froze, and Francesca held her breath.

  Ethan’s voice hitched for the briefest of instants. If she hadn’t know him so well, she wouldn’t have thought he’d heard it.

  “—around this room,” he finished.

  She heard him shuffling something on the desk above her—surely he’d realize everything was out of place—then Selbourne, still in the doorway said, “Oh, bloody hell. We must have let the dog out. He’s running around the yard. I’ll go back and—”

  Without warning, the plank above her head toppled, sending one of the barrels it rested on rolling. Ethan reached down, his hand groping blindly, and, without thinking, Francesca thrust her body away from her attacker and the gun he held. A second later, the pistol went off. The bright flash of the gunpowder lit the room like fireworks at Vauxhall. In that second, Francesca saw Ethan lunge for her attacker. She dove for the door and Selbourne.

  Then everything was madness. She was screaming, one of the men was shouting, and somewhere a dog barked.

  “What the hell—” Selbourne’s arms wound around her and pulled her from the floor. He heaved her through the door of the tack room and away from the sounds of the mêlée erupting inside.

  “He has a pistol,” she warned Selbourne unnecessarily.

  His hands were still on her shoulders, and he stared down at her, then glanced at the tack house.

  She made the decision for him. “I’m fine. Go!”

  Selbourne paused for the briefest of moments, eyes flying over her as if to verify her claim, then he released her without a word and ran back. As he passed through the door, he drew his own pistol.

  She stared after him, fighting to free her wrists from their bindings. She felt a surge of victory as they loosened, but then jumped at the sound of a crash and the noise of something breaking. Rising above the cacophony, she heard a high-pitched puppy yelp.

  Lino!

  “No!” she cried, too late. The puppy’s white coat was a blur as he flew up the stairs and into the tack room.

  “Lino!” she screamed. The skin of her wrists burned, but she yanked the coarse rope free. “No! Come here, Lino!”

  The puppy didn’t obey her, and soon she didn’t hear him barking. She didn’t hear anything.

  Terror driving her, she raced back into the tack room then, startled, halted in the doorway. It was dark and empty. Her eyes scanned the room, and she saw that the back door had been thrown open and was hanging half off its hinges.

  She rushed through it and into the yard just as Ethan and Selbourne stepped from the wood line behind the building.

  “What happened?” She ran forward, ran to Ethan.

  He caught her
as she threw herself into his arms.

  “Are you hurt?” she mumbled against his shoulder. He was warm. His body solid, familiar. She pressed her nose into his coat, smelling leather and sandalwood.

  Ethan didn’t answer her, but he pulled her closer, the movement clumsy. She looked up as she realized he was holding her awkwardly and with only one arm.

  She leapt back, inspecting him. “What’s wrong?” Her breath snagged and caught when she saw the ball of white fuzz in his other arm.

  “Lino!” Her knees went weak, and Ethan had to support her for a moment. “Oh, my God! What happened?”

  She snatched the puppy from Ethan’s arms, careful not to jolt his little body. Her hands moved as if independent of her will, feeling for injuries, checking for wetness, blood. Near his head, her fingers stilled on something warm and sticky.

  Oh, dear Lord. Her legs began to collapse. Then the puppy whimpered, and that was all she needed.

  Cradling Lino in her arms, she staggered toward her hospital. Lino was alive, injured but alive. She had to save him. If she could just save him, everything would be right again.

  “Francesca!” She heard Ethan’s voice calling her but didn’t stop. Lino was all that mattered. She had to save him. Reaching the hospital, she held the dog tightly against her and pushed the door open.

  The building was cold and dark. She hadn’t been there for a day or so, and though she knew Alfred or Nat had come to tend the bunny, the room seemed musty and abandoned. Setting the puppy down on her examining table, she felt for the lamp she kept on the shelf with all her supplies. Her fingers brushed over it, and, hand shaking, she lit it after the third try. Its faint light set the room aglow.

  “Francesca.”

  She spun and saw Ethan in the doorway.

  “I need this fire lit and material for extra bandages.” The words spilled out of her in a flood.

  Selbourne appeared behind him.

  “Mrs. Priggers usually supplies me with strips of old linen. Can one of you go to the house and find her? Tell her Lino’s hurt.” Her voice faltered as she said it, and she felt panic rising. She tamped it down. Lino would be all right. She’d save him. If she could just save him...