by Sharon Page
“That idiot Taylor bruised you quite badly.” Fingers stroked along her cheek, and she shuddered. Her cousin prodded a tender place on her face, and she gasped.
“Painful, is it? What hell you’ve endured because you rejected me, because your mother refused to make you my bride.” Her cousin’s fingers were as elegant as Devon’s, but the way he touched her—it was awful. It was as if he enjoyed the bruise on her cheek.
“I—I was fifteen when we left,” she croaked. “You—you frightened me.” Whatever Mick had given her to knock her senseless still fogged her thoughts. She sounded like the girl who had cried helplessly after her cousin forced her to sit on his lap and touched her in a way that made her skin crawl. The girl who had frozen in shock after she threw her chamber pot at him and knew he would take his revenge. The old sense of being afraid and trapped washed over her.
It was a feeling that stole her strength. It paralyzed her. She remembered it from when she had first been in Madame’s brothel. She’d never before equated it with how she’d reacted to Sebastian’s attentions. Was this why she hadn’t been able to find the courage to escape Madame—because the old emotions she’d felt with Sebastian had taken control?
Memories she had pushed far back suddenly rushed out as if a dam had burst. Threats. When she was very little, Sebastian had threatened her. He’d destroyed her favorite doll to make her let him kiss her. He’d threatened to break another toy if she told. When Father died and Sebastian ruled their house, he’d threatened to hurt her mother, to send her mother away, if she didn’t let him touch her breasts. She had given in—to protect her mother. It happened only once, but after that he had come into her bedroom and climbed on top of her, and she’d felt … as if she’d given him encouragement by letting him touch her. Then Mama had taken her from the house.
Images swamped her like rushing water, threatening to drag her down into dark depths, into madness, just as Devon had feared his memories could do to him.
She understood what Devon had to endure when the battle memories took control of him. He’d confronted his worst nightmare when they’d rescued Thomas: the choice of having to hurt a child to save a life. If he could face that, she could face her fears now.
She forced courage into her voice. “What do you want?” Mick had said Sebastian wanted her to be his mistress, but to tie her up like this, he must have accepted she would never willingly let him into her bed. “Are—are you going to rape me?”
As though strolling in a park, Sebastian walked slowly around her. As his boots moved, she craned her head and tried to see. Her head felt less dazed, her eyes accustomed to the shadows. Where was she? Not in his house. The floor was rough plank, the walls had broken plaster, and a musty smell filled her lungs. This looked like an empty warehouse, but a moth-eaten mattress lay in one corner.
“Rape you?” His voice was harsh, mocking. The mere sound made her freeze—then she squirmed on the floor, so she wouldn’t become paralyzed. Something stabbed into her thumb. A splinter. The sharp prick of pain made her think … and gave her a spurt of hope. Sebastian couldn’t see what she did behind her back. She began to slowly stroke the twine binding her wrists against the splintered floorboard.
His boots came close to her face and she had to stop moving. She looked up, meeting her cousin’s cold blue eyes as he glared down at her. This was the first time in seven years that she’d seen Sebastian. Once he’d been handsome, with his muscular form, golden hair, bright blue eyes, charming smile. After she had seen the monster in him, though, that was all she could see.
Over the years, the monster appeared to be getting out. Muscle was turning to fat. His coat strained at his waist. Lines creased his forehead, framed his mouth. His jaw had gone soft.
He crouched near her. A sneer distorted his face. “After all those men had you in that brothel? March may be willing to plow another man’s leavings, but I am not. How could you still be so lovely, Anne, after what you’ve become?”
He hated her. He had been the one to try to attack her, yet he hated her. It was … mad. Utterly mad.
Why had he brought her here and tied her up? For what purpose if he didn’t want her? She tried for reason. “You don’t want me, so let me go. You’ll never have to see me again.”
“I am sorry, Anne, but I cannot do that.” He turned and began to stride away.
“What are you doing? Let me go!”
But he picked up the candle, and his boots slapped against creaking boards. She forced her body to roll so she could see him. Was he leaving her here to starve slowly? “Sebastian! This is madness. I’ve done nothing to you.”
“Nothing? You put me through hell, Anne Beddington—or should I say Annie Black, as they called you in that filthy brothel. Annie.” He shuddered with distaste over her name, for heaven’s sake. “I went to a great deal of trouble to find you. I had to search for years, combing through these disgusting slums. I had to negotiate with a whoring madam for you. I had to dirty my hands over you in so many ways, you little tart. Why would I let you go now, when I am so close to having exactly what I want?”
Dear God, he had admitted to her that he was going to buy her from Madame. But if he had killed Madame for her, why was he leaving her like this now? Was there no appeal she could make to a complete madman? “You could let me go because you are human.”
No response came, only the sound of his boots moving farther away. A door groaned on its hinges and the glow of light grew fainter. If he had killed a woman over her, he was not human. She should let him go. She would rely on herself.
The door slammed and she was plunged into blackness. Immediately, fears sprang to life. Buildings in the stews were filled with rats. She hated this, hated being blind. But Devon had survived being blind. He had learned to cope with it, and she had helped him do it. Surely she could keep her wits in her head and help herself now.
Groping with her fingers, Anne found the broken board again. This time, she sawed her bonds ferociously against it.
Faintly, over her panting breath, she heard glass break. She strained to listen, but as seconds ticked by she wondered if it had been her imagination. Then she did detect a sound—a strange roar. An acrid smell floated to her, one that seeped into her lungs and made her cough.
She’d lived in the country. She knew what happened in dry summers when lightning struck or a cooking fire got out of hand. She knew the smell, the sound. The building was on fire.
How? Why? She let her head fall back to the floor. For some mad reason, her breaths came even faster, as though she was eager to suck in smoke. She had to calm down. She couldn’t panic, but that was easy to say and very difficult to do.
Once, the stables at a nearby house to Longsworth had gone up on a hot August night. Flames had reached so high they seemed to lick at the moon. She would never forget how fast the fire had moved, how unstoppable it seemed, how viciously it consumed everything in its path.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. Sebastian had done this. He didn’t want to make her his mistress anymore; he wanted to burn her alive. Could he hate her so much? For the chamber pot and refusing to marry him? For ending up in a brothel?
Hysterical laughter bubbled up. Was her cousin really going to punish her—murder her—as retribution for her ending up in the place that had ruined her life and her future, that had almost stolen away all her hope and her strength? Her wits were all tangled up, but one emotion pounded above all others: She was furious. Did Sebastian think she’d happily chosen to go to Madame? Did he think she’d done it because she was wanton?
Who was he to pass judgment on her? She was not going to die in his trap. She was going to get out—then find him, denounce him to Bow Street, and watch him pay for every wicked thing he’d done.
Fury renewed strength, and she dragged the rope along the board. Her gloves shredded to pieces, and splinters ripped into her skin. Her shoulders screamed in pain. She pulled so hard along the board, she cut the back of her hand. Pain stung, but th
e rope broke. Thank heaven … but her wrists were so sore, her hands so numb, it took precious moments to unwind the rope.
The smell of smoke was growing stronger. There was a strange sound, like water rushing, but it must be flames eating up the wooden building. She tore at the knot binding her ankles. It was infuriatingly tight. She twisted a large splinter until it broke from the board, then she sawed frantically until the cord finally frayed and snapped.
Her legs wobbled as she stood. Her feet were numb from being bound. It was so dark, she couldn’t quite tell which way was up, and she almost lost her balance. She sucked in smoky air, coughing. The smell was so strong, the sounds so loud, the fire must be close.
Sebastian would have wanted to set it near her if he wanted to kill her. The hallway beyond the door could be filled with flame. Oh, God. Was there another way out of the room? Windows? What had she seen in this room when there was light? There had been boards on the wall across from her—they must be boarded-up windows.
Which way were they now? She tentatively moved forward. She had to go faster, but it was so hard when she couldn’t see. How did Devon ever get used to this? His courage amazed her.
She ran forward blindly. She slammed into the wall and felt along until she reached the jagged edge of a board. Curling her fingers around it, she pulled, but the board was nailed in place. Feeling along the wall, she tried all the windows. Hope vanished. Each board held fast.
A dark void separated her from the door, but she thought of how confidently Devon had learned to move. She ran across the floor, made it safely to the other wall, and groped. At least Sebastian hadn’t locked the door. The knob wasn’t hot—that had to be a good sign. She tore it open and rushed out to a long corridor. Light spilled in at the end of the hall—it must mean there was an uncovered window. She ran in that direction.
Suddenly there was a roar at the end of the hall, and a rush of hot air pushed her back. She dropped to the ground as smoke billowed over her. She kept her cheek pressed to the floor. Dear God. Slowly, she looked up.
Ahead, down the corridor, flames licked at exposed boards on the ceiling and the floor. The plaster walls rippled eerily. She got to her feet, yanked up her hems, and tore down the hallway away from the fire, but as she turned a corner, she stopped. More flames rushed up the walls ahead. Sebastian must have set two fires, trapping her between.
Sebastian was not going to win! There had to be a way out—
A black shape came running through the fire, wings flapping at its sides. She must be losing her mind, or the smoke was stealing her wits. No, it truly was a man running toward her, and he held a blanket over his head. The fire behind him illuminated him, but she couldn’t see his face. Sebastian? He wouldn’t come back. Mick?
The blanket swept down and she drank in dark hair, a handsome face streaked with soot, a face she loved but couldn’t believe she was seeing. Perhaps she’d fainted and was dreaming—
“Anne!” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed. It was Devon. It really was. He ran to her and wrapped the blanket around her. Wet wool slapped against her. He had soaked the blanket to keep the flames off them. He cupped her cheeks and gave her one mad kiss. Then he grasped her by the wrist and began to drag her with him. “I got in through a window. Hopefully the fire hasn’t blocked our way back.”
She was weak with relief and whispered, “How did you find me?”
“Yesterday I instructed my investigator to go to the house party Norbrook was attending. But your cousin left this morning—”
“He came back to kill me,” she croaked. “But how did you—” She coughed helplessly. How had Devon known to find her here?
He held her tighter. “Wynter followed Norbrook here, then sent his lad with a message for me. I’d just learned you hadn’t returned home. When I got here, Norbrook had already escaped in his carriage. Wynter rode off to pursue him—we thought he had you with him. But then I spotted a prostitute on the street corner. She said she saw a red-haired woman—you—sneak into the warehouse this morning. So I came in.”
“I—I didn’t. Mick caught me, knocked me out. I woke up here—”
“Shh. I know. Norbrook paid her to lie and say you came alone. Right now we have to get out of here. Then I will deal with your cousin.”
Smoke billowed in the corridor, and Anne’s eyes were stinging so badly, she couldn’t see. She held on to Devon and let him lead her. She trusted him completely. In her life, she’d known only three men she could believe in: her father, her grandfather, and Devon.
A thundering crash behind them made her scream.
“Part of the roof must have collapsed,” Devon growled.
The entire building would come down at any minute. They would be trapped and fire would consume them. “You’re going to die because of me. I’m so—”
He shook her gently, then grasped her wrist tightly and tugged her to start her running. “No, angel, I’m going to get us out of this alive. I didn’t survive war to let both of us die here.”
He had to move—this end of the building was creaking and shuddering above them, and Devon was getting dizzy from lack of air. Anne couldn’t speak anymore, and she stumbled as he pulled her along. He was blind in the smoke and dark, but he’d lived like this for weeks. He didn’t need his sight to find his way back through the winding corridors. He would not let Anne die. He’d lost his sight, almost lost his life, lost his soul—he believed—in battle. He’d lost Rosalind and his father. But losing Anne was the one thing he knew he couldn’t face. The one thing he couldn’t survive.
After he’d talked to the prostitute, he knew Anne was still inside—the woman had seen only Norbrook come out. Devon had sprinted around the building and found a window that wasn’t boarded. He broke it and climbed in. He had to reach it now. He’d never been so hot in his life. The flames, the explosions, the blinding ash and smoke were like a battlefield. He’d thought charging into combat was like running into hell. He’d been wrong. He’d never run into cannon fire and flaying bayonets while dragging an innocent woman with him. This, here, now—this was hell.
Above them, the building gave another deadly shudder. Anne fell, her legs collapsing beneath her, and he caught her. She was limp, so he tossed her over his shoulder, clamped his hand to her rump. She had to be all right.
Crash!
An enormous piece of the ceiling thundered down behind him. The heat of the flames was scorching. He knew he was only a few yards from the window, and the licking fire threw light ahead of him. He had no air left in his lungs, but he sprinted forward. There. The window. He had to get Anne out. Saving her was all that mattered.
Gently, he set Anne on the sill. Her eyes were open and she struggled to speak but coughed instead. Then her eyes widened with horror at the exact instant he heard a groan behind him. He twisted to look. The fire illuminated a man in the doorway, dragging himself along the floor, clutching his gut. The eerie red light gleamed on his bald head.
Anne was trying to move off the sill, and he knew she intended to risk her life to help Mick Taylor.
“You first,” he breathed against her ear. “I’ll get him, and bring him out. I want you to run away from the building, love. I’ll come after you. But just in case I can’t get out, you have to get away before the building collapses.”
“No—” she began, but he lowered her out the window, then gave her a push so she had to stumble away from the warehouse. The structure gave a long, agonized creak. “Run, Anne,” he shouted. She did, moving clumsily. He hurried to Taylor, who had collapsed. Dark liquid covered the man’s hand—blood. It was leaking from his stomach onto the floorboards. Taylor had been shot. He must have seen them and pulled himself after them, hoping for rescue.
As swiftly as he could, Devon turned the man over. He saw the eyes—wide open and blank. Without hope, he searched for a pulse to make certain. There was none. Taylor was dead and there was no point in dragging him out. Devon raced to the window and grasped the frame to jump out,
when the building made a sound like a scream. Flame and wood rained down on him, and a great weight slammed him hard between his shoulders, knocking him to the floor.
Chapter Twenty-four
EVON. ANNE HAD turned back, had seen him in the window, then there was an awful roar and the wall of the building fell in. Dust and smoke flew at her face, blinding her. It billowed up, hiding everything. Was he buried? Crushed? She could barely breathe through her scorched throat, but she didn’t care. Dizziness swamped her, from lack of air, from fear, but she stumbled back toward the pile of ash and flames. She had to get Devon out. People surrounded her—a fire in the stews attracted hordes. She pushed through the crowd to get closer to the building, then someone grasped her shoulders and pulled her away.
“Keep back, miss,” barked a male voice.
It was a stranger. She fought his grip. “No. Devon … I must get him—”
“Look!” shouted someone else. “A man’s coming out of the smoke! How’d he survive that?”
Tears streamed down her face. They hurt her cheeks—her skin must have been singed. She broke free of the hands restraining her and ran forward. Her legs wobbled, but then Devon was there. His strong arms hauled her against his chest, and she breathed in the scents of him and smoke and sweat. Her tears of relief swiftly soaked his shirt. “I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you.”
“Never.” Devon scooped her up and carried her away from the raging fire. Bells clanged. Now that she knew Devon was safe, she really saw everything around her. Men raced with buckets, working to put out the blaze. A man rushed out of a neighboring building, and he was propelling a terrified woman who held a baby. Anne shuddered in horror. This is what her cousin had caused. She’d always known he could be cruel, but she’d never imagined he was so evil. “Sebastian,” she croaked. “I have to stop him.”
“Shh.” Devon had every intention of destroying her damned cousin. First, he wanted to ensure Anne was safe. He carried her to his carriage and laid her down on a seat.