Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Sarah thought she was going to vomit. She bit her lower lip.

  “Richard, your cousin is not powerless. He has many friends, in both high and low places. See how easily he got rid of Dunlap? I’m quite certain he would kill us or have us killed if we injure his wife in any way.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.” Richard was silent for a few minutes. “Maybe I’ll have her myself.”

  Philip grunted.

  Sarah thought quickly. Her hands and feet weren’t tied. If she could get the bag off her head, she could shake off the cloak and run when the coach stopped. The carriage was slowing. She readied herself to take advantage of any opportunity.

  “I don’t think so.” The words were whispered in her ear as Richard’s arms came around her. She twisted and he tightened his grasp, making breathing difficult.

  She heard the carriage door open and smelled the familiar stench of the docks. Rough hands grabbed her and dragged her out of the coach. Someone hefted her over his shoulder and carried her through a narrow door. Here she smelled smoke and ale. She heard the low drone of male voices, punctuated by curses, the scrape of chairs, the clink of heavy glass mugs.

  She struggled, and the man carrying her tightened his hold, grinding her stomach against the point of his shoulder. He started up a flight of steep, winding stairs. He wasn’t careful with his burden. Sarah had her head knocked against the wall twice before she was carried into a room and dumped onto a soft surface. She heard the sound of booted feet retreating and the scrape of a key in a lock.

  She lay still for a moment, listening. She heard nightmarish noises: deep, drunken voices; the rhythmic squeaking of a cheap bed; a woman screaming; and somewhere, thin, hysterical crying. But all the horrible noises were muffled, like they were being heard through doors and walls. She shrugged off the cloak and lifted the bag off of her head.

  She was alone in the most garish room she had ever seen. Everything was blood red—the walls, the draperies, the bed she was on.

  She leapt up. She didn’t want to have anything to do with a bed in this place. She tried the door. Locked, as she had anticipated. Maybe she could escape through the window. She pushed the heavy draperies aside. She had expected to see thick, iron bars, but the window was clear. It even opened easily. She leaned out and looked down into blackness. There was enough moonlight to see the oily glint of the Thames far below. Only a bird could escape this way.

  She turned back to the room. She made a careful circuit, looking for anything that might help her escape. It was an educational, if nauseating, tour. The paintings on the wall, which she had taken for still lifes and pastorals were, on further inspection, pornographic in the extreme. There were peepholes in the wall across from the window—fortunately all closed at the moment—and broken handcuffs on a table. She found a chamber pot under the bed and picked it up, hoping she might have another opportunity to hit someone over the head.

  She studied the red drapes. They certainly were ugly. She tore one down and dropped an end over the window sill. Maybe someone would see it and wonder why a red curtain was hanging down the side of the building. Maybe James would see it.

  How long would it be before he came? Would he come? She could not rely on it. Something must have gone wrong.

  She eyed the bed. No, she couldn’t stomach it—she would sit on the floor. There were probably bugs in both locations, but the floor’s fauna seemed more appealing than whatever might be lurking in the bedding. She spread out the cloak, sat down with the chamber pot by her side, and tried to formulate a plan.

  James held on to one gray’s head. Charles had taken charge of the other. The drunken idiots in the curricle were useless. At least the hackney horse stood still. It was too stupid to bolt.

  “Daisy!”

  James looked over his shoulder to see Rufus and Robbie running toward the melee. Rufus reached for the old horse’s bridle and started whispering in her ear.

  “Need a hand?” Robbie asked.

  James nodded. “How did you find us?”

  “Ran into Lord Dervin, or is it Devin? You know—the old soldier with the bald pate and hairy ears?”

  “Lord Dearvon.”

  “Right. Saw him just after you left. He said he’d see the ladies home, so I hurried after you. Got to the street just as you pulled away. Rufus and I—I don’t think Rufus really trusted you with Daisy—grabbed another hackney and trailed you.”

  “Good. See if you can get those two in the curricle—who are they, anyway?”

  Robbie looked over. “Viscount Wycomb and the Honorable Felix Muddleridge.”

  “Oh, God. I should have known. Get them to take charge of these cattle, will you?”

  Robbie pulled the two drunken men out of the curricle. The drab who had called to James obliged by bringing over a large bucket of liquid which Robbie dumped over the gentlemen’s heads. It was sufficiently cold or noxious to shock them out of their alcoholic stupor.

  “I say,” Wycomb sputtered. “What the hell are you doing, Westbrooke?”

  “He’s waking you up,” James said. “Come take charge of your horses.”

  Wycomb peered at James. “Alvord, is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. You ran me down with your cow-handed driving.”

  “Sorry. In my altitudes, I’m afraid.”

  “I’d say so. Take this horse and have Muddleridge take the other.”

  “Well…” Wycomb scratched his head.

  “Now, Wycomb.”

  The man finally moved. James dropped his hold on the gray.

  “Rufus, I’ll leave you with Daisy. We’re taking the other hackney. Tell Parks…” James raked his hand through his hair and looked at Robbie and Charles. “Any suggestions as to where Richard might be taking Sarah?”

  “How about the Rutting Stallion?” Robbie said. “It’s in this direction.”

  “As are most of the brothels of London.” James closed his eyes. God, he wished he had something to go on. Sarah could be anywhere. Every second counted. If he guessed wrong, Sarah paid a horrible price.

  “Let’s try the Rutting Stallion.”

  James prayed he had guessed right.

  Chapter 18

  The doorknob rattled. Sarah grabbed the chamber pot and leapt up, ready to smash it over Richard’s head.

  “Duchess,” Richard said from the hall. Malice dripped from his voice. “So kind of you to greet me.” He lunged, grabbing her wrists and twisting them down. “You’re not going to play the same trick on me that you did on Dunlap.”

  Sarah struggled to free herself, but Richard’s hands were like manacles. He squeezed tighter, and she gasped in pain, certain her bones would splinter from the pressure. Her fingers opened, and the chamber pot shattered on the floor. Richard kicked the shards out of the way and slammed the door shut behind him with his foot. He smiled.

  “So here we are, Duchess, just you and I. I wonder how we shall pass the time.” He jerked her up against his body.

  Sarah swallowed, trying to clear the roaring from her ears. She could see the pores of Richard’s skin, the stubble of his beard. She breathed in his stench, the musty smell of oily hair, dirty linen, and dried sweat. She tried to pull back, but his hands trapped her body against his.

  “I have an idea. This is a bedchamber.” He twisted her arms behind her back, gripping both her wrists in one hand. He grabbed her chin and forced her to face the bed with its gaudy red sheets. “Why don’t you show me the games James likes to play? I imagine you’ve taught my little cousin quite a few tricks.”

  “No.”

  Richard jerked her hands up and a sharp pain shot between her shoulders. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.

  “Does that hurt?” He laughed. “It’s nothing compared to what you’ll feel in a moment.” He dragged her to the bed.

  “Don’t do this. You don’t want me.”

  “Of course I don’t want you, you red-haired whore. This isn’t about wanting.” He thrust her back up against a bedp
ost, holding her still with his body. “Not that kind of wanting, at least.”

  He pulled the remaining pins from her hair, and ran his dirty fingers through it. “Does James spread your whore-red hair over his pillow when he rides you, Duchess? Or does he like it feathering his chest while you ride him? Does he wrap his hands in it like this?”

  He twisted his hands roughly in her hair, pulling it so tight she was sure it would come out from its roots. She grabbed his wrists.

  “Let me go.”

  “Oh, no.” His eyes moved from her hair to her throat. “I’ve waited too long for this day.” He yanked her hair, forcing her chin up. “I bet your fair skin bruises nicely, Duchess.” He put his mouth on her neck, just under her jaw line, and sucked hard on the tender skin there. Sarah tried to lean away from him. He laughed and bit her. She felt a bead of blood trickle down to her collarbone.

  “That’s my first mark, Duchess—the first of many.”

  “Stop. Please stop.”

  “No, I won’t stop. I won’t stop until I am finished.” He yanked her hair again, causing her eyes to tear. “Do you know what my very first memory is, Duchess? The image I most remember from my childhood? It’s my father thrashing me in his study. I was only four years old. He birched me on my bare ass. And do you know why?”

  Richard paused, clearly expecting a response.

  “No,” Sarah whispered. He had her head bent back so far her neck and shoulders ached.

  “He birched me because I’d pushed my snotty little cousin down and made him cry. ‘James is the Marquis of Walthingham,’ he said, ‘and will be the Duke of Alvord. A peer of the realm.’ God. He should have been the duke, but he didn’t have the guts to challenge his brother and take the wealth and position that were rightfully his. He didn’t want them. He was happy with his dusty old books and smelly dogs. He didn’t care that he was giving away my birthright as well.”

  Richard loosened his grip and Sarah straightened slightly. Would he get so caught up in his story she could escape?

  “At Cambridge, there was a girl I wanted, but the only way I could get her into my bed was to promise her James. You should have heard the bloody bitch. Even when I was screwing her, all she talked about was him—his shoulders, his legs, his goddamned ass. Well, she never made it to James’s bed. I broke her neck and dumped her in the river.”

  Sarah straightened a little more. She could see the door. It wasn’t that far away. If she could knee Richard as she had Dunlap…

  He was holding her too tightly.

  “So no, I’m not going to stop, not now that I have revenge in my hands. I’m going to enjoy every minute of this night. When I rape you, I’ll be raping James. When I drag your skinny body downstairs and watch thirty lusty fellows take their turns with you, it’ll be James’s face I’ll see.”

  “James will kill you.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he’s going to have an accident. It’s very rough on the wharves, you know. Or perhaps he’ll be so maddened to find your bloody body covered by seamen—do pardon the pun—he’ll take his own life.”

  “No!” Sarah shoved at his chest and tried to jerk her knee up. He blocked her easily.

  He laughed. “You have only yourself to blame, Duchess. I tried to discourage you from marrying James, but you were blinded by lust. This is where your lust has led you.”

  He flung her onto the bed. She scrambled for the other side, but he came down on top of her, pressing her into the mattress. She bucked and thrashed, but she could not move his weight. She clawed at his eyes, but he batted her hands away as if they were no more than irritating flies at a summer party.

  “Yes, Duchess, fight me. I love it when you bitches fight. It’s so much more fun.”

  Sarah heard the excitement in his voice. She felt his erection digging into her thigh. He leaned up on his elbows, pinning her to the bed with his body, and pulled a length of rope from his pocket.

  “Silk would be kinder on your delicate flesh, Duchess, but I suspect raw wrists will be the least of your pains come morning.”

  He tied her hands to the bedposts and then straddled her, running the tip of his index finger slowly along the low neck of her ball gown.

  “Tell me about your husband, Duchess. Is James all that is proper in bed? Does he fumble your skinny body with the candles snuffed and your nightgown buttoned up to your chin?”

  Sarah swallowed her terror. “Let me go, Richard. I’m sure we can work something out if you let me go. James is a reasonable man.”

  “Is he?” His finger dipped lower, tracing the swells of her breasts. “I doubt he is reasonable about you. And I don’t want reason, I want passion. Passion and pain. James stole what is mine, now I have what is his. I want him to feel what I have felt all these years.”

  His fingers curved under the delicate fabric of her dress and pulled hard, ripping it to her waist. He stared at her breasts. She tried to move her arms to cover herself, but the rope just cut deeper into her flesh.

  He ran his filthy fingers all over her skin, molding her flesh, touching her nipples. She closed her eyes to shut him out.

  “Look at me, Duchess.”

  Sarah shook her head, turning her face away.

  “Do not defy me, bitch.” He slapped her hard. She tasted blood. “Look at me.”

  “No.” If he hit her hard enough, she would be free. Oblivion offered her the only escape from this nightmare.

  Richard might well have read her mind.

  “I’m an expert at this game, Duchess.” He squeezed her breasts hard. She gasped. Hot tears ran from the corners of her eyes to trickle over her ears. “I will give you more pain than you have ever known, but not quite enough to give you peace.”

  He laughed and slid down her body. She tried to kick him, but she was hampered by her skirts and his weight. He spread her legs wide, tying her ankles to the posts at the foot of the bed.

  “And now I shall see where the Monk has worshiped.” He took out his dagger and slit her skirts, ripping them up to her waist.

  Philip Gadner sat in the shadows of the common room and took another swallow of ale. God, he hated this place. He looked over at a nearby table. Alf and Scruggs each had a tankard and a whore to entertain them. They’d been willing to stay till this was finished. They wanted a chance to rearrange James’s face in payment for the beating they’d taken from him outside the Spotted Dog when they’d still been working for Dunlap.

  Richard needed to send that letter. One would think he could keep his breeches buttoned long enough to get that single task done, but no, a little blond whore with big tits had caught his eye. He was upstairs now, plowing the piece. Philip hadn’t complained too much. It was better than having him plow the Duchess of Alvord.

  He leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. Surely Richard was done now. He never took very long with women. Philip glanced over at the stairs. Yes, there was the whore now—with a big, beefy sailor following her, a broad smile of satisfaction on his ugly face.

  Damn! Philip surged to his feet. Where the hell was Richard?

  James, Robbie, and Charles left the hackney with a sailor lounging by the waterfront.

  “James.” Charles pointed at the Rutting Stallion. “Look, there, over the river.”

  “I see it.” A red length of fabric fluttered from a window. James counted. “Third floor, end room.”

  “Do you think that’s where Sarah is?” Robbie asked.

  “I hope so.” James pushed open the door.

  “You!” The madam recognized James and Robbie from their earlier visit. She was not pleased to see them.

  There was a roar from a nearby table. James looked up to see Dunlap’s thugs spilling women and ale on the floor in their rush to get to his throat. He also saw Philip Gadner’s shocked face. There was no sign of Richard.

  “Robbie, Charles, I leave you to entertain our friends.” He nodded at the two men bearing down on them. Philip had not moved. “I have to find Sarah.”r />
  “Go, James,” Charles said. “We’ll be along shortly.”

  James took the stairs two at a time.

  Sarah had never felt so exposed or so humiliated.

  “Look at me.” The sharp edge of Richard’s dagger pricked the underside of her breast. “I want you to see who it is between your legs. I want you to know whose seed will be planted in your belly.”

  She felt the dagger scrape across her stomach and down to the curls at the apex of her legs. She tried to flex her knees to shut him out, but the rope was tied too tightly. She felt him touch her, felt his dirty fingers pry her open, and then pain shot into her belly as he thrust one finger inside her. A hot tide of shame surged over her. She swallowed tears and opened her eyes. Richard looked back at her. There was no mercy in his cold, blue gaze.

  “Still young and fresh, Duchess,” he said, running his free hand over her. “Sweet. And tight. So tight. A treat for me—and the first few of the men downstairs who will have you. By tomorrow morning, you’ll be as loose as the oldest, cheapest slut in the London stews.”

  He withdrew his hand to fumble with his breeches.

  The door slammed hard against the wall before Richard had worked the first button loose. He whirled to face James striding over the threshold.

  “Richard!”

  Sarah saw the shock and pain in James’s eyes just before she felt Richard’s knife at the entrance to her womb.

  “Come a step closer, James, and you’ll see my blade buried in your whore.”

  James froze. “What do you want, Richard?” His voice was calm, but Sarah saw how intently he watched his cousin. This was not the inn yard at the Green Man. They both knew that this time Richard would not back down.

  “Too bad you arrived so early, James. I was just about to enjoy your whore.” Richard ran his left hand over Sarah’s leg. “Shall I continue? Perhaps you would like to watch? You might learn something.”