Chapter 29
Awakening to find Faith missing from his bed, Leonhardt stretched, yawned and waited for her to return from the bathroom–for where else would she be? When ten minutes passed without her emerging, he slid from the bed and padded over to the door.
Open? Puzzled, he pushed the door open farther. Not in the bathroom. Where then?
Within five minutes, he’d realized she was gone from the house. A few minutes later and he’d discovered the note, half screwed up, on the bedside table.
Slowly, he sat on the bed, feet squarely on the floor, set shoulder width apart. He stared at the note in his hands.
You don’t respect me at all.
He scanned across those words over and over. When first he’d read the note, the meaning had hit him like a sledgehammer. Now though, it all seemed gibberish. Incomprehensible. How could she just leave after all that had happened between them?
The pillow she’d lain on was at his right elbow and he picked it up, brought it to his face, inhaled. The scent of her hair, her body, remained.
“Damn.” He replaced the pillow in its correct spot and put the note on the bedside table with a statue of a pirouetting ballerina on top to hold it down.
Where would she have gone? The hotel? It seemed the most likely place. Clothes were still here. He could wait. She would send for them and once he knew where she was, he’d go to her and...somehow he’d make things right between them.
How? How could he do that? What had he done wrong? Kept her from killing herself? No. More than that, he’d ignored what she wanted. Ridden over the top and tried to stop her from doing something he knew she loved. You don’t respect me at all. Was it true? No. Of course not. He respected her a lot. Just...why in God’s name did she have to fly?
The clock was on half past eight.
No. Hell. No. He wasn’t going to sit here waiting. He threw on some clothes, leaned out the bedroom door and yelled, “Mawson!” He never shouted but if ever there was a time to do it, now seemed right.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Mawson had arrived. A little breathless, and still pulling on his black coat, but he was there.
“Sir. You yelled?”
In another life, an earlier time, he would have smiled at Mawson’s acerbic comment.
“Yes, I did. I have a problem. Miss Evard has gone missing.”
Mawson’s eyebrows twitched upward a fraction. “Sir?”
“I’m off to the Heliopolis Hotel to check there. I want you to get to the Orient Hotel and check if she’s gone there.” He rubbed his eyebrow with his finger, thinking. “Make sure you check with a Mrs. Willoughby.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll order a hansom cab.”
All excellent plans had their flaws. Within twenty minutes, he’d been at the Heliopolis Hotel and found no sign of Faith. No one had seen her. On returning home, all he could do was wait for Mawson. Chasing after him would likely mean missing each other by a hairbreadth.
So he went to the dining room, sat and ate breakfast, methodically, chewing every morsel of...whatever Helen had cooked. It tasted like stewed paper anyway.
“Very nice,” he told her, dabbing at his mouth with napkin. Where in hell was Mawson?
“Thank you, sir.” She executed a perfunctory curtsey, went to walk out the keyhole archway leading out to the hallway.
“Wait.” He looked at his hands where they lay either side of his plate.
“Yes, sir?”
“Helen.” He pressed a little harder on the tablecloth. “What do you think of Faith?” From her open-eyed look, he’d shocked her somehow. He waited.
“Sir? Um. She seemed a nice lady. A little too adventurous with all that flying business but...nice.”
A little too adventurous? “That’s all, Helen, thank you. Come back and clear the table in half an hour.”
Whatever was the world coming to if the servants, if Helen, had the same opinion, he had? Have I turned into a stick-in-the-mud? Or am I merely being sensible? Damnation. This would all have been much simpler if he’d just told her he had the engine, then stood back and told her she wasn’t flying anywhere.
He could almost hear the laughter in the back of his head then. Who was he fooling? She’d have gone and done it anyway. How was he going to fix this? How? He didn’t want to lose her. Was there a chance she hurt as much as he did? The note, her angry words, all seemed to say so.
Mawson returned while he still sat at the table like some long-forgotten statue in a tomb.
Hat in hand, uniform rumpled, Mawson looked as if he’d spent the last hour and a half riding camels to and fro.
“Sir. I enquired at the Orient and apparently Miss Evard has gone off on a picnic with Mrs. Willoughby and some other ladies. My pardon for taking so long. I did try to track them down but it seems they’ve not gone where the manager of the hotel indicated.”
“Ah. Thank you, Mawson. When do they return?” Should he go to the hotel and wait for her? No. Perhaps that would be too eager.
“Around five this evening, sir, I was told. They’ll send word when the party returns.”
“Good.” But...Faith go with Mrs. Willoughby? She’d said she abhorred chaperones. How likely was it she’d set out on a picnic then with Mrs. Willoughby? Even if upset? Not impossible, though. “Mawson, I know you’ve tried to find them but I want you to go back and try again. Find out if Jeremy is with them. His servant might have an idea as to their destination.”
“Very well, sir. I shall do that.”
Leonhardt slumped back in the chair.
There wasn’t much point in going running off like a headless chicken. Besides, the ache in his chest made it impossible to think far enough ahead to plan anything worthwhile. The air show was still on. He found himself going up the stairs, then all the way to the roof, where he sat on the divan, in the gentle warmth of the morning sun, and looked out toward the aerodrome.
He imagined he could even smell her up here. As if that were possible. The drape was back over the sawhorse. A new purple-and-green tablecloth covered the dining table...and just one glance at that was enough to bring an image to his mind of Faith lying on there. He could feel the supple softness of her skin, remember the hardness of her nipples, the arousing taste of the skin beneath her ear, the sound of her voice, her laughter.
“What have I done? What have I done?” he whispered. An idea firmed in his mind.
After ensuring Helen would contact him if any news of Faith’s whereabouts turned up, he drove to the aerodrome. The crowds were still there, milling about, drinking champagne, having picnics and pointing up at the pilots in their airplanes who dared to take off despite the fickle winds.
“Idiots,” he muttered when he saw them.
In the giant shed, Faith’s Bleriot stood on its two wheels, alone again apart from the prize Bleriot. There was someone here, at the aerodrome, who might know something.
He found Faith’s handyman, Jimmy Whitrod, out on the airfield, probing the engine of some two-winged plane. Bystanders, in their best Sunday clothes, walked about peering at everything and chattering as if they understood what they saw.
Handyman and damned efficient investigator, Jimmy Whitrod. Leonhardt strolled over and stared down at the back of the man, folded his arms and waited. Eventually, the weight of his stare must have burned into the man’s skin and Jimmy turned, scowled and straightened.
“Good day, Mr. Meisner. Something I can do for you?”
“Do you know what she’s up to?”
“Miss Evard?” He cocked his head and wiped his hands on a rag. “No. I don’t.”
Leonhardt smiled. Not a man easily intimidated, this Jimmy. He was half a foot shorter yet stood his ground. From what he knew of Faith...which was an awful lot...Jimmy would be a friend as much as an employee.
Well. Either get the man on your side, or do what you did with Faith and steamroller him.
He’d never thought himself a man who couldn’t learn from mistakes
. He put out his hand. “I think I owe you an apology, both you, and Faith. Will you help me put her Bleriot airplane back together? Then, you can either tell me to go to hell, like she has, or you can help me win her back. Your choice.”
Silence–a very long silence.
Jimmy face twitched as if he held something back, then slowly a grin spread across his face. “She told you that? To go to hell?”
“More or less.”
“Holy schmoly. Always thought she had guts.” He took Leonhardt’s hand and shook it heartily. “Right. I’ll help put the engine in, but I’ve not decided yet if you’re good enough for her.”
Leonhardt nodded. “That’s all I need to hear right now. Thank you, Jimmy. I’ll get the engine brought here, and something else I think she’ll need.”
Now all he had to do was find a way to get her to talk to him again.
Chapter 30
The floor underneath her shoulder was hard and gritty and cold. Concrete, Faith guessed. With her hands hog-tied to her ankles for such a long time, she was going numb in her fingers and feet, and her dry tongue had glued itself to the rag in her mouth. Smythe had left her with his man, Lars, and she’d not dared to move for ages.
The man had sat next to her for a while with his hand on her thigh under her dress, humming to himself and drawing circles on her skin. She had on a white dress, she remembered, distracting herself, except it likely had stains on it. Dirt, blood even, maybe. Her jaw ached from where she’d been slapped. Please, God. Let his hand stay where it is. She dreaded him moving it higher.
Then he’d stood, moved away and, from the chink of glass or china and the glug of liquid, poured himself something to drink.
Thoughts–terrible thoughts–skittered around in her head. They’d kidnapped her. Why? Only one reason had surfaced. Revenge. Somehow Smythe planned to get back at Leonhardt through her. Perhaps it would just be extortion. It had to be that. Surely it had to be.
A door slammed shut, footsteps came closer.
She poked her tongue around and at the cloth. The gag didn’t shift. The knots on the ropes behind her back were tight and immoveable. She’d tried, though. Her fingernails had snapped to ragged raw edges. If this was Smythe, if he let her talk, maybe she could convince him to let her go?
“I’m off soon, Lars. I have things to do. You can keep her under control until we need her, can’t you?” Smythe sounded calm.
She grunted, tried to prop herself up and only succeeded in banging her head on the floor. Ignoring the pain, she grunted again, as loud as she could make it.
“Hello, Faith. Cat got your tongue? You want to talk?” She felt fingers, Smythe’s, on the gag–it must be him as the breath gusting across her face didn’t smell putrid.
The gag was pulled from her mouth, scouring her tongue as it peeled away. She swallowed, moved her jaw, her lips, trying to get things right so she could talk. Only a hoarse whisper came out at first.
“Oh dear.” His finger ran along her lower lip then he sawed at the rope joining her feet to her hands, cut through it and helped her sit up. Her hands and feet were still tied, but not to each other. The ache in her shoulders burned away leaving the crackle and throb of pain. Her fingers came back to life with a surge of pins and needles. “How’s that? If you’re good, you can stay like this. But no doing anything stupid.”
“Why are you doing this?” The most important question. “Why?”
The blindfold was tugged down and she saw her captors for the first time. Smythe, of course, and Lars–the guard from outside the brothel. His blond hair was like a thin, shaggy rug, his thighs and biceps massive and he walked with a roll.
The room they were in was large but stacked with crates, and the only light came from a row of small windows up high. Dust drifted down in the lemon-yellow haze. A pigeon or two cooed up there somewhere, outside, in the open air. She licked her lips and stared at Smythe, who seemed amused by her question. The other man loomed beyond, face in shadow, big hands by his side. The gag dangled from his hands.
“Why?” Smythe put his hand to her breast and pinched her hard. She jerked away but he still held her there with finger and thumb on nipple. “Because lovely ladies like you make delightful victims when I need to show your lovers what they have done wrong.” His eyes were shiny and dark, unblinking, and he pinched even harder, flattening her nipple. She shut her eyes against the pain.
“Let me go!”
He chuckled then released her nipple and cupped her breast instead. “What? All of you? Or just this bit? You know it’s such a blessing when I get to do this. When I watch a bitch like you get beaten, I get the joy from that–which I love–and I get to trample on Leonhardt at the same time. How devastated is he going to be when he sees you out there in the desert? Of course Lars will do that last bit.”
Disbelief made everything seem wrong and... What did he mean by that?
The other man laughed–a deep, clumsy laugh that made her feel dirty on the inside.
“Of course, Lars, likes his women to stay still when he fucks them, very, very still. Don’t you Lars? He likes to bite them too. Leaves very nasty holes.”
A chill scurried through her, turning her heart and stomach into lumps of tightening ice. The murder, the body in the river...a tooth had been left in the corpse, a rotten tooth. She swung her gaze up and found Smythe looking down. She couldn’t remember, or see, his eye color, but they were dark as a graveyard at midnight. This wasn’t ordinary revenge. Tears lipped her eyelid, coursed down her cheek. This was murder.
“Yes. Understand now?” He wiped away her tears with a steady hand. “I need your sweet, naughty body to teach Leonhardt a lesson. I hate it when people think they can grind me under their boot. Just makes me...angry.”
She sucked in air to scream and he seized her jaw, stuffed something inside and gagged her again, tightly.
“No. Bad, girl, Faith. You be quiet and good.”
More tears spilled but Smythe simply shoved her away. Unable keep her balance, she fell sideways. Her elbow hit the floor, scraped along and skin ground away. More pain, her mouth was ballooned out with the cloth filling it, her nose half-clogged and air rasping through. She swallowed, choked a little and listened to the thunder of her heartbeat.
Godohgodohgod. She’d told Leonhardt she never wanted to see him again. Stupid. Stupid. How petty it seemed now. She should have talked to him, controlled her nasty, impulsive temper and talked. More tears slithered from the corner of her eye then leaked into her hair. Grit pressed on the side of her face.
“I have to go to some soiree tonight. So I’ll have my fun now.”
With that he stooped and dragged her up with a hand under her elbow. “Help me attach her to the beam up there.”
What was this? Throwing herself about from side to side only made one of them slap her face. She kept at it anyway. Being strung up from the ceiling...chills shuddered though her. A fist crumpled into her stomach.
Gasping, limp in every muscle and trying not to vomit, she felt the tugs and strains as they undid her tied hands and refastened them above her head. Her toes could just reach the ground. She blinked and stared out through a messy veil of her hair at the two of them standing silhouetted in the light. Something long trailed from Smythe’s hand and moved like a snake when he twitched his hand.
“Ever been whipped, Faith?” His voice seemed to echo.
No. No. She shook her head violently, tried again to speak through the gag. No! Her sweaty hair stuck to the skin of her inner arms and her face and neck. She scrabbled with her toes, flexed her already throbbing fingers.
“Good. I like being your first. Though, really, Leonhardt has been rather lax. This is a whip. Dangerous, bad thing.”
God. Insufferable man. He tried to scare her with talk. She’d get loose and stick it down his throat. The image cheered her and she tried to ignore his next words. Yes, gag him with the whip then throw him into the Nile for the crocodiles then–
“Hitting
on the face is not nice, don’t you agree?”
She jerked. Her eyes sprang open. God, not her face. The idea of that...
“Hmmm never mind, I like seeing your pretty face all teary-eyed and screaming past the gag. I won’t touch it.”
She fell silent inside her head. The whip lazily slithered on the floor. His wrist must have moved but she didn’t see it, only the whip held her gaze like a cobra about to strike.
“Not supposed to hit the kidneys either–at the back. You know what, though?” Slowly he stalked around her, keeping his distance, until he disappeared out of her sight behind her. “I think I’ll have a little go there. Lars take off her dress. I want her naked.”
She swallowed and glared at Lars. It did her no good at all. With a vast grin, Lars advanced with a little knife in hand then cut and tore from the neck of her dress downward, then did the same with her light corset and underclothes. Her skin felt torn as well where straps had caught and wedged before ripping.
She swung in a small circle on the rope holding her arms above–the ache in her shoulders and wrists sent shafts of pain tunneling into her body. Nonononooo. She’d always thought she was brave but bravery only went so far. She felt as though the first hit would break her into a million pieces, her skin cringed, waiting...waiting...
“Worried a little, Faith? Good. Good. I like that too. You know, a master of the whip can do anything–from butterfly kisses to strokes that rip the muscles from your bones. I’ll let you decide which this will be.”
His words panicked her. Did he mean to–
The whip hit. Straight across her spine, under her rib cage, lacing her with a line of pure agony. She couldn’t breathe. In quick succession, he layered her back with five more strokes. Strokes that seemed to pour the fire and brimstone of Hades into her skin. She bit the gag and gasped and spun on the rope, and the whip kept coming at her. No way to dodge. Her toes ached though, as she tried. Nothing to do except take what he gave her and scream into the gag.
Rough Surrender Page 21