by Megan Daniel
She was just about to rise when a strong, masculine, and perfectly recognizable hand, with a heavy gold signet ring, reached out for the decanter. She heard the chink of glass on glass again, and the hand returned the decanter to the table.
Roxanna Gordon’s triumphant smile now wholly claimed her face. She was chuckling softly as she made her way back to her room.
After the second brandy in as many minutes, Devlin’s melancholy began to turn to anger. Damn the chit!—and he was not thinking of Miss Pennington—for invading his mind so strongly. What the devil did he care, anyway, whom she married? Or whom she spent the night with, for that matter. There were plenty of pretty women in the world who were not loath to spend the night with him. Roxanna Gordon had proved the point this very evening with her unsubtle invitation.
He could still take her up on that invitation. And why not, after all? No woman had a claim on him. Not yet.
He downed a last large brandy, picked up the decanter, and headed out the door. This time he did not think to tiptoe. He did not pause outside Francesca’s door, but went straight to Roxanna’s and knocked lightly.
It opened almost at once—almost as though she had been expecting him, he thought—and she beckoned him silently in with her most sultry of smiles.
15
When Francesca’s mind began to swim slowly into wakefulness, she wondered idly why it was grown so cold in her room. It must be very early still. Obviously Rose had not been up to light the fire yet. She turned over and started to snuggle down under the covers. Her head felt heavy; she would just sleep a bit longer.
But how had her smooth lined sheets come to feel so rough? And what was that odd, pungent smell?
She opened her eyes, but the room was dark. Through the windows moonlight showed through a small crack. But they were not her windows. Something was terribly wrong.
She sat up with a start, now fully awake. She even shook her head to make certain she was not dreaming. She could feel quite clearly now that she was lying on a pile of straw, a rough woolen blanket tossed carelessly over her. She still wore her nightdress; her lace nightcap was still tied beneath her chin.
She could make out a little more of the room as she came more fully awake. That bit of moonlight was filtering in through a small crack between boards carelessly nailed over the window's. In one comer of the room stood a tiny iron stove with the remains of a fire glowing inside. It added no light and very little heat to the place.
“Morning,” came a deep masculine voice from a dark comer near the stove.
She jumped at the sound and forced her eyes to seek out its source. Jerry Parsons emerged from the gloom, a wide smile flashing in his dark face, to stand beside her makeshift bed. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Now, you don’t think I’m like to tell you that, do you, love? Leastways, not the whole of it. Just call me Jerry.” He sketched her an elaborate bow, grinning all the while. “At your service, ma’am.”
This was insane, thought Francesca. The last thing she remembered was snuffing out her candle and burrowing under Sarah’s fine sheets.
“Where am I?” she asked. She was beginning to feel very much afraid.
“Why, you be right here, love. Where’d you think?” He grinned even more.
She stared back at his smiling face, then realized he was shirtless. She became acutely aware of her own state of undress. She must try to make some sense of this. But her head was so fuzzy, like it was stuffed with cotton wool. She shivered from the cold, or something else, and pulled the rough blanket closer about her. What have you done to me?” she asked, frightened of what his answer might be.
“Why, nothing, love. Not yet, anyway. Never did fancy messing with a sleeping woman. Where’s the fun in that?” He picked up a lantern from the floor and lighted it at the stove. The beam fell on his face; his expression made her more afraid. “Let’s have a look at you, then,” he said, and plucked the blanket from her hands. Her instinct was to grab for it, to scramble after it. But her innate dignity would not let her show her dismay so clearly before him. She sat up very straight and gave him back look for look. He laughed. “Spirit,” he said almost to himself. “Good.”
“How did I get here?” she demanded, going onto the offensive to keep herself from collapsing into tears.
“I carried you.”
“But how could you do that and not awaken me?”
“You wasn’t meant to wake.” She digested this information a moment, but he spoke again before she could make sense of it. “It’s simple, love. You been kidnapped.”
The shock of the words cleared her mind all at once. Quite rationally, she thought: Ah, yes, I have been kidnapped. How obvious. Oh, dear.
Jerry walked back to the little stove. He had somehow managed to coax enough heat from it to boil water in a kettle. “Tea?” he asked pleasantly enough as he threw a handful of leaves into the boiling water.
“Oh, yes. please,” she answered quickly. She could scarce feel her fingers, so numb with cold were they. But wait! What had he said? She was not meant to awaken. Why, she must have been drugged! But why ... who ...? “No!” she corrected. She would not be so duped again.
“Oh, it’s all right,” he said with a laugh, as though he could read her thoughts. “Nothing in it.” He poured the dark brew into a pair of chipped mugs. He sipped from one of them. “See?” then he handed it to her. “Don’t want you asleep no more.” She took the mug and gratefully wrapped her icy fingers around it “Like I said, what’s the fun in that?”
His black eyes were glittering over the white smile. She imagined he must look exactly like a Bedouin chief who has just successfully completed a bargain for a white slave. Trembling, she gulped at the tea. She must keep her presence of mind.
He came and sat beside her, very close beside her. Before she knew what he was doing, he had untied her lace nightcap and pulled it from her head. “Stop that!” she cried, a mixture of fright and indignation in her voice. She batted him away, spilling some of the scalding tea onto her hand. “Now see what you have done!” An ugly red welt rose where the tea had hit, and she raised it to her mouth to cool it.
Her hair was braided thickly in a single plait down her back. Her movement made it fall forward over one
shoulder. He reached up and touched it, causing her to pull away. He just laughed. “Never could make out why you women have to tie your hair up in knots and cover it up at night. Bet that’s something when it’s hanging down your back.”
His voice had lowered. Francesca grew alarmed. He said he had done nothing to her. Not yet His intention of doing that something now was growing alarmingly clear.
She jumped up and walked to the stove. Change his thinking, confuse him, do anything. . . . “It is freezing in here. Can you build up the fire, at least?”
“No more wood,” he said simply. “ ’Sides, I know a better way.”
She ignored this remark. “No wood? Well, here then. This will bum.” Before he could stop her, she plucked up his shirt and coat from the floor nearby and threw them into the stove, slamming the iron door shut on them.
He dived for the handle of the door and wrenched it open, but it was too late. The dry fabric of both garments had caught at once and burst into flames. “Damme!” he cried, swinging the door shut hard enough to loosen its hinges. He glared at her, and she felt a tremor of fear. But he could not be any more dangerous to her angry than he was amorous. And she felt somehow better prepared to deal with the former.
Suddenly he laughed. “You shouldn’ta done that, love. ’Tis a long wait you’ll have, and a cold one. and now I’ll be wearing the cloak I brought along for you.”
She shivered. Too bad. She would just have to be cold. There were worse things that could happen. And would happen unless she was very clever. It occured to her to wonder where she was, how far from Hockleigh he had brought her. It didn’t matter. If only she could get away, she would find her way to safety. She must.
Was there
any chance that she could be rescued? she wondered. Certainly a search would be mounted when she was found to be missing. Devlin, she felt sure, would not stop till she was found. But how long might that take? And what might happen to her in the meantime? No. She must not depend on rescue. She must depend on herself, on her wits and her courage.
“Tell me,” she said in a conversational tone, “just why is it you have kidnapped me?”
“Now, love, you don’t look stupid. You’re a rich woman. I’m a poor man. Seems fair to spread some of that coin of yours about a bit.”
Ransom, of course. “How much do you want?” Her tone had grown very business like.
“Way I see it, twenty-five thousand pounds ain’t too much for return of such a valuable piece of goods.”
“Twenty-five thousand! Impossible! My funds are all tied up in trust. It would take my man-of-business days, weeks even, to put together such a sum, if he could manage it at all.”
“I got days. Weeks even.”
“Well, I do not!”
“Don’t you, now? Well, I figure there must be others who got the blunt who think you’re worth it. This Devlin fellow, for instance.”
She stared. “What the devil do you know about Lord Devlin?”
“Not so much as I’d like. Like what you all see in him,” he answered, a certain grimness touching the edge of his smile. “But enough to know he’s like to pay up to get you back. Way I hear it, you’re about to marry him.”
Francesca could not have been more surprised if he had said she was about to marry an elephant. “Me, marry Devlin?” She laughed a mirthless laugh and wondered why it hurt so. “You, my friend, have been sadly misinformed. I assure you, Lord Devlin is the very last person I am likely to marry.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Here, what game are you playing? She said you was . . He cut himself off abruptly.
Francesca seemed not to notice any slip on his part “No game at all, I promise you. Why, Devlin himself would laugh to hear you say such a thing.” She believed this to be a true statement, but enunciating it proved far more difficult than it should have been.
He seemed to find the idea almost as uncomfortable as she did, and he looked at her suspiciously for a moment, as if he didn’t believe her. She glared back. “You’ll have to come up with someone else, then,” he finally said. “Woman pretty as you, someone’ll pay for you.” The fire had all but died out now, and gooseflesh began to appear on his bare chest. “Damme, it’s cold.” He peered out the crack at the windows, where the moonlight was slowly being replaced by the first grey light of dawn. He stirred up the coals, but they gave up little heat. “Have to get some wood.”
He was not about to leave his captive sitting there quite alone and unbound. She was his ticket either to a fortune or to Roxanna. He had decided that either would do. He picked up some strips of linen lying ready in a comer and bound her hands and feet firmly, but not so tightly as to pain her. Throwing a definitely feminine cloak about his bare shoulders and grinning at the sight he must present, he bowed to her again and left the cottage.
Left alone in the gradually lightening room, Francesca knew she must take advantage of the opportunity to explore her prison. She managed to inch her way to one window and stand up. She could just see through the crack between the boards. Jerry was gathering loose bits of wood nearby, his cloak a definite impediment.
Her hands were bound before her, and she reached up to push at the boards. They did not budge. She half- hobbled, half-hopped to the other windows. All were secure against escape.
Exhausted from her efforts, she sank onto the straw again. The gloom was dissipating from the room. She looked about her to see if any weapon was close to hand.
There was the kettle. And the lantern. She might make something of them, given half a chance. But she must be unbound before she could even try. She needed more time to think, to plan. Jerry would be back any moment.
As the light grew brighter and she sat there in thought, something colorful just at the edge of her field of vision caught her attention. She reached out for the spot of color. Something bright yellow was just peeking out from under the edge of the straw mattress. She pulled out a long ostrich plume of a very good quality. It was full and feathery, and its end was tipped a vivid orange. Now, where on earth had she seen that particular plume before?
With her attention on this mystery, she almost did not hear Jerry’s foot kicking out at the door. More by instinct than by design, she shoved the plume back under the straw with her two bound-together hands, throwing herself off balance in the process. When he entered the cottage, she was lying back on the makeshift bed.
The fact made him smile. “That’s more like,” he said. “Might as well be comfortable.” He threw some kindling and a pair of logs into the stove. She had assumed he would unbind her immediately on his return, but he made no move to do so. He simply stood with his backside to the quickly roaring fire and gazed at her admiringly. “She said you was pretty. You’re not,” he said, smiling even more. “You’re beautiful.” Maybe not so beautiful as my Roxie, he added to himself, but not bad. Not bad at all. She did not answer.
He let the cloak fall from his shoulders and came to sit beside her. He began unplaiting her heavy golden hair. This time, with her hands still bound, she could not bat him away. She could do nothing.
“Let’s see what we got here, then,” he said in a frighteningly seductive tone as he ran his fingers through the mass of hair, spreading it out over her shoulders like a fan. “My, my, my,” he muttered, struck by her beauty.
As he looked into her eyes, a bit afraid but still full of pride and her innate dignity, it occured to him that this young woman, with her high cheekbones and her strong jaw, had something that Roxanna didn’t. It was Quality, real and true. Funny he’d never noticed the lack of it in Roxie before now. But then, the likes of Jerry Parsons didn’t often see real Quality in his life.
He loosened the top button of her nightdress. He stroked the creamy skin of her throat. Francesca trembled; she was growing very frightened, but she would not let it show. She put a challenge into her eyes and her voice. “You said you had no interest in sleeping females. Are bound ones more to your taste?”
He only smiled. “Don’t know. Never tried that particular trick before.” He looked her over. It was true that making love to a woman whose ankles were bound together was like to prove difficult. He undid the linen strips from them.
“Thank you, Jerry, she said slowly, carefully. She smiled at him—a coquettish smile, she hoped.
When he leaned over to kiss her, she let him do it, though every instinct rebelled and shouted at her to beat him off with her fists. It was not a long kiss. Not yet. But she knew that would come if she was not very clever. He flashed his toothy smile, stood, and began unlacing his breeches.
“Jerry,” she said quickly, “these bands hurt my poor hands so. See? They are rubbing just where the tea burned me. Could you not just loosen them? Only a little, please?”
Not for nothing had Lady Francesca Waringham trained in the ton school of flirtation. Even as experienced a man as Jerry Parsons was not proof against those eyes when she turned their full power on him. His self- confidence, his unequaled arrogance, betrayed him. He untied her hands.
She rubbed them together. “Oh, thank you, Jerry. That is ever so much better. They are so cold, poor things. Like ice. May I have a little more tea?”
Just like a woman to ask for tea at such a moment, he thought. But even so quickly had he got into the habit of doing as she asked. He refilled the mugs with the tea, now very black and boiling hot from the fresh flames. He gave it to her, then sat beside her, fingering her long hair.
As she raised the cup to her lips, she scanned the room with her eyes. The door was no more than ten feet away; nothing stood between her and it. He bent to kiss her.
Now! her mind screamed, and she threw the scalding tea at him. It hit him square in the face and ran down onto his bare c
hest.
She was on her feet even before his scream of pain erupted. Instinctively she grabbed the yellow feather from under the straw. Then she dashed for the door.
It would not open.
He was on his feet too now, blinded by the boiling tea but lunging after her, groping wildly. “Open, dammit!” she shouted at the door, and pulled harder. He grabbed at the fabric of her nightdress and threw himself at her. She twisted deftly to the side. The rip of the cotton sounded very loud in her ears as it came away in his hands. He was groping for her again. It was like some frantic, evil game of blindman’s buff. Why would the door not open?
She forced herself to look down at it, willed her mind to think rationally. The latch, a crude one with a simple bar across. She had not lifted it. Of course. She skirted the thrashing man and made for the door again. She lifted the bar, and it opened at once.
But he had heard her movement and turned to lunge at her again. Throwing himself to the floor, he caught her ankle. Her foot slid out from under her, backward, and she fell onto the damp leaves just outside the door. He tried to pull her back into the room. He was very strong.
She kicked once, hard. She loosened his grip on her ankle and scrambled out of reach. She made it to her feet. And then she was running, running harder than she had ever run in her life.
There was a horse not far from the door. She gasped with relief. She looked like a wraith, and the horse’s nostrils flared in alarm. It raised up on its hind legs, pawing at the air, its dangerous hooves only inches from her head. She could feel its hot breath on her face. The loosely knotted reins fell from the tree where the horse had been tethered, and it took off into the woods. “Damme!” she cried in terrified frustration, and began to run again.
Before long she was under the trees. Without checking her forward progress, she looked back over her shoulder. Jerry had emerged from the cottage, still thrashing about like a wounded animal, still screaming. As she watched, he ran into a tree and fell to his knees.