by Leslie LaFoy
His fingers tightened. "What ya thinkin', Feenie? Talk!"
She hated him. Hated him more than she'd ever known it was possible to hate. Through clenched teeth she answered, "When Carden finds you-"
"Yer lover," Gerald sneered, releasing her and dropping down on the bed again. "He can't be much of one if ... "
He hesitated and even in the haze of her anger and fear Sera knew that he'd momentarily lost the train of his thought. A tiny hope flickered inside her.
"The likes of you." He snorted and took another drink and then pointed the top of the bottle at her as he added, "He's not comin' after ya, Feenie. I laid him out real hard. Woulda shot him dead if ya hadn't bolted like ya did."
It was the one and only answer she truly cared about.
The relief was intense and it took every measure of her determination to keep it from showing. "Which is precisely why I bolted."
''Think yer so smart, don'tcha? Always thought ya were ... smarter than me. Better." He took another quick drink of whisky and then flung aside the stained pillow. "If yer so smart, Feenie," he demanded, waving two strips of paper at her, "tell me where these tickets are to."
He didn't give her a chance to reply. "Don't know that, do ya? Ya think yer lover will come a-Iookin' for ya in Ar ... Ar ... gin-"
"Argentina. "
He glared at her. "Yer gonna paint when we get there. Yer gonna paint me real goddamn rich."
Her anger sparked, hot and too quick to contain.
"Didn't it occur to you when you left Belize that you were leaving the golden goose behind?"
He laughed and took another drink. "Didn't know jus' how damn golden ya was till I got here. Was gonna come back for ya, figurin' ya had more paintings by now, but then ya turned up in Hyde Park." He lifted the bottle in salute again and grinned. "Thanks for savin' me the trip, Feenie. Much obliged."
She held her tongue, knowing that she didn't need to say anything more. He'd reached the quarter mark. From this point on, he would supply her side of any conversation.
"Yer not goin' to run away anymore, Feenie. No sirree. I close my eyes, yer gonna close yers, too." Setting the whisky bottle on the crate, he heaved himself to his feet, swayed precariously for a long moment, and then lurched toward the small shelf on the wall above the stove.
He took a bottle from the clutter and staggered back.
Standing in front of her, he swayed and smiled and pulled the cork from the blue bottle. "Laud'm," he said. "Keeps yer wife at home where she belongs."
She understood what he intended to do and what it meant to her fragile hope of escape. "You have me tied," she pointed out, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. "I can't go anywhere."
"Gonna make sure," he said, pressing the mouth of the bottle to her lips. "Swallow."
Sera clamped her mouth shut and turned her head, refusing to take the drug.
He glared down at her, swaying on his feet. With a half-turn, he snatched the pistol off the crate. The muzzle pressed hard against her breast, he held the bottle to her lips again. "Do as you're told!"
She had no choice. Choking back a sob, Sera closed her eyes and parted her lips. He poured the liquid in faster than she could swallow and it ran out and down over her chin. He kept pouring.
"Again! Swallow!"
Only when she gagged and spewed it back on him did he stop and back away. Tears coursing down her cheeks, she struggled to breathe, to break free of the ropes binding her to the chair.
"Don't think I've for ... forgotten that yer gonna pay for cuttin' me," he taunted, putting the pistol and the bottle on the crate beside the bed. "Haven't, ya know. Tomorrow, Feenie. When I can make it hurt bad. After ya write
the note." He picked up one of the paintings and considered it as he swayed forward and back. A smile lifted the comers of his mouth just before he crumpled it into a ball and turned to her. Again she saw his intent and tried to evade it. And again she failed. Catching her jaw between his thumb and fingers, he squeezed until her mouth opened.
He stuffed the painting in and then released her.
"Go 'head an' scream for help, Feenie," he mocked, staggering to the end of the bed. He laughed and scooped up another handful of splintered wood and stuck it haphazardly into the stove. "Scream 'way."
She was caught; her every last hope had been taken away. But the laudanum was stealing over her and the realization came softly and without concern. There was nothing more she could do. She had tried. Gerald had won.
She stared at the mouth of the stove, watching the flames dance and the embers pulse inside. He hadn't put the wood in right; ends of the splinters stuck out the opening.
The fire would crawl up and they would fall to the floor. Her mother had always warned her about the danger in that. Fire killed so many people. She'd always been so careful. She'd never thought that she would be one of them.
The movement was quick and she knitted her brows.
She watched it drop from the end of the splinter to the floor and then dash for the end of the bed, its yellow legs a whir of motion.
Sera blinked and tried to shake her head. She was seeing horrible things that weren't really there. He'd given her too much laudanum. At least she wouldn't feel the flames. That would be a blessing. Her eyelids were leaden and she fought the urge to drift away. It took conscious effort and all of her will, but she turned her head and focused on the bed.
Gerald lay sprawled on his back across it, the whisky bottle in his hand, his blood-crusted legs dangling over the side. Her paintings and the empty oil pouches lay scattered around him. And from them came the bright yellow whirs of rapid motion. One, two .. .
Her eyes drifted closed and she abandoned the count.
If only Carden would come for her before it was too late.
She didn't want to die without telling him that she loved him.
All three girls were standing at the window, staring silently into the night. Anne sat in a chair in the comer, crocheting by the soft light of a lamp. She looked up at his arrival, nodded crisply as she laid aside her work, and soundlessly slipped from the room.
Carden considered his nieces; still wondering what to tell them and how to say it. The decision was taken from him when Camille looked over her shoulder and saw him standing there.
"Uncle Carden!"
All three of them turned to look at him. Amanda's gaze slipped past him for a moment and he knew that she'd hoped to see Sera coming through the door in his wake.
Camille, hugging Mrs. Miller to her with both arms, looked up at him as though she expected him to do something wondrous at any moment. Beatrice ... Lord, if ever there was child old beyond her years. Bea didn't have to be told how wrong things could go in the next few hours.
Amanda and Camille needed to have their hopes settled while Bea needed to be assured that hope was possible.
How the hell he was supposed to accomplish both goals at the same time ...
"It will be all right," he promised, carefully balancing firmness and optimism. "We're going to get Sera back."
"When, Uncle Carden?"
"Soon, Amanda. We're waiting for a man to bring us a message and then Mr. Stanbridge, Mr. Terrell, and I will be leaving to get Sera."
"It was Mr. Treadwell who took her."
"Yes, Bea, I know," he said, easing down onto the edge of the bed so that he was level with her. ''What I don't know is where you got the pistol that Sawyer took away from you."
"It was Papa's," she supplied evenly. "He had two of them in a box. He took one of them with him when he went away. We brought the other with us when we came here. I found it when we were unpacking and I hid it in my trunk. Miss Sera doesn't know I took it."
"Why did you take it, Bea?"
She swallowed. "Because I was afraid that Mr. Treadwell would come looking for her. And he did." Her lower lip quivered as she added, "But I didn't get the pistol loaded in time to stop him from taking her." She didn't make a sound as huge tears spilled over her
lashes and down her cheeks.
He wasn't going to ask her how she knew about loading a weapon. That could wait until later. He gathered her into his arms and hugged her tight. "It wasn't your responsibility to protect Sera," he told her, cradling her head against his chest. "It's mine, Bea. Mine alone. What happened isn't your fault. Do you believe me?"
It took a few moments, but she eventually sniffled and nodded. "Good," he said, taking her shoulders in his hands and holding her out so he could look her squarely in the eyes as he laid down the law. "You are never to touch a pistol again. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
He had his doubts and would have pursued them, but Camille sidled up beside him and put her hand on his arm.
"Uncle Carden?"
"Yes, Camille?" he asked, as Bea slipped away to discreetly scrub the tears from her cheeks and Amanda sat down beside him.
Camille climbed up to perch on his leg, Mrs. Miller tucked tightly under her arm. "Anne says that you were hit on the head really, really hard."
"I was."
"Does it hurt?"
"Hurt" didn't begin to describe the pulsing pain. "Yes, it hurts."
She looked at him earnestly. "Are you going to cry?"
His throat closed and his chest tightened. Not from the pain; he'd endured worse. But from the certain knowledge that he'd let Sera come to harm. He coughed softly and swallowed and smiled for his youngest niece. "I feel like it, sweetheart," he admitted. "But I won't. Crying doesn't help anything."
"But it's all right to cry when it hurts, Uncle Carden.
Miss Sera says so."
"Yes, well ... " Not when you were a grown man and the pain was your own damn fault, he reminded himself as his chest tightened another degree. Not in front of your nieces. And not when you had to save your woman.
There was a quick knock on the door before it opened.
Aiden stuck his head inside, said, "O'Mara's here," and then disappeared, leaving the door ajar.
It was time. The ache in his chest evaporated and his blood raced in his veins.
"I have to go now," Carden said, lifting Camille off his lap and setting her on the bed. He stood and looked among the three of them. "You all will stay in this room. Anne will come back to be with you. And I'll come see you when I return."
"With Miss Sera," Camille added brightly.
"With Sera."
Amanda squared her shoulders. "We'll say a prayer for you both, Uncle Carden."
"Thank you," he replied, turning and striding across the room.
"And one for the soul of Mr. Treadwell, too."
He stopped with the handle of the door in his hand and looked back into eyes that he knew were the mirror of his own. "You and I are going to have a talk, Bea."
"Yes, sir."
No flinching, no wavering. And she'd die before she apologized for how she felt. God help the world, he thought, pulling the door closed behind himself. And God's mercy on Gerald Treadwell. It was the only pity the bastard was going to get.
"You'll let me go first," Barrett said as the coach pulled hard to the side of the roadway. "He has one shot and it won't do Seraphina any good if you take it."
'''Then you damn well better move faster than I do," Carden retorted, wrenching the door handle and vaulting out in one smooth motion even as the carriage slid to a halt. Stars danced in front of his eyes but he blinked them away just as O'Mara jumped from the box and landed on the walk. pointing to the stairs leading down. Carden started forward only to have his shoulders suddenly yanked back.
"Go!" Aiden barked, holding him by the fabric of his coat, keeping him upright but off balance. The jarring sent streaks of white-hot pain shooting through his skull, but he ignored them and struggled to pull himself free.
Aiden held fast. forcing him to watch Barrett sprint to the railing surrounding the stairwell, grasp it with one hand, and clear it to drop into the blackness. Wood splintered in the next second and only then did Aiden let him go.
He dashed forward, knowing his head wouldn't let him jump the distance as Barrett had, and took the stairs two at a time, the pain pounding to the rhythm of his frantically beating heart. He careened through the door and slid to a stop. Barrett was stamping out coals on the floor.
Treadwell lay sprawled and motionless across the bed. Sera was slumped-
He darted to her, his heart frozen with dread. "Sera!" he called, lifting her head, fighting back the tears as he saw the bruises around her neck, the sides of her face, her arms. He pulled the gag from her mouth and laid his hand on her chest to feel for her breathing. So shallow. So slow.
But blessedly there.
"Sera!" he called again, cradling her head as he pulled the knife from his sleeve. "Just open your eyes for a second, angel. Just a second. Let me know you're all right."
Her eyelids fluttered and her lips parted and it was enough to send his heart soaring in gratitude. Gently, he eased her back and released her long enough to slice the ropes binding her to the chair.
Barrett stepped to his side. '''This is the story, Carden.
The pictures were stolen. You hired me to find them. John Aiden assisted me in the search. We found Reginald Carter just like this. That's the story I'm telling the constables.
Seraphina was never here. You were never here. Understood?"
He did, but he also saw a potentially fatal flaw in it.
"Yes, but-" The thought evaporated at the sight of Sera's raw and bloody wrists. Rage, primal and white-hot. shot through him. He straightened and whirled toward the bed, determined to wreak vengeance for every bit of pain Sera had endured.
But Gerald Treadwell couldn't feel any more pain than he already did. His face and neck were hugely swollen; his tongue protruded from his mouth, bloated and blue. His chest rose and fell in the erratic, labored cadence that spoke of hovering death.
"Get Seraphina out of here, Carden," his friend said softly. "Take her home. Take care of her. We'll do what needs to be done here." Over his shoulder he said crisply, "John Aiden, go find what passes for a physician in this neighborhood. And be quick about it. We don't have much time."
Carden nodded and slid his gaze away from the dying man. As he did it passed over an upended crate beside the bed. On it lay Arthur' dueling pistol, the mate to the one taken from Bea and that was now safely tucked in the small of his back. Dark certainty settled over him and he swallowed down a surprisingly deep sense of loss and regret.
"Sco ... lo ... "
Carden spun at the faint sound. Her eyes were barely open and she was snuggling to keep her head up. Relief flooded through him, wide and sweeping and glorious. He bent beside her and cupped her face in his bands saying softly, "Don't try to talk, Sera. I'm taking you home."
Her brows knitted. "Pendra," she whispered, her voice strained with a heart-wrenching urgency he didn't understand.
"No one moves!" Aiden ordered crisply and with sufficient conviction and force that Carden held his breath.
Aiden stepped close and smoothed a lock of Sera's hair from her cheek. "What, Seraphina?" he asked gently. "Say it again."
She knitted her brows and on a shallow breath said, "Sco ... "
"Scolopendra ?"
Sera relaxed into his hands and Carden looked up into Aiden's wide eyes, silently demanding an explanation.
"Nastiest, meanest frigging bug in the tropics," Aiden supplied quickly. "Moves fast and eats meat. Viciously. If you're even the least bit sensitive to the venom, you end up like Gerald Treadwell."
Aiden turned away and stared at the bed, at the litter of Sera's paintings. "It's here somewhere and we damn well better find it before one of us is the next meal. Carden, shake out Seraphina's skirts. And shake them well. Check her hair, too. The son of a bitch can climb and it can cling."
Carden eased Sera back in the chair, made sure she was balanced, quickly ran his fingers through her hair, and then took out his knife again.
"It would help to know what the thing looks like,"
Barrett snarled from behind him.
Aiden held his hands up about eight inches apart. "It's about this long, dark brown, hundreds of yellow legs.
Don't put your hands where you aren't looking. Don't lean up or even brush against anything."
Carden swore under his breath, slipped the blade inside Sera's bodice and drew it toward himself, cutting the fabric all the way down to the hem.
"And when we find it?"
"Knock it to the floor with something and step on it. Fast. And hard."
Barrett looked over at him just as he finished slicing open the waistband of Sera's hooped crinolines. "What are you doing?"
"Aside from ending any possibility that one of the goddamn monsters could bite her ... " Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he lifted her enough to shove the crinoline down over her hips. She murmured in protest, but he hushed her and pushed it down past her knees. It fell to the floor around her feet and he slipped his other arm under her and lifted her up to cradle her against his chest.
"What if someone sees a woman in a red dress being carried out of here?" he asked, his mind arrowing back to his earlier concerns about Barrett's plan. ''There were red beads all over the floor when we came through the door, Barrett. Even the thickest constable could put it together. It's a big hole in your story."
"What if people saw her being hauled in here?"
"She left before you two got here. They just didn't see her go."
"All right. It's believable."
"There's the bastard!"
It took Aiden two stomps before he was finally fast enough to catch it between the sale of his shoe and the floor. "That was a small one," he declared over the popping crunch. "There's probably more of them. Keep looking. And be careful about it."
Barrett looked at him askance and swore.
"Put the gown and what's left of the ropes in the stove," Carden instructed, carrying Sera toward the door. "When Aiden goes out to find the physician, have him toss her hoops somewhere along the way. I'll see you at the house later. And bring that pistol lying on the crate with you."
He left them to their tasks, carried Sera up the stairs, and into Barrett's waiting carriage. O'Mara waited until he'd dropped into the seat with his precious cargo before slamming the door closed behind him. The driver instantly snapped the whip and they were on their way.