The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

  He hadn’t said a word since he threatened her maidenhead.

  While she waited long hours for him to nod off, her emotions swung wildly. Deep inside, she seethed with mounting rage at his ability to control her just because he was bigger and stronger. Other young men took fencing lessons, trained with knives and pistols, spent hours in boxing parlors perfecting their skills. Not Robert. He spent his off-hours drinking and gambling, and he had the soft physique to prove it. Yet that unhardened body was twice her weight, coupled with a deranged force that rendered her well-nigh helpless.

  She lay still, as unobtrusive as humanly possible in an effort to avoid his wrath, feeling alternately angry, defiant, despairing, determined, and frustrated. In between, she made paltry attempts to calm her irregular pulse, telling herself to think of better times in the past and those to come, when she somehow extricated herself from this impossible situation.

  Mostly, she thought about Colin.

  To distract herself, she relived every one of their kisses in her head. She caught herself smiling before she remembered her predicament and looked across the chamber to Robert. He was sleeping, his head lolling to one side, his mouth open and slack. His breathing was deep and measured.

  Thank heavens.

  Her heart galloping with excitement, she brought her wrists to her mouth and tested the knot. Her teeth slipped off the hard knob and clicked together with a sound that seemed loud in the still room, but Robert didn’t stir, and she continued working at the knot, loosening it bit by bit.

  Half an hour later her arms ached from holding them up, and her lips were chapped and sore from rubbing against saliva-drenched fabric, but her hands were free.

  She made short work of the bonds on her ankles and stood on shaky legs. After twenty-odd hours flat on her back, her knees threatened to buckle under her, but she refused to give in to her weakness. Sternly forcing her body to comply, she drew the ice-blue dress off the foot of the bed and dropped it over her head, holding her breath when the satin rustled as it settled into place. She shoved the nightgown’s sleeves up under those of the gown, jerked the lacings closed, and attached the stomacher haphazardly. She could finish dressing properly when she was safely outside.

  She slipped her feet into the matching slippers, which were a little large but would have to do, and tiptoed over to Robert. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was half-convinced it would wake him.

  Silently blessing the powers that be for decreeing loose breeches with deep pockets were fashionable, she crouched behind him and eased her hand into one pocket. Her first try found a small gunpowder flask and a few balls and cloth patches, but no key.

  She paused, taken aback by the evidence that he was prepared to fire the pistol. As she pulled out her hand, Robert took a deep, ragged breath, inhaling with a resounding snore, and Amy froze for a good two minutes before daring to try the other pocket.

  When her fingers closed around the cold, heavy key, she could barely contain her glee. She was mere steps from freedom.

  Reminding herself to be light-footed regardless of her haste, she slowly rose. Her gaze lit on the gun on the table. It gleamed in the weak firelight, the stock profusely inlaid with silver wire in a display of workmanship akin to the finest jeweler’s. She briefly considered taking it, but the gown had no pockets, and she hadn’t the faintest idea how to shoot it, in any case. Forcing her eyes away, she tiptoed to the door.

  The key in the lock made a hideous grating noise, but she didn’t look back.

  She bolted into a dim, dusty corridor.

  One of the too-loose slippers threatened to come off, making her trip and stumble. Suddenly she heard scuffling behind her, then a horrible ripping sound as, for the second time in as many days, she found herself tugged to her knees. Robert’s considerable weight landed on her back, and she plunged forward.

  “Curses,” he hissed into her ear. “I’d have thought you’d’ve learned your lesson by now.” He jerked her up, one hand coming around to cover her mouth and muffle her impending scream. She glanced frantically around the dingy corridor, but there was no one to help her.

  The cold steel of the pistol’s barrel pressed into the side of her neck. She should have taken it.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  COLIN HAD checked the eight inns closest to St. Trinity, but there was no sign of Amy.

  His disappointment was a physical pain, a heaviness in his chest that was weighted with a creeping sense of foreboding. To have come all this way, crisscrossing the City, one clue to another, and then…

  Nothing.

  And somewhere out there, Amy was…what? Sleeping, suffering, frightened, abused? Well, it was still Sunday, so even if she’d left London, he was fairly certain she wasn’t married.

  Yet.

  Perhaps he was on the wrong track. Perhaps he should go back to Robert’s father, or the King’s Arms, and ask if anyone had heard from Robert in the past few hours.

  Intending to make the depressing rounds again, he’d no sooner untied Ebony when a yellow glow caught his eye, penetrating the fog from down the street. At this hour, in this neighborhood, where citizens couldn’t afford the luxury of candles at midnight, where decent folk went to bed with the dusk and rose with the dawn, that light could mean only one thing: a tavern.

  He leaped onto Ebony and clip-clopped down the dark, empty street toward the glow. Bereft and desolate, Colin could only muster a faint hope that he might have reached the end of his search. As he drew nearer, the light from the grimy window illuminated a cracked wooden sign proclaiming it the Cat & Canary, and a swift glance up at the overhanging story assured him that it did, indeed, boast a few rooms for rent.

  Colin tethered Ebony in a rough shed across the street, then took the time to thank him for his service and companionship with a bucketful of brackish water and a forkful of hay. After all, of all the multitudes of places in London, he had no real reason to think Amy was here.

  ROBERT SHOVED Amy back into the room and threw her on the bed. He pointed the pistol in her direction with one shaking hand while he attempted to lock the door with the other.

  “Please, Robert—”

  “Shut up. I don’t want to hear one word from you.” He frantically worked the lock, his hand fumbling. “You’ll pay for this, Amy. Mark my words.”

  At last the lock clicked into place, and he whirled around, wild-eyed, searching the room. A sinister laugh echoed forth as, with a flick of his wrist, the key landed in the flames of the fireplace.

  “There,” he said. “I’ll take it back in the morning, when the ashes grow cold. Until then, we won’t be needing it, will we?”

  Cringing, Amy scooted back until her spine pressed against the dirty headboard. She pulled her knees up and hugged them tight.

  Robert raised his arm and aimed the pistol at her again. “Lie down!” he barked, waving the gun wildly.

  She dropped to the mattress, curled up in a ball, and let out a whimper as panic welled up in her throat. She whimpered again as she watched Robert switch the pistol to his left hand so he could work the buckle on his belt with his right.

  She shut her eyes tight, as though by doing so she could banish Robert and his pistol and his belt from the earth. Any second now, she expected to feel the belt on her, the leather striping her flesh in Robert’s fury.

  Instead, she felt Robert throw himself on top of her, flattening her to the mattress. The gun fell to the wooden floor with a meaty thud, and she twisted under him, intending to lunge for it. But Robert pressed her shoulders against the bed with his two fleshy hands, and his head descended on hers, blocking her vision and her access to the weapon.

  He ground his lips against hers in a cruel approximation of a kiss, until she tasted coppery-tinged blood. She gagged. Her hands came up and pushed at his head, but to no avail: he was quite simply stronger and heavier than she.

  She wished he had lashed her instead.

  A lifetime later, after pinning Amy beneath the weight of his body,
Robert came up on his elbows. Her mouth finally free, she screamed.

  Robert laughed wildly. “No one will come,” he taunted. “They all think you’re delirious. And they’ve been well paid. You’ll be mine after tonight,” he growled. “No other man will want to touch you for the rest of your life.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  COLIN PUSHED on the Cat & Canary’s door, and it swung open with a prolonged creak, revealing a plain wooden interior encrusted with years of accumulated dirt. He stepped inside and glanced around the tavern. It was a shame the blaze had missed this street, he thought with a grimace. This was the kind of firetrap London needed to rid itself of.

  A nauseating reek of rancid food choked the air. A few scruffy men sat conversing morosely at one table. No proprietor was in sight. All was quiet.

  Colin couldn’t imagine Amy in a place like this, even as Robert’s hostage. He turned to leave, but caught himself glancing uneasily over his shoulder. After a pause, he addressed the motley group at the table. “Pardon me, but is anyone staying above?”

  The answer was a mix of shrugs and grunts that he took to be a negative. One man looked up at him, his bloated face showing surprise at finding someone of Colin’s class in this tavern.

  Colin focused on him. “I’m looking for someone…”

  “Anyone you’d be lookin’ fer’d be on Leadenhall Street,” the man offered, inclining his head toward a street across the way, behind the shed where Colin had stashed Ebony. “Try the Rose ’n’ Crown.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Colin replied, moving to the entry. He couldn’t wait to get out of this depressing establishment.

  Halfway through the door, he heard a thud from above. His blood chilled. He swung back around. “Are you certain no one’s up there?”

  He would swear he heard a muffled yell. The men didn’t react. One of them slowly rose, the legs of his chair scraping back on the wooden floor.

  “No one’s up there,” he stated, running a dirty hand through shaggy hair that might have been yellow if it weren’t so greasy.

  A scream. Hysterical. Unrelenting. Anxiety sent Colin’s pulse racing, and he felt as though his chest might burst. Noting a rough staircase in the back, he started toward it.

  The yellow-haired man moved swiftly to round the table and block him. He wrenched a long, rusty knife from his belt and brandished it in Colin’s face. “You cannot go up there.”

  Another scream sounded above. Colin’s hand went to the hilt of his sword…and then to his pouch. He pulled out a gold guinea and flung it on the table, his eyes boring into the other man’s.

  “Room six,” the man muttered, turning to scoop up the coin and test it between his teeth. “Third floor.”

  Colin bolted up the rickety staircase.

  ROBERT RIPPED off one side of Amy’s stomacher.

  His pale eyes gleamed recklessly.

  He tugged at her laces, heedless of her screaming. Neither did he stop when she tore at his neckcloth and pulled on his hair. His breath was heavy and labored; the stench of stale ale and old vomit suffused the air around them.

  She clawed long, bloody scratches along his cheeks. But instead of relenting, he growled low in his throat and tugged up on the voluminous skirts of the wedding gown.

  Though she’d thought she could feel no more panicked, the cool air on her legs fueled her useless howling to new heights. When Robert shoved his knee between hers, her anguish was so acute that it overwhelmed any physical pain.

  FIFTY-SIX

  THE NUMBERS on the doors were too faded to read in the dark corridor. But there was only one room Colin sought, and Amy’s unmistakable sobs led him straight to it.

  “Stanley!” He pounded with both fists on the rotting wood that separated him from the girl he loved and her abductor. “Open up! Now!”

  He ripped off his surcoat and threw it to the floor. Backing up a few feet, he made a run at the door and rammed it with a shoulder—the old lock gave with a satisfying snap, and the door flung into the room and slammed against the wall, barely staying on its hinges.

  Startled, Robert rolled off Amy and slid over the edge of the bed, scrabbling to find the pistol on the floor.

  Amy struggled up on her elbows, her gaze riveted to Colin in the doorway. He took a step forward as Robert rose, one hand holding up the waistband of his unlaced breeches, the other clenching the gun. A feral look hardened his bloodied features.

  Colin took another step.

  “Stay back, Greystone, you vile beast.” The pistol wavered as Robert growled. “She’s mine.” The flintlock had been half-cocked, primed and ready, and now he pulled back the lock.

  The room reverberated with an ominous click.

  A scalding fury burning in his chest, Colin advanced.

  Robert’s face registered sheer, unreasoning panic. His arm swung wildly as he squeezed the trigger. The pistol went off with a thunderous report.

  Amy let out a shriek of terror, but Colin didn’t flinch; his advance continued unchecked. The bullet was lodged somewhere in the wall of the corridor. Robert was left with a smoking gun in his shaking hands, the pungent scent of exploded gunpowder swirling around him.

  There was insufficient time for an expert to reload, and Robert had already proven he was no expert. He flung the heavy pistol at Colin’s head.

  Colin ducked, and as his head came back up, he pulled his rapier out of his belt with smooth, practiced ease.

  Without the false sense of security the pistol had provided, Robert seemed to shrink into himself. He backed up against the wall, his pale eyes glassy with terror, fastened on the gleaming silver length of Colin’s blade.

  Flinging the sword away, Colin rounded on Robert with his fists clenched. He grabbed the shorter man’s shoulders and yanked him away from the wall, then rammed him back into it with a raging force. There was an audible crack! as Robert’s head met the rigid wood, and when Colin let go, Robert slid to the floor in an ungraceful heap.

  The fight was over before it began.

  Clutching her torn dress closed in the front, Amy watched, silent, as Colin bent down to reclaim his rapier. “Do you want me to kill him?” he grated out, his breath coming in large gulps as he fought to control his fury.

  She shook her head violently, still mute. Colin stood motionless for a moment, registering the shock in her disbelieving eyes. Then he slid the sword into his belt and moved to the bed, reaching down toward her.

  “You’re…you’ve been shot,” she whispered, beginning to shake.

  He straightened and looked down to where her gaze was riveted, surprised. His shirt was plastered to his ribs by a dark, sticky patch of blood, but it wasn’t spreading. “It’s but a scratch,” he said. He still couldn’t feel it—the white-hot maelstrom of his emotions overrode any pain.

  Still, he had enough presence of mind to retrieve his surcoat from the corridor and shrug back into it, wrapping it tightly around himself to cover the blood before he scooped her up in his arms.

  She trembled in his embrace. With a lingering, murderous look at Robert’s still form, he carried her down the stairs and out into the street.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  ONLY A STREET from the ramshackle Cat & Canary, the luxurious Rose & Crown seemed a world away.

  Amy seemed a world away, too.

  “I’m cold, Colin,” she whispered as he gently laid her on the bed.

  After starting a roaring blaze in the fireplace, he went downstairs to ask for a bath to be prepared. He returned to find Amy huddled in a chair, staring into the flames.

  Concerned, he glanced back at the bed.

  “I’ve been tied to a bed…” she murmured in answer to his unasked question.

  He unbuckled his sword and set it on a low table, then lifted her up, took her place in the chair and settled her on his lap. Silent, they watched the fire together, Colin holding her close, her head against his chest.

  He buried his lips in her tangled curls, and they stayed that way for a very long
time, motionless except when Colin’s mouth moved against her hair. His kisses were gentle, slow and warm. Possessive, healing. Cherishing. His heart seemed to burst at the miracle of her back in his arms.

  Servants dragged a tub into the chamber and filled it with bucket after bucket of steaming water, scented with oil of roses. Hard-milled perfumed soap was left, along with a comb and a brush and large linen towels. They set up the screen Colin had requested to shield everything.

  Alone again, Colin rose and stood Amy on her feet. “I should have killed him,” he whispered, looking at her. Her wrists and ankles were raw and abraded. He could only imagine what damage lay hidden. Purple marks marred one side of her face; dried blood crusted her forehead. Her lips were bruised and swollen, her hair a tangled mess tumbling down her back.

  He had thought he would never see her again.

  She looked beautiful.

  Taking her hand, he led her to the tub. “Do you need help?”

  “No, thank you,” she said quietly, her eyes on his bloodstained shirt.

  “It’s naught but a scratch,” he reminded her, his voice low and steady. “I’ll clean it up while you bathe.” With a sigh, he left her behind the screen.

  He winced when he pulled the fabric from the wound and slipped the shirt off over his head. But it was just a scratch, the barest graze, and wouldn’t even require stitches. It stung, but not so much that he couldn’t ignore it.

  Had it hit a quarter of an inch to the right—the thought made Colin suck in a breath. A broken rib, perhaps bone fragments puncturing his lung. It would have wreaked havoc, would certainly have impaired his swift action, if not killed him outright. Well, it hadn’t happened. He’d been lucky—very, very lucky—and he would never reveal to Amy just how narrow their escape had been.

  At the washstand, he poured water from the ewer and dabbed at the shallow laceration until it was clean. Then he shrugged back into his surcoat.