CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Rafe tapped his fingers repeatedly against the mug of ale. His knee was bobbing up and down just as quickly as Viktor’s was. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Anton had been gone less than five minutes and Daphne hadn’t returned. It shouldn’t be taking this long. One more minute and Rafe would whip out his pistol, kill this fool, and go in search of Daphne. His fingers rested on his pistol where it remained hidden in his coat.
“Worried, Lord Captain English?” Viktor asked with a smirk. “Is your boy bad with direction?”
Rafe narrowed his eyes on the other man. He clutched the pistol. “You’ve got me confused with someone else. I’m no lord. I’m merely a working-class lad from the streets of London.”
“Your clothes are finer than mine have ever been.” Viktor expelled a stream of tobacco.
Rafe was so on edge, he actually took a drink of the foul ale. “Perhaps you should work a bit harder.”
Viktor growled at him.
“I should warn you,” Rafe said. “If this is a setup—”
“You’ll what?” Viktor asked through an evil, rotten-toothed grin.
“I’ll see you and your cohort in hell,” Rafe growled through clenched teeth. He banged his fist on the tabletop.
Viktor laughed then. It was loud and long. The sound sent chills through Rafe. When he looked up, Rafe saw the man nod nearly imperceptibly. Rafe turned his head to see a shadowy figure in the doorway.
“Was that Anton?” Rafe asked.
“No, Captain. That was another one of my comrades.”
“Where’s Anton?”
Viktor met Rafe’s stare. “By now he’s with Boris and Grey. Or should I say, your lady friend?”
Rafe jumped up from the table and spun toward the door, but the shadowy figure from the doorway was there directly behind him with a pistol half hidden in his giant meaty paw. “Sit down, Captain,” the man commanded in a Russian accent. “Don’t make a scene. Don’t worry, your cabin boy is being held somewhere safe.”
Rafe did as commanded, his mind spinning through all of the possible scenarios. His team was out there. Men he’d worked with for years. They’d been watching. They’d be following whoever had Daphne. They’d know where she was taken. But could they get to her in time before she was hurt? An icy cold sweat melted down Rafe’s back.
Once Rafe was seated again, the meaty man pulled up the chair in which Daphne had been sitting only minutes before. Rafe braced his hands against his knees. “I’ll tear you vermin limb from limb if she is hurt.”
“Ah, big threats from someone who’s in no position to be making them, Captain,” Viktor said. “Put your hands where we can see them, please.”
Rafe did as he was told, pounding his fists against the tabletop. The mugs of ale bounced. “What do you want?” he demanded through clenched teeth.
“Why, you, of course, Captain English.” Viktor’s grin revealed all of his rotten, yellowed teeth. “Or should I say, Captain Cavendish?”
Rafe clenched his jaw. Damn them. This entire thing had been a setup. He’d been too anxious to get the letters. Too emotionally involved to see it for what it was.
“No more games. I repeat, what do you want?” Rafe slammed an open palm on the tabletop.
“We’ve got your lady friend,” Viktor said. “And if you want her back, you’ll turn yourself over so the men who pay us can finish what they started in France. It seems they want your head, Captain.”
Rafe concentrated on his breathing. He slowly clenched and unclenched his fist. He wanted to wring their bloody necks right now, but if his team hadn’t been able to follow Daphne for some reason, these two idiots might be the only people who knew where she was. “Why didn’t you just let me go with you to the alley if it was me you are after?”
“And let you take a few of us with you? I don’t think so, Captain. We much prefer you compliant. Taking that bit of fluff you had dressed up like a boy was the one way we knew we could keep you sane and us safe,” Viktor said.
The man with the pistol kept his mouth closed. His eyes were trained on Rafe. Viktor was obviously the leader of this pack, though they’d made it out to seem as if Anton had been before.
Rafe clenched his jaw so tightly it popped. “If I go with you, you’ll release her?”
“Yes.”
Rafe stared at them out of the narrow slits his eyes had become. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“You don’t, but what choice do you have? All I can tell you is that the men who employ us aren’t interested in the girl. They want you.”
Now that was believable. Especially since they didn’t seem to realize that Daphne was a member of the aristocracy. At least that much remained a secret. Rafe stood. “Let’s go.”
These vermin were right for once.
His life for Daphne’s?
There was no choice.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Daphne rubbed her chafed wrists and looked around the nasty little room she’d been tossed in. The bone-jarring ride in the wagon hadn’t lasted long, thank heavens, and she could still smell the salty air of the docks. She wasn’t far from where she’d been abducted, but wherever they’d taken her, it was a horrid place. Her abductor had hauled her out of the wagon, tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of hay, making the air whoosh from her lungs painfully, and carried her up three flights of stairs. She’d counted. A wooden door had creaked open, he’d removed her ties, and she’d been unceremoniously dumped in her current environment.
She glanced around. Not particularly hospitable. The room was perhaps ten feet square with a dirty wood floor and one tiny window at the top of the far wall. The window let in a bit of hazy moonlight but she was far too short to see out. One small wooden stool rested haphazardly in the far right corner. Some dirty remnants of food lay tossed on the floor and there was a—she gasped—fairly large rat gnawing on a piece of moldy bread near the stool. She willed herself not to scream. She’d never been particularly frightened of rats but she certainly didn’t want to share a living space with one.
“Good day, Sir Rat,” she said with a shaky voice. “What did you do to get put in here?”
She smiled at her own nonsensical behavior. At least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor … yet. What had she thought earlier about wanting adventure? Rubbish. Utter rubbish. Though she supposed if she made it home, she’d have a harrowing story for Delilah.
Daphne scooted back against the door and eyed the rat nervously. “Let’s make an agreement, you and I.”
The rat merely blinked at her. He did not stop his nibbling.
“You remain over there…” She scooted to the right around the wall and slowly pulled the stool back over toward the door. “And I’ll just stay over here. How about that?”
The rat blinked again but didn’t move, thank heavens.
“I don’t suppose you could give me the address of this place?” She smiled at herself again. Not that she’d be able to do anything with it if she had it. She was sorely lacking a carrier pigeon. Keeping on eye on the rat’s location, she pushed the stool over to the wall with the window and stood on it. Still too short to see out. Blast. Being the opposite of tall was such a curse. She jumped. Nothing. She tried again. Only a sliver of the outside appeared. But the stool seemed in imminent danger of cracking into pieces so she decided not to try again. The tiny glimpse she’d got on the second jump had only been enough to see darkness. Reluctantly, her eye still on the rat, she scraped the stool back over toward the door to put as much distance between herself and her hairy little cellmate as possible.
“Nothing personal,” she said to the rat.
Daphne glanced all around the small room. She wasn’t about to just sit quietly and wait to be rescued. First, she tried the door. It was locked, of course. She jiggled the handle furiously. No movement. Screwing up her courage because proximity to the rat was involved, she backed up to the far wall and ran as hard as she could, tossing her body a
gainst the door with all her force. She bounced off the door and flew backward, knocking over the stool, which went skittering toward the rat. The rat narrowly escaped it, scurrying out of the way just in time.
“Ouch.” Daphne rubbed her injured and no doubt bruised shoulder. “I beg your pardon,” she said to the rat.
The door was obviously locked with a bolt from the outside and made of extremely sturdy wood. She glanced about again. There was nothing else. No cracks in the walls, no other entrances or windows. Just her and the rat. She had to think. There must be some way she could get out. Something she could do. She considered yelling for help but thought against it. If her captor heard her and returned, he would no doubt threaten her with stabbing again. She could only hope he hadn’t heard her run at the door.
She sat with her back against the wall and pulled up her knees. The crew of the True Love had been in the crowd at the tavern earlier. They must have seen her leave. And Rafe. Rafe would soon realize she wasn’t coming back and he’d come for her. He’d rip Anton and Viktor and probably that barmaid apart as soon as he realized they’d double-crossed him. Then he’d be on his way. She knew it.
In the meantime, perhaps her captor would return and provide her with an opportunity to escape. The man seemed like a hulking mass, but she was small and spry. She just might manage to get around him and run. He wouldn’t have the element of surprise he’d had earlier. She just might make it if she could find the staircase easily. Regardless, she had to try.
She let her head fall back against the dusty stone wall behind her and assessed her situation. She had two things going for her. One, Rafe and the rest of the crew would be searching for her and they wouldn’t stop until they found her. She knew it. And two, she just so happened to have a knife in her boot. She slid her hand down to her ankle and patted the knife’s handle. It had warmed against her skin and gave her confidence.
For now, or until she could come up with a plan, all there was to do was wait.
She’d drifted off to sleep a bit, lulled by the rhythmic sound of the nearby waves, when the bolt screeching against the door woke her.
“Who’s there?” she whispered into the dark. She glanced over. The rat was gone.
The wide wooden door swung open and the huge man stood blocking the light from the corridor.
“What do you want?” she asked, trying her best not to cower against the wall from his sheer size.
“What’s your name? And don’t lie to me,” he demanded.
“Ye don’t know who ye kidnapped?” she said in her cabin boy voice.
The hulking mass kicked her leg, hard, and Daphne quickly decided against further antagonism. Earl’s daughters were never kicked. Apparently, mouthy cabin boys, or whoever they believed her to be, were. Regardless, she wasn’t about to give up her false identity. She rubbed her aching calf. “Thomas Grey,” she said. “I’m the cabin boy from the True Love.”
“I said don’t lie to me.” Spittle flew from the hulking mass’s mouth.
“I’m not lying,” Daphne insisted.
“Yes you are.”
“Fine. Why don’t ye tell me wot me name is then?” she answered, glaring at him, daring him to call her bluff.
“It’s Daphne Swift. Or should I call you ‘my lady’?”
CHAPTER FORTY
Daphne froze. Icicles pierced her veins. He’d obviously been told by the barmaid she was a female, but how did he know her name?
“Rat got your tongue, my fine lady?” the hulking mass said in his thick Russian accent.
“What do you plan to do with me?” she replied.
The hulking mass wiped a dirty arm across his cracked lips. “We’re using you to lure Captain Cavendish.”
More ice encrusted Daphne’s heart. They had Rafe? They’d used her to capture Rafe? And they knew his real name, too? Had they already murdered him? Were they torturing him again somewhere? Perhaps in this very place? She scratched at her arms, frantic to get out of here and help him.
“But my friend and I, we thought we might have a bit of sport with you. Neither of us has ever been with a true lady.” The hulking mass waggled his bushy eyebrows at her.
Daphne pulled herself into a ball in the corner. She was going to be sick. “Your friend?” she choked out.
The hulking mass didn’t have to answer. Another man came barreling through the door. This man was much shorter, much smaller, and spryer, and leaner than the hulking mass.
“There you are, Billy. I’ve been waiting for you,” the hulking mass said. “You should be thankful I didn’t already have my way with her.” He laughed a disgusting laugh.
Daphne shuddered. Bile rose in her throat. Rape. She hadn’t considered rape. Pain, yes. Torture, yes. Death, even. But she’d been pretending to be a boy. The thought of rape hadn’t occurred to her.
Though Billy was considerably smaller than his friend he was equally unkempt and still much larger than Daphne. His cloudy blue eyes darted around the room haphazardly. He looked a bit mad. “Aye, she’s a fine one, just like ye said, Boris.”
“I don’t lie,” Boris answered. “Have you ever known me to lie?”
“I can’t say I has,” Billy replied, drooling a bit from the side of his wide mouth.
Daphne backed away even farther. Her back and hands against the stone, she moved slowly toward the far wall. She only had one knife. She might manage to kill or wound one of them but the other might overpower her. Her heart hammered in her throat. Think. Think.
“Billy?” she asked. “Is that your name? Billy?”
“Aye.” Billy nodded.
“What are you doing working with these Russians, Billy? Why would you turn against your own countryfolk?”
Billy wiped at his mouth. “Aye, don’t think ye can talk to me about loyalty and kinship, me lady.” He sneered. “I was wounded in the army and got nothin’ from me country. Not even a kick in the teef. I works fer who pays me best now. That’s wot I do. And if there’s a bit o’ fun ta be had whilst I’m at it, like a tumble wit ye, I’m all for it.”
Daphne swallowed hard and continued her crawl toward the far wall. Clearly Billy wasn’t going to be talked out of this.
Billy’s wild eyes tracked her movement. They devoured her. “Where do ye think ye’re going, me lady?”
“There’s no place to run to,” Boris added with a laugh that could curdle milk.
Billy advanced on her, his arms wide as if he would catch her if she tried to stand and run around him. It would have been no use at any rate because Boris’s girth filled the doorway. He laughed and rubbed his hands together as Billy stalked toward her.
“Tell me something,” Daphne asked, attempting to stall and wanting to know the answer.
“Wot’s that?” Billy asked, grinning at her through rotten teeth.
“Did either of you … were either of you there when my brother, the Earl of Swifdon, was murdered?”
Billy laughed. “Can’t say I did the honors, me lady, but I surely was part o’ the gang wot turned him over to those Frenchies.”
Daphne stood up, her back against the far wall now, and clenched her jaw. Just as she suspected. These two men were part of the group responsible for Donald’s death. She hated them with every part of her body, mind, and spirit.
Billy continued to slowly advance on her and Daphne swallowed hard again. The closer he got, the stronger his smell. He reeked of sweat and rotting garbage. She pressed the back of her arm across her mouth, fighting against the bile in her throat. Billy jumped at her and caught her arm, pulling her down onto the dirty floor with him. She screamed and bucked, trying desperately to push him off her. He pinned one of her arms above her head and began unbuttoning his filthy trousers with the other. “Don’t squirm so much, yer highness. It’ll be better for both of us.”
This was it. She might only kill one of them but she had to try. With her free arm, she reached into her boot for the knife. Billy was too preoccupied with his trousers to notice. The hul
king mass didn’t seem to, either.
Billy sprang free, his erection pressing against Daphne’s leg. She fought her gag even harder. He yanked at Daphne’s breeches, ripping the material at her waist.
“No!” she cried.
He lifted his arm and cracked her across the cheek. Her head snapped to the side and hit hard against the floor. Pain ripped through her face and neck. She gritted her teeth, turned her head, and curled her fingers around the hilt of the knife. She lifted the weapon in her hand and pushed him off her body with all her might. Billy fell to the side, off kilter because of his fight to remove her breeches. Daphne took one last deep breath and plunged the knife into his chest, just below his left shoulder, right where his heart would be. Blood spurted, dark and hot, out of the wound in his chest, coating Daphne’s hands and splattering across her face and clothing.
“Gah!” Billy screamed and crumpled to the floor while blood continued to pour out of the large wound around the knife.
“She’s kilt me!” he cried.
The hulking mass’s eyes went wide, then they narrowed into beady black coals. “Damn you, bitch.”
Daphne watched in horror as Boris advanced toward her with murder in his eyes. The giant was going to kill her. Rape her first, then kill her. She knew it, but at least she’d taken one of the two. She’d go to her grave knowing she’d taken a life for her brother’s. And Billy was indeed dying. Blood trickled from his lips and he gurgled. He’d propped himself against the wall, staring unseeing into the room, each breath more shallow than the last.
“That was for my brother,” she spat at the dying man.
Billy made no other sound.
The Irresistible Rogue Page 20