Dominick placed her hand on his leg and patted it comfortingly. “Never you mind, love. Victor has long overdue business to attend to at home, and his mother is likely to string him up by the neck for ignoring her these last ten years.”
She gawked at Victor. “Please tell me he is teasing.”
And damn it if a blush didn’t creep up his neck, heating his cheeks. “Guilty as charged.”
“Oh, how shameful!” she said, clucking her tongue. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow, midday. As soon as we can arrange for the last of the ship’s provisions.”
Eveline folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll pray for a safe journey tomorrow morning in the chapel, and you’ll all join me. You did promise to visit with me more often, did you not? This is the perfect occasion. And then we’ll come to the wharf to see you off. I would enjoy a tour of The Savior.”
Victor bit down on the inside of his cheek. He knew better than to gainsay the woman. It would only make her suspicious. But it was damned inconvenient. There was still the matter of abducting Mercy and stowing her aboard. He didn’t want her out of his sight for a single moment. Where would he hide her while Eveline completed the tour? Damnation.
“Very well,” he said, working hard to conceal his irritation. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll meet you at first light.”
Though, in truth, he had no desire to visit the chapel with a family cemetery nestled beside it. ’Twas a breeding ground for ghosts. He’d never seen one in his life before Emma, and he didn’t care to see another any time soon. What did it mean? He rubbed the base of his neck, working out the knots gathered there. Eveline might know, if he dared to seek her advice. As a medium, she had communicated with spirits her entire life.
When they arrived at the front door and everyone had piled out of the coach, Victor motioned Eveline to the side. “May I have a word alone with you?”
She scrutinized his fidgety form and smiled reassuringly. “Of course, Victor.”
He stared at his booted feet, feeling quite silly. But this was Eveline, and she would not tease him when he told her of what he saw earlier in the graveyard. Best to get it out and over with.
“Something happened in the cemetery,” he said, meeting her gaze. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and let out his breath slowly. “When I tossed my rose into the burial site, I saw . . . I’m quite certain I saw Emma’s spirit rise out of the casket. And it appeared as though she was beckoning me to join her.” A nervous chuckle erupted in his chest. “Have you any clue what it means?”
Her skin grew pale, and she swallowed. “Is this your first encounter with a ghost?”
He nodded, not at all encouraged by her demeanor.
She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed. “It usually means death will soon be upon you. You must take care. Perhaps you ought to delay your travels.”
The Blackburn curse. Good God.
“Don’t be silly,” he said, striding in the direction of the stables. “I’ve sailed my whole life. But, please, keep this between us.”
He needed the peace of mind that could only be found while galloping full-out on his stallion. Tomorrow marked the beginning of his journey home and the last of his diabolical schemes. He must abduct Mercy, but not until Eveline had completed her tour of the ship and was safely ensconced back at the manor. Kidnapping the lass during the light of day would not be easy, but it couldn’t be helped, and he dared not fail.
Chapter Nine
Tears streamed down Mercy’s cheeks as she packed the last of her garments. Grabbing a handkerchief, she mopped her face and then blew her nose. She felt drained of all energy, of every last speck of happiness. Emma was dead, and nothing in Mercy’s beloved book of spells and potions could bring her back.
Lightning pierced the night sky, casting dim light throughout the chamber, and thunder crackled hard on its heels, shaking the pane of glass. God and all the heavenly angels mourned her friend as well, it seemed. Her heart felt as though shards of glass had ripped through the outer wall, leaving a bloody, aching mass in her chest. She crumpled onto her reading chair and curled into a tight ball, sobbing. Emma was a beautiful person, taken way too early from this life.
Mercy wanted to scream, to lash out at the world. The logical part of her brain accepted that her best friend’s death was a tragic accident, but it had felt damned good to blame Victor.
She hiccupped, the force of it shuddering through her tired body. She glanced at the clock hanging above the hearth. Almost midnight. Six o’clock in the morning would come upon her in the blink of an eye. Would she find rest this night?
Regardless, she ought to change into her nightgown and seek the comfort of her bed, but she found she could not rouse herself. Wrapping a wool blanket around her shoulders, she closed her eyes, relaxing. The soft hum of muted voices from the tavern below, combined with the pattering of rain, lulled Mercy to the edge of sleep. Yet her mind refused to yield to sweet oblivion. Events of the past month reeled through her head, and she played back her treasured memories of her best friend, until a loud thump yanked her out of her musings.
She tossed aside her covers and sat upright. Her ears filled with the dull, quickening thud of her heartbeat. How long had her mind drifted aimlessly? Long enough that the tavern was closed and quiet. Henry must’ve made his way upstairs and tripped on the last stair to the apartment. The clumsy old man. She crept to her bedroom door and pushed her ear against it, listening for his telltale mutterings.
The doorknob suddenly rattled, and she jumped back. Gooseflesh covered her arms. She nearly screamed, until she came to her senses. Henry always checked her locked door before he bedded down each night.
“Goodnight, Henry,” she whispered with a smile. He’d give her an earful come morning if he knew she was still awake before a long trip.
She tiptoed to the window and stared into the black night. The storm had passed, leaving the alley with rivulets of water and scores of puddles that reflected the bright light of the nearly full moon. One particular pool of water beneath her window caught her attention when a shadow flickered over it, obscuring the moon’s radiant glare.
She leaned closer, narrowing her gaze. Was that the silhouette of a man? No one had legitimate business in the alley at this late hour. Had her uncle locked the back door to the tavern? Of course he had, it was second nature, a part of their standard routine. Whoever lurked below would not find entrance into The Black Serpent. She must stop seeing menace in everything around her.
Yawning, she shuffled toward her bed, ready to sleep. But before she made it halfway there, a light scratching came from behind.
Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch.
Her breath hitched in her throat. Where was the noise coming from? Certainly not the window; she’d been there but a moment before. Perhaps the door.
Meow. It sounded like her aunt’s cat. Tabitha always slept at the base of Cecelia’s bed. What on earth was she doing awake?
“Tabitha?” she asked, unlocking the door. “Is that you, silly girl? How did you get out of Cecelia’s bedroom?”
The door swung open, and Mercy gasped, coming face to face with Victor.
A scream ripped out of her chest, but before it found purchase, his hands shot out, one smothering her mouth, the other clasping the back of her head. She bit his fingers, tore at his clothing with her hands, and kicked at his legs. Why was the damned pirate sneaking into her apartment at two o’clock in the morning?
“You little she-devil! Be quiet,” he hissed in her ear, shoving her back into the room against the wall, “or Hatchet will slit your aunt’s throat.”
She stilled immediately. The pirate was more than capable of carrying out the threat. Her nostrils flared, and she heaved in air while skewering him with her heated glare. Freya help her, but she would gut him with a knife for threatening her aunt, if only she had one.
“Hold still,” he commanded.
With his left hand still held over her mouth, h
e reached awkwardly between their bodies with his right hand, groping at his left pocket. Her eyes widened as he pressed his pelvis harder against hers, creating a concave area between their stomachs, trying to maneuver his hand closer, but it was futile.
“I’m going to switch hands on your mouth,” he said, narrowing his gaze on hers. “Do not make a sound, or blood will gush from Cecelia’s throat. Nod your head if you understand.”
She looked away. Savage beast! His heart was carved from ice. How had she ever found this man attractive?
Blinking back her tears, she nodded. A droplet leaked out of the corner of her eye, and he groaned, leaning his forehead against hers, as though witnessing her pain caused him pain. Why? He was a heartless killer, devoid of all sense of right and wrong, unable to empathize.
“All I ask is your cooperation,” he said, replacing his right hand with the left one. “If you cooperate, I promise no one will be harmed.”
Cooperate? To what end?
He pulled out a handkerchief and a vial filled with liquid. She eyed him warily as he laid the handkerchief on her shoulder, tore the stopper out with his teeth, and liberally poured the liquid over the square cloth. An ether-like scent wafted up her nostrils.
Chloroform. Deadly if not administered in the right dosage.
She shook her head frantically, squealing beneath his hand. Use my sleeping potion! His cold gaze connected with her heated one, forming a chasm between them.
“To ensure you remain quiet,” he said, gritting his teeth as he forced the cloth over her mouth and nose. “If all goes well, you’ll be home within two weeks. If you don’t cooperate, your aunt and uncle will suffer. It’s that simple. Sweet dreams, lass. When you wake, we’ll be at sea on The Savior. Far away from Devil’s Cove.”
He held the foul handkerchief in place until her vision began to waver. She screamed against the cloth with the last of her strength and then fell limp in his embrace as blackness overwhelmed her.
• • •
Victor swept Mercy into his arms and strode to the bed, where he laid her down. He buried his hands in his hair and tugged, heaving in a gulp of air. His nerves were shot. Dammit. Nothing had gone the way he had planned it with Hatchet.
The woman locked her bedroom door at night! And why was she still awake at two o’clock in the morning? The abduction should’ve required five minutes at best, ten at most. But fifteen minutes had already come and gone. Had he attempted to pick the lock, she might’ve screamed. God must be smiling down on him, because Victor had placed his ear against her door, caught her faint whisper good night, and knew she was awake. It had been a stroke of genius on his part to mimic the cat.
But he couldn’t rely on luck anymore. Henry was enjoying a draft of beer with his cook, reminiscing about old times, but Victor didn’t want to tempt fate. Top of his list . . . gather some of her belongings. A few seconds later, he located a carpetbag in the closet and grabbed it, intent on setting it on the reading chair for ease of packing. But the weight of the baggage stopped him cold. Kneeling, he opened the buckles and pushed back the leather fastenings.
He rummaged through the contents, which included everything from undergarments to nightclothes to dresses. His fingers connected with a wooden box, and he dug it out. Lifting the lid, he found vials of potions laid side by side.
When had she planned on departing, and to where? He turned and glared at her prone form lying innocently on the bed. That’s when he saw her reticule on the bedside table. Grabbing hold of the carpetbag handles, he stalked to the bed and set the bag on the floor. He riffled through her purse, not caring one whit if he invaded her privacy.
She had almost escaped!
He found a train ticket shoved carelessly to the bottom of her purse. His heart skipped a beat. Final destination: London. He closed his eyes and exhaled through his mouth in one long, measured breath. With a population of more than six million people, she would’ve been lost to him forever. Thank God he had listened to Hatchet’s advice and had not waited to abduct her.
But now, he must get out of here. Where were her boots? He searched under her bed and in the closet and then spied a sturdy pair at the foot of her reading chair, where she must have kicked them off. After grabbing the boots, he paused as he noticed a dagger with specks of white on it resting on the side table. Was that plaster? He sniffed the dagger and frowned. Then he searched the walls.
His mouth dropped open. She’d carved thousands of lines into the wall behind her chair. Like markings on a tally sheet. Or to count the days to a specific event. He scoured the wall and froze when he read the words carved above the marks.
ROT IN HELL, BLACKBURN!
She truly wished him dead.
Without much care, he stuffed Mercy’s feet into the boots. As he draped her wool cloak over her, he stumbled against her bedside table, disturbing its contents.
A book hit the floor with a loud thud, and he stilled, listening for footfalls dashing toward Mercy’s bedroom.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
One minute passed . . . then two . . . but there was nothing beyond the frantic beating of his heart. He bent over and picked up the offending book, prepared to toss it back on the side table. The elaborate design on the front cover caught his attention, as did the title, Tome of the Accursed. Flipping through the pages, he studied the words and noted the specific ingredients and precise measurements carefully inscribed on the pages. It appeared to be a book of spells and potions, and very old. Well, that may prove useful. He stuffed it inside the carpetbag.
Mercy snorted in her sleep, drawing his attention to her sweet, rosy lips. She no longer resembled a she-devil but rather an angel, with her halo of blond curls. With one final sweep of the room, Victor tossed her over his shoulder and grabbed the bag. She weighed a pittance. He crept down the hallway and across the living room to the balcony, where Hatchet waited, without incident.
“You first, and then I’ll follow with Mercy,” Victor said, shoving the bag into Hatchet’s chest.
Hatchet scowled as he heaved one leg over the edge of the balcony. “The stairs would be faster and easier.”
“No, too risky,” Victor said, glancing over his shoulder. “Henry could be climbing the stairs as we speak. Go!”
Cradling Mercy in his arms, he gazed upon her sleeping face. She looked so peaceful despite the puffiness around her eyes, probably caused by a long day filled with tears. His heart grew heavy. There would be many stressful days in their near future. He drew a mental image of her tranquil state to recall later, because he’d have hell to pay when she woke from her forced sleep.
Chapter Ten
Mercy’s eyes fluttered open. The first thing she noticed was the darkness surrounding her, closely followed by a bout of dizziness. She attempted to stretch but couldn’t. Aches and pains permeated every muscle. Why couldn’t she move?
Memories of her abduction flooded her mind, and she cursed Victor to Hell. At least she tried, but she was prevented from delivering a proper verbal flogging by a cloth stuffed in her mouth and secured by another strip of cloth tied in a knot at the back of her head. What if she retched from the chloroform? She could drown in her own vomit.
Her stomach turned. She inhaled through her nose, attempting to regulate her mounting panic, and was accosted with her signature scent—sweet orange extract. That bastard had used her own handkerchief as a gag! Oh, what sweet revenge would be hers when she got hold of her spell book again.
The book sitting on her bedside table . . .
She screamed at the top of her lungs, but the gag muted her vocal chords, leaving in its wake a pitiful grunt. Her shoulder muscles burned with every movement as she shifted in the confined space, each effort hindered by her hands bound behind her back and her knees scrunched against her stomach. Did Victor plan to keep her bound and gagged for the entire trip? She wouldn’t put it past him, the vagrant.
Kicking her feet forward, she cried out in pain as her toes met with solid wood. Perh
aps she could shift into a sitting position and brace her back against the wall for a forceful kick with the balls of her feet. But upon lifting her head, her temple slammed against a hard surface, and she groaned. He’d shoved her into a chest or a box, like a piece of baggage.
In a fit of rage, Mercy screamed and kicked and tossed her body about, attempting to turn her prison onto its side. But it was futile, and her outburst did nothing but exhaust her further, causing her to sweat and take ragged breaths through her nostrils. She wanted to cry. Only six hours, and she would’ve been on a train, safe and headed far away from Victor’s grasp and whatever plans he had in store for her. Did he sell virgins on the black market?
It took all her effort to calm her mind and focus on something other than the black box of her existence. She could hear water lapping against the hull of a ship in a mindless rhythm, so why didn’t her prison sway in any discernable way? Were they still in Devil’s Cove at port?
Sleep beckoned in her groggy state; still, she refused to give in to the pull, clinging to the hope of engineering an escape, despite how impossible it seemed. There must be someone willing to assist her on this bloody ship; it was named The Savior.
She dissolved into a fit of giggles—had she finally lost her mind?—when the sound of approaching voices startled her. The voices grew stronger, until she could finally recognize a feminine lilt. Why was Eveline Mitchell on board?
“The Savior is spectacular,” Eveline said. “But where are the captain’s quarters?”
“When I return from visiting my family, you may tour the entire ship, I promise,” Victor said, his voice receding.
They were passing her by, and with them left her one chance of escape. Blood thrummed through Mercy’s veins, and she shouted, kicked, and thrashed, pounding her knees, elbows, and feet against the sides of the chest, ignoring the throbbing pain ripping through her. But, despite her efforts, their voices faded into the distance.
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