She'd remained tied to the ceiling beams in that basement room, though they’d lowered her to the ground a few times a day for a few bites of stale bread and sips of stagnant water. Downing had made his intentions known, wanting her alive until he was ready to deal the final blow that would end her life.
On the first day she’d fought them, kicking and screaming, hurling every foul epithet at them that came to mind. It had earned her a beating, but not before she’d kicked Downing in the face and bloodied his nose, leaving a butterfly-shaped bruise spreading toward his eyes. She’d been unable to fight them both off with her hands tied, which meant while she was dealing with Downing, Stratford was able to subdue her with her own knife. Along with days’ worth of dirt, grime, and sweat, her skin held several cuts—some shallow, some deep, all painful. They’d let the blood dry on her skin in crimson smears, leaving her looking like death while days without bathing had her smelling no better. She could see the mess of her hair from the corner of her eye, matted and tangled, her scalp stinging from the way Stratford had dragged her from the basement before throwing her to the ground and wrapping her in this bed sheet.
Two days of being beaten and cut, with meager food and very little water, had left her weak and unable to fight back. There had been nothing for her to do but go along with their commands, hoping it would spare her for one more minute, on more hour, one more day.
She didn’t know why this instinct to survive persisted, when her fate was all but certain. It would be better to throw open the carriage and throw herself out, hoping to be caught under the wheels. At Downing’s country home in Devon, she would be subjected to even more torture. These two men represented the worst of those she had punished, the sort with no morals and a taste for debauchery. They would enjoy every moment of ripping her to pieces until there was nothing left.
She’d be dead in a matter of days, though no one would miss her … no one would care.
Except Robert.
Her stomach twisted and her chest ached at the thought of him, of all the things she’d wanted to give him. For the first time in so many years, she wished she could be someone different—the sort of woman Robert deserved. How someone as bright, sunny, and pure had come to love her, she had no idea. She only knew that with her final desperate act of vengeance she’d ruined any chance of basking in that love, of accepting it and returning it.
I’m so sorry, Robert.
She would die, and he would mourn her. In time, though, he would carry on just as he had following the loss of each of his brothers. A man who had survived so much death and pain had to be resilient. He would on to lead a good life, free of the complication that came with loving a woman like her. His need to love and be loved would not see him living that idyllic life alone. He’d find someone else—someone as sweet and kind as him. Someone who would blush when he called her beautiful, or smile when he put flowers in her hair. Cassandra clenched her teeth at the images conjured by her thoughts. This mythical woman did not even exist, and still Cassandra wanted her dead. She wanted to throttle her, squeeze the life from her with her bare hands and claim what was hers.
He isn’t yours any longer … you’ve pushed him away far too many times, and now you’ll die without ever telling him how you truly feel.
Opening her eyes, she heaved a sigh. She would meet her fate, taking comfort in the knowledge that she’d had a hand in taking Bertram down before her demise. She might not have saved Lady Downing, but she hoped that her actions might have saved others. Unlike Downing and Stratford, her other targets might have learned a valuable lesson about how it felt to be a victim, to be helpless and degraded.
And Robert … well, at least he was safe. By tying him to that bed and leaving him behind, she had kept him from being caught up in this storm of her own making. Her actions and mistakes had led to this, and now she would suffer the consequences.
She darted a glance at the man sitting beside her. Downing had fallen asleep, his head resting against the seat, mouth hanging open as his soft snores filled the carriage. Her fingers tightened around the sheet, making the gash on the inside of her forearm throb.
Could she overtake them somehow? Looking across the vehicle, she found Stratford watching, her dagger held in one hand. He pressed the tip lightly against his palm and spun the hilt, making the steel gleam in the meager moonlight streaming through the carriage windows.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, turning the knife so that the blade faced her. “I’ll slice you to ribbons before you even lay a hand on him.”
Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him and calculated the risks. Downing was fast asleep, and if she lunged at Stratford it might be a moment before he regained all his faculties. By the time he’d come to, she could overpower Stratford and take the knife before jamming it into his chest. But, she’d be too slow and weak, and if she failed ...
Cursing her weak, battered body, she sank deeper into the confines of the bed sheet. She should conserve her strength on the chance that a true window of opportunity arose for her to escape. For the moment, it seemed the only way out of this was death.
“Help me understand something,” Stratford said, taking on a conversational tone. “Was publicly testifying against Fairchild not enough for you? The man you claim raped you—”
“He did rape me,” she snapped. “Just like you raped Randall’s wife.”
Stratford rolled his eyes “Hardly got the chance before the little bitch started fighting me. Killing her was an accident, but … well it was her fault for mauling me.”
Bile rose in the back of her throat as she thought of her own ordeal at Bertram’s hands, the paralysis caused by fear that had kept her from fighting him. Would she have suffered the same fate as Randall’s wife had she fought him?
“No, it wasn’t enough,” she spat, her hands shaking with the force of her anger. “It will never be enough as long as there are men like you in the world.”
Stratford snorted. “I hate to sully your grand illusion, but men like me are all there are in the world.”
“No,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to her filthy hands. “You’re wrong.”
Months ago she might have agreed with him. For five long years, she’d been unable to look at any man without seeing her assailant. But then, there had been Robert. He’d proven himself to be the opposite of Bertram in every way.
“There are men who know how to get what they want without hurting others,” she continued, lifting her eyes to meet Stratford’s gaze once more. “They have the decency to care for people weaker than them, not abuse them. That's what a real man is. But, you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Satisfaction flared within her at the way his face contorted, lips pinching, nostrils flaring as he wrestled with his anger. Leaning forward a bit, she smiled, despite the way it made her swollen face ache and her split lip sting.
“Go ahead,” she taunted. “Hit me. Cut me. Prove me right about the sort of spineless coward you are. You could never take me in a fight without Downing … I proved that the night I ran your carriage down on this very road.”
Instead of retaliating, Stratford slouched in his chair and gave her a chilling grin. He went back to playing with the dagger, touching its point to each of his fingers.
“I am going to enjoy breaking you,” he murmured, his voice silky smooth yet as sharp as the blade in his hand. “Just wait until we arrive in Devon. You will not have so much to say between screams.”
Before she could open her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, a cry arose from outside the carriage, followed by a lone gunshot.
Cassandra started, turning to glance at the carriage window. With the curtain drawn, she could see nothing, but she heard the shouts of Stratford’s driver as well as the startled screams of the horses.
“What the devil?” Stratford mumbled, pulling the curtain aside just as the carriage jolted to a sudden stop. “Downing! Wake up, you fool! I think we’ve been overtaken by a highwayman.”
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Sir Downing came to with a snort, blinking his bleary eyes as he glanced about the carriage with confusion etching his face.
“What’s that? Highwayman, you say? Nonsense, we’ve the Masked Menace right here.”
“Well, apparently, there’s another one.”
Cassandra’s heart began to race as she listened to the driver shouting at whoever approached, warning them that this vehicle belonged to the Earl of Stratford, and there would be hell to pay. He cried out before a thud rendered him silent, followed by the thump of his body hitting the ground.
Now wide awake, Downing leaped into action, dropping to his knees on the carriage floor and reaching into the compartment under the seat. Her eyes went wide as she recalled the night she had accosted him, and the shot of the blunderbuss that might have killed her had she not expected it.
She did not know who had overtaken them, but she would rather take her chances with another highwayman than these two brutes.
“Gun!” she called out just before the carriage door swung open.
The blast of Downing’s blunderbuss cracked through the night, but as the smoke cleared, Cassandra could see that his shot had hit nothing but thin air.
“You stupid bitch!” Stratford bellowed, lunging across the carriage toward her.
With freedom looming within her reach now, Cassandra willed herself to gather the strength to fight. As Downing was dragged from the carriage by their assailant, she met Stratford head on, lunging across the space between them. Her bed sheet forgotten, she ducked to avoid the swing of the dagger in her hand, then slammed a fist into his midsection. Pain radiated up her arm, but she ignored it, retrieving Downing’s blunderbuss and bringing it down on Stratford’s head. The earl fell back against his seat with a curse, blood trickling from his temple.
“I’ll take it from here,” stated a familiar voice.
She glanced up to find a man in the opening, the moonlight framing him from the top of his golden head to the drape of a black domino about this shoulders. Even from behind a black mask she knew that face, had memorized its angles and planes and the pout of that plush mouth. Tears of relief stung her eyes as he revealed the pistol he held in one hand, leveling it at Stratford.
“Stand and deliver,” he ground out, pulling back the hammer and filling the carriage with the ominous sound of the gun being cocked.
Stratford’s mouth gaped open, one hand pressed to his bleeding temple as his gaze darted from her to Robert, and back again.
“I-I don’t understand … you’re not the Masked Menace, she is!”
Robert’s mouth curved into a mocking smirk. “Are you certain? She isn’t the one standing here in a mask, pointing a gun at you.”
Stratford shook his head, hands shaking as he jerked his cravat away and pulled at the collar of his shirt. Buttons went flying when he tore the garment open to reveal his disfigured chest. Cassandra’s work had scarred over, leaving behind the dark slashes from her blade spelling out a single word.
RAPIST.
Robert inclined his head, showing no response to the sight of the earl’s mutilated chest. “Step out of the carriage. Now.”
Stratford shook his head, jaw clenched tight. “I know she is the true Menace, and I am owed retribution for what she did to me.”
“Get out of the goddamn carriage!” Robert bellowed, thrusting the gun in Stratford’s face until the muzzle came up against the earl’s forehead.
With the dagger back in Cassandra’s hand and Robert’s pistol pointed at him, Stratford had no choice but to obey. He stepped out of the carriage and disappeared, his muffled grunts and groans mingling with the thuds of fists flying. Apparently, Robert hadn’t come alone.
His expression softened behind the mask when he ducked back into the vehicle and approached her. She could hardly see his face with the moon at his back, but felt the warmth in his voice, heavy with worry and love.
“Cass, are you all right, love?”
She cried out when he took hold of her, his thumb pressing over one of the deep cuts on her arm. She’d torn it open in her last effort against Stratford and it had begun to bleed.
“You’re hurt,” he exclaimed, cupping her face and tilting it to get a better look at her. “They hurt you!”
“I’m all right,” she said, putting her hands over his where they rested against her face. “They did hurt me, but I’ll survive, and … and you came for me.”
His forehead rested against hers and he exhaled, a long slow breath carrying every ounce of his relief and pain. She’d pushed him away, spurned his love, and still he had come to rescue her—a damsel who’d insisted she hadn’t needed saving. But the truth couldn’t be denied.
She had needed saving, and not just from Downing and Stratford.
“Nothing could have stopped me,” he declared. “Not even you. Can you stand?”
She nodded, taking his hand as she edged toward the carriage door. Robert backed out, keeping a tight grip on her hand. Outside, things had grown silent and still, so she allowed herself to settle into relief as he led her out of the vehicle. Whatever happened next, she had Robert. He had come for her, and she was safe.
The warm evening breeze tickled her face, and the feel of the hard-packed earth under her bare feet came as a relief after so many hours hanging from the ceiling.
The driver had been knocked unconscious, his body propped against the side of the vehicle, hands bound before him.
She found Stratford on his knees with a gag splitting his lips, Downing still on his feet but kept subdued by the large man who held his hands clenched behind his back.
“Peter?” she blurted, recognizing Millicent’s lover even in the dark.
He flashed a smile at her while using very little effort to keep Downing restrained. “Hello, Cass. Millie sends her regards. You didn’t think we’d stand back and allow you to be abducted, did you?”
“No,” she said, looking to Robert. “I suppose I shouldn’t have.”
She ought to have known he would to go Millicent for help. Her friend was the only person other than Robert who understood the depth of her need for vengeance. Even without knowing exactly what she’d been up to, the two knew her better than anyone—enough to figure out her location and come up with a plan to extract her.
Another man she recognized as Robert’s valet stood nearby with a pistol in hand, silently watching their captives for any sign of trouble
“Now,” Robert said, reaching up to remove his mask and hand it off to his valet. “I am not one for violence, but the two of you sealed your own fates when you made off with Cassandra. After what you’ve done, I cannot allow you to live.”
He used one hand to untie his domino and drape it over the valet’s arm while keeping hold of his pistol. Downing struggled in Peter’s hold, while Stratford seemed to try to speak around his gag.
“We are the real victims here!” Downing insisted, leveling a glare at Cassandra. “She accosted us, beat us, mutilated us! It is she you ought to punish, not us.”
Robert raised an eyebrow at Downing. “She showed you more mercy than I would have. You should have been grateful she left you alive. Now, you’ve compounded your deeds by abducting her.”
Downing’s desperate gaze landed on Stratford, who seemed to try pleading with Robert through the material muffling his words.
“It was all his idea!” Downing declared, angling his head toward the earl. “When we were sharing drinks at White’s, we happened to begin talking about the Masked Menace and discovered we had both suffered the same fate. It was he who suggested we find a way to get our revenge.”
“And which of you decided pushing your wife down the stairs and further injuring her would prove enough to draw me out?” Cassandra accused, stepping closer to Downing.
Irritation flared in his gaze as he stared back at her, a vein in his temple beginning to throb. “She wasn’t supposed to die.”
“If you are as innocent in all this as you claim, you will prove
it,” Robert said, before giving his valet a nod.
The man tucked his pistol into the waistband of his breeches, then proceeded to tie her mask around Downing’s face, before draping him in the domino.
“What the devil are you about?” Downing demanded, struggling to get free but finding his strength was no match for Peter’s.
“This man coerced you into this plan,” Robert said with a bored shrug. “His idea led you to kill your own wife by accident, and now you’ve been caught. It is all his fault, isn’t it?”
Downing gaped as Peter released him, before the valet offered the gun. The man seemed uncertain how to proceed, leery of the pistol being presented to him so freely.
“The Menace came upon Stratford on the road and killed him,” Robert declared watching Downing’s face closely, hand clenched around his own pistol. “That is what we, your witnesses will say if anyone asks us what happened this night. No one ever need know it was you. And if you kill the man responsible for kidnapping and hurting the woman I love … I will spare your life.”
Cassandra tightened her hand around the dagger and lumbered forward. “Like hell you will.”
Robert blocked her progress with an outstretched arm, but kept his gaze fixed on Downing. On the ground, Stratford began to struggle, falling onto his side, unable to right himself with his hands tied behind his back. He inched along the road like a worm, weeping and mumbling behind his gag, pleading for his life.
“Trust me, Cass,” he whispered so only she could hear. “You will have your moment, and you will know when it is right.”
Still glaring at Downing, she lowered her hand and the dagger with it. He was right. She’d done things her way and gotten herself into this mess. It was obvious he’d given this all a great deal of thought, and thus far his plan was working.
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 26