Shana Galen

by When Dashing Met Danger

  They were two of the wealthiest men in England. Half brothers, Ethan had inherited his wealth from their mother’s first husband, the Marquis of Winterbourne. When the marquis had died, Lady Winterbourne married the Earl of Selbourne and bore Alex. Selbourne had died about ten years before, leaving Alex to take possession of the beleaguered Selbourne fortune and estates.

  He’d obviously been managing them well, she thought as she surveyed the tasteful foyer. Better than his father, whose main interest, or so she had heard, was disgracing his wife by engaging in one licentious affair after another. Alex was a rake, but she could not imagine him shaming his wife or the Selbourne name as his father had.

  Bestowing another approving look over the decor, she caught her reflection in the mirror and stepped closer, adjusting her soiled cloak over her gown. She began to pull the hood around her face, then paused, glanced quickly about, and leaned into the mirror.

  She studied her familiar reflection. Did she look any different now that she was no longer a virgin?

  No. She looked the same.

  Perhaps the color in her cheeks was a little higher and her lips were swollen, but she was the same old Lucia. Actually, she thought, peering closer, she looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes and lines of fatigue around her mouth. She yawned and pulled the hood up, then jumped when a hand clamped on her shoulder.

  “Alex,” she chided, turning, then screamed. The man holding her was not Alex. Behind him four other men were rushing into the foyer. Lucia screamed again and wriggled out of the man’s grasp.

  Cold fear, like the damp morning air, closed around her, and she slid across the slick marble floor in her scramble to get away. She spotted Alex running down the hallway. Oh, thank heaven! She changed the angle of her skid and headed toward him, a bubble of hope rising within her.

  It burst when the excruciating pain shrieked through her scalp. “Alex!” she screamed, but her oxygen was cut off as her head was yanked back by her long hair. She slipped and stumbled and was hauled against a mountain of foul-smelling flesh, then hissed, scratched, and clawed at her captor. Her scalp burned with the knifelike pain shooting through it, but she ignored it, shaking her head wildly in an attempt to dislodge the man’s grip. Her captor grunted, and his grip seemed to ease. She fought harder, flailing against him, biting and tearing and kicking.

  Until she felt the cold pistol press against her temple.

  And then her heart lurched into her throat. Even in her haze of terror she knew what it was. She went absolutely still and only then realized she’d been screaming.

  The foyer was suddenly deathly silent and, careful to move only her eyes, she sought Alex. He’d come to a halt in front of the grand staircase. Under the glittering chandelier, his face was calm and deadly.

  And just like that, Lucia’s panic seeped away. It burned off like the morning mist on a sunny day. In that moment, she knew Alex would protect her.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Décharné,” Alex said in flawless French. The tone of his voice suggested he was greeting a guest at a dinner party. Bored. Polite.

  “Bonjour,” a man on her right answered, and Lucia twisted slightly to see him. He was small—smaller than Francesca even—with dark hair and a trim mustache. His face was thin and pale, his body so gaunt it was almost skeletal. He seemed wildly out of place. In stark contrast to the ragged, burly men with him, Décharné was neat and trim. “I had hoped to catch you in this morning,” Décharné said. His voice was high and clear, every word enunciated perfectly. “It does not appear as though you expected me.” He grinned, and his cheekbones jutted from his face.

  Alex waved a careless hand. “I was just on my way out. If you’ll excuse us?”

  “Not this time.” Décharné reached into his coat, and two of his men stepped forward. “You and I, monsieur, have an appointment.”

  He aimed a pistol at Alex, and Lucia gasped, a trickle of fear breaking through her trust.

  “Tie him up, Pierre.” Décharné waved the gun at Alex. “And make sure it’s tight.”

  Alex cocked a brow but made no protest.

  “I advise you not to attempt any heroics, monsieur,” Décharné went on, nodding at Lucia. “I remind you the odds are not in your favor. Five to one, and we are all armed.”

  “Was it something I said?” Alex spread his arms, then held his hands behind his back as Pierre, a man with a jagged scar across his forehead and right eyelid, bound him.

  Lucia winced as Pierre wound the rope around Alex and yanked it viciously. She stared at Alex for some sign of reassurance, but try as she might to catch his eye, he didn’t look at her.

  Her captor pressed the gun to her temple harder, and she blinked back tears. The cold of the metal gun barrel skittered through her, making her arms and legs feel like icicles. She tried to take a deep breath and found that the air had frozen in her lungs.

  “I almost had you in Paris, monsieur,” Décharné continued, when Alex was bound. He sauntered through the foyer, eyeing the furnishings and examining the knickknacks on the satinwood side table with two fingers. “It was Camille Chevrier who saved you.” He darted a glance at Alex. Alex blinked, showed no response. Décharné lifted a small Sèvres bowl. “The documents you were carrying must have been very important for her to compromise her position like that.”

  Alex shrugged, and Lucia saw Décharné’s mouth tighten. He wanted a reaction, and Alex wasn’t giving it to him. Her eyes darted rapidly back and forth between the two men, the speed of her heart now rapid as well.

  “And your friend Henri.” Décharné set down the porcelain bowl. “Such a tragedy! We found him just after you’d sailed. I’m afraid he had to be disposed of, but not before he told us your identity. I tried to coax more out of him, but he was quite a mess by then.” He swaggered to a stop in front of Alex, confident with his adversary bound and flanked by Pierre and another man. “Broken fingers. Broken nose. Blood everywhere. Very messy.”

  Alex shrugged. “One does what one must, Décharné.”

  Lucia shut her eyes. Lord, why was he baiting the man? Why not just give him what he wanted? She tried to breathe again, but bile rose in her throat, choking her. She coughed, and her captor shoved the gun at her harder.

  Décharné’s eyes flicked to her and then back to Alex. “You are a cold bastard, monsieur. But not to worry.” He smiled. “Once I get you to Paris your execution will be swift. Perhaps the fires of hell will warm your heart, eh?”

  “Not likely.”

  And then Alex grinned. And she saw Décharné’s hands tighten on the pistol aimed at him. Alex kept smiling. Lord, was the man insane? Did he want to die?

  She speared Alex with her eyes, but though he must have felt the intensity of her stare, he still didn’t acknowledge her. She’d begun shaking now, the trembling starting in her legs and working its way up until she couldn’t control it. Her captor felt her move and locked his arm around her neck to hold her in check. The action only increased her fear, and she gulped for air, then coughed violently. Obviously the barbarian wasn’t a devotee of Brummell and his dictates on cleanliness.

  She sputtered and took a shallow breath, willing herself not to faint. If she fainted, she couldn’t help Alex, and what she needed to do now was to come up with a plan.

  “Now the lady, Pierre,” Décharné said, and Lucia jerked. Her coughing had drawn his attention.

  “Tie her.” The skeleton waved his pistol at her, and Pierre grinned, his jagged scar standing out brightly under the glare of the chandelier.

  Lucia dragged her eyes back to Alex. Alex sighed, inconvenienced. “There’s really no need to bring this whore along. I assure you that if you give her a few shillings she’ll keep silent enough.”

  Lucia blinked and almost glanced about for the strumpet in question. A second later she realized he was speaking of her. Her jaw dropped at the insult, but she closed it quickly. All eyes had turned to her, and she stared haughtily back. Alex’s gaze did meet hers t
hen, and she saw in his face a plea for cooperation.

  Her shaking stilled. Thank God! The man finally had a plan.

  Décharné’s shoes clicked on the marble as he approached her, scrutinizing her features just as he’d appraised the Sèvres bowl. Lucia tried to play her part—a difficulty considering that at that moment she couldn’t remember ever having seen any prostitutes. The barbarian loosened his grip, and Décharné caught her chin with his bony white hand, twisting her face to and fro. Perhaps if she schooled her face to resemble a loose woman, Décharné wouldn’t order her bound. Being tied would certainly be a hindrance in a plan—hers or Alex’s. It took all of Lucia’s willpower not to curl her lip in disgust.

  “I do not think so, monsieur. She is no whore. A courtesan, perhaps.” Décharné released her chin and turned to Alex. “More likely your mistress. She could be of some use.” He nodded to the foul-smelling man holding her.

  The barbarian snatched her hands behind her and another of the men bound her wrists. Alex’s expression remained blasé, and though she understood the reason for his seeming lack of interest, she really could have used one reassuring glance.

  And then even that hope was lost when everything went dark. Lucia stiffened and bit back a scream. A moment before she’d been scared; now she was blind and helpless as well.

  She let out a squeak of distress as one of the men hefted her and tossed over his beefy shoulders. Oh Lord, she hoped Alex was coming with her.

  She heard the door open, and the next thing she felt was the damp morning air. The hood was definitely going to be an obstacle to the plan. Her whole body convulsed, and she began shivering from fear and cold. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath as she was jounced down the walk, and she let out a ragged gasp when she was dropped on what must have been the floor of a carriage. Several of her abductors crawled in after, and Lucia had to squelch cries of pain when they stepped on her or kicked her out of their way.

  Something hard and bulky was beside her. She fell against it when the carriage jolted to a start.

  “Alex?” she whispered, but there was no response. Her body shook harder.

  The brief carriage ride was bumpy, and it seemed they tore around every corner at a frightful speed. She was disoriented and overwhelmed after a few moments, only vaguely aware of the sounds of the waking city and the muffled voices of her captors.

  Time and distance blurred. Lucia could hardly remain upright. She was weak from the lack of sleep and food, her legs had begun to cramp, and she’d lost all feeling in her arms. If only she knew where Alex was. If he was beside her, she might be able to still her trembling and concentrate on forming a plan.

  Once again she tamped down her rising panic, made worse by the dark, stifling hood, and took a ragged breath. She had to think of a way out of this, some means of escape. What were these men planning to do with her? Where were they taking her? She had to think, to pay attention.

  She straightened, and every muscle screamed in agony. She tried to ignore her discomfort, concentrating instead on the sounds of the city.

  The muffled noise of the carts and hawkers, babies crying, and men arguing were familiar and indistinct, giving her no indication where in London they were being taken.

  She’d just about given up, resigned to the inevitability of death and ready to succumb to the tears running down her cheeks, when the smell assaulted her. Lucia gagged, sobs forgotten.

  At first she was afraid she’d inadvertently leaned against the man who had held her in the town house. But this smell was actually worse. It was a rank mixture of dead fish, excrement, and, underlying it all, decay. Perhaps she was dead already, and this putrid assault on her senses was her punishment for all her foolish, impulsive choices in life. Oh, Lord! If only someone had warned her that hell wasn’t torture by fire but by rank odor, she might have behaved better.

  “The docks.”

  Lucia froze. Alex? “What?”

  “The docks,” he said again, and this time she knew it was he.

  “Shut up! No talking.”

  There was a thud and Lucia yelped, though she wasn’t the one who’d been kicked.

  The docks.

  Lucia’s heart hammered in her chest. This was not a good sign. The plan was definitely going to have to be revised. Surely the men weren’t going to take them to France? She couldn’t go to France! She wasn’t even allowed on Bond Street without a footman. Perhaps if they knew who she really was—but no, if they had no qualms about abducting Alex, an earl, what would the second daughter of a viscount be to them?

  Perhaps…“Oof!” The carriage slammed to a stop and a moment later she was hauled out and tossed over one of the men’s shoulders again. The smell was worse outside the carriage, but now she fought for every breath as she bounced unmercifully on the man’s shoulders. She registered voices nearby and plates clanking together. A tavern? Perhaps if she screamed, someone would—

  The hand of the man carrying her tightened on her thigh. Lucia yelped.

  “If you scream, mademoiselle, no one will come, and you will only anger Décharné,” he said in accented English. “Do you want to anger Décharné?”

  Lucia could only suppose the correct answer was that she did not. The man’s footsteps echoed hollowly; with a sinking feeling, she realized they were now on a ship. The man carrying her wound his way around the vessel, making her dizzy until he descended below deck. There were more twists and turns, a door was unlocked, and she was dropped on a cold floor, her hood yanked off. Lucia blinked and squinted.

  Two men stood before her, their silhouettes accented by the light from the open door behind them. From her position on the floor, all she saw clearly were their thick black boots in front her face.

  “Sit up,” one of them ordered in French.

  Lucia staggered to her knees, and the man grabbed her face between his greasy hands. He leaned down, his lips inches from hers. His foul breath nauseated her. “She’s a pretty one, all right. I say we take her above deck and pass her around a bit.”

  A cold stab of fear sliced through her. Lucia clenched the muscles of her stomach as the bile rose in her throat.

  “Can’t,” the other man answered. “Décharné says we can’t touch her yet. She better be worth the wait.”

  Lucia tried to pull back, to escape the man’s grimy grip, but he pinched her chin more tightly, laughing. His breath almost gagged her. “Don’t worry, pretty one. You won’t escape me long.”

  He shoved her back onto the floor, and both men stomped out of the cabin, laughing. At the sudden jolt, the nerves in Lucia’s numb arms woke and howled in protest. Tears came to her eyes as she struggled to sit again.

  Then the door closed behind the thugs, and she was alone. In complete darkness.

  Chapter 19

  The darkness closed in on her, and thoughts of pain subsided as new fears emerged. Where was Alex? Had they killed him, or was he in his own dark hole with rats, insects, or worse? She looked around wildly, unable to see even her hand before her face.

  What if rats attacked her? What if the ship sank? What if Décharné forgot her? Would she starve to death? It was all too easy to imagine herself dying slowly. Painfully. Alone.

  Oh, Lord! What if Décharné didn’t forget her? What if those men came back? Lucia dug her fingers into her palm and forced herself to be practical.

  She wasn’t in a hole. She was on a ship in some sort of storage area. A moment later, the door opened again, and she jumped in surprise and fear.

  Please, God, don’t let them touch me. Then she cried with relief when Alex was shoved inside, and the door closed and locked behind him.

  “Alex, thank God!” She scooted toward him.

  “Lucia?” His voice was low and muffled by his hood. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?” She could hear the tightness in his voice, the concern. Dear man. She would never call him a horrid cretin again.

  “I’m fine. Oh, Alex, I’m so glad you’re here.”

 
; “Where is here, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. I think we’re in some sort of storage cabin, but I can’t see anything. It’s pitch black.”

  “Lucia.” They were both bound, and he couldn’t reach for her, but the tone of his voice was almost as good as a caress. “Can you take my hood off?”

  “No, my hands are still tied.” She leaned into him, comforted by the feel of him. He pressed into her, too, and they squeezed together for a long moment.

  Finally he said, “I’m going to work my way behind you, then I’ll lie down and put my head in your hands, and you can pull the hood off.”

  A moment later, they were braced against each other, back to back. His bound hands grasped hers, and he squeezed her fingers reassuringly, then maneuvered until his head was in her hands. She pulled clumsily at the hood, her fingers still numb from the tight bindings, but finally she felt it come free. She heard Alex take a deep breath, and he leaned against her again.

  “Is there any light after your eyes adjust?”

  “No.”

  He was quiet.

  “Where are they—”

  “Shh,” he said. “We’ll talk about that later. Try and get out of your bindings.”

  “I can’t. My hands are numb.”

  “So chivalry is dead.”

  He shuffled closer, his back rubbing against hers, then he grasped her hands in his and fumbled for the knots. He pulled on them, testing. “Bloody hell.”

  The ship lurched, and she fell against him, cutting off his words. Her fear rose in her throat again. “I suppose that means we’re under way?” she choked out.

  “Yes.” His voice was taut with strain.

  A volcano of panic erupted within her. “Oh God, Alex! We have to think of a way to get out of here. Those men—those men—”