by Lauren Royal
The clientele were seated in convivial bunches at long, clean-scrubbed wooden tables with matching benches. They were by and large a well-off group, although not of the aristocracy—merchants and solicitors, architects and publishers, gathered to share the news and some companionship at the end of a busy day. Many drank coffee, well known as a means of overcoming drowsiness and stimulating the wits, and the cheerful room was filled with the buzz of animated conversation and the faint scent of tobacco smoke. Colin could well imagine that a titled peer or two stopped by this warm, friendly establishment when they felt like slumming with the common people.
From behind a serving counter, the proprietor looked up then bustled over. Noting Colin's sword and spurs, and the fine fabric and cut of his surcoat, he immediately took him for exactly what he was.
"May I be of service, my lord…?"
"Greystone. I'm looking for a man said to frequent this establishment, a Robert Stanley."
The proprietor's dark, intelligent eyes scanned the room. "Your information is correct. However, he's not here now."
"Perhaps someone here may know of his whereabouts?"
"That's a possibility. He usually sits over there—men are creatures of habit, you know."
He indicated a table in the center of the room, crowded with jovial young men with tankards of ale before them. Their conversation ceased as Colin approached.
He did his best to put a smile in his voice as well as on his face. "I'm looking for Robert Stanley."
Silence reigned for a moment, the faces around the table cautious and suspicious. "Is he in some sort of trouble?" one man asked slowly. "Lately, he's been—"
His words were cut off when the man beside him dealt him a sharp elbow in the ribs.
The smile left Colin's face. He surveyed the table, focusing on each of Robert's friends in turn. "This is a matter of some urgency. It seems Mr. Stanley has abducted a lady of our mutual acquaintance. I'll pay for information."
Friendship apparently went only so far. Whether it was the severity of the charge or the offer of money, Colin didn't know, but the men suddenly came alive.
"He's been searching for his betrothed for weeks. Is it her? She may have gone willingly."
"He paid someone to show him the Marquess of Cainewood's house."
"Yesterday, he asked where to find a privileged church. I told him St. Trinity, in the Minories."
"I told him m'sister was wed at St. James."
Privileged churches. A forced marriage. Colin wanted to kick himself for not thinking of the possibility. He could have saved hours by simply enquiring as to where such churches were located and riding straight there.
Well, Ford's hunch, though slightly miscalculated, had led him to the truth. Colin drew a deep breath.
He was on the right track.
"Might anyone know where Mr. Stanley is now?"
The men shook their heads. "He hasn't been here since yesterday," one of them volunteered.
"Where is St. James?"
"In Duke's Place."
"Thank you, gentlemen." Colin dug in his pouch and threw a handful of silver coins on the table. He left without another word, at a run.
The two churches in question were just outside the City walls, and Amy had been taken last night. If Robert Stanley had timed it early enough, she might be a wife already.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Robert leaned back, balancing precariously on the hind legs of the rickety wooden chair, picking at his teeth with a fingernail. "So…are you ready to talk?"
Watching him, Amy shuddered. She hoped he'd fall over and crack his head open. "You mean, discuss something? As though you still lived in my father's house and we cared about each other?"
"I care about you, Amy."
"You actually sound sincere." She lifted her tied wrists, the skin red and raw. "You have an unusual way of showing it."
He leaned forward, and the front chair legs met the floor with a loud bang. "That's for your own good. We were meant to be together, and you refused to cooperate. After we're wed— after you have my babe—you'll agree."
She'd never have his babe, Amy promised herself—never. She'd drink a thousand purges first. She'd throw herself down a staircase. Whatever it took.
"Where's the jewelry?" he asked suddenly.
She stared at him, unblinking. "I don't have it."
"That is quite obvious. And unfortunate, as I'm sure you'd like to choose a few pieces to complement your wedding gown tomorrow." He flashed a facetious grin, but it faded swiftly. "No matter. It will all turn up once the deed is done, won't it?" He rose from the chair, walked to the bed, and leaned over her. "Won't it?"
She spat in his face.
He hovered above her for a moment, disbelief marking his features. Then his hand shot out and slapped her across the face, snapping her head to one side.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she wouldn't cry. She wouldn't allow him the gratification of seeing her reduced to a quivering bundle of emotion.
"That was a mistake," Robert ground out from between clenched teeth. "Care to try it again?"
She shook her head infinitesimally.
"Very well, then." He turned and slunk back to the chair, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. "Now, you said earlier you were sorry we quarreled, and you were willing to work something out. Were you lying?"
She didn't answer.
"Were you lying?"
She turned her head. "I won't marry you," she whispered to the wall.
"What? What did you say?"
"I won't marry you, Robert Stanley!" she fairly yelled. "Not now, not tomorrow, not ever!"
She knew it was the wrong thing to do; she should act as though she were willing and wait for her chance to escape. But the rebel in her took over, and she couldn't help herself.
He leapt up to stand over her again. "Oh, yes, you will. I'm a second son. There are no jeweler's heiresses lining up to wed me. If I don't have you, I have nothing. That pistol"—he gestured toward the table—"will guarantee you'll marry me."
At that moment, he looked angry enough to use it.
"You'd never—" she started.
"And as insurance," he continued, his pale eyes flashing and wild, "I've a mind to take your maidenhead tonight." He paused, licking his rubbery lips as he considered the idea. "Ah, yes. A consummated betrothal is as good as a marriage, isn't it?"
Amy struggled up on her elbows. "Our betrothal papers burned in the fire. It would be your word against mine. My Aunt Elizabeth would swear her brother never betrothed me to the likes of you."
His face went slack, but only for an instant. "I can still ruin you for anyone else, can't I? You'd have no choice but to marry me then."
"You're too late, Robert Stanley," Amy shot back without thinking. "Someone else has already claimed the honor."
She glared at him, unflinching, even knowing how furious the admission was likely to make him.
He pounced on the bed, crouching over her with his hands on either side of her head. "Who was it?" He pushed his hands down at each word, for emphasis. "Who was it?"
She dared not tell him.
"Whoever it was, I'll kill him, I swear it. You're mine." The mattress continued to bounce, punctuating his words, swiftly escalating her diminished headache into a virulent pain.
His pale eyes narrowed as he growled deep in his throat. "It was Greystone, wasn't it? That bastard."
Evidently the fear on her face was all the confirmation he needed. He raised a fist and slammed it toward her, but she was ready and jerked her head to the side in time.
"Robert!" she screamed. "What have you turned into? Look at yourself!"
And miraculously, he did. He picked up his fist from where it was buried in the mattress and stared at it as though it were a foreign body. Then he slowly climbed off the bed and wandered over to the table.
He sat down, dropped his head to the surface with an audible bump, and stayed there, perfectly still
.
Amy released her breath. She was shaking from head to toe.
She had to get out of here before he raped her. She choked back a sob at the mere thought, the possibility of him violating her body, pushing himself into her. It seemed a completely different act than what she'd done with Colin, and didn't think she could bear the disgust and humiliation.
Robert lifted his head from the table. His breath came in loud, ragged gasps. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?" he asked in an ominous, deep whisper. "Cold, proper Amethyst Goldsmith."
She flinched, but she didn't answer. She just watched his steely blue eyes, preparing herself to react should he attack her another time.
Silent moments ticked by. Robert's gaze remained locked on hers. His expression grew hard and resentful.
"You'd better pray you're not carrying his babe," he stated in a tone that was absolutely emotionless. "Because if you are, I swear I'll kill it."
A chill slithered down her spine.
"Robert Stanley," he said, "will not raise another man's child."
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Colin reached St. James, the first church outside Aldgate, just as the evening service was concluding.
The congregation was sparse. Religion had lost favor when Charles and his loose-moraled court took over London, and no one save a few tradesmen and peasants bothered attending church for anything but the obligatory baptisms, weddings, and funerals. No exception to the norm, Colin shifted impatiently, twisting his ring back and forth as the curate completed his boring, long-winded sermon.
The minute the parishioners began shuffling out, Colin strode toward the pulpit, jostling shoulders in his haste.
"Excuse me, Father," he called when he was but halfway down the aisle. "Did you marry a couple yesterday—he red-haired, and she small with black hair and—"
"Would you care to examine the marriage register, my son?"
Colin winced at the humor in the curate's voice; clearly the man was no stranger to lovesick swains having their intended brides stolen out from under them.
The register was duly produced, and there were nine recorded weddings dated the previous day—none of them Robert's or Amy's.
"Did you see them?" Colin persisted. "Perhaps you know where—"
"No one came to be wed yesterday who wasn't accommodated. Perhaps they went to St. Trinity?"
Colin was already out the door.
The marriage register at St. Trinity had logged eleven ceremonies, and Colin's heart seemed to grow larger in his chest as he scrutinized the long list. When he reached the end without seeing either name, he stumbled to a front-row pew and plopped down.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" the plump curate asked kindly.
"No, which is a relief. They didn't wed here, and they didn't wed at St. James." Amy was yet unmarried. Colin slumped on the bench, his pulse returning to normal.
Until another thought occurred to him.
He jumped up. "Is there another place in London where one can be wed—ah—in a hurry, without a license?"
Robert's friends had recommended only the two, but—
"Nay." The curate grinned, clearly pleased that he shared his lucrative business with only one other clergyman. "Not in London. In the countryside, near Oxford…"
Colin exhaled a long breath. "Too far to signify. They got a late start last night."
The curate ran his tongue over his uneven teeth, thinking. "This couple, from late last night. He wouldn't have had red hair, would he?"
Colin's heart skipped. "Yes! And she's small, dark-haired—"
"I never saw her. He said she was waiting outside, and she was likely to be…reluctant, I believe he termed it."
Thank God. Having abandoned Amy at the town house without so much as saying good-bye, a tiny, insecure part of Colin had been wondering if the blood could have been an honest accident, if Amy might marry Robert willingly, given the circumstances.
"I expect them back here in the morning."
"I must find them tonight. She could be injured…"
The clergyman frowned. "They're likely close at hand, as he's planning an early return. Perhaps at a nearby inn. You might try Fenchurch Street."
"Thank you, Father." Colin was so relieved he felt like kissing the fat, bald man, but he thought that would be improper with a man of God. Instead, he dropped a coin into the collection box on his way out.
The curate hurried to retrieve it when the door shut. Silver. His big teeth gleamed in the candlelight as he pocketed the coin.
He may have lost himself a wedding fee, but it didn't matter much. Over fifteen hundred anxious couples a year found their way to his altar.
No ransom note arrived.
A crackling fire warmed the drawing room, but the cold knot inside Kendra refused to thaw. Ford sat next to her and held her hand, which may have provided a small comfort if Jason's constant pacing weren't driving her to distraction.
She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was partially at fault. She should have checked on Amy much earlier. She should have taken Robert's threat more seriously. Over and over, she replayed yesterday's scene in her mind, looking for a clue to his plans.
Suddenly, the blood drained from her face, and she sat up straighter. "I just remembered something," she breathed.
Jason stopped in mid-track. "What?"
"He said he spent his time drinking at the King's Arms. Maybe someone there—"
"Oh, that is bloody useful information," Ford scoffed. "The King's Arms." He rolled his eyes. "There must be two dozen of them in town, at least. Not to mention the King's Head and other assorted royal body parts—why, half the taverns and inns have been renamed since the Restoration."
Kendra stood. Planting her feet in a wide stance, she placed her hands on her hips. "I cannot just sit here, waiting, any longer," she declared.
Ford's gaze swung to Jason's, inquiring, and Jason shrugged. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask around," he said with a sigh.
And Kendra was out the door, leaving her brothers to follow in her wake.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
As the sun disappeared, the grimy window darkened to black. Amy struggled to stay awake. Her life depended on it. If she nodded off and slept until morning, her chance for freedom would be lost.
And life as the forced bride of Robert Stanley wasn't worth living.
Her only hope lay in his falling asleep, deeply enough for her to escape her bonds and retrieve the key from his pocket. He had dozed a couple of times, but his body would jerk awake, his cold, suspicious eyes searching her out.
He hadn't said a word since he threatened to kill her child.
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, gambling, and wenching, 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.
She placed her bound hands over her stomach protectively. Was it possible? She'd never considered the hypothetical consequences when she'd lain in Colin's arms. Had he? She'd heard there were things women could do to prevent pregnancy, but the details were hazy. Were there things men could do as well? Had Colin done any of them? Though embarrassed at her lack of knowledge, she thought not. He'd seemed too emotiona
lly involved to have concerned himself with any precautions.
She counted back carefully. Sixteen days had passed since she'd first lain with Colin. Her monthly flow had been due last Friday, but she'd thought nothing of it when it hadn't arrived; her body was notoriously irregular.
It was way too early to jump to any conclusions, but still…her heart beat an erratic tattoo at the thought. Even now, Colin's son might be cradled within her. She never even considered it might be his daughter. In her mind's eye, her body harbored a tiny little replica of Colin Chase.
Now she had yet another reason to make sure she escaped. If she should be so fortunate as to have conceived Colin's child, she'd cherish him her whole life. She'd set herself up as a jeweler's widow and raise their son in Paris.
She'd have a piece of Colin forever.
She smiled a slow, secret smile 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 God.
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 over her breasts, and attached the stomacher haphazardly. She could finish dressing properly when she was safely outside.
Slipping her feet into the matching slippers, which were a little large but would have to do, she tiptoed over to Robert. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was half-convinced it would wake him.