Grif grumbled, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the tightening in his breeches. She was deliberately provoking him. He kicked at the small pile of dirt that would be his bed tonight. Sweet dreams, ha! As if he could sleep after that. The blasted chit and her smiles were going to cost him an entire night’s sleep.
* * *
Grif’s mood was not much improved come morning. He’d been awake all night, ready for anything. The fact that “anything” didn’t happen did nothing to assuage his temper. After checking with Conroy—and finding Apollo cozily ensconced exactly where he’d left him last night—Grif stormed up the stairs to find Thomas. By god, he fumed, that ungrateful baggage better have attempted something! He’d be damned if he’d slept in dirt for nothing.
Thomas was still sitting at his post by Kay’s door. “Tell me she tried something,” he grumbled.
Thomas yawned but shook his blond head. “Good morning to you too. I take it by your pleasant mood that all was quiet on your end as well.”
“Get some breakfast,” Grif said.
As Thomas rose and stretched, Grif pounded angrily on Kyra’s door. It opened almost immediately and Grif scowled. Her face was freshly scrubbed, her hair was neatly plaited and her eyes were bright from a good night’s rest.
“Morning, Grif,” she said chirpily. “Did you sleep well?”
“Stuff it, Kay.”
“I shall take that as a no.” She shot him a sunny smile. “Are you returning my clothes, or are you just here to insult me this morning?”
“You didn’t try to escape last night!” Grif accused.
“Oh, dear,” she said innocently. “Was I supposed to?”
“I slept beneath your damned window. In the dirt!”
Kyra gave him a look of sympathy. “You must be exhausted.”
Grif glowered at her. “You did this on purpose.”
She looked more amused than affronted. “I hardly think it fair to blame me for your odd sleeping proclivities, Grif.”
A strangled “Arrggh” was the best he could manage. He stomped across the hall, grabbed her clothes from his unused bed and stomped back. “Here!” he stormed, tossing her breeches and shirt at her head.
As he hoisted her boots, Kyra waggled her finger at him. “Ah, ah,” she said, nonchalantly picking clothing from her shoulders with her other hand. “Do not even think about throwing them.”
Grif dropped both boots at her feet. “We leave in half an hour.”
“I’ll be ready,” she chirped.
* * *
Kyra caught back an aggravated sigh. This morning was not going as she’d hoped. She’d tried talking with Thomas during their short morning break, as they’d gotten along quite famously before, but he made for rather surly company when he was tired. Grif, of course, was just downright rude, snarling at her—literally snarling—every time she came within ten feet of him. And since the pasty-faced man, Dreyfus, made her skin crawl, that left her with the massive Conroy.
At first, the reticent Conroy answered her inane chatter and jests with little more than grunts. But months of holding one-sided conversations with her unconscious father had honed her prattling abilities, and it wasn’t long before the mountain of a man figured out that answering her questions with more than one-word sentences would stop her one-sided babbling. At least temporarily.
By midday she had him waxing poetic—or as poetic as a man such as Conroy could ever hope to get. And Kyra was learning quite a lot from their exchange. The first and most important thing she discovered was that Conroy wasn’t as dim as he seemed. His mind was actually rather sharp; his thought process just took a bit longer. She also learned that he’d worked as a Bow Street runner, which was rather enlightening. He had access to people and places Kyra could never dream of knowing nor would she ever dare. It could be beneficial to know someone like Conroy.
The other interesting thing she’d learned was that men like Conroy had a code of personal honor. It was a different code of honor from the one followed by most gentlemen of her acquaintance, present company excluded, but it was still honor. She couldn’t help but admire the man for that.
So it really came as no surprise when, in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, as they picked their way across a rather muddy patch of road, Conroy turned down her bribe. In truth, she would have been a bit disappointed if he hadn’t rejected her offer. Still, Kyra felt compelled to try. After all, she reminded herself, she was desperate.
“Are you sure, Mr. Conroy?” she pressed. “I am offering you quite a lot of money, you know.”
“Aye, my lady,” the big man said gruffly in his faint East End accent. “I’m sure.”
“I could double it,” Kyra said after a minute.
Conroy laughed and shook his head. “You could triple it, milady, and I still wouldn’t be interested in helping you escape.”
“May I inquire why?”
He turned back and looked at her, eyes dancing in his broad face. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a pushy little thing?”
“All the time.” Kyra grinned at him. “Why won’t you take my money?”
“‘Cuz, my lady, your money would cost too much.”
Kyra’s brows dipped. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Conroy.”
Conroy snorted and nodded. “That’s your problem, girlie.”
“Explain yourself,” Kyra demanded.
The mountain of a man inclined his head toward Grif, who rode in front of them. “See that bloke up ahead of us?”
“Ethan?”
“Aye, Ethan. He’s why.”
Kyra digested this for a moment, wondering if she hadn’t misconstrued the big man’s mental capacity after all. “Let me see if I understand,” she said slowly. “You won’t help me because you are...afraid of Ethan?”
“Aye.”
“But that makes no sense,” she sputtered. “I have a hard time believing that a man of your stature and your...background could be frightened by a mere nobleman. You’re taller than he is, for one thing, not to mention twice as wide.”
“Aye,” Conroy agreed. “But I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Hell, a blind man could see the way he looks at you.”
“The way he looks—” Kyra sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me entirely, Mr. Conroy.”
Conroy looked back at her. “For a smart chit, you ain’t too bright.”
She shot him a nasty look, causing him to chuckle. “That may be, but I still fail to grasp your meaning. What do you mean ‘the way he looks’ at me?”
“Like you’re a strawberry tart and he’s a starving man.”
A little shiver ran up Kyra’s spine. She chose to ignore it. “So because he looks like a man deprived of sweets, you’ve decided he must be dangerous?”
Conroy laughed out loud, drawing a black look from Grif. “See there,” the big man said between snorts of laughter. “He’s ready to gut me just for laughing with you. So yes, girlie, I think he’s dangerous, at least where you’re involved. And I ain’t going to risk depriving him of his favorite sweet. Not for any price.”
“You do realize, Mr. Conroy,” Kyra said slowly, “that Grif is taking me to Ashford House to be married to another man. He’s giving away his ‘favorite sweet,’ as you so delightfully put it, himself.”
Conroy shrugged. “And by his attitude of late I don’t think that’s sitting well with him. But that’s his burden, milady. Not mine.”
“Well,” Kyra spouted indignantly. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“Love never does, girlie.”
Chapter Ten
Kyra paced the length of her small room, mentally replaying Conroy’s words. The poor man was delusional if he thought Grif loved her. Grif didn’t even like her. He barely tolerated her. Oh, there mig
ht be some degree of fondness—after all they had known each other forever and with history came a certain amount of sentiment. But to ascribe the word love to their relationship...well, it was just silly.
Of course fondness didn’t explain his reaction to her when they had kissed. He was unable to hide his, er, interest in that at least. Grif wanted her—that much was crystal clear. A little thrill surged through her at the thought and Kyra tamped it down immediately. Grif bedded plenty of women, she reminded herself. Lust was a far cry from love.
That didn’t stop the little flicker in her stomach when he’d stopped by to collect her things early this evening. Oh, he was as grouchy as ever, but when she smiled at him, his eyes did seem to soften a bit—
Kyra paced the length of the room again, pushing thoughts of Grif aside. Tomorrow she would attempt another escape. As she saw it, there were two major obstacles. Three, counting Grif. But she wasn’t counting him, so there were really only two. First, of course, she needed her clothes. And as Grif confiscated them every night that meant she’d need to make her move before he took them or after he’d returned them.
The second major obstacle was getting Apollo tacked. She could ride without her saddle if necessary, but getting his bridle on was essential. While it didn’t take long, every second ahead of Grif was precious.
Logically, she needed to escape while she was dressed and Apollo was tacked. That left her with few ideas and fewer options. The road was the most obvious choice, but it was impossible as Grif always tied Apollo’s lead to one of their mounts. So, when else was she dressed, with Apollo tacked?
A thought came to her. It was risky, but it might work. She looked around her sparse room. Not much there to recommend itself—small table, rickety old chair, narrow bed. Standard fare for the inns they’d been frequenting. Kyra shook her head, looking around again. There had to be something she could use.
Her eyes fell on the heavy wooden serving tray that held her uneaten dinner. There was a thin tankard of ale, untouched, and a cheaply made pot full of tepid tea sitting alongside the plate of brown, tasteless food. Kyra grinned as inspiration blossomed.
It wouldn’t be elegant, but it would be bold. If nothing else, it would remind Ethan Ashford that she would never, ever give up without a fight.
* * *
Kyra dressed slowly and deliberately in the morning, taking great care to weave a tight braid in her hair. Her hands shook as she secured the thick plait with a ribbon. When Grif brought in her breakfast tray, she gave him as much of a smile as she could. He looked at her, a funny expression on his face that turned into a glare. Then he left.
Kyra took her time eating as well, hoping to distract herself until she was ready to make her move. She needed to remain patient and calm. If she acted in haste, she might ruin her one good chance. Finally, a knock on the door alerted her that it was time.
Her heart raced as she opened the door to face Thomas. “Horses are saddled, Kay. Grif’s settling with the innkeeper.”
“I just need a moment, Thomas.” She blinked innocently up at him.
Thomas looked at her for a long moment, his blue eyes piercing. At last he nodded. “Three minutes, Kay. I’ll have Grif collect you when he’s done settling with the innkeeper.”
“Thank you,” Kyra said, closing the door. Her pulse fluttered wildly. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the rickety old chair and hauled it close to the door, pushing it against the wall. Then she did the same with the small table full of breakfast dishes and last night’s tankard.
Kyra surveyed the array of plates, cups and cutlery. Grabbing the tankard, she climbed onto the chair, pressed her body as flat against the wall as she could and waited.
It wasn’t long before there was a knock at the door. Steady, she told herself, raising the tankard. In a shaky voice, she called, “Enter.”
The door opened and Kyra brought the tankard down hard. It connected with a crash, shattering into a thousand pieces over a head of dark hair. Poor quality stuff, as she had suspected.
Conroy reeled back a step, blinking stupidly. Before he could shake it off, Kyra squeaked and grabbed the heavy wooden breakfast tray. She cracked that over his head as well, grimacing at the sickening thump it made. The big man stood eerily still for a long moment, then crumpled to the floor.
Kyra checked him for a heartbeat, relieved to find he still had one. “Sorry,” she said to the unconscious man. Seeing the hilt of a knife at his side, Kyra cautiously removed it from his scabbard and cut the sheath from Conroy’s body. Then she resheathed the weapon and tucked it into the back of her breeches.
She dared a peek out the window to the stable yard. The horses were saddled and ready to go. Grif and Thomas were speaking rather animatedly about something. Dreyfus must be down there, too, slinking about. How was she going to get rid of them?
Kyra quietly crossed the room and peered out her door. The hall was empty. Biting her lip, she grabbed the wooden tray that had finished off Conroy and started briskly toward the stairs. Just as she passed the room Grif and his companions had occupied, she caught a glimpse of something from the corner of her eye. Turning her head, she shrieked to see Dreyfus coming out of the room.
The last thing Andrew Dreyfus saw before his world went black was a wooden serving tray hurtling toward his face.
Dreyfus fell at her feet in a heap. Somewhere behind her, a woman screamed. Kyra flew down the stairs at breakneck speed, oblivious to the other guests opening their doors. She cleared the bottom step, but the sound of running footsteps approaching the front door stopped her short. Frantically, she searched for a hiding spot. She dove into the shadows under the stairs mere seconds before Grif and Thomas scrambled in and up the stairs.
As soon as they reached the top, Kyra dashed through the taproom, grabbed the key ring hanging on the doorjamb and flew out the front door. She stopped long enough to close the door and shove a key into the lock, bending it a bit using the hilt of the knife. Just as Simon had once shown her when they’d managed to lock an enraged Phillip in a closet.
Footsteps clattered behind the closed door and Kyra ran as fast as she could across the yard. Grabbing her reins, she flung herself up onto Apollo’s saddle. When the groom tried to intercept her, she stopped him with a sound kick to the chin. “Sorry,” she said as the young man fell to his knees.
She was so close—she was in the saddle and she was fully clothed. The third obstacle, which she suddenly decided to count since he was undoubtedly infuriated by all of this, had yet to be hurdled. Kyra grabbed her purloined knife, spurred Apollo over to Lucifer and leaned over Grif’s horse. It was the work of a moment to cut Grif’s saddle loose. Then she quickly did the same to Thomas’s horse.
Sitting up in her saddle, Kyra realized she had run out of time. Grif was tearing across the yard, his expression murderous. She rode back to Lucifer and gave him a hard thwack on the rump. Grif’s horse reared and took off like a shot. Kyra spurred Apollo and galloped out of the yard as though the hounds of hell were nipping her heels.
Kyra raced along the main road for what seemed an eternity, not daring to look back. No doubt Grif had recovered quickly and was coming after her. While Apollo was fast, Lucifer was faster. And Grif rode like a centaur. The thought of Grif riding after her made her push Apollo even harder.
She needed to get off the main road, but the thought quite frightened her. Getting lost now would be unforgivable. Not to mention, Grif would never let her live it down.
Half an hour later, after she was certain she’d put a fair distance between herself and her tormentor, she slowed Apollo to an easy canter. She and the stallion were both panting from exertion. A few minutes and she’d run him again. Kyra grimaced as she shifted in her seat. Every muscle she owned ached. If she ever got out of this horrible situation, she vowed to cease all physical activity and take up embroidery.
The faint sound of rushing water snapped Kyra from her reverie. They must be close to the river. She scratched Apollo’s head affectionately, straining her ears. Turning Apollo toward the sound, Kyra sent up a silent benediction. This was perfect. Apollo could have a quick drink and they’d be off again.
Kyra prayed Apollo wouldn’t lose his footing as they picked their way carefully down the sloping bank from the road, dodging trees and rocks. Laming her horse would be unforgivable. She breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the bottom. Before them was a narrow branch of the river, its soft current causing the crystal-clear water to dance and splash over rocks and dead trees.
Kyra dismounted and led a willing Apollo to the water’s edge. The exhausted animal waded right in, up past his haunches, slurping noisily from the crisp water. Kyra remained on the bank, wishing she’d remembered to grab her greatcoat. Standing thus, the thin layer of sweat that had marked her exertion was quickly cooling in the brisk air by the river. Trying to suppress her shiver, she promised herself that once she got to Uncle Cam’s, she’d spend days in a steaming tub.
A cracking branch behind her warned her she was not alone. Kyra turned around to find Grif and Lucifer coming down the slope. Without thinking, Kyra thrashed into the frigid water after her horse. Glancing back as she reached Apollo, she saw Grif had already reached the bottom and was racing toward her.
Kyra swung herself up on Apollo just as she heard a splash. Too scared to look back at what was closing fast, she jerked her reins and spurred her horse. Before they’d gone a dozen steps, however, something hit her hard from the side, yanking her from the saddle and dumping her into the cold river.
Beneath the water, she struggled wildly. A strong hand grabbed her arm in a punishing grip. No matter how hard she thrashed and flailed and kicked, she couldn’t pull free. Finally, when her lungs were ready to burst and her struggles weakened, she gave up and let Grif pull her from the water.
Coughing and gasping for air, Kyra was barely aware that he was dragging her back to the river’s edge. She collapsed onto her side in the muddy embankment, grateful just to be breathing. Grif knelt down beside her, his glossy hair dripping, his green eyes flashing with a mixture of genuine concern and ferocious anger. He looked exquisite, Kyra thought, like a water god. A very angry water god. She, on the other hand, likely resembled a drowned rat.
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