Perilous Risk (34 page)

A man didn’t just take medication. He had to be really suffering to allow himself that weakness.

He also might well be insane.

He might be a murderer.

But God help her, she couldn’t leave him, not if he were truly suffering…

She took a deep breath and opened the door. The feeling of heaviness lifted from her chest and stomach, followed by an infusion of energy into her legs. She walked sedately into the inn, knowing the once she gained the stairs, she would run back to their chamber.

Back to Stephen.

Oh, God, she had to get back to Stephen. He needed her.

Who else did he have but his rather frightening looking servants? None of them could possibly care for him.

“Mrs Howland.” The deep, faintly accented voice sent a shiver of dread through her. Her mouth went completely dry.

A large hand firmly gripped her arm.

Slowly, she turned and glanced over her shoulder.

Gerard’s cold, dark brown eyes bore into hers.

Hardness pressed into her ribs.

A pistol.

He smiled down at her. “Don’t give me any difficulty and you’ll be fine.”

* * * *

Stephen awoke with a start. The window had come open, the wind whistled softly and the frame made a gentle
tap, tap, tap
sound.

He shot his hand out and felt the empty side of the bed next to him.

Cold.

A single strand of gold-brown hair was all that remained of Rebecca.

Damn.

It hit him all at once, what had been bothering him about Gerard’s maltreatment of her.

Gerard had
hardened
himself against Rebecca. Because he planned to do something to her. Because someone, likely Maria, but possibly Barnet, had turned him.

But it wasn’t likely to have been Barnet. Stephen had detained Barnet’s men and the earl likely didn’t even know yet that Rebecca was with Stephen.

It was probably Maria.

He knew in his guts it was Maria.

Stephen sat and rubbed his face.

Why had he indulged in so much opiate? Because he didn’t want to risk devolving into a retching, bleeding mass of pain whilst in Rebecca’s company. He couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing him overcome by his weakness.

Yet, in the course of being intoxicated by the pain relieving medication, he had spilt secrets he should not have. He had frightened her and sent her fleeing him.

He had failed.

Well, he didn’t know that Gerard had taken Rebecca away by force to Maria. For all he knew, Rebecca had simply run downstairs for a pot of tea. Or simply hired a post chaise and run back to the Earl of Ruel.

Oh, Rebecca had fled. But as soon as he’d seen her alone, Gerard had snatched her away. Mere speculation? No, the feeling sureness was too strong. A wave of burning, cramping nausea swept through his midsection. He’d learnt, from bitter experience, never to waste one second doubting a solid intuition.

* * * *

The man was tall, dressed in expensive, expertly-tailored clothes. His dark brown hair was liberally threaded with silver.

He exuded a frightening air of power.

This was a dangerous man, if ever Rebecca needed an example of one to compare Stephen with and assess the situation.

She suppressed a miserable moan. She knew, without his having said a word, that this was the Earl of Barnet. Also, before he had left her, Gerard had called him ‘my lord’.

“Come,” he said, extending a gloved hand.

For a moment, fright rooted her to the spot. She forced herself to take one step and then another. But her muscles were cramped from hours of travel, and from being bound tightly in the carriage by Gerard.

The chamber seemed to sway and tilt and her mind was slow to respond. Hazy, greyish-white fuzziness, as in a blizzard, obscured her vision. Gerard and his companion, a rather ox-like woman she’d never seen before, had forced her to drink a glass of bitter-tasting wine. Surely, they had drugged her, for she had slept the whole way here in the carriage.

“Come, I haven’t all night for this.” Barnet’s voice was cold, impersonal. Yet he had ordered his servants away and taken it upon himself to handle her situation personally. How strange…

She tried to quicken her pace but the chamber was still swaying, tilting. She had no idea what he wanted or what he might do.

As she approached, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a push towards a cellar door.

The chamber began spinning more violently, she stumbled forward then tensed her legs to stop herself from falling forward. She turned and cast pleading eyes on him. The look that, in her younger days, had rendered all but a few men unable to deny her. “My lord, won’t you untie my hands?”

He shook his head. “I think not.” He swept a brief, assessing gaze over her. “Well, you’re not at all as long in the tooth as Maria described you.”

He caressed her arms. “In fact, from a distance, you would look quite girlish.”

Waves of revulsion coursed through her and she shuddered. But she was too overcome by Gerard’s drugging to fight him. “Please, my lord. I have done you no harm.”

“Yes, you’ve done me no harm. You may in fact do me much good.” He paused for a moment, looked at her more intently. Sometime between when Gerard had forcibly taken her from the inn and now, she’d been stripped down to her shift.

A chill settled in the pit of her belly.

She knew that look.
Oh God, no, just no.

He caressed her arms again. “You are a comely little creature. I see completely why Ruel kept you for so many years. It is a pity that I don’t have time to explore that issue a little more in depth.”

He gently shifted her up into his arms and then carried her down into the cellar. Her body bumped along as he walked down the stairs, slowly, carefully in the dim light.

He deposited her on the floor but did not untie her hands.

“Oh please,
please
, you don’t need to do this.”

“I am afraid that I do. You should have cooperated with Maria. But I see now that you will need much persuasion.”

“You want me to lie and say that the Earl of Ruel engaged in sodomy.”

“Hmm, yes, among other things, my dear.”

“I won’t do it. I’ll never do it.”

“It is difficult to turn on someone who has been good to you, eh? Don’t worry, my dear, I have sent for an expert in persuasion and he shall be here shortly.”

* * * *

Her throat was raw from screaming, demanding, pleading not to be left here. She had cried for help until her voice had cracked and become useless.

Alone in the dark of the cellar, with her arms bound, Rebecca had fumbled around blindly until the combination of the drug and the disorientation caused her vomit.

Now her stomach growled and cramped with emptiness. Her thin shift had grown damp and sticky in the humidity of the cellar and she was shivering violently.

She had spent much of the time leaning against what seemed to be a chair, slipping in and out of consciousness. How much time had passed?

She didn’t know.

Had she heard the rats, scratching, squeaking? Or had it been her imagination?

Fear consumed her. She lay shuddering. No, she must think of other, more pleasant things. Uncle Frederick’s cellar. It had always been such a welcoming place. The fat, sleek cats had kept the rats away.

Then she recalled why she’d enjoyed the cellar so much.

All those times, visiting there with Father for his leisure time by the sea, away from the shop. Those days she had spent every moment in Father’s company, obedient to his demand that she sit at his side and butter his toast at breakfast and go walking along the shoreline afterwards, then sail in the boat with him all afternoon. Demands that despite her heavy eyelids, she must read to him for hours after supper from the Bible and stay up past midnight playing cards with him. Then she must sit and sing softly to him until he could fall asleep.

Every moment with Father. No time to herself. No time even to hear her own thoughts.

Engrossed by the intensity of her memory, she felt as though hands were squeezing about her neck and she swallowed convulsively.

She had often hidden herself away in the shadows down in Uncle Frederick’s cellar, playing with her dolls or simply daydreaming about girlish things.

She recalled those safe, solitary moments and contentment settled on her, warm as a blanket.

Comforting safety, not smothering demands.

She let her mind drift over other cherished memories.

She remembered discovering how pleasurable it was to allow delivery boys to steal kisses. How fun and free it had felt to be wicked. Her own little secret.

Something separate from Father and his demands.

She remembered the thrilling rush of eloping with Donald and the awkward, painful experience of truly losing her innocence with him.

She remembered Stephen by the campfire, all those years ago in the Dragoons. His youthful face, the bones too large for his flesh but oh, heavens, how dear his visage had been to her.

How her heart had quickened at the sight of him. At his scent…
no, no—Yes, admit it. You longed for him. Longed for him.

She saw his dark blue eyes glistening in the firelight. He leant in close, she felt his breath on her face.

No! No, don’t do that, Stephen, you’ll ruin everything!

Ice spread through her, freezing her blood, cooling her ardour.

She startled, aware suddenly of being alone in the damp, dark strange cellar.

That night he’d actually tried to kiss her.

And she had been a married woman, trying so hard to remain faithful.

Was it any mystery why her love for Stephen had frightened her so, all those years ago?

But the temptation of being unfaithful hadn’t been the only reason she’d feared him. The deeper reason had been because of Father and his unceasing demands.

At the thought, she sat up with a soft cry.

God, yes, she’d been so afraid of Stephen. Needing him, fearing him.

To her, love hadn’t ever meant anything but having the life smothered out of her. Yes, she liked to serve others, but surely there were limits?

What if Stephen had loved her? What if he had demanded so much from her that he smothered the very life out of her?

Donald hadn’t wanted her.

Jon had wanted very limited amounts of her time.

But Stephen had wanted—and wanted still—all of her.

She cried out again and put a hand to her mouth.

She’d pushed him out of her life. She’d been cruel to him.

Anger rushed into her like flames devouring a thatched roof. Anger at Father. Anger at herself.

She’d been a coward, running from love.

She was still running.

Restless, she moved about and bumped into what felt like a bolt of cloth. Then recoiled from the dirt. A huge puff of dust engulfed her. A sticky, dampish sort of dust that carried the odour of rot. It stuck to her face and permeated her nostrils and triggered an itch in her nose. The itch became a burning sort of pain and she took small, short breaths, snorting, sneezing, trying to expel the acrid scented dust.

She bumped into something more solid.

There was a shattering sound. Then twinkling music began to play, jarringly off-key.

She knelt down and felt around awkwardly behind herself with her bound hands.

Something sharp, jagged cut into her questing hand. “Ow!”

She tried to ignore the damp and cold of the floor and listened very carefully for the sound of rats.

No, think of something else. Something pleasant…

Sir Percival and the Fisher King.

Yes, during their time in the Dragoons, Stephen would tell her stories. He had told her many, many stories he’d gleaned as an intellectually curious boy growing up in a printer’s shop. Idealistic stories of heroes who’d faced and fought unimaginable evil.

As a young woman, she had taken comfort in Stephen’s absolute stance on such matters. She had drawn strength from his determined, highly organized mind.

To discover his chosen line of work as a fully-grown man shouldn’t have surprised her so much.

It had simply been the shock. She swallowed against her raw, dry throat. She felt like she would sell her soul for a sip of tea. Hot, warm, soothing tea.

How long did it take a person to die of thirst?

I don’t want to die! Not now, I want to be able to tell Stephen, just once that he was right, I did love him.

I
do
love him.

Yes, she loved him, no matter that he was a spy, an assassin.

But what if he’d been on the side of the French?

She shivered. Oh God, she would love him no matter…

It would have torn her apart. But she couldn’t help but love him.