Unraveled by Her

by Wendy Leigh

  “I’d love to do it, then.”

  “Take your time, darling, and I’ll see you back at the house when you’re done.” He kisses me on the cheek and leaves me there alone to ask my question: how can I dispel this nightmare I’m in?

  Half an hour later, when I’ve arrived back at the labyrinth entrance again, I know what I must do. I must confess everything to Robert right away. I must tell him that Georgiana is still alive, that she was the architect of my kidnapping, how she executed that kidnapping and all the twisted intentions that motivated her to unleash such evil upon me

  I still struggle with whether to include in my confession her supposed justifications for what she did: sudden poverty, rape, an evil genius manipulating her, and finally, the ultimate blackmail, into which she claims she was coerced on pain of death.

  All I know is that the time has come for me to tell Robert the truth and let the chips fall wherever they may . . .

  But when I burst into the library, primed to confess everything to Robert, he greets me eagerly. “I so hope you enjoyed walking the labyrinth like I always do, darling. If you did, we can fly to Crete tomorrow and walk the one there together,” he says, and apart from the fact that I’m filled with warmth on hearing the word “we,” I am also reminded of his vast fortune, his jet-set money-is-no-object lifestyle, which means that he can command any one of his pilots to fly him anywhere on earth at a moment’s notice.

  “That would be lovely,” I say, although I’m not sure that after he listens to my dire confession he’ll even want to go to Huntington Mall with me, never mind Crete.

  He looks so delighted that I loved the labyrinth that it seems downright cruel for me to immediately launch into the confessional speech I planned.

  At dinner, then.

  “By the way, I’ve invited Mary Ellen and Rory to join us for dinner tonight—they can’t wait to hear all about Hawaii,” he says.

  Okay, after dinner. I’ll tell him everything after dinner, when they’ve gone.

  But after dinner, we all watch Gladiator, Robert’s favorite movie, in the castle theatre, and I am so enthralled by every second of it that it’s only when the movie ends that the image of Georgiana in this very same movie theater on that terrible fateful night on which she summoned Robert there and issued her blackmail threats to him suddenly comes to the fore in my mind.

  The lights go up, he turns to me and, his eyes shining, declares, “Honor . . . one of the most important things in life.”

  If I don’t tell him the truth soon, I know that I will lose mine now and for always.

  In the morning. I’ll tell him the truth in the morning.

  But when I wake up, he’s gone.

  His handwritten note says, “Apologies, darling, but I’m afraid there’s been a crisis in our Montreal office, and I’ve had to fly up there for the day. Should be back early this evening. And I’ll have a very special surprise for you . . . Till then, be good . . .”

  I spend the day in the library, learning about Napoléon so as to keep up with Robert, and my stepfather as well.

  I’m deep in Emil Ludwig’s classic Napoléon biography, which Robert highly recommended I read, when a messenger materializes with a large envelope for me.

  When I open it, a second envelope falls out, and when I open that, I can hardly believe my eyes. Inside, in a small folder, a key card marked “The Empire Suite” on one side, and “Carlyle” on the other.

  And in the large envelope a note from Robert, in his distinctive handwriting:

  Miranda, the time has come for me to eradicate from your mind your past sexual experience at the Carlyle, and to replace it with one that I promise will prove far, far more potent and satisfying for you. Don your burgundy boots, your mink with the fox collar, and nothing else. Present yourself at the castle portal at 7:25 and not a second later.

  And prepare to embark on the adventure of your life.

  R

  Chapter Seventeen

  The white stretch limo that awaits me at the castle portal is unfamiliar to me—and a garish departure from Robert’s usual Rolls—but I guess he wanted me to make the journey to the Carlyle in a stretch limo driven by a stranger. Otherwise I’d have spent the entire time chatting with one of the drivers I am beginning to know so well, thus distracting me from my trepidation and my anticipation of what lies ahead of me.

  This driver is startlingly handsome, blond with dark blue eyes and an otherworldly air.

  Instinctively, I remain silent during the journey, and so does he.

  As we near the hotel, I can’t help smiling to myself.

  Robert is so competitive, trust him to want to replay the Carlyle scene I wrote about in Unraveled, and to want to do it a thousand times better than the other Master did that night. I have no doubt whatsoever that he’ll succeed, and triumph over the memory of that night and that Master.

  At the same time, when the car pulls up in front of the Carlyle and the doorman opens the door, I am struck by a strong sense of déjà vu, and don’t relish the sensation.

  I should, because my last visit here was dramatic and exciting, and afforded me more sexual satisfaction than I ever imagined I’d enjoy. Since then, though, Robert has mastered every aspect of me: my body, my mind, my heart, my soul, my fantasies, and my sexuality, and it pains me slightly to remember that another man once mastered me in this very same hotel.

  Which is no doubt why Robert wants me to retrace my steps and play out the same scene again, only with him this time. I have every confidence that he will execute it with far more panache, style, and sexual magic than did the other Master.

  While the elevator carries me up to the twenty-eighth floor, I suddenly remember that once before, in Dungeon 1, on the night of the first test of my submission, Robert initially appeared to have re-created my night here at the Carlyle with the other Master. But then it turned out that while he had laid on all the trappings of that night in the Carlyle, the scene he actually acted out with me was much hotter, heavier, as it would be, given that he is the Master of all Masters.

  So what will he do to me here tonight?

  Surely not exactly the same scene?

  My guess is that he’ll improve on it vastly, and I’ll luxuriate in every second of whatever he plans to do to me, with me, for me.

  I hug my mink coat close to me and feel more loved and cherished than ever.

  Outside the Empire Suite, I pause for a second to fix my face and my hair.

  Even if none of it is destined to stay in place once Robert takes me firmly in hand, I still want to look as good as I can when I make my entrance and put myself in his power once more.

  I flush with pleasure at the thought of him waiting for me inside the Empire Suite, resplendent in all his macho glory, poised to dominate me to the maximum extent of his power. With a final glance in the mirror, I turn the knob and open the door.

  As I expected, candles are placed strategically all around the suite.

  But instead of the air being redolent with the fragrance of iris, musk, and vanilla, it is filled with Robert’s own special masculine aroma, an aroma that makes me hot with desire.

  I unzip my boots, put them in a corner, let my coat drop to the floor, but then spy the note propped up against a gold vase filled with pink roses, and which stands on the grand piano. Next to it, a black velvet blindfold.

  In thick capital letters, Robert has written: “TAKE THE BLINDFOLD. PUT ON YOUR BOOTS. AND YOUR COAT AND FASTEN ALL THE CLASPS SECURELY. THEN ENTER THE ADJOINING SUITE. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS WILL AWAIT YOU THERE.”

  A treasure hunt! He is sending me on a treasure hunt!

  I feel as if I’m five years old again, with a new Raggedy Ann doll to play with to my heart’s content, and I bask in the tender emotions.

  I open the door of the adjoining suite, and inside, to my horror, I am faced with the gri
m apparition of a wheelchair.

  On it, a large sign: “Your chariot awaits . . . be seated.”

  A smaller sign in front of it, with the words “And then the blindfold . . .”

  I sit down in the wheelchair, attach the blindfold securely around my eyes, and I am imprisoned in darkness.

  Then I brace myself for a long wait.

  He’ll make me wait.

  Of course he will.

  What feels like hours later but could be mere minutes, I hear the faint footfall of someone approaching over the lush carpet of the suite. Robert! Strong hands fasten the shackles tightly around my wrists and ankles, the collar around my neck, and I breathe a sigh of relief that any second now, I’ll feel his insistent fingers roam all over my naked body and hear his breath quicken with desire for me.

  Instead, I feel the heaviness of some kind of a blanket thrown over my knees, then pulled up to my neck.

  Then the sensation of a bonnet placed on my head, then a knot tied under my chin.

  Little Red Riding Hood!

  Robert has outfitted me as Little Red Riding Hood, about to be ravaged by the big, bad, masterful wolf!

  And I sit there, waiting impatiently for him to growl and do his worst to me.

  Only to meet with silence.

  The sting of something piercing my neck. And then . . .

  “Delighted to have you back again, Miranda. I’ve missed you. . . .”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The early-morning light streams into the cage from a small window high in the wall opposite me.

  I’ve been out almost all night. Eight hours during which I was unconscious and at her mercy.

  But now I’m awake, alive and kicking. I open my mouth to scream, but my tongue comes into contact with the hard rubber ball gag stuffed between my teeth.

  I start to shake from head to foot with rage. The worst kind of rage: rage against myself.

  If only I had told Robert the truth. He would have surrounded me with bodyguards 24/7 and I would be safe and free and with him, instead of chained up inside a cage in a dungeon.

  But not in a dungeon familiar to me.

  Not one of the dungeons in the basement of Hartwell Castle.

  If not there, then where?

  Through the window, I hear the hoot of a passing boat.

  The South Street Seaport.

  Le Château.

  She’s imprisoned me in a dungeon at Le Château.

  Then the door swings open with a flourish, and there in the doorway stands my nemesis, Lady Georgiana Hartwell.

  “I’d love to keep you permanently gagged, Miranda, but as I urgently need to talk to you, I’ll refrain from doing so,” she says, and glides toward me, a syringe in her hands.

  “My best friend, my favorite weapon. One shot, in eight seconds you’ll be groggy, in twenty you’ll fall into a coma. And after that, you’ll be out for the count again, so if I were you . . .” she trails off, and points the gun straight at my mouth.

  “I’ll take off the gag, but one peep out of you and it’s naptime once more,” she says.

  I have no doubt that she means it, and nod in silent acquiescence.

  She flashes me a triumphant smiles, puts down the gun, then reaches over to a rack of implements, selects a large purple leather paddle with holes in it, and slams it down across a spanking bench a few times so loudly that I jump.

  “Just having a little fun, cupcake,” she says, winks, and then places it on top of the cage.

  Then she unlocks the cage door, unbuckles my gag, and drags me out of the cage over to a large iron chair. She shackles me to one leg of it, then cups my face in her hands.

  I am overcome by the unwelcome sickly scent of Georgiana Royale, and feel like I’m about to puke.

  “Now Miranda, think back carefully. Tell me everything, and leave nothing out. What was his first reaction? What did he say? And what do you think he’s going to do next?” she says, her eyes wild, her color high.

  When I don’t answer at once, she grabs the purple paddle.

  “Open your fucking mouth and tell me what I want to know,” she says, and slashes the paddle across the cage roof in time with her words.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Georgiana.”

  She throws down the paddle, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me hard.

  “My husband, you stupid little bitch! Robert Hartwell. My husband. What did he say when you told him that I’m still alive? Is he looking for me? Has he forgiven me yet? Has he arrived at the correct conclusion that he should want me back?”

  I gaze at her in utter amazement.

  “For God’s sake, Miranda, you’re a ghostwriter, you must remember his every word, every expression when you told him that I didn’t die, that I’m alive! You just must!” she says, while I cast around for something to say.

  But I don’t get there fast enough, and the truth dawns on her.

  “Oh, Miranda, what a bad girl you are! You didn’t tell him! You didn’t tell my husband that I’m still alive!” she says with mounting glee.

  When in doubt, say nothing.

  She moves away from me, suddenly deep in thought, then sits down and takes a sip of champagne.

  “I see, I see. This may yet work out to my advantage,” she says.

  Then she is quiet for another long moment.

  Her eyes light up. “Or shall we call my husband right now and tell him you and I are at Le Château together, and invite him over to come join us for champagne?” My stomach turns over at the very thought of it.

  “So Robert genuinely isn’t aware yet that I’m still alive? Then he doesn’t know that I kidnapped you, either? Might really work to my advantage, don’t you think?”

  She strolls over to the rack again and selects a thick, leather paddle, which I silently identify as a tawse, a particularly lethal paddle, and toys with it while she is lost in thought.

  After a few moments, she brings the tawse down on her own thigh in excitement, and in her elation, doesn’t even seem to feel it. “I’ve got it! We’ll spend the next few days working on the central portion of the book, the story of how and why I met Robert at Le Château, then concentrate on the reasons why I was compelled by forces beyond my control to blackmail him, my guilt, and my burning desire to make amends to him,” she says.

  Even though my own guilt with regard to Robert is like a mushroom in comparison to her Mount Everest, I kind of understand her emotions. But there’s no point in me empathizing with her. I have to come up with a strategy for my escape.

  For a few moments, she paces backward and forward, forward and backward, up and down the dungeon, fingering the tawse as she does.

  “Here’s the plan,” she says, finally. “You write the book. Robert gets it, reads it, discovers the truth about me, comes to understand me in every single facet, and at the very end meets with the wonderful surprise that I didn’t die after all, I’m still alive and well and even more beautiful than before, and I want him back,” she says, and my blood chills at just how crazy she really is.

  “Fasten your seat belt, because I’m about to take you on a wild ride through a dark and dangerous world, starting in this very dungeon where Robert and I first met, the romantic setting where our love affair first blossomed,” she says.

  Jealousy starts to simmer within me, but I suppress it before it takes hold over me and clouds my judgment of the life-and-death situation in which I now find myself.

  She has another sip of champagne, closes her eyes, then makes a call.

  “Sorry to wake you this early, Angel, but at nine sharp I need you to contact all the girls and warn them not to come in today. And to stay away until I tell them otherwise. But reassure them and tell them not to worry, as I intend to pay each of them a per diem for every day they aren’t working here. The
n come straight in and start calling the tricks and inform them that there will be no sessions today or in the foreseeable future.”

  There is a silence while Angel must be asking her further questions.

  “I’ll be training a new sub in the dungeons. She isn’t of your caliber, of course, but once I’ve trained her up to my standards, and put her through her paces, then she can take over all the cheaper tricks who don’t tip, and you can move on to the more upmarket ones, who do,” she says.

  A few more minutes, and more questions.

  “No, Angel, my little poppet. I could never replace you no matter what. You are irreplaceable, and we both know it. I just need you here right now to hold down the fort until I’ve broken her in, and then it will be back to business as usual.”

  And for a second it strikes me that I’m probably lucky that Georgiana has taken me here, because maybe, just maybe, Robert will think of Le Château because of Tamara, and conclude that one of her bereaved and disgruntled former associates has kidnapped me and imprisoned me here.

  Then I’ll be safe, because he’ll be here to rescue me.

  At the same time, he will finally learn the dreadful wrong I’ve done him. I’ve deprived him not only of the truth about what happened to me, but also of his right to make a choice. A choice between me and Georgiana.

  When I hear the pitiful sobs coming from nearby, they sound so alien that at first I don’t recognize that they’re emanating from me.

  “Stop sobbing, Miranda, and look on the bright side. Isn’t it perfect for us to do the interviews at Le Château, where it all began for me and Robert?” she says.

  I sob harder.

  But then I wise up and tell myself that if I don’t manage to get out of here today, I might as well attempt to solve all the fucking mysteries that have been puzzling me for so long.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Georgiana, Robert told me all about how the man who owned you made you work at Le Château for one night,” I say, and force myself not to think about the true identity of William Masters and what he did to me all those years ago.