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Defiant Captive
Christina Skye
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
Copyright
... a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
— William Wordsworth
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For my parents, with deepest love
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Prologue
London, England
April 1816
The fog had risen throughout the afternoon, creeping along London's narrow alleys and broader avenues to veil the city in unnatural darkness. Those of the city's residents who were superstitious muttered anxiously as they looked skyward, and even the most practical of men hurried to finish their errands so they might turn homeward.
From the haven of a dark doorway a thin boy in baggy, tattered trousers looked out upon the drifting fingers of fog, anxiously studying their movement and density.
"This be yer last chance, ye caw-handed monkey!" his squat companion snarled. "Bring me the dibbs with no more argle-bargle, else the morning sun find ye floatin' under Blackfriar's Bridge." With a scowl, the man seized the boy's ear and yanked it sharply. "Buffed it fer ye too long already, I 'ave."
The boy did not shrink from his captor, and his young face showed no fear. The burly man hiccupped, a faint gleam of respect rising into his cold eyes. "Aye, a fast bunch o' fives ye 'ave, little man. Not a bit afraid, neither. My main bagger ye could be, right enough." Suddenly his face tightened, and he jerked the boy's ear cruelly, dragging him close enough to smell the stink of sweat, gin, and a recent meal of beef and cabbage. "Bedford, Alvanley, or 'awkesworth — take yer pick, boy. All the coves'll be 'ere tonight, I reckon. Quick dip in the pocket, then yer gone, like as 'ow I showed ye. An' don't try no tricks, fer I'll be watchin' yer like a bleedin' 'awk!"
With that, the squat man known on the streets only as Digger spun his captive about and launched him forward with a savage kick in the small of the back.
Pence — for so the boy had been nicknamed by his comrades of the street — twisted to avoid falling flat on the filthy cobblestones, showing the swift agility that had convinced Digger he would be a useful recruit. In an instant he darted off toward the crossing, where a line of coaches inched toward a wide marble townhouse ablaze with light.
The boy frowned, studying the restless fog. It would have to be tonight, for Digger gave no second chances. Tonight it must be then, while the fog offered him a sporting chance of escape.
It would be his only chance, the boy knew. If Digger found him first, Pence would be dead before the sun rose.
Chapter One
The fog drifted slowly, a thin yellow creature trailing sooty tendrils around Alexandra Maitland as she picked her way across the uneven London cobblestones. Her footsteps slowed, and she searched the deserted street uncertainly.
Blaze and bother! She hadn't the slightest idea how to get to the busy coaching inn where she had lodged since her arrival one week before.
The muscles of her back tightened painfully and her ankle began to throb, the old wound irritated by London's cold damp air. Every step she took over the slippery irregular cobblestones sent pain flashing up from her ankle.
Alexandra sighed and stepped carefully around a knee-deep rut in the road. London was nothing like she had expected. Growing up in India, where her father had been governor-general of Madras, she had often heard about the glory and elegance of the capital.
No one had mentioned the filth or the desperate poverty. Or the fog.
Alexandra shivered in the sharp spring wind, unaccustomed to the cold. She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders and watched the yellow fingers of fog inch before her face. Suddenly, memories of India swept over her, as hot and bright as this place was cold and gray. For a moment she once again felt the fierce light flooding the bazaars and the blast of hot wind, hot colors, hot sun. She saw her ayah haggling over cardamom and ginger with a swarthy old Parsee.
Unmoving, Alexandra stood in the cold London street, haunted by memories of warmth and laughter and a world that would never be hers again.
For that life was gone now, vanished like the drifting fog. The native uprising at Vellore had brought Alexandra's world crashing down around her. And then had come her father's unjust recall to London in disgrace ...
Her fingers tightened painfully on her dark pelisse, useless against the penetrating London cold. She shuddered, remembering her father as she had last seen him, his blood splashed across the white room.
She bit back a sob as a wave of bitterness swept over her. They should have known a man like Lord Maitland would never submit to disgrace. He would die first.
Shaking her head against the agony of those memories, Alexandra stumbled forward until she felt the black railing of a marble townhouse brush cold against her ankle. The fog had driven everyone from the streets, and even the hackney coaches had given up the day's business. Not that she could afford to hire a coach anyway, Alexandra thought bitterly.
Suddenly, a figure slid from the fog, a thin little man with his hat rammed down on his head as he scurried along. "Please, sir, can you direct me to—" Alexandra began, but the man had vanished into the fog before she completed her question.
The unnatural gloom of the afternoon had gathered into early darkness, and Alexandra realized night was upon her. From the mist ahead of her came tinkling laughter and the drifting notes of a waltz.
There was nothing to be accomplished by waiting here. With a sigh, Alexandra started off in search of someone who could direct her to Conduit Street.
At the next corner the fog thinned for a moment, disclosing a brilliantly lit square. Before the mist closed up again, she caught a glimpse of coaches making halting progress to the steps of a grand townhouse ablaze with light.
A ton ball, Alexandra thought, fighting down a wave of bitterness.
Laughter, music, jewels against flashing silk.
All of that should have been her world, but now it never could. Her father's death had closed that door forever, leaving Alexandra with bleak prospects. Who else, she wondered angrily, could claim the dubious dist
inction of having been rejected by four agencies within the same afternoon, and with such marked discourtesy?
Suddenly, Alexandra felt the skin along her spine quiver as if someone were watching her. Across the street a small figure slipped through the fog, darting furtively toward the square. Whoever it was disappeared down the narrow steps that led to the servants' entrance of a darkened townhouse.
Moving into the shadows, Alexandra slid the hood of her cloak up over her flaming red-gold hair, hair that seemed to attract entirely too much attention. Several times during the last week, complete strangers had stared at her quite rudely, while several men had gone well beyond impertinence and accosted her upon the street.
Her fingers tightened upon the small mahogany cane hidden within the folds of her cloak. She might need it tonight, for one look at the boisterous bucks crossing the square suggested this was no place for an unescorted lady to linger. Still, she told herself, someone there could surely direct her to Conduit Street.
The best route is always forward, her father had often announced in times of duress. For a second Alexandra's hand brushed against her eye, and then she moved forward toward the crowded square.
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Not even such a fog as this could check London's restless gaiety for long. Despite the unnatural gloom the streets began to fill with the strange mixture of arrogant peers, country squires, and sharp-eyed harlots so peculiar to the capital. Prince and pickpocket, beggar and nabob rubbed elbows casually in this glittering night world, where social positions might be overlooked for a little while.
But even in this netherworld of garish extremes one man stood out, immediately recognizable. His broad shoulders and the fluid muscular grace of his walk set him apart, like a panther among chattering monkeys.
And this night, immaculate as usual, the Duke of Hawkesworth was startling in severe black evening dress, a gray-eyed panther sprung from the fog in search of prey. He gave the impression of energy barely contained, making men take an unconscious step back when he passed, and making women shiver delicately and peer up from beneath their lashes.
Unaware of the attention he drew, the Duke of Hawkesworth stifled a yawn as he sauntered toward Bedford Square. Another boring evening of fatuous conversation, arch innuendo, and insipid debutantes, he mused. Why did he continue to put in appearances at these functions? he wondered.
The answer came to him almost immediately: Because it was expected of the heir to one of the greatest fortunes in England. Because it was necessary for fostering his many political interests. Because it passed the time.
No, he had lied to himself for too long, the duke thought. Just once, he had to face the truth. The real reason he came was to find her.
Yes, my beautiful, faithless wife, I can feel you somewhere out there in the fog. You won't be strong enough to stay away much longer. Greed and boredom will drive you back, and this time I'll be waiting.
As he sauntered through the fog, none of these thoughts could be read on the duke's angular tanned face. Only a few of his closest friends could have detected the unusual tenseness about his jaw or the glitter of his silver-gray eyes beneath lazy lids. Near the square a few acquaintances greeted him. He nodded a cool acknowledgment but did not slow his steps.
He was a large man, yet he walked gracefully. The broad muscular shoulders that stretched the fabric of his immaculate black evening coat were mute testimony to his pugilistic skills, skills that had saved his life more than once as an officer on the Peninsula. His tanned face was set off by the snowy linen at his neck, where one simple diamond gleamed from the exquisite folds of his cravat. His clothes were excellent yet understated, in the style favored by Brummell, but they could not conceal his hard muscular body nor the raw power held barely in check.
And on this night all that caged energy was on edge, crying out for release. All through the day Hawkesworth had felt the old restlessness, the coiling urgency. She was somewhere nearby — he knew it, as certainly as he felt the surge of his own pulse. He could feel her presence seeping into his consciousness like the cold fingers of this damnable fog that coiled about him. Just as he had expected, greed had brought his wife back. And this time, he was ready for her.
She would not escape from him again, by God!
* * * * *
The fog toyed with all of London this night, veiling slum and elegant townhouse alike in its clinging gray misery. But the drifting tendrils did not particularly bother the small boy who skirted the well-lit squares. If he thought about the fog at all, it was with thanks for the refuge it offered.
For Pence had more tangible things to worry about. He was cold. Worse yet, he was starving, and his stomach tightened painfully at the memory of his last meal of cabbage topped with a meager bit of potatoes. When he saw the broad square before him, the boy paused only a moment, then darted silently down the narrow stairs in front of an unlit townhouse.
From his hiding place beneath the darkened doorway Pence watched a large gentleman stroll casually up the street. He looked as good a target as any — alone and not overly concerned with his surroundings.
Noting the solid breadth of the man's shoulders, Pence felt a moment of misgiving. What if he were caught? Newgate, for sure, he thought, his thin body trembling. Maybe transportation. What would his brother say if he knew of this desperate plan?
But Tom was gone, and Pence was alone tonight on the cold London streets with few choices open to him. Besides, the large gentleman looked flush enough. He could afford to spare a bit of blunt for his less fortunate fellows. They always conceal a nice, fat purse somewhere about their person, Digger had said. The problem was distracting them so they wouldn't notice when you pinched it.
Pence frowned, realizing he'd begun to slip into the peculiar argot of the streets. It was just as well he was leaving before he grew more familiar with this kind of life. Yes, tonight he would make his first pinch, and then he'd be gone before Digger could find him. The money would carry him to Yorkshire to look for Tom.
A slim figure obscured Pence's view of his target for a moment. The boy frowned, pressing closer to the edge of the stairs. Now this one was a beauty, and no mistake! She walked slowly, giving Pence time to see the way her flaming hair shone with tiny lights. As if aware of his scrutiny, the woman slipped back into the shadows, drawing her hood about her hair and face. Only then did Pence notice the small cane she carried.
Ah well, the limp was a pity, but her cane might have other uses this night, he thought.
Then the woman with hair like flame, too, was forgotten, for Pence had too many problems of his own to consider.
Chapter Two
The fog was thickening at an alarming rate. Anxiously, Alexandra tightened her hands about her carved mahogany cane, needing the reassurance of its solid bulk. There were too many people in the square now. Too many wild young men, too many polished coaches, too much careless laughter. The fog crawled across her skin, suffocating her, and she pushed unsteadily toward the opposite side of the square. Always she kept to the shadows, scattering the dank fog in trails as she ran.
A tattoo of flying feet made her lean harder upon her cane. All at once she stumbled upon a loose cobble and pitched to the side. Only the comforting support of her cane kept her from falling to the ground.
The support of her cane, that is, followed by a pair of large, powerful hands. Hands that gripped her elbows and tightened harshly. In a wild panic Alexandra began to thrash helplessly, only to be thrust against the solid wall of a man's body. Effortlessly, her assailant pressed her closer, quelled her struggles, then reached up to drag the hood of her cloak away from her face.
His eyes were glittering like silver stars in a freezing night sky as he looked down at Alexandra. In another time, in another place, this might have been a handsome face, she thought. But now, trapped as she was in the darkness of the London streets, the face brought her only terror.
"By God," the man rasped, "it really is you! At first I thought I must
be dreaming, like every other time. But your greed brought you back." A muscle flashed in his jaw, and his eyes narrowed. "I've had men searching for you since the day you left — they almost caught you last year in Vienna, in fact. This time you'll not find escape so easy, my love!" At the final endearment his voice flattened into a harsh laugh.
Alexandra struggled to steady her throbbing pulse. The man was very handsome — or would have been, if bitterness and hate had not carved deep lines into his face. His brow was wide, overhung with a thick lock of black hair. He did not appear to be a lunatic, she told herself hopefully, trying to quiet her pounding heart. "You mistake me, sir. I am newly arrived from India and do not number you among my few acquaintances in London. Now release me immediately and let me pass, for I have a great distance yet before me."
The man's mouth twisted into a thin approximation of a smile. "Not so far to go, my love. Or have you been away so long that you've forgotten our elegant townhouse in Bedford Square? Curious — at one time you could talk of little else." His hands tightened, large hands, whose fingers bit into the soft skin above her elbows.
"Release me this minute, I say! It is clear you have mistaken me for another. No gentleman would hold a lady thus, against her will."
The man's eyes burned down into her face, his smile mocking. "Come, my dear, surely you can do better than that. I expected tears, perhaps, or sweet pleas for forgiveness." His eyes lingered upon Alexandra's lips. "A more intimate appeal to the memory of the pleasures we have shared — yes, that would be much more in your usual style."
Perhaps he is mad, Alexandra thought shakily. Reasoning with him seemed hopeless. Her trembling fingers met her cane, and she drew a quick breath. Without warning she swung the length of wood hard against her captor's shin — the only part of him she could reach, held captive as she was.
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