The Courtship Dance

by Candace Camp

  “What?” Her maid’s eyes grew large and round. “But, my lady—”

  “Please. I cannot talk about it now. I must go to my room and rest.”

  They went inside and up the back stairs. In her room, Maisie helped her mistress out of her dress and wrapped her dressing gown around her. Despite its warmth, Francesca still shivered, and Maisie lit a fire in the fireplace to warm her.

  Later, she brought up tea and supper on a tray. Francesca could not bring herself to eat, but she drank the hot tea gratefully. For a long time she sat staring numbly into the fire, her thoughts running on a long, futile track.

  Her instinct was to run to Rochford, to throw herself at him and beg him to hear her out—to make him listen to her somehow. She would explain it all, she thought, and he would understand why she had turned him down. He would realize that she was right. They could not marry; he would know that, if he only considered it a little.

  She would tell him how she felt, convince him that it was not lack of feeling that had made her refuse him—how could he think that, after what had happened between them!

  But, of course, she knew she could not run to him. He would not even see her. He had been so angry, so cold. Just remembering the icy disdain with which he flung the ring at her made tears spring to her eyes.

  She decided to write him a letter, and she went downstairs to her desk, creeping like a mouse to avoid the notice of any of the servants. She wasted page after page, starting one explanation after another. Nothing that she wrote was adequate; nothing could express the horror and regret she had felt at the expression on Sinclair’s face. Nothing, she thought, would make him take her back.

  He hated her. Her clumsy rejection had cut him deeply. He would never forgive her.

  Francesca cursed her own stupidity. She should have been better prepared. She should have known that Sinclair, with his engrained code of honor, would have felt duty-bound to offer marriage to her after he had slept with her. No matter what was reasonable or sound, he would give her the chance to retain her honor.

  If she had given it any thought, instead of going blithely through her day, brimming with happiness, she would have realized that she needed to be prepared to deal with a marriage proposal. She could have marshalled her reasons and laid them out carefully. With a little forethought, she could have avoided the anger and the hurt.

  But perhaps she was being foolish. Perhaps nothing could have avoided what had happened. The fact was, she had been headstrong and impulsive. She had wanted him, had wanted to experience that intimate, vital pleasure with him, and she had been certain that she could make everything work out. She had let her desire rule her, and look at the result: She had lost Rochford—not only as a lover, but as a friend.

  It was the bleakest fate she could think of. How was she to live without ever having his smile warm her again? Without him turning to her and raising an eyebrow in that maddening way? Never watching him take a fence as if he were all of a piece with his horse?

  With a shaky sigh, Francesca closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Perhaps after a few days…when his fury had had time to cool, when he was more likely to be reasonable, she could send him a letter and explain it all.

  But no, it was probably better this way. She should let him go without trying to justify her actions. Put an end to it so that he could get back to his life. She should wrap up the Lilles wedding ring tomorrow and return it to him without any explanation.

  But the thought pierced her like a knife. She was not sure that she had the strength to be so noble.

  Tiredness overcame her finally, and she went to bed. But then, perversely, sleep would not come. She lay awake for long hours, simply staring into the dark and regretting her actions. When she did fall asleep, it seemed as though she jerked awake immediately.

  Her eyes flew open, and she lay tensely, wondering what had awakened her. The house was in deep silence all around her, and after a long moment she closed her eyes again, telling herself that it was simply her own distress that had pulled her out of sleep.

  A floorboard creaked then, and she rolled over. A dark male form loomed at the end of her bed. For an instant hope leaped into her heart. Sinclair!

  But then the figure was rushing around the side of the bed, something dark in his arms, and she realized with horror that it was not Sinclair, coming to take her in his arms again, but Perkins.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but something heavy and dark dropped around her, silencing her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  FRANCESCA SCREAMED, but she knew it was so muffled that no one would hear, and began to struggle wildly, trapped in the dark cloth, but her assailant hit her with his fist, dazing her enough that she went limp. He seized the momentary advantage and picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder, and ran from the room. Francesca, hanging sickeningly upside down, the breath jouncing from her with every step he took, could bring forth only a muffled cry. She tried to struggle again, but with the blanket wrapped around her and secured by his arm tight around her legs, she could do little more than wriggle about as he thundered down the stairs.

  As he flung open the front door, she thought she heard a cry from the back of the house, but with the crashing of the door, she could not be sure. The next thing she knew, she was unceremoniously dumped onto a hard floor, knocking the wind from her. She heard Perkins jump in after her and slam the door, and suddenly the floor beneath them was moving. She realized that he must have had a carriage waiting for them, and that they were now driving away at a fast pace.

  Before she could recover her breath enough to tear away the blanket, Perkins himself jerked it from her. Roughly he pulled her up onto the seat and wrapped a sash around her wrists, tying them together in front of her. Francesca kicked at him and tried to pull away, but he was stronger, and though he cursed when her kicks connected, he did not pause in binding her hands.

  She screamed, her wind having returned, but he ignored that, as well. She suspected that her cries would do little good; no doubt the rumbling of the carriage would cover most of the noise she made, and as for the rest of it—well, this was London, and who was going to give chase after a carriage simply because a few screams were heard from within?

  When he had finished with her wrists, he reached into a pocket to pull out a handkerchief and stuffed it into her mouth, saying fiercely, “Shut up, damn you. Shut up! God, what a racket.”

  He began to unfasten his cravat, and Francesca seized the opportunity to throw herself across the carriage away from him. She spat the handkerchief out of her mouth and released another shriek. He cursed and leaned down to pick up the handkerchief just as the carriage went around a corner. Perkins went sprawling on the floor.

  Francesca aimed a swift kick at him. She intended to hit his head, but he was quick enough to twist away, and her blow landed on his shoulder instead. She did not waste time trying to disable him further. Instead she leaped for the door and turned the handle.

  The carriage had lost speed as it rounded the corner, and now it slowed still more. As the door swung open, Francesca saw that they had entered the market area. In the predawn dark, merchants were setting up their goods in stalls all along the street, so the carriage could not continue at its previous fast clip.

  She was still holding the door handle, intending to swing out of the carriage and jump, but at the last second she hesitated, afraid that the vehicle was still moving too quickly. Perkins, however, was scrambling up off the floor, and he lunged for her, so she leaped, whispering a frantic prayer that she would not roll back under the wheels.

  She fell, not hitting the ground as she had feared, but crashing on her side into one of the stalls and landing on a bed of fruit. The stall keeper, who was unloading boxes of plums and berries, let out a cry of rage and dropped his crate.

  He swung around and grabbed her arm, yanking her up from the ruins of his display. “Bloody ’ell, woman! Wot the divil do you think yer doin’?”

  Fran
cesca pulled with all her might. Behind her, she could hear Perkins yelling at the driver to stop. With a last burst of energy, fueled by fear, she tore her bound arms away from the fruit seller’s grasp and started to run.

  The cobblestones were uneven and painful to her bare feet, and she realized that it was astonishingly difficult to run with her hands tied together. But she tore down the street as fast as she could. Behind her came a swell of shouts and catcalls, and one vendor let out a whistle and clapped his hands in encouragement as she ran past, as if he were watching a race.

  But no one intervened to stop Perkins, and his footsteps grew louder and louder behind her. He threw himself at her, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Francesca bore the worst of their fall, with him on top of her, and once again the breath was knocked out of her. The impact jarred her whole body, bruising her side, and her head rang as her teeth clicked together sharply.

  Perkins rolled to his feet and picked her up, carrying her back to the carriage. Francesca, struggling for breath, could not even protest, and her struggles were feeble.

  “Hush, dear,” he told her in an infuriatingly calm voice. “I know you’re upset, but it will be all right.” He turned toward the bystanders, saying, “I beg your pardon for my wife. She is not herself lately. Lost our child, you see—I fear it has made her a little mad.”

  “No!” Francesca managed to gasp out.

  “There, there. Don’t fret. We’ll get you back home, and the doctor will make it all better.”

  “’Ere now!” The burly fruit vendor rushed up to them, gesturing at his stall. “”Oo’s goin’ to pay for all this? Quality! Tearin’ ’round and breakin’ everfin’ up.”

  Perkins dug in his pocket and pulled out a few coins, tossing them to the fruit vendor, which seemed to mollify the man. Then he swung Francesca up into the carriage.

  “There, now, darling, calm down,” he told her loudly as he climbed into the carriage and slammed the door shut after them.

  She came up clawing, but he managed to dodge her hands and wrap his arms around her, bearing her back down on the floor. The vehicle rolled off down the street as the two of them wrestled inside. Since Perkins was stronger than she and her hands were tied, it proved to be little contest. Though Francesca fought as hard as she could, he soon had wrapped his ascot around the lower half of her face, effectively silencing her cries, and he went on to grab her ankles and hold them together, tying a length of rope around them.

  “Well!” He leaned back against the edge of the seat, looking down at her. “Aren’t you the feisty one? I’d never have figured you for it.” A slow, evil grin spread across his face. “Maybe tonight will turn out more interesting that I’d thought. Never did like a woman who lay there like a stick. Mayhap you’ll give me a good ride, eh?”

  He slid his hand casually down her body, and Francesca’s gorge rose in disgust.

  “There’s more curves to you than I thought, too,” he went on and laughed as she glared at him. “Ah, yes, it’s much better when you can’t say anything.”

  He shoved himself up and onto the seat, not bothering to help her up from the floor. Francesca managed to sit up, then crouch and lever herself up onto the seat opposite, positioning herself as far from him as she possibly could. Her feet hurt from running on the cobblestones, and the rope was so tight that she knew they would soon be numb. Her hands, too, were bound too tightly, and her hair had been caught in the gag wrapped around her head, so that it pulled painfully against her scalp. She was sore and bruised in numerous places all over her body, but she almost welcomed the pain. It kept her from falling into a daze of despair.

  Where were they going? Why had he taken her? She feared that she had all too accurate an idea of what he planned to do with her whenever they eventually reached their destination. She swallowed hard, an icy cold filling her at the thought of what lay before her.

  She tried to turn her thoughts to something else. She wondered if any of the servants had seen Perkins carrying her from the house. Certainly he had not been quiet when he had run down the stairs with her. He was bound to have awakened some of them. But even if one of them had come running and recognized Perkins, what could her servants do?

  They would have no idea where he had taken her. And where would they go for help? Fenton might think of Rochford, but if he went to the duke, would Sinclair even care what had happened to her? Her heart squeezed inside her chest as she thought of him turning away, still cold with anger.

  Maisie might go to Irene. With Callie out of town, Irene would be her closest friend and the one most able to help. Dominic, of course, would be more than willing to help, but he lived at Redfields, a good day’s ride away. If Fenton decided to go to him, the trail would be terribly cold by the time Dominic got to London. And she—well, she had no doubt that Perkins would have taken his revenge on her by that time.

  Her best hope was that they would go to Irene. She would help, and her husband was the sort of man who would have a good idea what to do. She would put her hopes on that—that one of the servants had come out in time to see Perkins carry her out the door, and that Fenton or Maisie would have the good sense to run to Irene immediately with their story.

  If they did not…but no, she refused to think of that. She would plan instead what she could do to escape, how she might loosen her bonds or surprise Perkins.

  She turned away from him as best she could, curling in on herself. She suspected that he would think her posture sprang from fear of him, and she hated to give him that satisfaction, but it was more important that she hide her hands from his sight. Surreptitiously, she began to work at her bonds, stretching the sash as much as she could. The cloth dug painfully into her skin, but she would not let that stop her. It was a much softer material than the rope he had used on her ankles, and while that meant that he had been able to tie it more tightly and securely, it also meant that it would stretch more easily.

  Unfortunately, in an attempt to keep what she was doing hidden from her companion, she had to make her movements small. No matter how she pulled and twisted, she could loosen the ties only a fraction, nowhere near enough to enable her to slip her hands through. Moreover, all the tugging had managed to tighten the knot into a hard, tiny ball, almost impossible to undo. She needed something sharp that would cut the bonds, but nothing like that was in evidence.

  As she worked on the sash that tied her hands, she also moved her feet as much as she could without being obvious. But the ropes were even more unyielding than the cloth sash. She was, she thought with despair, utterly unable to get out of her bonds.

  After a time, she could feel the carriage slowing down, and she shifted, trying to see out the window. However, the curtains covered it completely, and she could see nothing. She glanced across at Perkins, and his mouth pulled into a familiar grin, the one that made her shiver inside.

  “Yes. We are here already. Surely you did not think I would take my time to get what I want. I’m not a man who likes waiting.”

  Francesca stiffened her spine, sending him her fiercest look. He merely laughed.

  “Oh, aye, glare at me all you wish. It’ll be different in a little while. You’ll be begging me then.” He leaned forward. “And that bastard Rochford will have to live with the fact that I got there before him. He won’t like that, will he, the mighty duke? Finding out that his precious little lady is just a doxy, like any other. Knowing I’ve plowed that furrow long before he had a chance to.”

  Francesca would have dearly loved to spit back an answer at him, but of course, the gag prevented it. She waited, her body tensing. The moment when he pulled her out of the carriage would be her best chance to create a fuss, although, bound and gagged as she was, she was not sure what she could manage to do. But surely, if they had stopped at an inn, there would be people around, and the sight of him hauling out a bound-and-gagged woman would appear extremely odd. Someone might come forward and question them.

  But then again, it was still night, no
later than dawn. Even at an inn, there might be no one about. Far worse, they could have driven to some cottage on the outskirts of town, where there would be no one to see or wonder.

  Perkins leaned across the carriage, and she squeezed back into the corner, determined to make a fight of it. But to her surprise, he did not take her arm and pull her out. Instead, he seized the dangling end of the sash he had wound around her wrists, looping it through a small bar beside the door and tying it there.

  Then he took her chin between his forefinger and thumb and pinched it, giving her a wink, and left the carriage. Francesca stared after him, filled with impotent rage. She jerked hard at the tie, but it was firmly secured. Next she tried to undo it with her fingers, which had room to move a little, but the knot he had made was hard and fast, and her hands had grown so numb that her fingers were clumsy. She made little headway.

  She kicked the side of the carriage in frustration. Encouraged by the sound it made, she continued kicking with both feet, making as much noise as possible. No one came to check on her.

  It seemed forever that she was out there by herself, alternately kicking and working at the knots. She was beginning to wonder if Perkins intended to leave her alone for the rest of the night.

  Finally, however, he opened the door and climbed back in. “You’re a noisy one, aren’t you? I thought you would have grown tired by now.”

  The stench of alcohol filled the carriage, and Francesca realized that he must have spent most of his time inside drinking.

  “I’ve gotten my poor sick wife and me a room,” he told her, reaching under the seat and pulling out a drawer. From it he extracted a large piece of fabric, which he unfolded to reveal a dark, hooded cloak.

  Sitting down beside her, he arranged the cloak around her shoulders and tied it at her neck. There was little she could do to thwart him except lash out at him with her bound legs. He solved that problem by shoving her legs hard against the side of the carriage with one booted foot and holding them there. Finally, he pulled the hood forward so that it covered most of her face.