by Shirl Anders
Kit went along with the doorman’s assumption that she belonged there or was expected by someone within. Inside, she saw at once that each of the five or so floors in the building were individually very large apartments. The number on the address meant Marco Remior’s was the entire second floor. Kit took the stairs up two steep flights into a narrow hallway. Ten steps later and a right turn put her at Marco Remior’s door, but not in view of the stairway. As she approached the door, she noticed an odd shadow along it, and it was not until she reached the actual dark door that she realized why.
The door was open, maybe an inch, as though someone had stepped outside it with the intent of returning quickly, and without the need to latch it. That feeling had Kit glancing around, even though there was nothing to see. She supposed the resident could have gone upstairs to see someone or simply left absent-mindedly, not pulling the door closed, or gone back inside for something they forgot and suddenly remembered.
That thought spurred Kit’s gloved hand upward to knock on the ajar door. “Mister Remior?” she called, after four raps.
What happened next completely shocked her as the door flew inward, making her gaze dumbfounded at her hand, knowing that she had not used that much force to rap on the door. But then, a large blur clouded her vision and someone grabbed her raised wrist. The wrist grabber tugged forcefully, and a man’s voice asked harshly. “So, where is that cunt, Remior?”
Kit fell forward with the tug propelling her inside, as she squawked, “Remior?” As though she were testing to see if the brute pulling her inside could be Remior.
“Grab her, Baco! Don’t let da bitch scream!”
Oh my lord. Kit finally realized that she was in danger as another hulking presence grabbed her from one side, quickly moving behind her with a huge sweaty-pawed hand clamped over her veiled mouth and nose. She screeched too late against the sour smelling hand so the only sound was furious muffled squeaking. She immediately wrestled against the arm clamped around her waist, damning her heavy skirts. She could not manage a proper kick of the other burly assailant in front of her.
Her movements were strong and violent, not dainty and helpless as she thrashed against the two assailants trying to win her freedom from them. Her twisting gaze had already told her that the room they were wrestling her through was in a shambles.
“Hold her, Baco! Damn, she’s da wild one. Take her to da bedroom, we’ll tie her.”
Tie! Kit screamed beneath the hand and lunged to and fro with enough strength to wobble both men, but not enough to stop them. She could barely catch sight of the men through her veil and her struggles. She only knew that they were both stocky, strong, and had thick accents like she’d never heard before. When they reached the bedchamber, one grasped her legs, lifting them off the ground to put her on the bed as she screeched and thrashed wildly.
“Bloody hell,” Brynmore swore. He had followed Miss Montoya and watched as she entered a residence on an upper class street of Paris. It was a large building, and he had no clue into which residence she’d gone. He should have stopped her from going in. She would tip their hand and alert Marco Remior that people were looking for him, when it would be better to identify Remior, and then follow him.
She put herself in danger. If Remior was connected to the cult and Miss Montoya’s brother was kidnapped and used ill by them, the cult was not going to like anyone who cared showing up. Brynmore’s indecision had to do with whether Miss Montoya was a player or a victim. He had enough evidence to say that she was the latter, and his gut intuition told him the same.
If he wanted the best chance for this to lead him to the cult, perhaps he should wait outside and not tip his hand. But that would leave him without a look at Remior and he needed to identify the man for future surveillance. That was why he decided to move in closer to see if he could get a look at Remior without being seen. His motives were to see Remior and definitely not any tugs of worry over a woman he did not know.
Brynmore saw the doorman. However, he’d seen Miss Montoya’s encounter, and he knew the doorman was unlikely to ask his direction. The pitfall to this was where to go once inside and he did not want the doorman to remember him by asking. So he only nodded curtly to the doorman, and then he turned directly to the stairs as though he knew exactly where he was going.
It was bloody well idiotic, because it was getting him nowhere, Brynmore thought moments later. She could be on the first floor, he reflected, climbing the stairs further, considering knocking on any door and just asking for Remior. He had about a five to one chance of not knocking on Remior’s door. Nevertheless, all his speculation and developing plans snapped to a halt when he reached the second floor and turned the corner to the only apartment door. He’d learned a long time ago, all the planning in the world was fine, but when it was time for action a man just had to trust his gut and leap right in.
When he saw the door was open, he did not knock, but he pushed it open the rest of the way. Then, he saw that the first room he entered was in shambles, and he threw all caution and stealth aside. He was dealing with murders, if this was the right direction, and he could not take the chance that it was not. He knew of perils well, and the split-seconds between life, death, injury, or averting them.
He hastily bellowed, “Miss Montoya!” If she were here in danger, his arrival, his bellow, might avert disaster.
Brynmore heard it then, the crash, then struggle deeper in the bowels of the apartment. He rushed forward, continuing to bellow Miss Montoya’s name. His fingers were at his boot top, pulling free the knife he carried by hardened instinct. He did not carry a pistol as it was too bulky and obvious for the delicate searching and surveillance work he was at, however, his knife was always with him.
When Brynmore slammed open the door to the bedchamber he saw her. Miss Montoya was tied with her wrists behind her and her ankles tied together, and then pulled up behind her with a lead binding her wrists to her ankles. She was partially naked with her voluminous gown and underskirts torn around her pale body as she lay on her side on top of the bed.
He caught a glimpse of one man already out the window, and the back of a stocky man halfway through the open window. His swift survey of the room told him that no other attackers were still in the room as he rushed to the bed. Bloody hell! The brutes had cut away the lady’s under drawers, leaving her buttocks and between her thighs exposed.
He saw no blood as he lurched onto the bed behind her, lowering his knife to cut the ropes. “Tell me you live, lass,” he hissed.
“Yes,” she gasped and he heard the sob behind it as he cut away her bonds.
He was torn, if he did not move now, the bastards would get away. He told himself when all was said and done that Miss Montoya would want him after them for herself or surely for her brother. But he was a wretched and cold-hearted man more times than he cared to admit, or had to be, to get the nasty jobs done that he’d been involved in. He felt regret, but he moved to the window instead.
“Lass, get out of here as quick as you can,” he called as he leaped through the window, cursing the foolery fouling his tongue. He did not know if they had raped her.
Kit’s entire body shuddered. Her veil was wrapped around her head like a web and for some reason, why that seemed the most important thing for her to untangle and break loose from, escaped her. But she went about it painstakingly, with jerky movements, while tears burned her cheeks because her wrists were free and she could.
They might have raped her had not the Scotsman, Duneagan arrived, bellowing into the room. The two perverted men were readying to rape her, terrifying her with their lewd words and horrible groping hands, while they kept asking harshly where Remior was.
A tremor wracked her body, as though someone had punched her. The sobs she was trying to hold back strained against her throat muscles and the pressure sounded like little squeaks. Her hat and veil finally let loose from her head and fell from her fingers. Then, her hand lurched down her body with frantic and haphazard
movements trying to tug the pieces of her gown over the nakedness of her lower body as she curled inward on herself.
This was reality. This was danger. The full force of the implications hit her. “Clay,” she sobbed. “Oh lord, Clay.”
After too long lying like a victim on the bed, Kit finally tried to rise upward and gather herself. Her crying had released her terror and fears and she felt stronger. More in control. Duneagan had told her to leave quickly and she wanted to. However, she could not leave in the torn gown she wore, she thought, clutching the tattered edges over her bare breasts. She realized that she hurt everywhere, when she finally rid herself of the rest of the bindings around her ankles, and she moved to get off the bed.
“You are made of sterner stuff than this, Kit,” she muttered, reminding herself of the rough ranch work that she was used to on the high plains. The more she moved, the more her courage and strength returned.
“I will carry pistols after this,” she muttered, going to Remior’s closet to find something to wear. She was an accurate shot with a rifle or a pistol. “And, no more yards of petticoats and skirts, just to impress patronizing police officials.”
To that end, although she was surprised to find a large collection of gowns in Mr. Remior’s closet, she went for the stacks of britches. She noticed that it appeared Remior was affluent by the amount and variety of clothes he had. He was also a man of thinner stature, because the britches and shirt she put on were not overly large on her.
She grabbed one of his dark cloaks and put it on, pulling its edges around her. Surprisingly, she found herself very angry as she looked about the closet. Angry at herself for being afraid and not stronger. Furiously angry at the brutes for trying to take her free choices away. Like now, they were still assaulting her, making her run, when she should stay and search Remior’s residence for any information that she could glean. She no longer had any illusions about Clay being in danger. Extreme danger! So, even though she wanted to run from the danger, she did not. From now forward, everything had changed. She’d just gotten a taste of the reality that she was throwing herself into.
Still, she chose to continue, and she would until Clay was found. That did not mean she needed to be naive about it though, this attack left her forewarned, and she could certainly approach things better prepared for danger. With this thought in mind, she did not immediately start to search the residence, but instead went to lock the door and latch all windows. She also found a weapon in the heft and sharpness of a pantry knife. She knew how to wield knives and throw them accurately. She bolstered herself with the reasoning that life on a large ranch had offered her many unique talents not associated with women.
Her plans were that she would search the apartment, buy a brace of pistols immediately after, and then find a man to hire as both a guard, but more importantly, as a fellow investigator into her brother’s disappearance.
Chapter Nine
The hour of the day was in Brynmore’s favor. It was late afternoon and the time many people took to rest before the evening. It left the Paris streets less crowded as he followed one of Miss Montoya’s burly assailants. As much as he itched to take the brute down a deserted alleyway for the justice of his fists, he fought the urge. Over the years, he’d trained himself better than to fall prey to the Scottish barbarian heredity of his ancestors lying deep within his soul. Intelligence over fists! He had learned that with admiration at Drummond’s side.
He had a job to do, and as much as the defenseless and partially naked image of Miss Montoya plagued him, he drove through it to further his quest. His gut told him that he was on the right trail now. Even with only a view of the backs of Miss Montoya’s attackers, he was fairly certain these two were the Germans, Baco and Cernno that Saxon had described. He was lucky that they had not gotten a clear look at him. They were wary of being followed the first quarter mile, but he was better at staying out of sight than they were worried.
The Germans went another mile before they reached their destination, and then things became increasingly interesting. The lavish old baroque townhouse Cernno and Baco approached and entered showed clears signs of decamping. There was one flat board cart full of furnishings pulling away from out front when Brynmore settled behind a box-trimmed hedge across the avenue. The concealing hedge was next to the townhouse beside a narrow alleyway on the opposite side of the avenue.
He watched two male servants lifting a spectacular harp into another half cart, just as a large four-door carriage pulled up behind the cart. Brynmore waited expectantly for someone to open the door and climb down from the carriage. However, this did not happen and the driver just waited patiently up on top. A short time later, a footman and a butler came out carrying a traveling trunk with two apron-clad maids following behind carrying large valises. All were loaded onto the carriage.
Somehow, Brynmore thought, these did not belong to the suspects, Baco and Cernno. The harp and the elegant trunk with the various valises had feminine, or at the very least, a well-appointed nobleman’s look to them. The Germans were more rustic.
Some ten minutes later his theory was confirmed, when an ornately dressed woman, trailing her elaborate skirts, came out of the townhouse with Baco and Cernno. The woman spoke something to one of the two Germans as she approached the carriage. Brynmore cursed his hearing loss as he picked out details of the woman. Older, with an out-of-style powdered wig, sharp nose, and thick theatrical makeup on her face. Dame Baset, perhaps?
Brynmore could feel the crawling itch, slithering up his spine, and the scent of his prey wafted through his senses as he watched the three enter the carriage. He could try to follow, but without a carriage of his own or a horse, it would prove difficult. First, he would try a moment of information gathering while keeping the carriage in sight. To this end, he left his surveillance position and approached the servants still loading the last cart. He had a question about the harp on his tongue, and in little time, he had the owner’s destination. It was an outlying area of Paris and from there to the docks. To further ask the name of the ship that the three were boarding or the ship’s destination would leave too much suspicion of his casual attentions.
Brynmore tipped his hat and quickly headed in the opposite direction. A swift horse would get him there before his quarry. He knew that he was ultimately just going on hunches, however, too many things pointed to this being the right direction. He had to follow it. Going to the little known Aleuts docks could easily confirm his suspicions, and it would also put him near the French coast where he needed to be to send messages by lantern beacon across the channel. The times were set at midnight each night that a courier in Drummond’s employ would wait for Brynmore’s possible updates.
Now, he thought, he had something to share. His main concern was the overseas destination of the three he was following. His second concern was the fact that he might have to leave the French coast immediately to follow them overseas. That meant leaving Miss Montoya without a word. It could also mean leaving her with other players around, players she knew nothing about. He felt certain that she would keep poking and prodding after her brother, stirring up nests of potential danger everywhere she trod.
“Yer bloody daft,” he accused himself.
She was obviously of the genteel lady sort, and the trauma she’d gone through would surely send her backtracking to her home. As much as he tried to deflect the nagging war inside him traveling from one camp of reason to the other concerning Miss Montoya’s motives or further methods, it would not leave him alone. And why, he thought that he had any chance to guess what this one woman might do, he had no clue!
Nevertheless, the only way he was able to quiet his internal carping, was to write a hasty note and give it to a messenger at the nearest livery. He gave a livery boy two pence to deliver the note to one of his personal associates that he used when in Paris. This one was a former spy for England, now set up as a leisurely lawyer in Paris. Brynmore made sure his instructions to the livery boy were clear. H
e was to deliver the message to Mr. Barcliff and tell Mr. Barcliff to find the woman whose name was on the outside of the missive and deliver it to her. This was of the utmost importance.
He decided not to long after, while he galloped his hastily purchased stallion down the Paris streets, that what he had succumbed to with the note and inclination, were both bloody good reasons never to involve women in any mission! They distracted a man’s mind, his timing, and his direction. They caused worry, when a man needed full and sharp attention.
“I’m bloody well glad that Drummond and the others are standing firm against their women being involved with this,” Brynmore muttered, as he urged the stallion to further speed, with the wind sharpening and knifing through his clothes.
Chapter Ten
“You are the whore who married a Duke,” Nia muttered to herself, tracing her long pink-painted fingernail absently on the glass top of the table she sat beside. She was, “taking the sun” amongst the flowering gardens behind her ducal residence in London, supposedly, a noble recreation for a Duchess.
It really should not bother her. Everyone ... well, at least Radford’s closest friends, treated her like one of their own. However, some of Radford’s stuffy family had pinched noses about her pedigree, or lack of. But they were that way all the time, Radford would tease her. Radford, the rogue, the man of his own making, besides being bred a Duke. He walked his own way and cared little what noble acquaintances thought.
“My family is well taken care of too,” Nia muttered. Her younger brothers and sisters loved Radford as if he were their uncle. They were there in residence with them more times than not. Radford never bemoaned the care it had taken to continue raising them. Instead, he’d embraced it with efficiency, the right amount of sternness, and large amounts of true affection.
