“Here,” Abella whispered, ripping the bread she’d stolen in two and offering me a half. “It’s not much, but it will do.”
Nestled in the cloth, warm and somewhat dry, I munched on the stale piece, silently praying that my plan would work. I couldn’t get caught and sent back to Paris. Every fiber of my being knew I had to be with Tristan. Bad things happened when we weren’t together.
Frowning, I let my mind travel to the edges of the thoughts I didn’t dare touch, the ones that filled me with such pain and misery I wished I could take a blade to my brain and cut them from me. They were surrounded by a wall of anger and fear, locked tight behind a door of denial and self-loathing. It was like there was a vast desert inside me, those memories hidden in the deepest, darkest part of the hot hell. I didn’t dare cross the barrier and go through the entrance without Tristan at my side. Sometimes, even when he was with me, I couldn’t face those moments. It was too much too soon.
Still, a single name managed to pass the divide I’d placed to protect myself. Sucking in a sharp breath, I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stop the image from coming. It was no use, though.
Rachel. My beautiful baby Rachel. I could still remember what it felt like to hold her tiny body in my hand, her skin so pale and translucent. Her eyes were shut, as if sleeping, her fingers curled together in a tiny fist. I would’ve given anything to see her take a breath, to hear her cry, to find any signs of life in her, but, no. She had been too small, too early. There was no way she would’ve lived even if she’d been born alive. It was better she’d passed away inside me, warm and surrounded by my love, instead of in the cruel world I brought her into.
Sniffling, I pushed her memory away, searching for something, anything that would save me from having to relive the heartbreaking moments I’d had with her.
That was when he appeared at the surface. His face, dirty and sinister, a smirk on his lips, black, greasy hair hanging around his pasty skin, shining at me through the darkness, like a challenge to come and find him.
Thomas Randall.
Embracing the rage that flowed through me, I suddenly found myself wishing we would be caught hiding. At least then, when I was in the brig, I could practice sword play again, or work on building my strength. Here, in the box, there was nothing I could do but plot all the ways I would kill him when I got the chance. Every day, I cursed myself for not taking the opportunity to do so in Arizona. I’d been so weak from captivity, though, and concerned with keeping him from his goal, I hadn’t ended him when I should have.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Resolving to not let my time go to waste, I slowly began to picture the pressure points on the body, going over the options of attack and how I would get into position to use them against the person I fought. When I’d finished with that, I settled on the organs, mentally kicking and punching, fighting my way through every scenario I could think of.
“Abella!”
Torn from my pretend battle, I froze, hardly even daring to breathe as I listened.
Mark’s voice hissed in the silence quietly, his tone somewhat angry. His footsteps sounded close, but didn’t stop outside our box. “I know you’re down here,” he whispered, a frantic edge to his tone. “Why? What are you doing?”
There was a cramp in my hip, but I didn’t dare move to stretch it, not while he was here. My companion remained silent as well, not a single movement coming from her direction. Unable to see in front of me in the space, I didn’t know if she was asleep or not. For a moment, I considered revealing our position. It was only Mark, after all. He was one of my best friends. I didn’t trust him not to give us away, though, and remained silent, hoping our hideaway would remain a secret.
He whispered a few more times, the sound fading into the abyss and I relaxed, a feeling of safety coming over me. After about five minutes, he passed by again, this time quickly and without staying quiet.
Knowing he had given up for now, I closed my eyes, ready to let sleep take me. He would be back, certainly, but we were still safe until then.
My earlier rage having been quelled by the sudden interruption, I found my thoughts drifting once more, settling around the only person who could ever really make me feel at peace.
Tristan. The picture of his face had often been the only thing that kept me going. Sometimes, when he was sleeping, I would watch him, memorizing every detail of his appearance, locking the image away for any occasion we might be apart from each other. His hair hung in his eyes a bit now, grown out while we were separated these past months. Light and curly, I found I was somewhat partial to the longer style. It gave him the youthful look that was missing from his battle-hardened visage. When we’d returned to Paris, he’d cut most of the locks off, but I’d managed to convince him to keep some of the darling pieces.
Green eyes that shone like the stars in the sky always came next in my memory. I’d stared into them so many times, it was impossible to forget them. His nose, long and thin, led down to lips that were soft and warm, his skin smooth and tan from a life at sea. The rest of what I’d locked away were little things, like the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled big, or the way he scratched his chin when he hadn’t shaved in a while, the stubble itchy and bothersome. The slight beard made him look even more dashing, though—a fact he knew—and so he usually kept a light dusting of facial hair, well-trimmed and thoroughly handsome. Many a woman sighed when they saw him, taking in his muscled physique and breathtaking appearance. Only I was granted the privilege of being his wife, though, of loving and supporting him through this mess of an existence we called life.
Frowning, I silently cursed myself for somehow coming full circle, back to my bad memories and away from the ones I so desperately wanted to be lost in. Shoving the images of my captivity aside, I tried to focus on anything else, desperate to keep myself from going down the path that would lead me into nightmares once I fell asleep.
Images flashed through my mind in a rush as I tried to distract myself. One second I was marrying Tristan on the beach, the next we were dancing at our reception. After that, he was kissing me below deck, the two of us hidden in the darkness of the ship he helped run. Then we were in the gardens at The Palace of Versailles, strolling arm in arm, taking in the scenery.
If I tried hard enough, I could hear his voice in my head, low and husky, as I imagined his fingers brushing across my cheek.
“I love ye, Sam.” His voice was as much a comfort as his face.
Sighing, I settled myself further into the fabric, letting the cargo wrap me in a cocoon of warmth and safety. Abella’s breathing was slow and even, now, obviously telling me she was asleep, as I’d suspected.
Hoping to join her peaceful state, I slowly counted backward from one hundred, focusing on the numbers, until I faded away into the deep, lost in a world that no one had yet been able to save me from.
The darkness was suffocating, pressing in on all sides, crushing me with its weight. The odor of sea salt and sweat smells hung in the air, mixing with the tart scent of my own terror. That, coupled with the soft swaying motion of a vessel at sea, was the only indication that I was not where I should be.
Pressing myself into a corner, scratching along the wooden walls to try and get my bearings, my body trembled as I peered into the black once more, trying to see any type of exit. Only the void greeted me, though, not a single thing in sight around me. It was like being locked in a haunted house, when the hair on the back of your neck stands on end and your breath comes quick, every fiber of your being knowing that something is about to happen. I needed a weapon of some sort, even a tiny blade to protect myself, but there was nothing. I was alone in my breeches and shirt, my bare feet cold on the damp floor.
And then he was there, looming out of the shadows, his sickening grin giving me the urge to vomit.
“Samantha,” he said, his voice patronizing as he shook his head. Long, black, greasy hair swung in front of his features and he pushed it back, out of
the way. The action brought his face into sharper focus and I recoiled, wishing I could melt through the wall and into the ocean, to freedom.
“Shhh.” He raised a finger to his lips, chuckling as he bade me remain quiet. It was then that I noticed the blade grasped in his other hand, the tip pointy and sharp. He held it out lazily, gesturing for me to rise. The red of his shirt was like blood, the black of his pants fading into the space around us.
Gathering my bearings, I stood. Still, being trapped in this corner wasn’t stopping me from glaring hard at him “I hope you burn in Hell.” My tone was more bitter than I’d expected, but I meant every word. Thomas Randall was the scum of all the earth and deserved to rot for the things he’d done.
“Don’t be like that. I thought we were getting along so well.” He smiled, leaning in, eyes devouring me hungrily. Slowly, he guided the knife toward me, resting the edge along my face as he stepped forward, closing the space between us.
“Get away from me,” I snarled, shoving at him.
He didn’t budge, not even a tiny space, as if I hadn’t even touched him. Instead, he slid the blade down my skin, almost cutting my neck, the blade catching in the fabric of my shirt as it moved across my chest and came to rest over my stomach. Resting his cheek against mine, he inhaled, sighing with pleasure before pulling away to study me.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, his free hand playing with a strand of my hair.
Jerking away, I turned my head, trying to put any space I could between the two of us.
“And feisty!” Chuckling, he grabbed my jaw forcefully, turning me to look at him again. “Chosen by the gods, naturally. Tell me, Sammy, do you miss your own time?”
“Leave me alone,” I growled, shoving him. “Tristan will come for me, and when he does, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
He snarled, bringing the blade against my throat in an instant. “He’s not coming,” he spat. “Not here. In this place, you are mine.”
He kissed me, his mouth attacking mine with rage and strength, body pressed against mine like a stone I could not move on my own. Scrambling, I clawed at his flesh, my scream muted beneath his crushing embrace. The more I struggled the more ferocious he became, though, the blade at my throat pressing into my skin and drawing blood. In an instant, I realized there was nothing I could do to escape him.
Trembling with fear, I slammed my eyes shut, mind racing as I tried to grasp onto anything that would help me. Slowly, an awareness filled me—I was dreaming.
“This isn’t real,” I muttered against him, still trying to push him away. “This isn’t real!”
Tears flowed down my face, my neck sticky with the few drops of blood that had rolled away from the small cut he gave me, and I was suddenly screaming at him, pounding him with my hands.
“It’s not real!” I cried, feeling the edges of my consciousness starting to fade out. “You’re not real!”
Breaking away, he stared at me with madness in his eyes, a crazy giggle sounding from his breathless form. “On the contrary, dear Sam. It doesn’t get more real than this.”
“Samantha!”
Abella’s voice hissed at me through the darkness, her hands pressed over my mouth as she struggled to keep my form from thrashing around.
Still confused and gripped by the nightmare, I lashed out, panicked. It was as if Randall were still there, holding me down, forcing me through his disgusting display of dominance. Flailing, desperate to regain some kind of control, I felt my knuckles connect with jaw bone, the pressure on top of me lessening as she leaned away.
“Ouch!” Slapping me hard, she put her hand over my mouth again, sounding breathless as she spoke. “Sam, it’s me, Abella! You’re going to get us caught if you don’t stop!”
Slowly, her words started to make sense to me and I stilled, the inner turmoil of my episode hot and bubbling just under the surface. Her weight on top of me was suddenly comforting, as was the smell of the sea and wooden crate around us. I tenderly touched the fabrics next to me, counting to five as I forced myself to breathe deeply. After a few more moments, the panic attack subsided and I collapsed back against the floor, a few tears of relief rolling down my cheeks.
“Did I hurt you?” I finally asked, clearing my throat roughly to try and ease the soreness and clogged feeling it had.
“Only a little,” she whispered back. There was no malice or offense in her tone, but I felt bad all the same. “What about you? Are you okay?”
Touching the spot where she’d slapped me, I winced, the area still smarting some. I didn’t think it would leave a bruise, though, and I sighed, silently cursing myself over the whole ordeal. “It’s fine,” I answered, moving to adjust my position some. “How long?”
“A minute or two. The sound woke me and I did all I could to wake you up. It took a moment to do—someone may have heard above.”
I didn’t need to see her face to know she was worried about the possibility. We’d managed to stay hidden in the hold for another four days since Mark saw her in the galley. The odds of us being returned to France now weren’t very likely, not if Captain MacDonald wanted to stay on schedule, at least, but I felt it was better for us to stay out of sight for as long as possible. Abella had agreed, promising to do all she could to keep the secret.
We’d come up with a new plan for survival, trying to keep to ourselves. Before, we would take turns sneaking out to steal a tiny bit of food. It had to be enough to keep us from starving, but not so much that it was noticed. While the crew slept at night, we would hurry to the head and relieve ourselves, one keeping watch while the other did her business. Now, though, we didn’t dare take from the galley until it was black as night and the crew slept in their hammocks beside it. The head was abandoned as well, replaced with an old bucket that looked to have once housed pitch. It wasn’t the most glamourous—or well scented—lifestyle, but we were making it work.
Or, at least, we had been. Until tonight, I’d been lucky enough to not be visited by terrors. Thinking I’d only been plagued with them while at our home in Paris, I’d relaxed, thankful that I didn’t have to see my captor’s face each time I closed my eyes. It was clear to me now, though, that we should have gagged me each time we slept, as I’d planned to do when we first stowed away. It was too late now, though.
There was a sound on the other side of the hold, where the hatch was. Men’s voices flittered through the space, followed by the barking of dogs.
Feeling a slight chill rush over me, I froze, eyes growing wide. It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be dogs on board. They would sniff us out in minutes, despite our position beneath the animal pen. It wouldn’t matter that we’d hidden ourselves in a crate, being extra careful to make sure nothing was out of place.
What if the hounds were trained to attack on sight? Were we about to be maimed? Killed even? A million images of people attacked by animals flashed through my mind, my heart racing as I listened to the sounds get closer. Would it be better to surrender? I didn’t know what to do.
Reaching through the darkness, I found Abella’s hand, trembling and cold in my own. She was probably thinking much the same as I was, jumping slightly as a bark sounded mere feet away from us.
“Over here!” a man’s voice yelled, summoning the rest of the group toward us.
Thinking quickly, I tried to guess what would be worse; should we stay in the box and hope they would pass by us, but have nowhere to run if they did discover our position and the dogs attacked? Or should we reveal ourselves now, giving us ample space to try and escape any kind of attack?
Deciding in an instant, I pushed against the boards we’d removed, letting them clatter to the floor, splashing into the water outside. Before I could scramble out, though, a huge, furry thing jumped on top of me, pinning me down. To my surprise, it licked my face enthusiastically, laying down on top of me to cuddle. Beside me, Abella was receiving the same treatment from a second dog, crying in surprise as she was blindsided by the shaggy
beast.
“It’s a pair of women!” The sailor sounded surprised, his comrades gathering around him.
“Not just any women,” a voice said, full of annoyance and distaste. It was one I recognized, despite still being mauled with love. Dagger sighed, the frustration we’d caused him evident in every sound he made. “That’s O’Rourke’s wife and her maid.”
Calling to the dogs to come away, he peered into the box, staring at the two of us with a frown as he held the lantern in his hand over our forms. He appeared much the same as he had when I’d seen him in Paris, wearing all black and a belt that boasted at least eight knives around his waist. His beard had grown some, his head covered in a makeshift turban to help protect from the sun, and the bridge of his nose was slightly sunburned, but those were the only differences.
“Madame,” he said, his voice tight even though he nodded his head as a sign of respect. “Were you aware you chose our most expensive batch of cargo to soil and destroy?”
Laughing slightly, I shook my head, sitting up slowly. “I wasn’t thinking about cost when I picked it, Sir. Or should I say Quartermaster? That is your job on this ship, is it not?”
He grinned, apparently somewhat pleased with my easygoing response. “Yes, it is. However, sir will do just fine. You are not a member of this crew. I wouldn’t expect you to address me as one.”
Staring, I waited for him to say something else. The pleasantries would end soon enough. We were stowaways, after all. They would have rules for how we needed to be dealt with. It was also almost certain that an undesirable punishment awaited Abella and me soon.
Hidden Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Three) Page 18
