by Sharon Page
Her jaw seemed to lock now, in pain, as the food neared her mouth and her nose drew in the aroma. Her stomach seemed to twist inside her.
She wanted to eat, but could she?
And what if the food was drugged? Or poisoned?
But when she hesitated, St. Clair crammed the spoon in her mouth, forcing it so harshly inside it she opened her mouth rather than lose her teeth.
“I’m not trying to kill you, angel,” he crooned in a jovial voice. It was that voice that she hated the most. It implied he knew some secret that she did not—there was a joke that she was not a party to. A cruel joke and one that involved her.
Cocking his head, St. Clair studied her face in the faint light. A slow grin spread across his face, seeping over his features like spilled water into the dirt beneath her.
“I’ve got to pretty you up,” he said, “and ensure you have the strength to meet the Earl of Trent.”
Marcus? A lump of meat slid down her throat unexpectedly.
She coughed. Coughed and coughed, but it would not move either up or down.
Perhaps she’d never even last long enough to see Marcus.
The clatter of breaking porcelain stunned her, and she spluttered helplessly around the lump in her throat. A fist slammed into her back and she took a great sucking breath. The meat was drawn down suddenly, out of her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Can’t have you choking to death.”
“Devlin.” She forced out his name, though her throat ached from the abrasion of the meat and from the fierce coughing. “You…take me…to Devlin?”
“No, my dear. It’s time for you to go home. Devlin would have paid a fortune for you, though. I don’t doubt that he would have offered up everything he had for you. But the cunning bastard might just have been able to get you without giving me the blunt. Your family would never risk that. And they can easily spare what I asked for. You’ve no worries, my love.”
She struggled to follow his flood of speech. He thought Devlin would have offered everything for her?
“How much?”
“Seventy thousand.”
She choked again. It was a fortune. An impossible fortune!
“In jewels—easier to transport than a king’s ransom in guineas. And I wouldn’t trust a bank draft. No, love, by tomorrow morning, you’ll be safe at home in your luxurious world, and I’ll be beginning my grand future.”
She parted her lips but he stuffed another spoonful in. Would he really surrender her so easily? Even for that amount of money, that amount that made her head swim?
And then what? How could she explain what had happened? Could she lie and make them believe that she had been with Devlin but he’d never touched her?
For if her brothers-in-law, the Earl of Trent and Viscount Swansborough, knew what she had done with Devlin, what would they want to do to him?
They’d never force a marriage with a highwayman. She knew that.
But would they want to see Devlin dead?
Devlin picked up the knife from his desk and sauntered over to young Will Havestock, who was pinned back against the wall of crowded bookshelves by Horatio and Nick.
Flipping his knife end to end in his hand, Devlin faced the shaking boy. “At sea, I’d make a traitor walk the plank, Will. Or I’d tie him to something nice and heavy and have him tossed over the side. In those lovely warm Caribbean waters, he’d barely last long enough to drown. A bit of blood in the water and the sharks would be racing in to rip him to pieces.”
Young Will flinched and the color drained from his face.
Devlin watched with grim satisfaction. One glance had been all it had taken to give the boy away. One desperate glance as Devlin had dragged a bound Lucy out in front of them all. The lad had revealed his shock and fear.
And all it had taken then was a few colorful threats to get the young man to admit he was helping Rogan St. Clair.
“But…but…” Will stuttered.
“Now, it’s true enough that we’re not on the water and there are no sharks to throw you to. Though it would be easy enough to tie you down and bait some wolves. Good sport, that. Or, if you’d like, I could make it quick and drill a ball between your eyes where you stand. I’d slit your throat, but I don’t want to send your blood spraying on the books.
Will swayed where he stood. Horatio and Nick pulled him upright.
“But there’s a way out, lad. Take me to Rogan’s hideout and I’ll let you live.”
Will shook his head.
Devlin pressed his knife against Will’s throat. “Pity to have to clean up all the blood. I’ll have Lucy do it.” He drew the knife back as though to slice—
“Wait, wait! I can take you there, Captain. I promise.”
“All right, lad. Tell me where it is first, and then take me there. And I’ll gut your belly and let you bleed out slowly if you make any noise, give Rogan a sign, or lead me on a wild chase.”
Will nodded.
Devlin fought the hot bile rising in his throat. He’d never known such weakening fear before, not even when he’d been standing in front of a cannon, waiting to die at the pleasure of the English Navy.
He’d played a game with Will, pretending confidence and that kind of cheerful madness that men often displayed before they killed. It had worked.
But what if he was too late?
God, what if he was?
“Devlin’s going to swing for this crime and I can’t have the inconvenience of you blurting out the truth.”
From her position—chained and bound and forced on her knees before Rogan St. Clair’s black carriage—Grace stared up at St. Clair through her dirty, tangled hair and felt her heart sink.
Inconvenience. “But—but your money?” she whispered, knowing he intended to kill her and hoping desperately to convince him not to.
He stood with his legs splayed and his boots planted near her knees. She had no idea where they were—he’d blindfolded her to bring her here. Dark wood stretched around and the cool night bit through her shift. It was all she wore, her tattered shift, and it was soaked with her sweat and her urine and spotted with her blood. At least he hadn’t tried to rape her. He seemed to have no interest in her that way, thank heaven.
They stood alone, but she knew he had men in his employ. St. Clair was regarding her with amusement and she wished she could spit in his face again. She’d done it once and earned such a hard punch she’d passed out from the pain. “You won’t get your money if I’m—”
“That’s the beauty, love. I’d still have you to bargain with. They’ll hand over the money, thinking it’s the only way to ensure your safety. They won’t take the risk that they might lose you. But you’ll already be dead.”
A breeze washed over her cold skin. She heard male voices, talking, laughing, waiting for St. Clair to finish with her. Lost in the dark, alone, hungry, tired, she yearned to cry. Not over Rogan St. Clair, but over her own stupidity. She’d run off from Venetia and Maryanne in Brighton because she’d felt she had no place in her family, because she had wanted to run from their happiness. She’d escaped because she had wanted to stop having to lie all the time.
She’d run away and had never thought about how precious it was that she loved her family and they loved her.
She had cheated herself of marriage and children and a future.
But she was not going to let this putrid villain cheat her out of life.
She couldn’t give up.
A weapon! A plan! She had to grasp at something. Even with bound hands, hands numb from the pressure of the ropes, she had to find some way to strike him.
He bent to her and grasped her arm, driving his fingers into her skin. She was so bruised there that pain shot down her spine at the pressure. He dragged her to her feet.
“You’ll never escape!” she screamed, fury giving her voice volume that defied her dry and raspy throat. “My family would never be fooled, so if I die, you won’t get anything!”
He shook h
er arm. “Oh, I will, love. Even if I don’t get a penny, I’ll get the satisfaction of seeing Devlin hang.”
God, he was mad. Mad with vengeance. Fury took control. “Why do you want revenge? Merely because he threw you out because you wanted to ransom me? You have no idea what it is to really suffer. To lose everything. To—”
“Shut up.” He stepped back, leaving her leaning against the cool polished side of the carriage, and he wrapped his gloved hand around a handle jutting from a leather sheath at this side.
Her heart skipped beats as he drew out a long blade. Of course, it gleamed in the moonlight and she could see it was honed to a perfect, deadly edge.
Oh God.
“Sorry, angel, but I need your death to be grisly. And the blade is Devlin’s.”
“No, wait! Let me live and I’ll ensure you get far more money than you ever dreamed of!” She threw the words out, praying to make him pause. Time. She needed time.
“I’ll have enough.” He grasped her hair and pulled back and she had no choice but to yield, to turn her neck into a long, vulnerable arch.
He pressed the blade lightly to her throat, then slid it gently to the left.
One quick draw cut and she’d be dead.
18
The knife pressed against Grace’s taut throat, and she stayed rigid beneath his grip, afraid to flinch, even to breathe. St. Clair seemed to be waiting. Enjoying her fear? Could he be considering her desperate offer of money?
The horses shied and their sudden whinnies almost shocked her into the knife. Grace forced herself to stay calm as sounds echoed into the night—the horses’ snorts, jangling traces, the creak of the carriage wheels on dried mud.
She had to gamble, had to force words from her lips even though the movement of her throat drove her skin against the knife, and her windpipe felt as though it was stuffed with wool. “A fortune, if you let me go,” she gasped. “Fifty thousand pounds more. I’d give you my portion to add to anything Trent gives you.”
Could she really promise fifty thousand? Anything, anything, if it made him stop. If it just gave her more time.
“Ah, angel,” villainous Rogan purred by her ear. “I can’t begin to put a price on my triumph.”
Oh God, he was determined to follow his path of vengeance. And she had nothing with which to stop him. Her sisters had used their unique skills, their special knowledge, to find ways to rescue themselves.
She had nothing.
She’d always prayed her pretty appearance would save her, but her looks would mean nothing to Rogan St. Clair. Relying on her looks had been her one and only plan.
And then she knew, knew how to tap into his desires so that he couldn’t ignore her. “Don’t kill me,” she cried out, “for if you let me go, I’ll kill Devlin for you. I’ll do anything. I’ll lead him into your trap. I’ll shoot him myself if that’s what you want. Anything…just let me live.”
The knife pushed into her flesh. “You would, too, wouldn’t you, you betraying witch? Hell, that would be worth seeing. He’s so blind in love with you, and you’d be willing to shoot him in the heart just to save your own skin.”
It was working.
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes.”
He was distracted, which gave her a few seconds to attack.
Should she go for biting his wrist, or try to kick him in the ballocks?
He’d paused and all her breath had trickled out. He gave a chuckle. “Hell, what a joke that would be. He’d sacrifice anything for you, angel. Now that I think—”
The ballocks. It was her best chance.
“St. Clair, you damned bastard. Let her go.”
Grace kicked her foot back just as Devlin’s voice sliced through the still dark. She grabbed Rogan’s arm and held tight as her heel drove back and up into soft flesh. Rogan screamed behind her. “Argh! Jesus bloody Christ!”
She shoved forward on his arm, felt the blade whisk over her skin, and a slash of cold cross her neck. Heat flooded to the wound and it suddenly burned as she felt the dribbles of blood trailing down her throat.
Not a bad wound, but it stung! And his arm was away from her neck at least. She was almost frozen with fear—fear that he’d shove the knife back at her throat, terror that he’d slice in rage and kill her.
But the knife was now dangling from Rogan’s hand as he groaned and moaned behind her. If she’d crippled him for life, she didn’t care. She hauled up the torn skirts of her shift and darted away from his hand, from him.
“Grace, thank heaven—” Devlin’s deep, aching voice sent a shiver of relief, a warm wash of joy through her. She spun around to find him and she collided with his chest as he was charging forward. He held a pistol trained on Rogan, who had sunk to his knees, and Devlin captured her to his chest with his left arm.
She fell against his linen shirt and clutched the wool solidity of his greatcoat. It was Devlin, truly Devlin, and she drank in his wonderful, familiar, masculine smells.
Only one muscular arm surrounded her but it felt as though she were protected by an invincible shield. Devlin’s touch made her feel safe. She’d never known such a powerful sensation of belonging as she did wrapped in his embrace.
Then she remembered his wound, and she ran her fingers down and touched his bandage. Though he stood straight and tall, he must have been in terrible pain; but he’d come for her, despite the wound and despite danger.
It shocked her more than Rogan’s capture.
Shaking, she lifted her gaze, knew moonlight fell upon her face, and saw horror leap to his eyes as he took in her injuries. “Christ, he did this to you?” His arm straightened, and Grace screamed, knowing he was preparing to shoot.
“I’ll blow you apart, you damned bastard!”
St. Clair weakly looked up. She’d been terrified of him, but she was just as frightened to watch Devlin shoot him. “Devlin, no, please.”
He hesitated just as his thumb moved to cock the hammer and he lowered the pistol an inch. Deep furrows crossed his forehead and dark lines bracketed his mouth, revealing the pain and tension boiling inside him. Shadows claimed his eyes. “He deserves it.”
St. Clair did, but her heart was motionless in horror. What would it do to Devlin to shoot him?
“You can’t shoot him in cold blood—you have to give him to the law.”
“I want him to pay.”
“But I don’t want you to!”
Crack!
A branch broke behind them, and Devlin swung around. An explosion roared, a light flared, and Devlin fired in response, the powder of his gun flashing in the dark. Grace’s ears rang as he pushed her to the side.
Someone had shot at them!
Dev’s arm wrapped around her waist and he urged her to run. Leaves slapped at her face as they left the path and flung themselves into the woods. Her bare feet stumbled on the rough, rocky ground. Sharp outcrops cut into her feet and she bit her lip raw against the pain. Shrubs, brambles, and twigs snagged her shift like clawing fingers.
“Sweetheart, why is it, when I’ve come to rescue you, you are more determined to rescue me?”
The question stunned her. “Rescue you? How? We’re running for our lives.”
“You stopped me killing the man who hurt you because you cared more about me—” Devlin broke off and turned abruptly, and her lungs labored as the ground sloped upward beneath her feet. The leaves and snagging twigs dropped away, and she realized they had reached a narrow path and left the denser brush behind. The faint glimmer of moonlight revealed the path headed upward.
But he pressed on, across the path, and they fled into the dense trees once more.
He stopped and gently put his hand to her mouth.
St. Clair’s abuse was still a horror, and her mouth still hurt from it, but she sensed Devlin’s gesture was a warning. One he had to make without words. She accepted it, and she stayed quiet. Leaves shivered around them and the whistle of the wind filled her ears.
His lips touched her ear. “I h
ave to head to higher ground, love, and locate the road.”
The road. Freedom.
As long as St. Clair did not catch them first.
“Who shot at us?” she gasped.
“One of his men. How many came with him?”
She shook her head. She didn’t know. St. Clair had blindfolded her, of course, and she’d come in a carriage, where the clop of many hooves and the clatter of the wheels had disguised all other sound.
“Lucky,” Devlin murmured, but she couldn’t see why. A huge boulder stood before them, imposing and broad. Shaped by shadow and glinting ridges, it looked like a sleeping monster, waiting to devour them. Shaking her aching head, she fought fanciful fears. Devlin eased her to the right and she knew he meant to go around it.
She saw that he’d brought out a second pistol. Moonlight touched on the length of the muzzle. She shivered.
If Devlin had to use it, she would applaud him as a hero. She wanted him to understand that—
“Ssh,” he warned.
But there was no one lurking behind the boulder.
“Stay close to the rock—in its shadow,” Devlin urged. The ground fell away in a steep slope and both she and Devlin stood on a narrow dirt ridge that surrounded the boulder. One wrong step and she would go tumbling down, but the ridge gave them a view over the sweep of trees. Several carriages waited on the road below. The lamps burned, throwing golden light onto two tall men—two gentlemen surrounded by servants.
Grace caught her breath.
Her brothers-in-law. Marcus, the Earl of Trent and Dash, Viscount Swansborough.
She watched them both check their pistols and her heart lodged hard in her throat. Rogan St. Clair had led them to think Devlin had kidnapped her for ransom. He wanted them to think Devlin had beaten her.
Another man, a portly gentleman with a tall beaver hat, joined them. Devlin let out a low whistle.
“Who is that?” she asked quietly.
“The local magistrate, love.”
