Tangled in Sin

by Lavinia Kent

  Blast. It was getting hard to see. The combination of sheets of rain and the netting made the whole world look like a gray cloud. Well, at least she could make out the stones of the walk. She looked down at her soaking feet and hems, watching each step forward. Another block and she would hail that hack. It seemed unlikely that anyone would remark on anything today beyond the weather.

  She only hoped she could find one. Everybody wanted a hack when it rained. Well, she would manage somehow. She would have to if she wanted to be back before Gillian, her stepmother, began to wonder—and question why she was without a maid, although if Cynthia was late she could certainly blame it on the storm. Everyone would understand her not wanting to be caught up in this torrent.

  Time to think of something more pleasant, time to distract herself from her cold toes and the suspicion that her hems would be permanently ruined. Why had she not considered the weather when she dressed this morning? Granted, she’d been more interested in choosing something that would not stand out than anything else, but the pale green silk twill had not been a wise choice for even a gentle rain—and certainly not for the downpour that had so suddenly arrived.

  And rain and ruined gowns was not a pleasant thought.

  Think about baby Hope, about how magical it felt when the infant was in her arms, how natural. That was perhaps the most surprising thing of all. What would it be like to hold her own child in her arms?

  Without conscious thought, her mind turned to James, to his broad shoulders and deep voice, to that slow smile she’d once known so well. What would it be like to have a child who inherited that smile? Those dark eyes?

  James? She shouldn’t be thinking of him, but once the thought lodged, it refused to be dislodged. What would he be like as a husband? What would he demand of a wife?

  A quiver took her.

  Whips. Chains. Control.

  Such things were far beyond—

  Light cut off abruptly.

  Something was over her head. The smell of mildewed oats filled her nostrils.

  Strong arms pushed her, then grabbed her, lifting her.

  “Get the door,” a scratchy male voice yelled.

  Before she could even think about what it meant, she felt herself lifted farther and then thrown forward. She braced. Her knees hit the hard boards of a carriage floor.

  More hands grabbed her.

  The door slammed.

  Cynthia began to struggle, kicking and trying to fight against the hands that constrained her.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but something was shoved into it and tied tight. The course netting rubbed against her tongue as her veils were pushed inward.

  She fought harder.

  “Be still or you’ll regret it,” a different male voice said.

  She was pushed forward, her hands yanked back and tied.

  She tried to kick again, but this time it was her ankles that were grabbed. A rope slid about them and she was effectively immobile.

  There was the sound of a door opening and then another slam.

  She was alone.

  A sudden rumble and the feeling of movement.

  There could be no mistaking that feeling. The carriage was moving.

  With some care she wiggled about the space she was in, the very narrow space. The floor of the carriage. She was settled on the floor between the two benches.

  Wiggling and squirming, she began to move. If she could just reach the door and open it, she could fling herself into the streets. It would hurt. Of that there was no doubt, but once free, surely she could find someone to help her.

  The rain might have driven most people indoors, but surely someone would be there.

  And if not…

  If not she would still be free. With the pound of the rain her captors might not even realize she was gone.

  And then?

  And then she’d be lying in the middle of the road, bound and gagged, with carriages and carts unable to see her because of the rain.

  No. She was not going to think like that.

  Escape was better than…than she wasn’t quite sure what—and she refused to think about it yet.

  She made it to the side of the carriage and folded herself until she could push up to her knees. The hood or sack or whatever it was that had been thrust over her head was now held tightly in place by the gag. She brought her bound hands up and tried to push against it but it was useless.

  Blast.

  Angry tears began to rise in her eyes.

  Still kneeling, she began to run her hands over the door. It was difficult, but do-able.

  It took a moment, but she found the handle—and pressed it.

  It didn’t move. Locked. Or jammed.

  Blast. Blast. Blast.

  She pushed against the door anyway, but there was no movement.

  Leaning back, she tried to throw herself against it.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  Nothing, that is, except a sore shoulder.

  She sank onto her heels, considered. With great care she lowered herself to the floor and began to use her feet to kick at the door as hard as she could. Nothing. It made a great deal of noise, and perhaps if the weather had been different it would have made a difference, but with the heavy downpour it was doubtful that anyone was there to hear.

  She lay back, defeated, the jarring of wheels on cobblestones shaking her about.

  And then she began to think. Every thought that she’d been able to suppress as long as she was busy began to crowd her mind.

  There was no reason for anyone to abduct her.

  Yes, her father was wealthy, but less so than many others and she was one of several children, even if she was the only daughter. If someone wanted a ransom it would have made far more sense to take one of her brothers. They were at that age when boys were prone to drink and foolishness and it would not have been difficult to manage.

  Political favor. Her father did sit at Parliament, but he always voted with the Whigs and she doubted anything, even a message from God, would change that.

  Did someone want to molest her? Rape? Ravishment? A shudder ran through her at the thought. It did seem the most likely answer, but she’d have been an odd choice bundled in Jasmine’s cloak and her veils. Someone would’ve had to have been watching her to know who she was underneath all those layers.

  No, it seemed impossible that they could have known who she was.

  But who stood outside in the pouring rain in the hopes of abducting some stranger? Surely if it was random her attacker would have chosen a nicer day? And the carriage had been waiting; clearly it was not a spur-of-the-moment decision.

  And if he wanted to simply violate her, surely it would have been easier to shove her into some alley.

  Another thought took her; there had been at least two of them. The first man, the one who grabbed her had called to the second to open the door.

  It was definitely planned, but why?

  White slavery? She’d heard stories about such things, but had always taken it for just that, stories. White slavers wanted beautiful young girls and while she didn’t consider herself beautiful she supposed she was pretty enough. But how could they have known that? Even if they’d seen her enter Madame Blanche’s they would only have seen her veils—and veils implied a widow. Surely such scoundrels were after virgins. That was always part of the story.

  A shiver took her. It was impossible to wrap her arms about herself, bound as she was, but she raised her knees to her chest, seeking warmth. Her toes were frozen. Her ankles, too. The bottom of her skirt felt as if it was made of ice and the warm cloak was mostly off. She tried to maneuver to cover herself more, but only succeeded in tangling her skirts about her.

  Frustrated tears formed in her eyes. She tried to spit out the netting that filled her mouth. The hood or whatever it was over her head made it hard to breathe, the air warm and moist and heavy. The only thing about her that was warm.

  What was going to happen?
r />   She didn’t want to be scared. She hated being scared. She refused to be scared.

  But somehow it didn’t work.

  The carriage had been moving for a good while now. Were they out of the city? No, probably not quite yet. Stretching her legs, she pounded against the door, although she sensed the hopelessness of the gesture.

  Her legs fell still.

  She bowed her head forward and again tried to curl into herself, doing all she could to hold off the rising terror.

  She had no idea why anyone would want to take her, but she knew it could not be good. Holding back tears, trying to slow her breathing, she drifted into troubled sleep.

  —

  Cynthia came awake slowly, her body stiff and uncomfortable. Opening her eyes, she found only black. Night? Her mouth was foul and filled with something rough.

  Memory began to return to her.

  She tried to roll, but between the bonds and the stiffness of her limbs it proved impossible.

  What had awoken her?

  The full situation came upon her slowly, bit by bit. She would have screamed if her mouth had not been so dry and sore. A large aching hole began to grow in her gut. Where was she? What was going to happen now?

  The carriage had stopped moving. Was that what had awoken her? The only sound, the continued fall of the rain.

  Just then, the door clacked open and the pound of the storm filled the carriage. Before she could even think, she was yanked from the carriage, pulled to her feet. If the strong arms had not continued to hold her she would have collapsed.

  The need to relieve herself came upon her sharply. She held it back, but only barely.

  She’d drunk several cups of tea at Madame Blanche’s, cups that she regretted now, although it did keep her from worrying too much about what was coming next.

  The hands dragged her forward. The scent of wet wool and sweat overtook her. It might just be the wet of his coat, but the man definitely didn’t smell fresh.

  “Hurry, my lady,” he growled. “The weather’s delayed us enough and I’ve a desire to be home. Bad enough sitting in the rain for hours, damned if I’ll wait one minute more than I have to before I’ve a mug of ale pouring down my throat.”

  “Can’t say I disagree with that,” the other voice answered.

  Mud squashed beneath her feet. Ice cold mud. Even if they didn’t kill her the weather might.

  The sound of a door scraping open.

  She stepped onto a hard floor, was pushed into a chair.

  Her head shook as she tried to get her bearings.

  Her hands were grabbed and then the bonds fell loose. There was a pulling at her head and suddenly she could breathe again. Another pull, and she felt the cloak fall away, leaving her further chilled.

  What?

  For the first moment all she could do was gasp for air—cool, fresh, clean air.

  She opened her eyes but found even the dim light blinding through the veil.

  She closed them again, counted. One. Two. Three.

  Boots pounded on the floor, moving away from her.

  The door squawked as it was pulled closed. The sound of the carriage pulling away echoed about her.

  She opened her eyes a crack, peering through the veils, finally able to see. Nothing but rough wooden walls.

  With numb fingers she pulled at the netting. Finally she was free.

  She was in a small one-room cabin or cottage, with unfinished boards and beams. A single candle burned, fighting the near-dark.

  The sound of rain battered on the roof.

  She was alone.

  She looked about carefully, not really seeing anything, but searching for any sign of movement, any sign of life.

  There was none.

  She stood, stepped forward, her muddy slippers squelching as she moved. The floor creaked slightly, but there was no other response. She turned in a small circle, taking in everything about her. A wood door, shut tight. A window with shutters fastened about it. A fireplace, wood piled high beside it, and tinder and flint in a small basket in front. A narrow bed or cot. It did not look very comfortable, but at this moment she’d take anything that wasn’t a moving carriage floor. Two wooden chairs next to a battered table, a large loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese upon it. A tin pitcher. Water?

  At least they didn’t intend to starve her—although maybe poison? No, she was being foolish. If they wanted to kill her there were far easier ways to do it.

  But why…?

  No, trying to figure it out was foolish, too, although it did help her stay calm. As long as she was busy thinking she didn’t have time to fret and worry—and panic. The edge of it was there, lying in wait just beyond the border of reason. If she gave in to it she’d simply sink to her knees and never move again.

  She repeated her circle.

  Were they still outside? She’d heard the carriage drive off, but that didn’t mean anything. It could simply have been moving to a nearby barn or somebody could have been left behind. It didn’t seem likely that they’d drive her all the way out here, wherever here was, and then simply leave her to escape.

  Perhaps she was locked in. That would explain the closed shutters.

  One more circle.

  A fire had not been lit. Could she escape up the chimney? She was not much wider than the boys she’d seen sweeping chimneys—although she was considerably taller and she had heard horror stories of them getting stuck.

  Only as a last resort, then.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  Stay calm. Stay calm.

  Her thoughts were short and jerky. Her mind didn’t wish to form even a complete sentence.

  Was she locked in? Her eyes went back to the closed door. She must be.

  Would she anger her captors if she checked?

  Surely they would expect it of her. With slow, careful steps she walked to the door and placed her hand upon the latch.

  Another deep breath.

  She pushed down. The latch lifted.

  The door opened—not far, but open. No chain or bar blocked it.

  She pressed harder.

  A gust of wind pushed back, showering her with rain, but she prevailed and with a screech the door opened fully.

  The sky was almost black, not a single star to be seen. A thin line of light still marked the horizon, but the heavy clouds overhead darkened everything.

  Another gust. More rain.

  It was impossible to see anything.

  She listened carefully, but heard only the pounding of the rain.

  A flash of lightning lit the sky, but revealed nothing save mud and fields. No barn. No outbuildings. No people.

  Nothing.

  Of course, that didn’t mean they weren’t out there. She’d only had time for one brief glimpse, who knew what lay to the sides or behind.

  The drum of thunder echoed, causing her to jump. She stepped back as another gust rattled the shutters.

  Should she go out and look around?

  Surely her captors did not think a little rain would deter her? If only she knew where she was. She glanced back into the cabin.

  Did she risk wandering around in the rapidly cooling weather with no idea where she was going? Even with her cloak, she would not stay warm long—and it was sodden with rain. It might actually increase her chill. Did she dare risk it?

  Would that be brave or foolish?

  She wanted to say brave, wanted to do something. The thought of sitting and simply waiting was unbearable.

  With a sigh she pulled the door closed.

  She would wait, not long, but long enough to see if there was somebody out there, somebody who meant to return. It would not hurt to have a few minutes to warm herself and perhaps eat a bite of the bread. It must be hours since she’d left Madame Blanche’s and all she’d had there was tea.

  She glanced about, spotted the screen in the corner. And there was that—she might have been distracted by finding herself unbound and alone, but nature had its own n
eeds.

  A few minutes later, she sat in a hard wooden chair and pulled off her ruined slippers and stockings. She might be able to wear them again if needed, but for now she would let them dry, let her feet warm.

  Taking the slippers and stockings in hand she walked over to the fireplace. She needed to get warm, to get her blood flowing, her wits working properly. It had been a long time since she’d started a fire, but she reckoned she could manage. At least, she hoped she could. By a long time she meant more than a decade and then she’d only helped her father once when he’d set a fire on the shore of the lake to cook some trout they’d caught. She’d never been quite sure why he’d thought it a necessary lesson for her, but now she could only be grateful.

  Despite her circumstances, a faint smile came at the memory of standing with her father on the shore watching him try to cook the fish. It had not been particularly successful and yet she could not remember ever tasting anything as delicious. For the briefest of moments she let herself drift back. She’d been cold then, too, and her father had wrapped her in his wool coat and made her warm and safe.

  Warm and safe, those were certainly things she was not at the moment.

  She stopped stacking the split logs for a moment, a chill running through her. What was going to happen to her? Why was she here?

  No. Keep moving. Keep doing. Be practical.

  And then with only slightly shaking hands she continued to stack, leaving plenty of space for airflow. Her father’s voice echoed in her head as she stuck kindling and dried moss underneath, before reaching for the flint. She struck hard and then struck again. A single spark flew, far from enough to light a blaze.

  Again.

  And again.

  Nothing.

  She turned and stared at the table, at the single candle lighting the room.

  She was an idiot.

  Rising she grabbed the candle and held it to the moss even as wax dripped over the logs. It caught in a sudden burst of light, but then died down to a smoldering mass. Gazing mournfully at the unlit logs, she waited.