Without answering, Max’s grip on her arms tightened like a noose, one palm sliding upward to cover her mouth. He moved like lightning to twist her back up against him and then pushed her against the body of the horse, limiting her movement while his other arm slid up to crook around the front of her neck. Slowly, he depressed the air from her throat even as her frantically churning brain strained to catch up.
“Max, what are you doing?” she gasped against his gloved hand, wriggling madly.
Deep-seated terrors rose up to torture her…memories of another man holding her down and forcing her into a carriage. Her demons cackled and crowed with glee as they rose from their cages. Oh God, oh God, oh God… Irina felt a dragging numbness take hold, and she fought against it with everything she could muster. She was no longer a terrified fourteen-year-old, and this wasn’t a stranger. No, this was Max. Her friend.
“Max, please, I can’t breathe.”
“Don’t struggle, love,” he said against her ear. “It’ll only make it worse.”
It was all she wanted to do—rail and scream and fight—but as the air departed her wheezing body, she could only succumb…succumb to the man she had trusted for what seemed like forever.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The sloshing of water and the sick sensation of his stomach rolling side to side jarred Henry awake. He opened his eyes with effort, half afraid the giant called Crow would, once again, rap him on the skull and make him crash back into unconsciousness. It had happened twice before—or was it three times? He’d lost count since he’d been in that darkened carriage, jolting over endless rough roads. The moment he’d start to wake, Crow would hit him, and the blackness would swallow Henry. Each time, he’d hear a muffled scream, but he couldn’t tell if it was real or in his head.
Only now, as he took in the sight of a ship’s deck and felt the cool, salted air blowing into his face, did he begin to hope that he would be allowed to wake fully. It was dark, with guttering torches and oil lamps strung along the railings. Henry’s skull throbbed, and he was thankful for the lack of bright sunlight. Blinking away the pain, Henry took in the details surrounding him. He was on a small boat, and noting the compact sails above, figured it to be a cutter. Some kind of packet ship meant for quick travel. He’d heard the word Dover murmured once when he’d risen to consciousness, and knew they had to be in the Pas-de-Calais, heading toward France.
There were no other passengers save for him on the deck, and his captors were nowhere in sight, but Henry didn’t doubt they wouldn’t be too far away. His hands were bound behind his back, though the ropes were loose enough for him to possibly work his way out of. He tried, rubbing his wrists forward and back, pulling them apart and grimacing at the spikes of pain in his back and head, and now, wrists. The last time he’d been bound and gagged like this… He closed his eyes and breathed evenly. He could not slip back into that memory, not now. He needed his wits about him, and panic would only serve to turn them to mush.
“Git up,” a voice growled from over his shoulder. Henry opened his eyes and felt the familiar coarse tug of Crow’s hand. He gripped Henry’s arm and yanked him to a standing position. “High tide and rough water tonight. Don’t want you rolling overboard—just yet.”
“What is it you people want?” Henry asked, the rag in his mouth smothering his words. His mouth was parched, and he realized he hadn’t had a sip of water for hours on end.
“Shut it,” Crow warned and with a violent nudge, pushed him toward the mouth of a companionway leading below.
Money. Revenge. Information. These were the only reasons people kidnapped in Henry’s experience. As he stumbled down the narrow flight of wooden steps to below deck, his mind accelerated through every available possibility. Someone knew he’d been a spy for the crown. Someone wanted revenge or information, yet again, on other officers still in the field.
Every single thought, however, came to a roaring standstill when he saw the people in the space below deck. His eyes landed first on Irina, seated in a wooden chair. Her mouth had been gagged, her ankles bound, her wrists tucked behind her back. Beside her stood Lord Remisov, free as a bird and wearing a cocky and rather put-out expression. Crow kicked the back of Henry’s knee, and he slammed onto the floor, his knees digging into the pitted boards. Irina’s scream was muffled by her gag, but it was familiar…and he understood then that the scream he’d been hearing whenever Crow would knock him unconscious in the carriage had been hers.
Henry sprang back up to his feet and paid the price as his vision swam.
“I’d truly hoped to avoid all of this,” Remisov said, though his voice was not its usual, easy cadence, light with sarcasm. It was heavy and acerbic, and it matched his disgruntled expression perfectly.
“Had you remained the beast you were, Langlevit, everything would have gone off without a hitch. Or if I had been able to keep the princess away from you,” he said, shaking his head as he stroked Irina’s tousled hair. She flinched, and Henry lunged forward. Crow’s big hand clapped down onto his shoulder and hauled him back with an easy pull.
“It is always the bad ones that are irresistible, though, isn’t that right, darling?” Remisov went on, his question directed at Irina. She glared at him, her eyes puffy from the tears she’d shed. What had the bastard done to her? Henry strained at the ropes at his wrists and gnashed his teeth against the sour-tasting rag in his mouth.
“You will come to see in time that I’m doing you a service, though of course, at this moment you cannot see it as such,” he went on, still stroking Irina’s hair, come loose from pins and combs here and there. “But he would only break your heart in the end, making all your time and care wasted on him pointless. I’m trying to save you, Irina. When we marry—”
Irina thrashed in her chair, the legs skittering over the floor, and she said something incomprehensible behind her gag.
“Yes, you will,” Remisov said, also gathering she’d shouted an instant refusal. “We’ve already made our pact, and you know as well as I that it is the best decision for both of us. A marriage free from the regular ties that bind it, and the winnings…well, if you decide to give your part to the Bradburne Trust, that is your initiative. I will take my half and leave you be until you can forgive me for what I’m sure you think is a betrayal,” he said with a gesture to their surroundings.
Henry marveled at how insane and delusional the man was. He had kidnapped an English peer and a Russian princess with plans to force Irina into marriage, and he didn’t believe it was actually betrayal? Try as he might to convince Irina—and perhaps even himself—that this was an act of compassion and caring, Henry knew Remisov cared for only one thing: money. The fifty thousand pounds the marriage pot was currently worth, and then Irina’s own inheritance, would set the conniving prick up for life.
Irina started to shout, all of her words muffled, but that didn’t deter her. Remisov glanced to Crow.
“Have the tides cooperated? Are we far enough from port now?”
Crow must have nodded, for Remisov started to remove the gag from Irina’s mouth.
“Say that again, darling. I might be able to understand you now. But I warn you—I have no patience for screaming outside of the bedchamber.”
Once free to speak, Irina instantly turned to Henry. “Are you hurt? Your head—”
He shook his head tightly, receiving a shock of pain, but he was determined not to show it to her. He would be fine and would remain strong. For her. He’d get her out of this situation somehow. He only needed to stay calm and not allow the memories clawing at him to snag hold.
Irina, apparently convinced, whipped her head back to Remisov. “How could you, Max? I trusted you. That was the only reason I even considered marrying you! Our friendship! Not the money.”
“Some of us don’t have the luxury of not caring about the money, my dear princess,” Remisov replied.
�
�You don’t have to, either, not right away. Your father is in good health still, and that cousin of yours won’t inherit for years and years. Your mother will continue to provide for you at least until—”
“There is no allowance, Irina!” Remisov shouted, and Henry saw Irina jump. “None. There hasn’t been, not ever.”
She blinked her surprise up at him. “But then, how have you…”
Irina stopped speaking as understanding dawned in her eyes. Henry knew she had pieced the answers together, just as he had. The expensive heirlooms Remisov had stolen before leaving St. Petersburg…they’d funded him for a time. Then favors to whomever paid for them. Men and women alike, it did not matter. Whoever would pay to “keep” him, be it for weeks or months.
“You should have told me,” she whispered.
“And had you pity me? Endured having you give me money, like I was some pauper?”
“How would it have been any different than this? Any different than how you’ve been living all these years?”
“I’ve earned what I’ve received!” Remisov shouted, his collected calm shattering without warning. It alarmed Henry, who’d seen men snap before. Hell, he was one of them. There was a breaking point, and once passed, it was impossible to retreat.
“I’ve been surviving on my own for years, Irina. You have no idea the things I’ve had to do, so don’t sit there and tell me you could have fixed it if only you’d known! It is my life, and you’ve made your promise to me to make it better. Now you wish to recant? Because you think yourself in love?” He sneered at the word, though Henry’s chest throbbed with it. Love? Had Irina confided in Remisov that she loved Henry? Had she called the marriage scheme off? It must be. Why else would Remisov panic and stoop to this alternative?
“It was wrong of me to ever make that promise to you, I know that now,” she answered, carefully choosing her words, Henry noted. She could see Remisov breaking as well. “But I will not marry you, Max. You cannot force me—”
“Oh yes, I can. And I will.” He smiled coldly at her. “You’ve already given your pledge. Your willing pledge. Marriage was your suggestion, remember?” Remisov chuckled. “Though it was pathetically easy to put the idea in your head. You were so desperate for someone to marry you, after all.” Irina’s face paled as Remisov continued. “Ever the virgin wallflower. So many offers, except from the one you craved.” His mocking eyes flicked to the earl. “Unfathomable that you would throw away your future for a man who will never love you.”
Henry started to lunge forward again but stopped at the cool and insistent press of a blade at his throat. Irina gasped when she saw it. Crow placed a restraining hand on Henry’s arm, just in case the blade he held to his jugular wasn’t incentive enough.
“We are on our way to France, where we will wed,” Remisov said. “Whether I deposit Lord Langlevit on the shores at Calais alive or dump his body into the Channel tonight depends entirely upon you.”
Even in the dim lamplight, Henry could see Irina’s color draining away. She stared at the man she’d trusted implicitly with an expression that was not quite fear and not quite disbelief. It was sadness, Henry thought, and disappointment.
“Even if I were to marry you, it would never last. I’ll have it annulled the instant I am able. And besides, my sister retains control over my inheritance until I turn twenty-one. Once she hears about this, she will alter it so that you receive nothing.”
“I don’t need your inheritance, darling, not with over fifty thousand pounds at my fingertips. And I’m almost positive no court would grant an annulment when the bride is found to be with child,” he said, and with a waggle of his brow, Remisov’s meaning drove home. Irina gaped at him, and Henry pushed forward, against the resistance of the blade. A prick of pain at his throat, and Crow’s fingers digging into his arm, slowed him.
Henry shouted through the gag, wanting only to launch into Remisov and rip him apart.
Irina shouted for Henry to stop. “Fine,” she said quickly. “You get what you want, Max—I’ll marry you. Just stop! Leave Henry alone!”
No. She would not. She would never marry that lowlife, scum-sucking leech. But Henry knew that if he kept struggling and fighting, driven only by hate and fear instead of reason and intelligence, he would get himself killed, and then she would be forced to marry him.
He stopped thrashing and shouting, and Crow tugged him to a corner where there was another chair. It was nailed to the floor, Henry saw, as he was thrown into it, his ankles tied to each front leg. Once they reached French soil, he would have to do something to put an end to this madness. There was time, though not much, to hatch a plan.
The clipper ship plunged toward Calais, ripping through the Channel at a speed that made Henry glad their chairs were nailed to the floor. Remisov had disappeared into another cabin belowdecks while Crow had been left to stand guard over Henry and Irina. The giant sat on the companionway steps, staring at the two of them in awkward silence. Though Irina’s gag had been removed, Henry’s had not, making any conversation impossible.
Soon after Remisov had left, Irina had mouthed “I’m so sorry” to Henry, who had quickly shaken his head. She could never have anticipated that he would take such extreme measures. He’d lied to her, leaving her completely in the dark about his financial straits. Henry wanted only to comfort her and let her know that he would take care of everything, but the gag stayed in his mouth, leaving him the next hour to peruse a possible course of action while watching Irina.
He took in every detail of her: her leather half-boot footwear was serviceable, and if she needed to run, the skirts of her riding habit were not so voluminous and cumbersome that they would hinder speed. A small drawstring pouch hung from one of her bound wrists, and it looked heavy enough to hold some coin, meaning she could support herself for a time if she got away alone.
Henry was surprised that Remisov’s accomplices had not stripped her of the wrist purse and taken whatever they could. Which meant he’d likely instructed them to keep their hands off Irina and promised them a good amount of compensation for them not to try and take the minor amount in the pouch.
He hoped there was enough in that reticule to get her back on another packet—
The reticule. An image flashed in his memory of Irina on the balcony at Hadley Gardens, pressing the wicked point of a pen and fruit knife into Marcus Bainley’s ribs. She’d claimed to keep the short, folded blade in her purse at all times.
God, he hoped she still had it.
Henry cleared his bone-dry throat and made some wretched sounds through his gag. His tongue was swollen and his head ached, so a sip of water was a necessary thing, but it wasn’t his only objective right then.
“Please,” Irina pleaded with Crow. “He’s trying to say something.”
“Nuffin’ I want to hear,” the man returned.
“He needs water,” she went on, and he marveled at how she knew this. Then again, she was astute and clearly worried about him.
“Dead men don’t need to drink,” Crow replied, this time with a smirk in Henry’s direction.
“Dead? Max said he wouldn’t be harmed. I only agreed to the marriage because of it! If he’s lying, I’ll never agree—”
Crow stood up and cut her off. “All right, all right, just keep quiet.”
He didn’t want Remisov coming in and seeing that he’d upset Irina, most likely. Henry wanted to believe Crow had only been joking, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d slipped up and given something away.
He came to Henry’s chair and took out the gag. His jaw ached, and he could barely move it to speak.
“Water,” he said, and with a groan of utter annoyance, Crow went to a bucket and ladled up a spoonful.
“And…what about fruit?” he said, his tongue feeling board stiff and desperate for liquid. Both Crow and Irina stared at him, confused. “Do you have
any fruit?” he asked again, looking directly at Irina with what he hoped was a barely discernable widening of his eyes.
If she could reach into her pouch and take her fruit knife, she could try to slice through the hemp rope at her wrists.
“Fruit?” Crow echoed, his face scrunching up in confusion. “I knocked you too hard, I fink. Like hell I’m gonna give you fruit, if’n I had it.”
Irina was frowning at Henry, as well, her head shaking as if she also worried he’d been cracked over the skull too much.
“Or a pen?” he asked. Irina was cocking her head, frowning still, when Crow came at him with the ladle of water.
“Shut it! A pen and fruit. What the bleeding hell is wrong wif ya?”
He poured the stale, slightly brackish water down Henry’s throat, getting most of the water on his collar and shirtfront before stuffing the gag back into his mouth and knotting it tightly behind his head. Henry didn’t care. Irina had stopped frowning and was now trying to school her expression of excitement. She’d caught on to his hints.
Crow went back to his post on the companionway steps and crossed his arms. He leaned his head back on an upper step and looked at the ceiling for a while. Then, even as the waves tossed the packet ship, he closed his eyes.
Irina instantly began to fumble behind the chair she’d been bound to, her fingers reaching and swishing around in a desperate attempt to open her drawstring purse and reach for her small folding blade. A few minutes later, she bit her lower lip and nodded, indicating she’d managed to get it. She then started to saw, the steady movements restricted and awkward, and by the expression on her face, tedious. They both watched Crow, anticipating his eyes to open on every violent plunge of the ship. She only got in a good five minutes of sawing the rope before the door into another cabin, the one Remisov had gone into, opened.
Irina went still, and Crow snapped to attention.
“We are pulling to port,” Remisov said, passing Irina. Henry prayed she didn’t still have the knife in her hand. He prayed even more that she did not try to stab Remisov with it as he passed by. The opportunity was not ideal, not yet.
My Hellion, My Heart Page 28
