Black Silk (25 page)
How she wanted to.
Her fingers drove into the cheese, scattering pieces. And then tears fell. She’d never be able to gather the crumbs by feel. It was the final frustration.
First she’d been stripped to her shift by Georgiana’s horrid lackey. He’d pawed her breasts through the gossamer muslin, and with her hands bound, her only weapon had been spittle. She’d spit on his face as he tweaked her nipples, as he gave a rude squeeze between her thighs. He’d hauled her down here, and he’d been the one to shackle her—chuckling lewdly all the while.
Where in blazes was she? Blindfolded, she’d used her other senses. The carriage had crunched on gravel before it stopped. Other voices rose around them as the door opened. What sort of house had servants who were not surprised to have a bound woman arrive?
The house of a horrible fiend, she supposed. The sort who would seduce a twit like Georgiana. Well, if Georgiana was helping a gentleman like Craven, Georgiana would surely end up dead. Unfortunately, so would she, thought Maryanne, so she’d have no chance to gloat.
Fumbling, she found the bread, her fingers sinking into it. Dirt coated the crust, but she bit into the clean, doughy top. She devoured it to the gritty parts.
How would Dash ever find her?
Or was his uncle using her as bait for a trap?
She touched her belly. “Don’t worry, little one,” she whispered. “We will survive.” But a scampering sound came from the corner.
Oh, not the horrid rats! The faint light touched their small eyes, and then they slipped into shadow. She sensed the movement, heard it, but couldn’t see it.
Where were they?
She jumped up. Pirouetted as she kicked out wildly with her feet. Her toe hit a small furry body. Something scratched her foot.
She shrieked. Teeth or claws?
Footsteps echoed off the stone. The scuttling vanished.
“Good evening, my lovely child. How very delightful you look in chains.”
The voice. She knew the voice. A cultured accent. It was the voice of a man younger than Blackmore. And Robert had a softer voice, higher in pitch. Was it Craven? No. He’d sounded more…odious. Nor was this Tate’s voice, with its insolent drawl and rough edges.
“And how delicious you look when you are frightened.” The villain’s eerily delighted chuckle sent horror shivering down her spine and bile rising in her throat. She swallowed hard and instinctively curled up.
“Your husband will join you soon—I hope he hurries. My fingers itch to bruise you, my teeth hunger to bite, and my cock…ah, but my whip desires lashing you first, splitting your soft skin, flaying you until blood flows.”
The singsong quality of his words sent her scuttling back. But of course the chains gave her away. She knew the voice. It haunted her.
But who?
Clang!
She shrieked as something struck the bars of her cell.
“Swansborough made an excellent choice. This once, his cock did not steer him wrong.”
Wising. The tiny village rose up along the road that twisted its way to the escarpment. Snow had blown fiercely against the ridge, piling around the row of Tudor buildings that overlooked a white, sloping stretch of common.
Dash shifted his shoulder, breaking apart the thin layer of ice encrusting his coat. He spurred Beelzebub up the hill as fast as he dared, following directions given by the innkeeper of the neighboring village.
Maryanne.
Please, let her be safe.
He’d trade his life for hers in an instant.
And their babe.
Let the babe be safe.
Ducking beneath tree boughs heavy with snow and ice, he charged up the laneway to Whitby Manor, a simple, symmetrical stone manor. All the windows blazed with light. An unmarked black carriage sat in the drive.
He reigned in Beelzebub. It would appear to anyone watching that he had come alone, but Sir William had rounded up runners to—
“My lord.” From the shadows a man emerged, masked and dressed in a black cloak. Dash gripped Beelzebub’s flanks with his thighs as the gelding shied. Two other men, also masked, ran out, one carrying a lantern.
“Dismount, my lord,” ordered the man with the pistol.
Dash had no choice but to comply, but the instant his boots hit the icy snow, he sensed a whistle of air, a sudden motion.
He half turned as something slammed into his head.
Bound. Chained. Trussed. Kicked until his ribs ached with every breath.
Dash groaned and lifted his head, clenching his teeth against the pain that shot through his shoulders, back, and chest. Shackled to the wall, his arms were stretched wide, enough so that his tendons ached. Iron dug into his ankles. At least he wasn’t suspended on the wall, so his limbs weren’t being ripped from his body.
He was stripped naked and shivered in the cold. It stank of damp.
Faint gray light crept through three narrow slits in the wall, and the winter air poured in.
Closing his eyes, he focused his strength and tried to rip his right leg free of the wall. Hopeless, of course; the damned chains held tight, rattling against the stone wall.
“Who—who’s there?”
Hope and joy and love and pure terror exploded inside him. “Maryanne?”
“D—Dash?”
“Yes, my sweet. It is me. The gallant knight racing to your rescue only to be hit on the back of the head and thrown in chains.”
A shaky sob answered him.
“Courage, sweeting. But are you all right? Are you hurt?” He caught his breath. She’d been locked in this prison for a night and a day.
“Not hurt, but I would rather not be here. I’m in only my shift, so I’m frozen to the bone.”
Damn, he wished he could hold her, warm her, protect her. “Maryanne, who holds us here?”
“You don’t know?” came her answer.
“Masked and caped. And I think the men who brought me here were servants.” Why didn’t she tell him, or was she afraid to speak the name?
“I don’t know who it is, Dash,” she grumbled, sounding more peeved than terrified. “He visited me, but he was also masked and wore a cape. I did not recognize his voice—but I am certain it was not your uncle or cousin—”
He leaned as close to her wall as the chains would allow—being nearer made being bound hand and foot more bearable. “It couldn’t be, love. They were still at the house. Are you certain you aren’t hurt?”
“Dash, would it help you if I was and I admitted to it?”
That set his heart pounding, and he wrenched once more at the blasted chains. He let out a roar like a boar chained and tormented.
“I’m not hurt,” she cried, her voice a trill squeal. She dropped it to a murmur he strained to hear. “Nor did he sound like Craven, though it has been months since I heard that horrid fiend’s voice.”
“Did he…touch you?”
“No. He hasn’t handled me in any way at all. He came down here, disguised to mock me, the cocky wretch.”
He’d prefer another term to
cocky
.
“He made threats…lewd threats, but he has not touched me. He told me you would be coming. I don’t…I don’t understand what he wants. He had Georgiana bring me food—”
“Georgiana?” But he understood quickly as Maryanne explained. Her partner, the betraying bitch, had been the bait for the trap. Dash hung his head—she’d raced out to the carriage alone to protect him, terrified she’d bring scandal to him.
“That woman is a bitch,” he spat.
“I think I agree. If a titled man told Georgiana he’d buy her a necklace if she lopped off her hand, she might very well do it,” Maryanne snapped.
He marveled. How could she manage humor? Sir William and the other men couldn’t be far behind. In fact, he was amazed they’d waited so long to storm this bloody—
Light suddenly knifed down the tunnel in front of his cell. Followed by cheerful whistling. Christ, when he got out of here, he would—
“Swansborough, you rode quickly. My congratulations. You have certainly proven how deeply you care for your wife.”
Shock hit his brain harder than the club had.
The voice belonged to Sir William.
Y
ou were like a father…. You were my friend…the one man I could trust….
Dash bit back the words. Closing his eyes, he steeled himself. He wanted answers, but he damn well would not beg for them.
The bloody magistrate of Bow Street had kidnapped his wife and imprisoned him in a dungeon.
Fear lanced him—with a crippling blow more powerful than any he’d endured. God…this man had carved up Eliza Charmody in that sadistic and brutal way?
Boot heels clicked on stone, and Dash jerked his eyes open. “Watch, Swansborough. You will see my triumph.” Sir William stooped to put the lantern on the flag floor. As he stood, he dangled a key. Howling in fury, Dash tried to charge forward; the sharp-edged shackles cut at his flesh, the chain held fast.
Sir William sauntered to the cell on the other side of his—not Maryanne’s. Clinking sounds followed, and then, smug, Sir William called, “Come out, slave.”
A soft voice answered. Dash caught the word
master.
Sir William backed up until he stood in front of Dash’s cage. In his hand, he held a black riding crop. A thin, dirty woman came into view. She wore nothing but a black strip of leather banding her breasts. She shuffled forward on her haunches, her legs and bottom bare. Her hair hung around her in tangled strands.
Sir William cocked his head, mouth curved in a sickly, triumphant grin. “Lady Farthingale.” Then he barked, “Touch your forehead to the floor.”
She did obediently, her unkempt hair spilling around her.
Bruises of deep blue and purple ringed her wrists and ankles. Bruises decorated her back. As did fresh lash marks. Her skin clung to her spine and ribs. Her hip bones jutted out. Once, Lady Farthingdale had been a lusciously voluptuous woman.
Bile rose in Dash’s throat. He had been bound for sexual pleasure, had been whipped and had given whippings. But he’d never tortured anyone.
Lady Farthingale crawled toward Sir William. On reaching his boots, her tongue flicked out. She laved the toes of his boots.
He heard a horrified cry from Maryanne’s cell.
Lady Farthingale had been missing for three months. She must have been a captive here for all that time. She looked unwashed. Uncared for. Beaten and subdued. But what sickened Dash was that, in three months, Sir William had destroyed the soul of a once proud and vivacious lady.
“Return to your cell,” the magistrate commanded. Bowing, with her hands clasped as though in prayer, Lady F crept back. To Dash’s horror, she willingly backed toward her cell.
What had this bastard done to make her submit?
With a grating creak, the iron door swung shut on Lady Farthingale’s cell, and Sir William approached it with the key. After, he came to Dash’s door and unlocked it. Alone.
Shackled hand and foot, Dash tore at the chains, but they held firm. He wanted to grip the bloody madman by the neck and throttle him. He wanted to rip him apart.
Rage tore through him, but he fought it. His blind fury had led to his cousin’s death.
Maryanne…
He had to stay in control to save Maryanne.
Letting his arms relax and the chains slacken, he forced his voice to stay level. “Why?” he asked.
Sir William drew out a flint and a stub of a candle. He set flame to wick. “I wouldn’t tell you now. Not yet.” He twisted the candle in his hand, letting the wax pool. Then, his lips curved in a sickening grin, he walked forward.
“But I would not deny you your usual pleasures, Dashiel.”
“You’re insane, you bloody beast.”
“You dabbled in these games, intent only on a fast release, with no true artistry. You have no idea how I have refined the sexual games we lust for.” He lifted the candle over Dash’s chest.
Dash watched the droplet gather, translucent white wax. It broke free, changing from teardrop to ball. It hit his chest right between his pectoral muscles. He bit back his roar. His hair absorbed most of the heat and pain.
“You wonder why I enjoy dominating women? Women would stand before me on the dock, awaiting my sentence. Women charged with prostitution, with theft, with running a bawdy house, with stealing children.”
Another droplet, higher, seared his skin. Good Christ! He tasted blood as his teeth drove into his lower lip.
Control…control…stay in control for Maryanne.
“Those women watched me…some with bold and saucy bravado, some in sheer terror. Some with pleading eyes. And some with desperate, wanton eyes that promised me any pleasure, any favor if I spared them.”
The candle lowered, the flame skimming his skin. “You killed Eliza Charmody. You cut her open,” Dash said.
Holding the flame beneath his chin, Sir William transformed his face to that of a demon’s. Behind spectacles, his eyes gleamed with demented delight. “But she is the sort of woman who wants a man inside her. I merely used a blade and not my cock.”
Dash jerked back—stunned. A wax droplet struck his soft, exposed cock. His head slammed back against the wall as pain seared him.
“You’ve whipped women,” Sir William said. “You pay them; you think you control them. But have you known the excitement of holding a woman’s life in your hands? Have you tasted a woman’s true fear? I promise you it is a pleasure unsurpassed. Do you understand the sexual delight of controlling every aspect of a woman’s life—every morsel of food, every sip of water, even warmth is at my pleasure.”
Dash forced himself to stay motionless as Sir William brought the candle toward his chest again. “To break a proud woman…it is magnificent.”
Sir William tipped his hand, and a stream of wax lanced Dash’s abdomen. He screamed—hating himself as it echoed in his chamber.
“Stop!” Maryanne cried. “Please stop. Don’t hurt him.”
“Silence,” Sir William commanded, and the mad chuckle at the end of the word did bring silence. “I am going to have the pleasure of watching Dashiel watch the woman he loves die.”
To her astonishment, Harriet found herself surrounded by family who cared about her. She sat in the drawing room of Swansley, covered in warm wool throws, surrounded by sympathetic women for the first time in her life.
Anne and Sophia and Maryanne’s sister Venetia, Lady Trent, who had just arrived with her husband and baby, were pouring over the perverse clue that had been left for Dash. Maryanne’s mother, Olivia Hamilton, had also arrived, along with the scandalous erotic artist Rodesson! Harriet had been astounded to see him—she knew him from some of London’s wilder clubs, though she had never had an encounter with him. But it appeared, amazingly, he was Maryanne’s father.
Dash had married the illegitimate daughter of a scandalous artist. And Moredon had taken her aside and murmured, “Harriet, you cannot spread gossip about this. It would destroy Dash—it would destroy Anne. Please—”
“Of course I won’t,” she’d interrupted. And she knew she would never hurt Dash, or Anne, who she realized loved her like a sister.
And then her brother threatened to rip Craven and Barrett apart with his bare hands—once he found Craven in London.
“No, please,” Harriet had begged. “You mustn’t. I don’t want you to risk your life! I want you safe and sound for both me and Anne!” Tears had poured down her cheeks. She’d thought Moredon didn’t care less about her. She thought he, like their father, had seen her only as a pawn in the marriage mart—a way to align with another powerful family.
She had been so wrong. Moredon had been horrified. Anne and Sophia had actually cried over her ordeal and her wounds. Even Venetia, who was red-eyed and shaking with shock over the news of Maryanne’s kidnapping, had shed a tear for her, too.
She had been a fool to be enticed by the danger of Craven and Barrett.
What would Evershire do if he learned what she had done? Her husband wouldn’t care about the sex—after all, he didn’t love her. At forty, he was still handsome and virile, and he had more lovers than she could count. He’d never spent an entire night in her bed—he’d always left it to fuck another woman. A mistress, an actress, or even one of the maids in the house.
Would he even care that she’d almost been killed?
“We ride to Whitby Manor, then. Blast—what was he thinking to go alone?” That angry exclamation came from Lord Trent, the darkly handsome earl who looked rather like Dash.
“He isn’t alone—Sir William left also and is taking his men to help,” Anne protested.
“I’m not going to rely on a bunch of hired lackeys!” Rodesson shouted. “I’m going! I’m not going to lose Maryanne. I’m not!”
Olivia Hamilton dropped the handkerchief from her eyes. “I’m going also!”
Rodesson swung around. “No, Olivia, you are staying put.”
Venetia had gone over to her husband, the earl of Trent. “Yes, you must go. Dash could be racing into a trap. But I’m afraid—what if Maryanne is not at this Whitby Manor? What if it’s a lie?”
He nodded. “We’ll send servants out to search.”
Anne jumped up. “They can report back here.” She turned to Moredon as he gathered her into an embrace. “I think we’ll find them both at Whitby Manor, but I can’t see what this blackguard wants.”
“Dash dead,” Harriet breathed, horrified by the very words.
All stopped and turned to her.
Trent grimaced. “I believe she is correct. We need to move now.”
“We must move! We must have carriages brought round.” Anne raced to the bellpull and tugged it hard.
“You aren’t going.”
Harriet shivered at the fear lacing Moredon’s command to his wife. His love clung to each word, and Harriet felt a pang around her heart. No man had loved her like that.
“Of course I am! But not Venetia, because she has a newborn son.”
“I am going,” Venetia insisted. “He will be safe with nurses, and I must go and help my sister.”
Trent grasped his wife’s arm. “No. You need to be here. He could wake; he will want to be fed. And there’s danger. I can’t let you race into that.”
Venetia was a redhead, and she looked ready to let a fiery temper burst free. But then she gave a thin smile. “It’s true. My duty now is here—to my own family. It’s a startling thought.” Venetia gave Trent a push toward the door. “You men! You are all wasting time. Go!”
Harriet impulsively raced forward and hugged Moredon before he could follow Trent and Rodesson out the door of the drawing room. “All of you come back safely and bring them both back.”
He gave her a quick kiss to her forehead. “Of course we will,” he said like an earl. But Harriet saw the uncertainty in her brother’s eyes. Were they already too late?
As the burly servant shoved her into the bedchamber and she fell hard onto the gleaming wood floor, Maryanne’s first instinct was to cower in fear. Sir William followed, tapping his riding crop against his gloved palm.
But she couldn’t flee into a mouse hole in the skirting board. Not now. Two more servants dragged Dash into the room, past Sir William. Maryanne brushed tears away as she stood. The sight of Dash imprisoned sickened her. Sir William was a beast—a heartless beast.
Iron shackles clamped around Dash’s ankles to cobble him so he couldn’t run. A wooden bar lay along his broad, naked shoulders like an oxen yoke. His arms were draped over it and chained in place. A leather ball had been forced between his teeth, and a leather strap was buckled behind his head to keep it in place. Even though the servants carried pistols, Dash fought. He swung the yoke like a weapon, plowing it into a servant’s chest.
The second servant leveled the pistol at Dash’s back.
“Dash!” she screamed.
He spun, stopping dead as he saw the pistol held in the beefy, determined hand of the grinning servant. A sadist who would love to kill a victim, she was sure.
Dash’s eyes widened in horror, and she followed his gaze. As she expected, that worm Sir William had a gun trained on her. And Dash immediately adopted a submissive stance—a subtle change that told even her he would not fight.
A wave of Sir William’s hand directed the servants to drag Dash out of the room. He turned the key in the lock after them and pocketed the key. He waved his hand around the room. “This is where you could live if you are obedient.”
The lavish room was filled with a huge bed of blue and gilt, hangings of gold silk. It smelled of perfumed candles, and it made her stomach curdle.
She wanted to cry,
I will not be obedient, so I suppose I shall stay in your dungeon!
Brave words after spending another horrible night down there. Christmas Eve! But having Dash in the cell beside her, reassuring her, had given her strength.
She had to have courage—she might be bruised and dirty and hungry and scared witless, but she was no longer bound. There had to be a way to free herself and get to Dash. To escape. She had to stall for time.
Watching Dashiel watch the woman he loves die….
This lunatic, who now stood casually polishing his spectacles, thought Dash loved her, that it would hurt Dash to watch her die.
But their baby would die if she did, and she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen. Her baby was no folly, no mistake—she loved her baby. She loved Dash. Drawing herself with the hauteur of a grand lady, she peered down her freckled nose at Sir William. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
“It amuses me to toy with inferior creatures, my dear.” He turned and sauntered toward the door. He paused in the doorway. “I will return later, but first, I wish to hear Dashiel beg.”
The door slammed, and the key turned in the lock. She ran to the door, useless attempt though it was, and of course the white-painted, paneled slab of wood resisted her kicks and her hammering fists. She dropped to her knees and peered through the keyhole. Something black was in front of it, something that moved.
He’d left a guard at her door.
She raced over to the window, flinging open the blue velvet drapes. Her heart sank. Ice sat around the frame, clamping the window in place. And beyond that, closely spaced iron bars made the room a prison. Groaning, she rested her forehead against the freezing glass and looked down. A two-story drop to a swept flagstone terrace.
