Cheryl Holt (34 page)

“You will never coerce me into matrimony.”

Her paltry display of bravado was entertaining. She had no idea how vengeful he could be. “Your compliance is of
no consequence. Once we’ve had intimate relations—”

“I would never lie down with you. I’d kill myself first.”

“Have I indicated that your consent would be required?”

“You . . . you . . . would rape me?”

She was horrified, and he chuckled. “After I’ve had my way with you, it will be easy to persuade the vicar that we must be immediately wed, that we’ve been swept away by passion.”

“He’d never believe you over me.”

“Wouldn’t he?”

His composed assurance rattled her, and she scoffed. “This isn’t the Middle Ages. He couldn’t force me.”

“He will do as I say.” Of that fact, Willie had no doubt. He knew all of the vicar’s dirty little secrets, especially his penchant for sodomy with boys. That fascinating peculiarity, coupled with the amount of money Willie donated to the parish, guaranteed that the minister would agree to whatever Willie requested.

“I’ll write to Captain Chamberlin,” she boasted. “He won’t let you harm me.”

“How will he protect you? He’s in London. Even if you could post a letter to him, your fate will be sealed long before he could ever respond.”

“He’ll help me!”

“Will he?” Willie prodded. “Where is your fancy lord, Anne? You were quick enough to spread your legs for him, but he’s gone back to his own kind. Why would he bother himself over you?”

The query halted her arguments. She must have been fretting, herself, over Chamberlin’s decision to go, over his forsaking her for his other life. Was she really that stupid? Had she presumed that Chamberlin loved her?

“He didn’t care about you,” Willie admonished. “You were nothing to him.”

“You don’t know anything about us.”

“Don’t I? Your story is the most pathetic one in the land: poor, common country lass succumbs to sophisticated, dashing aristocrat. Are you assuming you’re the only woman in history to be cajoled to indecency by a handsome blue blood?”

“No.” She shook her head, denying his words and her new reality. “No. You’re mad! I’m not about to take this from you.” She jumped up, hurried to the window, and yelled, “Kate! Kate, come here! I need you!”

He grabbed her arm and slapped her, rendering a solid blow. Shrieking, she crumpled to the floor, her fingers pressed to her injured face.

He took advantage of her shock and prone position, flipping her onto her stomach and, with a cord he’d brought for the occasion, binding her wrists behind her. Though she fought and kicked, she was no match for his superior strength. She was cursing, calling for her employees, so he stuffed a stocking in her mouth, ending her diatribe, and he yanked her to her feet just as Kate rushed in.

“What the hell are you doing, McGee?”

Willie reached in his jacket and retrieved his pistol. “I am an officer of the court, and I am closing down this den of iniquity. Don’t interfere.”

“Let her go!”

“No. I have placed her under arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“Too many to mention.” He grasped the warrant from his coat and pitched it toward her, and it fluttered to the rug. “She is a whore, running a whore’s house.”

“You can’t have her.” As if she might dare clash with him, she approached.

“Who’s to stop me?” She seemed to suppose
she
could, and she moved toward him again, so he aimed the gun and cocked the trigger. “You disgusting perverted Sappho! If you take another step, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

The threat intimidated her, and she froze. Anne was terrified, her eyes wide with alarm and panic. In their scuffle, her hair had fallen, and he clutched a fistful and dragged her toward the door.

“Should you attempt a foolish rescue,” he warned Kate, “I will murder her instantly, and then I shall return to slay Prudence. You will have both their deaths on your filthy hands.”

With that, he exited, hauling Anne as she continued to struggle, but as she was fettered, and a female, her skirmishing was for naught. He braced the rear hatch on his wagon, lifted her up, and flung her in, securely bolting it behind her.

Satisfied with what he’d wrought, he went to the driver’s seat, climbed up, and cracked the whip as Kate and the other retainers scurried out to watch him race away. The horses neighed and lurched, then they were off, bound for the gaol he’d constructed in his pasture.

He smiled. Anne would have plenty of opportunity to consider her options, and with a bit of prompting, she’d see things his way. Even if she didn’t, her destiny had arrived.

Camilla’s coach slowed on the lane that led into Mrs. Smythe’s property, and she peeked out. For once, the gate was open and untended.

She hadn’t been able to glean any information as to what was transpiring at the bathing emporium. In her social circle, Mrs. Smythe was such a nonentity that no one recognized her name the few times Camilla had uttered it, so no one could apprise her of Mrs. Smythe’s plight, and she was dying to know. Had McGee carried out the act for which she’d paid him?

Curiosity had been eating her alive, so she’d lowered herself to checking the details on her own. The venture was risky, but she had to verify the success of her machination.

She’d meant to pass by Smythe’s entrance, to have a fleet
glance and travel on, but the unoccupied gate was like a magnet, luring her in, and she couldn’t resist.

The driver helped her out, and she had him wait while she went to the door. Her knock was answered by a petite, middle-aged woman who was sporting a cast on her arm and two blackened eyes. The bruises had faded to yellow, attesting that she was on the mend but not completely healed.

My, my! Something interesting had definitely occurred! And it had involved fisticuffs! Her opinion of McGee blossomed to outright amazement. She wouldn’t have guessed he’d have had the nerve.

“I’m Lady Camilla Warren,” she proclaimed, intending to impress, and the underling dipped into a curtsy.

“Welcome, milady.”

“I am a regular patron of Mrs. Smythe. I should like to utilize the pool. Is she available to assist me?”

“No, ma’am . . . that is . . . I don’t . . .” Tiny, fragile like a bird, she looked as if a loud shout would bowl her over. She couldn’t decide whether she ought to invite Camilla inside, and Camilla’s hopes soared as to the likelihood of a bad conclusion for Anne Smythe.

“I don’t have all day,” Camilla snapped. “Is she here or isn’t she?”

“Please come in.”

She gestured, escorting Camilla to a parlor, then excused herself and returned with the lumbering, queer Miss Kate. Camilla wasn’t aware of the Amazon’s history, but she suspected it didn’t contain any tidbits she’d want unveiled in public.

Were the freakish Kate and Mrs. Smythe lovers? If she was enamored of females, would Smythe have yielded to Stephen? Perhaps Stephen had reveled in a trio, or had titillated himself by observing as the women had at it.

The notion made Camilla want to gag. To think that he might lie down with this . . . this . . . cow! That he would
shun her for someone like Kate! It was an insult too great to be borne.

“Where is Mrs. Smythe?” she demanded. “I can’t get a sensible reply from this half-witted abigail.”

Kate bristled at the slur to her companion, but without Mrs. Smythe as a shield, she wasn’t nearly as brave or condescending as she’d been previously.

“She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“Ah . . . she’s gotten herself in a spot a trouble.”

“What sort of
trouble
?”

The pair flashed a silent communication, trying to deduce how much to reveal. Finally, Kate admitted, “She’s in a jam with the law.”

“The law!” Camilla feigned shock. “Well, I never! What type of facility have I been frequenting?”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” the little bird chirped.

“Has she been arrested?”

“Yes,” the giantess acknowledged, “and we were wondering if we could impose on you for a favor.”

Camilla could barely refrain from laughing, and she sniffed, sticking her nose up in the air. How dare these two presume so much! But it would be amusing to hear their plea. “What is this
favor
?”

“We need to contact Lord Stephen Chamberlin.”

“The war hero of the Crown? The Savage of Salamanca? What connection would he have to Mrs. Smythe?”

“They’re acquainted, if you recall. She treated him during his recovery, and he’d intercede on her behalf if he was notified of her difficulty.”

“You don’t say,” Camilla mused.

“We need to write him, but neither of us ever learned how, and even if we had, we’re not certain how or where to send a message. So we thought maybe you could . . . could compose a letter for us?”

“I would be delighted,” Camilla lied.

Kate led her to a desk, and Camilla penned a note to Stephen, drafting a genuine appeal in case either of the pitiful illiterates could read a few words, then she sanded the ink and folded the missive into thirds.

“I’m a friend of the Chamberlin family,” she fibbed again. “I know exactly how to deliver this to him. If we’re lucky, Stephen could have it by nightfall.”

The fabrication was dangerous, as was involving herself in the situation, but she was giddy with her authority over them, so she was eager to hazard a slight intervention. What were the chances that Stephen would discover her link to the event?

And if he ever inquired as to a supposed letter, she could swear she’d passed it on. How could he prove otherwise? Was it her fault the post was so unreliable?

“Thank you, milady,” both females gushed.

She swept out, not listening to the platitudes they spewed in her wake. Surely, Kate remembered Camilla and the tedious eviction Anne Smythe had ordered. Was she so stupid that she believed Camilla would aid her in her hour of need? What an idiot!

Rushing to the carriage, she bellowed to the driver, making it seem as if she was in a hurry. She clambered in without his assistance, then she relaxed, peeking out as they jerked away and rounded the yard, bound for the main road.

Smythe’s small cadre of servants was dawdling on the stoop, gawking with pathetic, optimistic expressions, their misplaced trust apparent in their vapid stares. They were relieved, reassured, positive that a rescue was imminent, when no liberation would ever be achieved.

The driver took the corner so fast that they tipped on two wheels. She gripped the strap, giggling at the speed, at the peril.

Once they were on the lane, and shielded by the trees, she
reached for the
faux
letter, tore off a scrap, and flicked it out the window, sticking her head out to see the piece flutter to the ground. Then, she tore another and another, letting the fragments float on the wind. She kept on until the paper was ripped to shreds, taking extra long to release the last portion, receiving an incredible amount of pleasure as it drifted away.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Smythe,” she howled to the deserted highway. “Godspeed on your journey!”

Grinning, she crawled inside, settling herself and adjusting her hair and bonnet.

“A fine day’s work,” she crooned. A fine day’s work indeed.

 20 

Anne huddled in the halted wagon. Although she was terrified, she was focused on Willie and escape. They were at his farm, but when they’d arrived in the yard, he’d been waylaid by male visitors, so she’d been granted a reprieve.

Though she’d prayed for their assistance, and had kicked at the wooden walls of the box in which she was caged, they’d merely joked about what a rowdy prisoner Willie had captured. She’d been ignored, and he’d ushered them into his house, leaving her bound and frantic and grappling to break free, but to no avail. She couldn’t loose her arms, although the stocking he’d stuffed in her mouth was now dangling, and she was near to spitting it out.

How long had he been detained by his callers? Minutes? Hours? Each second ticked by like an eternity.

Suddenly, noise erupted as, with boisterous farewells, Willie’s guests departed. Then, he climbed onto the coach and they rattled off, traveling a short distance from his residence.

He tied the reins and leapt down, and she braced, ready to attack as he opened the door. If he was bent on rape, she had no intention of meekly submitting, so he would have difficulty following through.