The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (29 page)

She
would
sleep. Now.

One eye popped open and she contemplated the curtain in front of her.

She willed her eye to shut. Recitation was just the thing. She pictured her beloved copy of Homer’s
The Odyssey
in her mind, and then slowly began to silently recite the words from book XII.

Elena had never quite figured out why it was that the most exciting bits of poems and books lulled her to sleep
at such times, but the explanation hardly mattered now. She felt her entire body relax, her limbs now dead weight, her head pressing more deeply into the pillow as her breath slowed.

Somewhere, in the far reaches of her mind, Elena supposed that Homer would be perturbed to know his work lulled her into the arms of Morpheus when sleep eluded her. If she were a writer, the mere fact that someone bothered to read her work at all would make her happy. So really, Homer had very little to complain about, she thought drowsily.

Of course, not having actually known the man, it was entirely possible that he would, in fact, feel this way without any prompting at all.

It was a difficult thing to pin down, really.

And then, a sound reached her ears. Elena wanted to fight responding, her body already sliding into slumber. But her brain did not.

And, as usual, her brain won out.

She opened her eyes and listened again. The sound had stopped. She slowly sat up and looped her hair behind her ears, concentrating on the quiet. Elena knew she hadn’t imagined the slight noise.

She crawled on all fours across the bed and reached for the curtains, pulling them to one side and peering out into the relative darkness of her room. Sharp pain slammed into her jaw and Elena instantly saw stars. She lost her balance and fell from the bed, landing hard on her left shoulder and hip.

She instinctively rolled back toward the bed and grabbed at the carpet with her fingers, scuttling under the massive frame as fast as she could.

But it wasn’t fast enough.

A hand grasped her ankle in a hard grip and savagely yanked. Elena threw her arms around one of the bedposts
and dug into the carpet with her knees, her skin burning as the hand pulled harder.

“Let go of me,” she cried out, kicking at the hand holding her.

He only jerked harder, succeeding in pulling one of Elena’s hands free from the post.

She tried to dig her nails into the wood, but it was of no use. Her other hand slipped from the post. She clawed at the carpet and kicked again, writhing back and forth while being pulled free from the bed.

The attacker bent closer, his grip punishing as he rolled her over and covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her cries.

Elena fought the urge to beat her fists against his threatening bulk, looking up at the man.

His clothing was black, from his shoulders to his boots, revealing very little beyond a broad form. He wore a dark patterned domino mask. The moonlight, shining through the opened window where he must have entered, cast a low glow across his covered face and Elena stared into the assailant’s eyes. They were pale and gray. A shiver captured her entire body and she convulsed with terror. It was Smeade.

He pressed harder with his hand and Elena whimpered, afraid he would smother her. Desperate, she pulled her knees in toward her stomach and kicked up with all of her strength, delivering a sharp blow to the man’s testicles. He grunted and doubled over, his hand slipping from Elena’s mouth as he fell against the bed.

She seized the opportunity and rolled over, scrambling to her knees, then her feet, screaming and running for the door.

But despite her disabling kick, Smeade’s hands were suddenly in her hair, dragging her backward. Her scalp stung as she struggled to regain her footing, and she
raked her nails across the man’s face, loosening his mask.

He shoved her hands away, took her by the arms, and swung her up onto the bed. He yanked her arms above her head and held them there while he tied her wrists to the bedpost with a rough cloth, then bound her feet together in one swift move. Elena screamed again, her teeth biting down as he stuffed a cloth into her mouth.

Elena flopped about as though she were a fish, hauled up onto the deck of a boat and ready to be gutted.

Smeade stood over her, breathing hard as he watched her frantic movements—her fear. And enjoying it.

He straightened his mask, carefully retying the ribbons at the back of his head before adjusting his coat. His movements were precise, as though he required his appearance to be impeccable before he killed. Elena couldn’t know what the mind of a murderer held, but she was suddenly chilled to the bone—so cold that she shivered violently again.

Elena tried to scream, but the fabric muffled the sound, pressing against her tongue and making her gag. He drew a knife from his pocket and methodically wiped it back and forth on his sleeve.

Elena told herself to stop shaking. If she could keep herself from trembling, then perhaps she could focus enough to figure out a way to escape.

He held the knife up and examined it, then ran it along a tasseled pillow, ripping the silk with one clean slice.

The soft feathers, released from their ticking, floated gently down against her skin. Tears of frustration and fear slipped down Elena’s cheeks. She choked and gagged again, twisting violently, but only succeeded in stirring the feathers into a storm of downy rain.

“Elena?”

Smeade turned wildly toward the voice.

Elena’s heart surged with hope when she saw Dash in the doorway, his figure illuminated by the sconce in the hall.

Smeade was a blur of speed as he ran toward the other side of the room and disappeared around the far side of the canopied bed.

Elena tried to scream for Dash, but her cries were a guttural jumble of bound consonants and choked gags.

“Elena.” Dash ran to the bed. “What in God’s name is happening?” He quickly pulled the fabric from her mouth and yanked her bound arms and legs free.

Elena coughed hard and tried to speak, her throat ragged from her screams. “Go. The window,” she choked out, urging Dash to follow after the man. “He ran off as soon as you entered the room. Go!”

His expression fierce, he moved, swiftly disappearing.

“Dammit.”

The thud of a fist connecting with the wall in frustration was loud, followed by the snick of the window sliding back into place and finally the rasp of the lock being engaged.

“What in the bloody hell just happened?” Dash demanded, returning to sit next to her on the bed. He quickly took her in his arms, wrapping her possessively against his chest. “If I’d not thought to visit you tonight, you would have been killed.”

She buried her face against the fine linen of his shirt, allowing the scent of him to fill her senses. “It is my fault. Retribution for Mr. Brock. I’m sure of it.”

“What do you mean, retribution, Elena?”

She turned her head and looked up at him, afraid. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing, you see. I sought help from Mrs. Mason of the Halcyon Society, who in turn introduced me to a Bow Street Runner. I never made mention of Mr. Smeade, I promise you.”

“So that is why Brock is in Newgate awaiting trial, then?” Dash asked angrily.

“Yes,” she confirmed quietly. “Justice will be served. But I never dreamed that …”

“That they would try to kill you?” he finished for her, his voice raw. “I did.”

Elena dropped her chin and wept, pressing closer as fear and regret coursed through her trembling body. “It was Smeade. I recognized his eyes. I’m sure of it.”

He kissed her brow gently and tightened his hold on her. “Enough, Elena. You are alive. And that is all that matters.”

“I shouldn’t have allowed you to come.”

Dash and Nicholas stood outside the Rambling Rose, watching and waiting for Smeade to appear. Dash didn’t know if he would be able to control himself. He was fairly sure that he would not.

“He almost killed her,” Dash growled, tired of standing in the door of a pawnshop. He needed to move. Needed to
do
something. “But you are right. I’m not in the right frame of mind today.”

Nicholas unfolded his arms and tilted his head toward the walkway. “Let’s walk.”

Dash followed, but his mind remained fixed on Elena and the Rambling Rose. Their forged letter from Smeade’s boss had been delivered that very morning. Stating only that he would exact revenge for the great disservice Smeade had done him, the letter had sent the bastard into hysterics, according to Nicholas, who’d been following him all day long.

Smeade had spent every waking hour since receiving the letter traversing the city from the unsavory East End to the elegant west, each visit the same as the one before it. The man would stay no more than twenty minutes inside, and then Smeade would reappear, his look of worry having grown fivefold in intensity during the short period of time he’d been indoors.

Nicholas had taken note of each location. He believed Smeade was contacting others within the organization
in an attempt to secure allies. Their letter had done its job.

They approached a pie cart and Nicholas stopped. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Dash answered impatiently, not even sure when he’d last eaten.

And not caring either.

“Two, please,” Nicholas told the street vendor, then poked about in his waistcoat pocket for coins. “You can’t give up eating altogether, Carrington. You’ll risk losing your godlike physique.”

“I’m in no mood, Bourne.”

His friend handed a few coins to the man, and then accepted the fish pies.

They turned back toward the pawnshop. “Which is exactly why you need to eat,” Nicholas advised. “There is no point in playing the broody type, my man. It’s simply not in your nature. And remember, it wasn’t you who nearly got the chit killed. Miss Barnes found herself at the wrong end of a blade because of her actions. Not yours.”

“He nearly killed her, you fool!” Dash snarled, wanting desperately to hit something. Or someone. It did not matter to him.

Nicholas took a bite of the pie and chewed. “I have not forgotten the facts. But you seem to have forgotten your strength. Cool, calm intelligence. That is what you’re good at—and what I need from you right now. Don’t fly up into the boughs now. We could still lose this race.”

Dash scrubbed a hand across his unshaven jaw, angry that his friend chose now, of all times, to be insightful. “God dammit, Bourne.”

“I know. Believe me, I know,” Nicholas replied, then popped a greasy potato into his mouth and chewed. “You want the situation to change immediately. But you
cannot have your revenge just now, my friend. This takes time. And patience.”

Nicholas held out the second pie to Dash. “Go on.”

Dash reluctantly accepted, taking a small bite and chewing automatically. “I used to be a patient man. But now …” he paused. Beyond rage and the powerful desire to hit something, he didn’t understand what he was feeling enough to explain any of it.

They arrived back at the door to the pawnshop and resumed their positions, Dash leaning his back against the rough half-timbered wall. “And the banknotes?” he asked, needing to stop thinking, for once.

“All I need is his signature.”

Once Dash secured Smeade’s signature from the Corinthians Club, Nicholas’s forged banknotes would be cashed in by a group of men his friend would only identify as “qualified for the task.”

Smeade’s account would be empty. And when he next visited James and Mulroy, he’d discover the truth of it.

And then he’d be theirs.

Nicholas tapped Dash on the arm and gestured across the street, where Smeade had suddenly appeared.

Unable to stop himself, Dash pushed off from the wall and took a step forward, but Nicholas held on to his shoulder.

“Carrington, old man, patience, now. Eat a real meal. Drink some good wine. Sleep soundly, if you can manage. And tell Miss Barnes to stay put. This will all be over soon.”

Not soon enough
, Dash thought with cold fury, but he kept it to himself.