Tay House, Edinburgh
16 February 1757
‘For heaven’s sake, Malcolm, how do you know these letters are genuine ransom demands?’ asked Damaris, tossing both pieces of parchment onto the gilt-edged table beside her.
She was lounging on a rose-patterned chaise longue in her morning room with her white terrier, Bonnie, on her lap. The remains of her breakfast, congealing on another nearby table, made Malcolm’s stomach turn in an uneasy somersault. He really shouldn’t have had so much claret last night, but drinking himself into a stupor seemed to be the only way he could get any sleep.
Oblivious to his foul mood or the impending crisis, Damaris continued on with irritating blitheness. ‘Sarah’s probably run off with some other man. She always struck me as the flighty type. Good riddance to her, I say. I’ll be glad to see the back of her miserable aunt too.’
Malcolm snatched the papers up and Damaris winced. The terrier growled. ‘Of course these are bloody real, Damaris.’
The second letter had arrived early this morning; it had been pushed beneath the door, like the first. And this time, a torn piece of heavily embroidered apricot-pink satin, edged with gold lace, had been enfolded within. ‘Even you agree that this,’ he waved the scrap in Damaris’s face, ‘belongs to Sarah.’ Although he generally didn’t pay much attention to women’s attire, Malcolm knew the distinctive fabric came from the gown Sarah had worn to the Saint Valentine’s ball at Kenmuir House.
Damaris sighed and tickled Bonnie’s ears. ‘Even if the demand is genuine, I don’t see that railing about it will help.’ She popped a sugared sweetmeat into her mouth before feeding one to the terrier. ‘It’s not like you can afford to pay it. I say let this Janus—whoever he is—have her. If we go to London straightaway, I’m sure you’ll find another wealthy, gullible girl who’d be willing to trade her fortune for a title.’
Malcolm grabbed Damaris by the chin, forcing her to look at him. ‘Now listen here, my very pretty but very dim-witted sister. I’ve just sold off all but one of our carriages. The horses are gone too.’
Fear flickered in Damaris’s golden-brown eyes. ‘Wh-what? You must be joking,’ she breathed.
‘Well, I’m not. We can’t afford to go to London. And the only one who’s going to be whoring herself at the moment is you. Why don’t you go and visit Lord Arbelour and let him screw you in exchange for some jewellery, which we can then sell off? You told me he was quite taken with you at the Kenmuir’s ball.’
‘Yes, he was.’ Damaris jerked her chin away and pouted. ‘Do we really have so little money?’
‘Yes, dear sister. I’m afraid so.’
‘How much is the ransom again?’
‘Ten thousand pounds. I’m to pay it by the first of March. Which only gives me two bloody weeks to find the money.’
The colour drained from Damaris’s cheeks as she swallowed audibly. ‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh.’ The due date was only a week prior to the day he was supposed to marry Sarah at Taymoor Castle. It made Malcolm wonder again who Janus actually was. The timing seemed rather pointed, the message clear—pay the ransom or you won’t have the chance to wed your wealthy affianced.
‘Do you think…’ Damaris drew a shaky breath, ‘do you think you could go to the bank and arrange another loan? If they know you are due to wed Sarah in less than a month, perhaps—’
‘Don’t you think I haven’t already thought of that?’ Malcolm snapped. ‘The bank won’t let me in the damn door, let alone lend me another penny.’
‘Perhaps if Judith knew—’
‘Christ, no. If Judith found out that I can’t pay the ransom, she’d be off to Newcastle to tattle to that pompous ass Swindon that I’m all but financially ruined. Between the two of them, they’d probably bloody pay the demand. Sarah would be sure to call off the engagement as soon as she found out I hadn’t been the one to save her.’
‘But if Sarah loves you, as you believe she does, surely she wouldn’t care that you are not as wealthy as she thought.’
Malcolm paced the threadbare Aubusson rug. Until recently, perhaps she would have overlooked such a thing. But he was certain she’d caught him fucking the blonde chit. And she wouldn’t willingly marry him if she believed he was faithless as well as penniless; unlike Damaris, she wouldn’t do anything to get what she wanted.
But what if Sarah had no other choice but to marry him?
Malcolm stopped by the window and studied the fog-shrouded view of Calton Hill through the grimy panes. This Janus, whoever he was, might just dip his wick whilst he had Sarah in his possession. God knows, he’d wanted to. She was pretty enough. If she were ruined—perhaps even with child—she’d have to marry him to save herself from disgrace.
Malcolm’s lip curled. Yes, he rather fancied playing the part of a knight in shining armour.
But first things first. He had to pay the ransom.
‘What shall we tell Judith?’ asked Damaris. ‘She’s been talking about going to the Town Guard to enlist their aid. I’ve told her you’ve sent out men to search for Sarah. But if she makes a fuss, and then others find out what’s really happened… And that we have no money…’
‘Yes, keeping Judith quiet is a priority. She mustn’t suspect, even for a moment, that Sarah has been kidnapped. The one thing we cannot afford, if we are able to afford anything at all, is a scandal.’ Malcolm turned around to eye Damaris. Aside from fucking men well, his sister had other talents. ‘Do you think you can forge Sarah’s handwriting?’
‘You know I can. Just tell me what to write and I will do it.’
‘Good.’
Damaris plucked at the lace edging of her pink silk peignoir. Her brow was furrowed in thought. ‘Who do you think Janus is? This whole scheme seems very… personal.’
‘I wish I knew.’ Malcolm’s hands curled into fists as he contemplated what he’d do to the dog who was doing this to him. Making his life even more of a hell than it already was. ‘But if I ever discover who, he’ll rue the day he was born.’
***
The Stag’s Head Inn, Perthshire
Sarah lay in a lumpy tester bed with a sagging blue canopy, listening to the squalls of rain lashing the window. She was exhausted yet taut as a bowstring. Her eyes were gritty with fatigue and she would love nothing more than to go to sleep but she mustn’t.
Because tonight she was going to escape.
To her relief, Black had taken the room adjoining hers and Aileen’s. Even though he’d closed the connecting door when he’d bid her goodnight, she’d still needed to exercise extreme caution—she hadn’t heard the lock tumble and Black could enter the room at any time. She prayed he was weary too and wouldn’t come to check on her in the next hour or so. Her plan depended upon it.
Aileen was currently tucked into a pallet bed to one side of the fireplace, and judging by the woman’s gentle snores, she was sound asleep. She had to be exhausted. They’d travelled through much of the night on the first day of their journey north and Sarah imagined that if she’d barely slept a wink in the relative shelter of the carriage, Aileen, sitting atop with the driver, wouldn’t have slept at all.
She almost felt sorry for Aileen. But considering the woman had helped Black to smuggle her into the inn, and then tether her to the bed, she just couldn’t.
Of course, Sarah’s heart had pounded with excitement when Black had first announced they would be stopping for the night. However, all her hopes of entreating someone to help her were dashed when Black had also informed her that he’d made arrangements to hire every single room at the inn. On their arrival, well after dark, he’d instructed the staff to stay in the public rooms so if she screamed, it was unlikely anyone would hear her. To Sarah’s frustration, he’d then bound and gagged her again before taking her to her room—her latest prison—via a side entrance; most likely one used by the staff. Aside from Aileen and Black, Sarah hadn’t encountered a single soul.
As Black had tied her to the bed, she’d decided then and there to do what she must in order to free herself. If she could break her bonds, get dressed, and then procure the room key without waking Aileen, she’d make her way to the stables and take a horse. She was an able rider and even though the weather had turned foul, she’d rather brave the elements than endure another second as Black’s hostage.
The man was hell-bent on seeking vengeance and she had no idea how far he would go to exact it. He’d assured her he wouldn’t hurt her, but she didn’t trust him. From what she’d seen so far, Black had been plotting to kidnap her for some time—she shuddered every time she thought about how well orchestrated this whole scheme was. From the way he’d stalked her at Kenmuir House, then offered her false comfort. Drugged her and spirited her away. Provided her with a wardrobe that appeared to be tailor-made. Hired out every room at this inn. The man was as meticulous as he was diabolical and she must never, ever forget that.
Malcolm had already betrayed her so she’d be foolish indeed to think she could rely on him to pay the ransom. And since yesterday evening, she’d given up trying to negotiate her release with Black. He was as implacable as the granite peaks they’d been heading towards this afternoon.
No, it was up to her to escape. Somehow, she would get back to Edinburgh and Aunt Judith. Only then would she have the freedom to decide what she would do with her life.
Her heart hammering an erratic tattoo, Sarah sat up and pushed the bedcovers aside as quietly as she could. Thankfully, Aileen continued to snore steadily. Even though the dying fire was the only source of light in the room, it would be sufficient to allow her to do what she needed to.
Black had tethered her right ankle to the bedpost with another silk rope; she already knew the knots would be impossible to untie so she’d made a contingency plan. When Aileen had left her alone to fetch their supper from the taproom, Sarah had broken a small spill vase that had sat on the nearby bedside table. She’d then hidden the tapers and all of the pieces, bar the biggest and sharpest one, beneath the bed in the farthest, darkest corner; the largest shard was secreted within easy reach beneath the mattress.
With a shaking hand, she pulled out her makeshift knife then drew her right knee up so she could reach her ankle. Fortunately, Black had left enough length in the rope to enable her to move about a little. Gritting her teeth against the bite of jagged edges pressing into her palm, Sarah began to saw feverishly at the silk rope. It was a tight bond and more than once her grip slipped and she cut her ankle, and two of her fingers, but the pain mattered little; she was determined to free herself as quickly as possible. If Aileen awoke, or worse still, Black came in… she really didn’t want to think about would he would do.
At last, the silk began to fray and unravel and Sarah choked down a sob of relief. She tugged off the rope and ignoring the sting of her cuts, slipped from the bed. The floorboards were icy-cold beneath her bare feet and she shivered in her thin shift. Outside, the wind howled like a wild animal; it rattled the windowpanes and every now and again a flurry of hail dashed the window. Although she was loath to waste time dressing, she couldn’t leave here in next to nothing. She would need to dress warmly if she were to avoid freezing to death.
She was lucky that Aileen had been too tired to put her things away; she’d left everything lying on a worn damask armchair by the bed. Working quickly, Sarah donned her stockings and stays, then her petticoats, undershirt and red riding habit as quietly as she could. Her hands trembled so much, it was difficult to do up all the tapes and ribbons and buttons, especially with bleeding fingers, but in the end, she managed everything. Last of all, she threw on Black’s wool cloak and tugged on her new boots. She’d put on her leather gloves—Black had provided her with a pair yesterday—before she ventured outside. God willing she’d make it that far.
Picking up her skirts, Sarah tiptoed across the chamber to the fireplace; Aileen had placed the key on the mantelpiece before she’d climbed into bed. Not daring to breathe, she snatched it up then crept back to the door. When the key scraped inside the old iron lock, and Aileen turned over and mumbled in her sleep, Sarah’s heart stopped and she willed herself not to faint.
Frozen, too terrified to draw another breath, she waited for Aileen to settle again. Several taut seconds passed but when it was clear the servant was still fast asleep, Sarah lifted the latch with painstaking slowness. She almost cried with relief when the door eased open without so much as a creak.
As she’d expected, the hallway was deserted. And dark, save for a faint strip of light at the bottom of Black’s door. Praying Black wouldn’t hear her, Sarah walked as swiftly and silently as she could, past his room, heading towards the servants’ stairs at the end of the corridor.
She offered another silent prayer of thanks to heaven when she discovered the door leading to the stable yard was only bolted rather than locked with a key. But when she drew back the door, she cursed beneath her breath; the yard was awash, the rain coming down in sheets, and the stables were as black as Hades.
It’s only rain. It won’t kill you, Sarah. And you’ll never get another chance like this.
After pulling on her gloves, she inhaled deeply, picked up her skirts then dashed toward the shelter of the stables.
By the time she reached the other side of the yard, she was half soaked and shivering. But it seemed she hadn’t been detected. Wiping the raindrops from her eyes, she squinted through the darkness at the back of the inn. It was quiet as the grave and all of the windows—bar the one she suspected was Black’s—were dark. So far so good.
On entering the stables, she noticed that somewhere towards the back, near the tack room, was a glimmer of light; it seemed someone—perhaps the ostler—had left a lantern burning. She waited in the shadows by the door, listening for any sounds of human activity, but all she could hear was the rain drumming on the roof and the occasional equine snuffle.
There were a dozen or so stalls, and at least half them were occupied. But she only needed one mount. And a saddle and a bridle. Thankfully, she knew how to ready a horse; her father had taught her to ride when she was only six, and by the time she was twelve riding was a part of her morning routine whenever they stayed at Linden Hall.
However, when Sarah tried the door to the tack room, she discovered it was locked. Hell and damnation. Why hadn’t she anticipated such a possibility? Tears pricked but she blinked them away. She wouldn’t be defeated. She would ride bareback all the way to Edinburgh if she had to—
‘Weel, what do we have here?’ demanded a gruff male voice.
Oh, no. Sarah spun around and her stomach plunged to the hay-strewn floor. A middle-aged man with a wild mane of red hair and a bush of a beard was descending a ladder that appeared to lead to an overhead loft. She’d obviously woken the ostler or one of the stablehands.
Before she could formulate some sort of plausible reason for being in the stables—it would be foolish of her to admit she’d been trying to steal a horse—another man peeked over the edge of the loft. ‘Looks like a bonnie wee lassie to me, MacMunn.’
The redheaded man, MacMunn, smirked and pulled at the crotch of his breeches beneath his filthy shirt. Even though the light was dim, Sarah could detect the glint of lust in his small, pale eyes. ‘Aye, she’s verra bonnie, Angus. Is there summat in particular tha’ ye wanted, miss?’
Sarah shook her head and stumbled backwards towards the stalls. ‘N-no. I d-don’t need anything,’ she stammered. It seemed she had unwittingly jumped from the frying pan into the fire. ‘I’ll just go back to the inn. My travelling companions are expecting me.’
Angus, a tall and gangly youth dressed in a rough cambric shirt and patched breeches, descended the ladder. ‘Maybe she’s after a tumble in the hay, MacMunn?’
MacMunn’s smirk widened to a grin as he stepped closer. ‘Aye. I ken ye might be right, m’lad.’
Oh, dear God, no. Bile burned the back of Sarah’s throat. The servants’ entrance wasn’t far and the door would still be unlocked. She was sure she could outrun them.
She turned to flee, but faster than a striking adder, MacMunn lunged and grabbed her by the arm. When she sucked in a breath to scream, he clapped one dirty hand over her mouth and hauled her against his bony chest. ‘Whisht. Keep the heid, lassie.’ His voice was a low growl and his breath stank of stale ale. ‘The three of us will have a braw time. Just you wait an’ see.’
Thought-obliterating terror turned Sarah’s legs to water as MacMunn and Angus dragged her into the nearest vacant stall and threw her facedown onto the floor. The stench of dirty, damp hay and unwashed male assaulted her senses and her stomach rolled. Tears scalded her eyelids. Oh, dear Lord. Please help me.
But it seemed no help was at hand. MacMunn roughly gripped her by the head and pressed his knee into her shoulder at the same time Angus threw up her skirts and cloak. She dragged in another breath and managed a short scream before MacMunn pushed her face into the hay again. Anger and despair clogged her throat as Angus forced her legs apart. She twisted and bucked but he grabbed her hips and pinned her down with his weight. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Oh, no. No, no, no!
And then MacMunn swore and let go of her at precisely the same moment Angus rolled away, howling in pain. Startled by the unexpected reprieve, Sarah turned over and pushed herself against the side of the stall. And gasped.
Black. She’d never thought she’d welcome the sight of him but at this precise moment, she most certainly did.
A vicious snarl contorting his handsome features, he advanced farther into the stall and felled MacMunn with two swift punches—one to the stomach and then another bone-crunching blow to the man’s face. The ostler crumpled to the floor where Angus still lay, moaning and clutching his groin.
‘Sarah.’ Black stepped around her assailants and pulled her to her feet. His hand touched her cheek. ‘Can you walk, lass?’
‘Yes…’ Her voice caught and she had to clear her throat before she added, ‘I think so.’
‘Good girl.’ Black’s brow was furrowed with an emotion that might have been concern; yet how could it be? He was her kidnapper after all. ‘Go and wait by the door for a minute whilst I deal with these two dogs.’
More than happy to oblige, Sarah nodded, and on shaky legs, made her way to the entrance. It was still pouring and an icy wind swept gusts of rain inside. Leaning against the stone wall behind the shelter of the door, Sarah wrapped her arms around herself. She was shivering uncontrollably and despite her best efforts not to cry, tears kept slipping from her eyes.
How low she had fallen. To think that only a few days ago she was counting the days until she wed Malcolm.
And now… now she was Black’s hostage again and she’d almost been raped. She couldn’t be certain of Malcolm’s commitment to her and she wasn’t sure whether she actually wished to marry him any more.
A sob rose in her throat and she swallowed hard to stop it escaping. She felt as hopelessly crushed as the sodden straw beneath her feet.
‘Sarah?’
She looked up to find Black standing beside her but she didn’t say anything. Weariness and despair weighed so heavily upon her, she couldn’t summon the will to speak.
‘I’ve contained the bastards that hurt you, Sarah. I know the innkeeper and they will be dealt with.’ He raked a hand through his wet, dishevelled hair then blew out a heavy sigh. ‘We need to go back inside.’
‘I know.’ Even to her own ears, her voice sounded dull with defeat. She supposed, if the circumstances were different, she might have thanked him for coming to her aid. But he was going to take her back up to her room and tie her up again.
Her life had become a nightmare that seemed never-ending.
***
Guilt crushed Alex’s chest as he escorted Sarah through the driving rain, back to the inn. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to escape. It was only natural and he would do the same thing if their positions were reversed.
Of course, it was well and truly his fault that she had grown so desperate she was willing to take wild risks. When he pictured what the ostler and stablehand had been doing to her, incandescent anger flared to life inside him. The Stag’s Head was one of his commercial property acquisitions and he couldn’t believe the innkeeper had hired such disreputable staff. Raping a woman was an unconscionable act. Those two curs were lucky they were still breathing.
But aren’t you hurting her, Alexander MacIvor? Kidnapping and manipulating an innocent woman are unconscionable acts too.
Sarah tripped on the threshold as they entered the servants’ entrance and she gripped his arm to steady herself. That she would voluntarily touch him spoke volumes about her mental state; she was clearly still shaken. Indeed, she was as docile as a lamb as he guided her up the stairs and back to her room.
Aileen scowled when she saw Sarah. ‘Yer a crafty lass—’
‘Now, now, Aileen. We’ll have none of that,’ chided Alex. ‘Sarah has been through an ordeal—’
‘Two men tried to rape me.’ Sarah’s voice was flat, her lovely blue eyes unusually dull as she stared at the floorboards. Pieces of straw were caught in her tangled, dripping blonde hair, and her red habit and his cloak were sodden and streaked with mud.
‘Och, weel, tha’s dreadful.’ Aileen crossed her arms and gave Sarah a stern, narrow-eyed look that reminded Alex of a nursemaid who was scolding a naughty child. ‘But ye only have yerself to blame—’
‘That’s enough, Aileen. Sarah needs to get into dry clothes.’ He touched Sarah’s arm and when she flinched, guilt stabbed him anew. ‘I must change then talk to the innkeeper, but after that I will bring something back from the kitchen. Tea perhaps.’ He’d also speak with the local magistrate in Dunkeld first thing in the morning; he couldn’t afford to officially report the attempted rape upon Sarah, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the men get away with it. Between the innkeeper and himself, he’d make sure the men paid.
Sarah nodded without looking at him and it made Alex wonder how far the assault had gone. In the firelight he could easily see an abrasion on her ashen cheek. He caught Aileen’s attention on the way to the door. ‘Please treat her with care,’ he murmured. ‘She may have been injured in ways that are not obvious to the eye.’
Aileen’s expression was grave. ‘Aye, sir.’
When Alex returned to the room some time later, he found Sarah seated by the fire in an armchair with a rug across her lap; dressed in a simple flannel night-rail and a pale blue shawl, she looked a little better. Her hair was brushed and braided and there was more colour in her cheeks.
Aileen grunted with approval when she saw the tray he carried. However, Sarah ignored the cup of tea and piece of fruitcake he placed on the table beside her. She stared into the fire and gripped her shawl about her chest so tightly, her knuckles were white. Alex suspected she would need something stronger than tea. It was a good thing he’d also procured a bottle of whisky from the innkeeper’s illicit stash.
‘Aileen, I would like to talk with Sarah privately,’ he said quietly, nodding towards his chamber.
She glanced at Sarah then drew close. ‘She has a few minor cuts an’ bruises an’ grazes, but I ken she’s still a maid,’ she whispered.
Alex nodded. ‘Thank you. After everything that’s happened, I think it would be best if I stayed here and you took my room. Get some rest.’
When the door shut, he poured two drams of whisky then pulled a straight-backed wooden chair closer to the fireside. He offered Sarah the drink and she took it from him with a trembling hand. He noted two of her fingers were bandaged, and considering there was blood on the bedsheets and the silk rope, he suspected she’d injured herself when she’d cut through her bonds. He’d clearly underestimated how determined she could be. And wily.
‘What’s this?’ Sarah asked after she’d sniffed the contents of the glass.
Relieved that she wasn’t entirely uncommunicative, he gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Whisky. I think it will make you feel a little better.’
She cast him a suspicious look through her eyelashes. ‘I’m sure.’
He tossed back a large mouthful of his own drink to show her it was safe and then she sipped hers. She gasped and coughed and somehow managed to glare at him even though her eyes watered. ‘It’s terrible. It’s like swallowing fire.’
Alex’s smile widened. ‘But it’s sure to warm you up.’
‘Or burn a hole in my stomach,’ she grumbled, putting the drink aside. ‘I’d rather drink laudanum.’
Alex sighed. ‘Sarah, I’m sorry about that—’
‘I’ve already told you that I don’t want an apology from you,’ she flashed back at him. ‘I just want you to let me go.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Cannot or will not?’ Her blue eyes were bright with anger.
‘Both.’ Alex put down his whisky and rested his elbows on his thighs. ‘Sarah, what those men tried to do to you was despicable. Loathsome. In Edinburgh, I threatened to ruin you and I truly regret what I said. I would never force myself on you. It’s important you know that.’
‘But by holding me captive, I’m already as good as ruined. In Malcolm’s eyes and in the eyes of society, if anyone finds out. And how can I trust you…?’ Sarah’s voice cracked and a tear slipped onto her cheek. ‘You are mistreating me too. Let me go. I implore you.’
Ignoring the pain in his chest, he straightened in his chair. ‘No.’
Sarah dragged in a shuddering breath and lifted her chin. The expression in her eyes was colder. Harder. ‘Why won’t you tell me what Malcolm did to you?’ she demanded. ‘I keep thinking about the woman at the ball. Who was she to you? You say this isn’t about her and what she did with Malcolm, but surely it is.’ Her eyes narrowed and her gaze grew fiercer. ‘Was she your lover and you’ve decide to retaliate by taking an eye for an eye?’
‘She is no one of consequence.’
‘Well, she is of consequence to me. Malcolm’s not going to pay your ransom. I thought he cared for me but he was with that other woman—’ She turned her face away and stared into the fire, her lower lip trembling.
Alex fought the urge to touch her, to offer comfort. Christ, this was hard. Harder than he’d thought it would be. He’d never bargained on feeling anything for Sarah Lambert.
Of course, he’d harboured carnal thoughts about her since their very first meeting—what man wouldn’t? She was beautiful, after all. But now… now he was beginning to admire her in more ways than he cared to think about. Even worse, he was beginning to care about how she felt. He didn’t like seeing her so upset.
He felt off balance and shaken. Out of kilter. Like the rug beneath his feet had been yanked away and he was teetering on the edge of the unknown.
His heart had been as cold and hard as a lump of lead for so long, he didn’t know how to deal with the tender emotions stirring within. Part of him wished he could tell Sarah the real reason behind his plan for revenge. But then she would learn who he was. And he couldn’t risk giving her that sort of information. Too much was at stake.
His life and his legacy, his leaderless clan, were at stake.
But the way she’d looked at him. The despair in her gaze. He suddenly realised he hated himself for engineering the situation between Malcolm and Nell. For every hurt he’d caused. He’d made her feel worthless. But she wasn’t.
‘Sarah…’ He wanted to say something to make her feel better but didn’t know what.
She brushed another tear from her cheek as she turned to look at him, a question in her sad blue eyes.
And then the words fell from his lips before he could stop them. ‘If you were mine, you’d never have cause to doubt me.’
***
Sarah stared at Black, searching the turbulent grey of his eyes. For a moment, confusion clouded her mind. He looked so sincere. If she weren’t his prisoner, she might be tempted to believe him. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘At all. Why would you say such a thing?’ She dare not think that Black might actually have a flesh and blood heart rather than one made of obsidian. She would be a fool indeed to entertain such an outlandish idea about her captor.
Yet he’d saved her from those men…
He looked away and picked up his whisky. Took a sip then poured himself another dram, all the time avoiding her gaze as if he regretted what he’d just said. ‘I simply meant you deserve a man better than Lord Tay.’
‘Really? That’s rich coming from someone like you,’ Sarah scoffed. ‘I deserve better than this too,’ she gestured about the room, ‘yet here I am.’
‘Sarah, I understand you are angry—’
‘I’m more than angry. I’m livid,’ she retorted. ‘And stop using my Christian name. I’ve never given you permission to use it.’
Black’s mouth flattened as he rose to his feet. ‘Very well, Miss Lambert,’ he said with a mocking bow. ‘The hour grows late so I think it’s time for both of us to get some sleep. We have another long journey ahead of us tomorrow.’
He tossed his coat onto the back of the chair then crossed to the pallet bed.
‘Wait. Wh-what are you doing?’ Sarah’s heart pounded with panic as Black began to work at the buttons of his black waistcoat.
He cocked an eyebrow and dropped the garment on the end of the bed. ‘Getting ready for bed.’
‘But… but what about Aileen? You staying here with me… It’s not appropriate.’
‘Miss Lambert, we’ve already spent countless hours alone in each other’s company,’ he said as he tugged off one boot and stocking, revealing a muscular calf and a long, rather elegant foot. ‘So I hardly think it is a breach of etiquette when the inn is all but empty.’ The other boot and stocking followed. ‘And I rather thought you would prefer it if I didn’t tie you to the bed again.’ He loosened his cravat and quirked an eyebrow again. ‘If that’s all right with you.’
Sarah tried not to stare at Black’s naked lower legs and the triangle of bare throat and chest revealed by the open neck of his shirt as she contemplated what he’d just said. Of course she didn’t want to be tied up. And she also didn’t want Black to leave. Despite everything he’d done, tonight she would feel a little safer with him in the room. What had happened in the stables had shaken her. Badly.
She nodded. ‘Very well. You may stay.’
‘I’m glad you agree,’ he said with a wry smile. He crossed to the door, locked it, then with a waggle of his eyebrows, slipped the key into the pocket of his breeches. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, but…’ He shrugged as though she had given him no choice.
‘Perhaps you should stash the poker away too,’ said Sarah dryly as she rose from her chair. ‘On second thoughts…’ she took a step towards the hearth and slid it from its wrought-iron stand, ‘perhaps I should take it instead. It’s not that I don’t trust you… Oh, wait a moment.’ She shot him a narrow look over her shoulder. ‘I don’t.’
Black prowled across the room and she would have retreated except she had nowhere to go. His fingers gently curled over hers so he was holding the poker as well. ‘I don’t think so, Miss Lambert,’ he said, his voice a low, seductive purr. His gaze trapped hers. ‘You won’t need to arm yourself against me. I meant what I said before. I would never force myself upon you.’
Sarah swallowed. Black’s hand was large and hot and a strange flickering warmth spread from her fingers, all the way up her arm and through her body, setting her nerves alight and tightening her nipples. Whilst her heart and mind railed against Black, it seemed her traitorous body had other ideas. She was acutely aware that she wore only a night-rail and Black was only half dressed as well. And they were quite alone.
Whilst she was inclined to believe his assertion, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to seduce her. He was a handsome devil and charm was one of the many weapons in his arsenal. Indeed, right at this very moment, his smouldering grey gaze was fixed intently on her mouth and to her dismay she suddenly wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by someone other than Malcolm. Black smelled wonderful—both clean and masculine, like whisky and rainwater and citron. Her breath quickened and she had to resist the insane urge to press herself against his lean, muscular body. If she closed her eyes, would he lower his mouth to hers? Would he be gentle or would he kiss her roughly? How would he taste?
Sarah, stop it. You are clearly mad. He’s kidnapped you. You should hate him, not be in his thrall.
She drew a shaky breath and pulled her hand away, breaking the bizarre spell he’d cast over her. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t believe you, Mr Black,’ she said in a voice that was far too breathless for her liking. Her heart racing, she stalked over to the tester bed. As she climbed in, Black snuffed out the candles on the mantel with a pinch.
‘Good night, Miss Lambert,’ he said softly. ‘I hope you sleep well.’ He lay down on the pallet bed and pulled the quilt over his long body before turning towards the fire.
Sarah didn’t know what to say so she simply lay down as well. In the uncertain light of the fire, she noticed the poker was still in the hearth stand. Interesting. Black was a cocky devil to be sure. He obviously didn’t think she had the courage to strike him whilst he slept. And if she were honest with herself, she wasn’t certain she could do it either.
She briefly considered then discarded the idea of making a second escape bid. She could always try to sneak out of the room where Aileen now slept—she was sure the interconnecting door wasn’t locked. But that would mean she’d have to get dressed again, without waking Black. Even now, fatigue weighted her eyelids and her bruised body ached. She didn’t think she’d be able to stay awake until he was sound asleep. As much as she longed for freedom, she knew she couldn’t possibly manage another attempt tonight.
She’d also have to brave the stables again and she couldn’t bear the thought of catching sight of the ostler and stablehand, even if Black had tied them up… She shivered and pulled the quilt and blankets up to her chin.
No, she would sleep and regain her strength. There would be another chance, another day. And next time, she would not fail.