.
Blythe felt as if the air was burning in her lungs, as if her heart was being rent in two. If she had looked at Thomas for another single moment, she might have simply fainted. It was too much to be borne, so she simply ran. She was small enough to slip through the crowd like a minnow, and though she heard him call her name, it was quickly lost to the crush.
I should not have come here tonight. What in the world was I thinking?
The crowd seemed to push in on her, crowding her from all sides, and right then, she thought that she would have been happier to be in the worst part of London than here in this place, surrounded by the glittering elite.
Someone knocked into her from behind, almost tumbling her into another gentleman, and when he stopped to right her, it was just too much. Blythe tore herself away from the helping hands that wanted to steady her and dashed for the side of the room. She had thought she was approaching the front doors, but instead, she found herself at the glassed doors that led into the gardens at the side of the house.
The gardens were, of course, closed for the cold season, but her desperate fingers unlatched the doors and she was able to slip out.
The first breath of frigid cold air made her gasp with the chill. Instead of her warm gray dress, she wore silk, and though it was beautiful, the wind cut through it like a knife. Blythe knew she wouldn't be able to bear the cold for very long, but for now, she took deep grateful breaths, making herself concentrate on breathing, simply breathing.
I love him, I love him, I love him.
The words ran through her head like some kind of mocking chant, and now that she had disgraced herself so utterly, there was nothing else she could do but realize how very true they were. She loved Thomas Martin, loved him for his heart, his sweetness, his devilish smile, for his kindness and his daring.
Blythe had always thought the cost of falling in love with a man would have been to give up her calling for adventure, but now that she had actually fallen in love, she could see how wrong that was. Thomas was who she loved, and he was the adventure, and she ached for him the way she had once ached for tropical skies and emerald jungles. Somewhere behind her was Thomas, and a sense of dread came over her. Her sense of control when it came to Thomas was perfectly flawed. If she returned to him, if she saw him, there was a chance she would simply throw herself into his arms and beg him to take her away. She couldn't risk Tristan's wrath or Thomas’ arrest, so she kept walking. It felt like that was all she could do.
She walked blindly through the garden, feeling a kind of kinship with the desolate landscape. The beds, which should contain a riotous spill of color, were barren, and the shrubs were naked, revealing reaching scrabbling branches. Behind her, as if from a deep remove, she could hear the sounds of the Portings' ball.
Maybe it's like the old fairy tale. I have wandered away from the world I knew, and now I am in an enchanted forest. If I am kind to the right witch, or if I can bribe the right woodland animal, I can win my heart's desire.
She knew that indulging in foolish fantasies would only make returning to reality worse. If she were sane, if she were thinking clearly, she would return indoors and plead a headache to Tristan. He would take her back to the house, and then, even if she couldn't have Thomas, she would at least be out of this terrible crush.
She took a deep breath, because returning to the crowd felt like diving back into piranha-infested waters, but she had to do it sooner or later. Her teeth were already chattering in the cold, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she made her way back.
To Blythe's surprise, the doors that would allow her to return to the ball were locked, and no matter how hard she waved, no one would come and let her in. The dancing had started again, drawing all eyes, and she shivered.
If I stay out here too long, I won't have to worry about my heart at all because it will be turned quite to ice.
She cast around the immediate area, looking for a solution, and found it in the small gate toward the rear of the garden. In most houses, the garden opened directly to the rear entry, where the servants went with the garden refuse. Even if she had to deal with the indignity of being the lady crawling through the servants' quarters, it was better than staying and freezing.
She strode toward the small gate, chilled to the bone, and thinking wistfully of the roaring fires that were doubtless kept in the kitchen.
Did I ever have any dealings with a servant of the Portings? Perhaps they would be inclined to let me sit for a while in the kitchen. That sounds like heaven right now.
Blythe's thoughts of warmth consumed her, but she had been walking the darker streets of London far too long to completely let her guard down. Some sixth sense, a trickle of sensation down her spine, a feeling that set her teeth on edge, made her look right as she passed through the gate. To her shock, a large man hid in the shadows there. Her body reacted faster than her mind. Instead of standing still as a statue, she took two fast steps back into the shelter of the garden. As she did so, another man who had been hiding to the left of the gate brought his arm crashing down, something heavy in it that missed her by a hair.
That was a sap! It was meant to knock me unconscious or worse!
For a moment, Blythe thought terror had frozen her after all, but then with a soft cry, she spun on her heel and started to run. She cursed the delicate heels that sank into the cold soil and the skirts that seemed to be gaining a dozen pounds with every step. Blythe hiked her skirts up in her arms, running for all she was worth, and behind her, she heard the thud of heavy feet as her pursuers came after her.
I just need to get back to the doors to the ballroom. Someone will see me, or I can break down a window. I cannot let them catch me.
She was breathing so hard steam rose up around her, nearly blinding her, but she could still see the glowing doors of the party. This time, it really did feel like another world, one of civilization and safety. Blythe knew keenly that she was in the dark forest, and if she faltered, she would stay there.
She was so close. Her foot reached the brick steps to the door, she lunged forward to reach for the handle, and then there were hands on her, looping around her belly, grabbing her by the hair, pulling her back into the dark.
“Christ, she almost got away.”
“Come on, drag her back, we don't want anyone seeing her.”
The words filled Blythe with dread, and she fought as hard as she could. She sent her fists flying out as hard as she could, and when she could feel one of her assailant's feet close by, she tried to drive the heel of her shoe directly into it.
For one brief moment, she thought she was going to be able to win herself free, that she had gotten them both to release their hold on her and she could resume her struggle for the door. Instead, Blythe cried out as she felt herself lifted entirely off the ground. One man bear-hugged her and pinned her arms to her side and the other stepped forward to stuff a rag into her mouth. She screamed but found it muffled, and she had to stop or risk choking on the rag.
“His lordship said she were a fighter, but I never expected that. She fights like a cat from the stews.”
“Shut up, we got to get her in the carriage before someone notices.”
Her blood ran cold. Wherever they were taking her, she knew that her chances for escape were going to dip to non-existent if she could not escape them before they got her in the carriage. Instead of fighting, Blythe went limp. She sagged in their arms, making them curse. For a few steps, they held her more tightly, but then, as she had hoped, they loosened their grips when they thought she was in a dead swoon.
She didn't attack. Instead, she wrenched herself away from the hands that gripped her so tight, and in one blessed movement, her hands were free, and her feet were on the ground. The men shouted, but she was dashing back for the light, spitting out the rag they had used to gag her, this time sure she would make it.
Blythe was struck from behind so hard she went sprawling. One of the men had tried to tackle her, but she still fought to move forward, even if she had to do it on her hands and knees.
“Help! Help, someone please help me!”
In some distant corner of her mind, Blythe was shocked by how very small and weak her voice sounded. It would never penetrate the locked doors to the ball, the doors she could now so clearly understand had been purposefully locked against her.
In a pitifully short amount of time, the men had scooped her up, and this time, it seemed as if they were done struggling with her.
“Damn it, get the chloroform out, we might as well keep her still until we get back to his lordship's house.”
She smelled something astringent and foul as the thug not holding her uncorked a bottle, using it to soak the rag she had spit out. She struggled to turn her head away, but the man holding her brutally moved her face toward it. Even from a distance away, the fumes made her dizzy, and her mind scrambled for something, anything, to keep from losing consciousness.