CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FRANCESCA SCREAMED, but she knew it was so muffled that no one would hear, and began to struggle wildly, trapped in the dark cloth, but her assailant hit her with his fist, dazing her enough that she went limp. He seized the momentary advantage and picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder, and ran from the room. Francesca, hanging sickeningly upside down, the breath jouncing from her with every step he took, could bring forth only a muffled cry. She tried to struggle again, but with the blanket wrapped around her and secured by his arm tight around her legs, she could do little more than wriggle about as he thundered down the stairs.
As he flung open the front door, she thought she heard a cry from the back of the house, but with the crashing of the door, she could not be sure. The next thing she knew, she was unceremoniously dumped onto a hard floor, knocking the wind from her. She heard Perkins jump in after her and slam the door, and suddenly the floor beneath them was moving. She realized that he must have had a carriage waiting for them, and that they were now driving away at a fast pace.
Before she could recover her breath enough to tear away the blanket, Perkins himself jerked it from her. Roughly he pulled her up onto the seat and wrapped a sash around her wrists, tying them together in front of her. Francesca kicked at him and tried to pull away, but he was stronger, and though he cursed when her kicks connected, he did not pause in binding her hands.
She screamed, her wind having returned, but he ignored that, as well. She suspected that her cries would do little good; no doubt the rumbling of the carriage would cover most of the noise she made, and as for the rest of it—well, this was London, and who was going to give chase after a carriage simply because a few screams were heard from within?
When he had finished with her wrists, he reached into a pocket to pull out a handkerchief and stuffed it into her mouth, saying fiercely, “Shut up, damn you. Shut up! God, what a racket.”
He began to unfasten his cravat, and Francesca seized the opportunity to throw herself across the carriage away from him. She spat the handkerchief out of her mouth and released another shriek. He cursed and leaned down to pick up the handkerchief just as the carriage went around a corner. Perkins went sprawling on the floor.
Francesca aimed a swift kick at him. She intended to hit his head, but he was quick enough to twist away, and her blow landed on his shoulder instead. She did not waste time trying to disable him further. Instead she leaped for the door and turned the handle.
The carriage had lost speed as it rounded the corner, and now it slowed still more. As the door swung open, Francesca saw that they had entered the market area. In the predawn dark, merchants were setting up their goods in stalls all along the street, so the carriage could not continue at its previous fast clip.
She was still holding the door handle, intending to swing out of the carriage and jump, but at the last second she hesitated, afraid that the vehicle was still moving too quickly. Perkins, however, was scrambling up off the floor, and he lunged for her, so she leaped, whispering a frantic prayer that she would not roll back under the wheels.
She fell, not hitting the ground as she had feared, but crashing on her side into one of the stalls and landing on a bed of fruit. The stall keeper, who was unloading boxes of plums and berries, let out a cry of rage and dropped his crate.
He swung around and grabbed her arm, yanking her up from the ruins of his display. “Bloody ’ell, woman! Wot the divil do you think yer doin’?”
Francesca pulled with all her might. Behind her, she could hear Perkins yelling at the driver to stop. With a last burst of energy, fueled by fear, she tore her bound arms away from the fruit seller’s grasp and started to run.
The cobblestones were uneven and painful to her bare feet, and she realized that it was astonishingly difficult to run with her hands tied together. But she tore down the street as fast as she could. Behind her came a swell of shouts and catcalls, and one vendor let out a whistle and clapped his hands in encouragement as she ran past, as if he were watching a race.
But no one intervened to stop Perkins, and his footsteps grew louder and louder behind her. He threw himself at her, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Francesca bore the worst of their fall, with him on top of her, and once again the breath was knocked out of her. The impact jarred her whole body, bruising her side, and her head rang as her teeth clicked together sharply.
Perkins rolled to his feet and picked her up, carrying her back to the carriage. Francesca, struggling for breath, could not even protest, and her struggles were feeble.
“Hush, dear,” he told her in an infuriatingly calm voice. “I know you’re upset, but it will be all right.” He turned toward the bystanders, saying, “I beg your pardon for my wife. She is not herself lately. Lost our child, you see—I fear it has made her a little mad.”
“No!” Francesca managed to gasp out.
“There, there. Don’t fret. We’ll get you back home, and the doctor will make it all better.”
“’Ere now!” The burly fruit vendor rushed up to them, gesturing at his stall. “”Oo’s goin’ to pay for all this? Quality! Tearin’ ’round and breakin’ everfin’ up.”
Perkins dug in his pocket and pulled out a few coins, tossing them to the fruit vendor, which seemed to mollify the man. Then he swung Francesca up into the carriage.
“There, now, darling, calm down,” he told her loudly as he climbed into the carriage and slammed the door shut after them.
She came up clawing, but he managed to dodge her hands and wrap his arms around her, bearing her back down on the floor. The vehicle rolled off down the street as the two of them wrestled inside. Since Perkins was stronger than she and her hands were tied, it proved to be little contest. Though Francesca fought as hard as she could, he soon had wrapped his ascot around the lower half of her face, effectively silencing her cries, and he went on to grab her ankles and hold them together, tying a length of rope around them.
“Well!” He leaned back against the edge of the seat, looking down at her. “Aren’t you the feisty one? I’d never have figured you for it.” A slow, evil grin spread across his face. “Maybe tonight will turn out more interesting that I’d thought. Never did like a woman who lay there like a stick. Mayhap you’ll give me a good ride, eh?”
He slid his hand casually down her body, and Francesca’s gorge rose in disgust.
“There’s more curves to you than I thought, too,” he went on and laughed as she glared at him. “Ah, yes, it’s much better when you can’t say anything.”
He shoved himself up and onto the seat, not bothering to help her up from the floor. Francesca managed to sit up, then crouch and lever herself up onto the seat opposite, positioning herself as far from him as she possibly could. Her feet hurt from running on the cobblestones, and the rope was so tight that she knew they would soon be numb. Her hands, too, were bound too tightly, and her hair had been caught in the gag wrapped around her head, so that it pulled painfully against her scalp. She was sore and bruised in numerous places all over her body, but she almost welcomed the pain. It kept her from falling into a daze of despair.
Where were they going? Why had he taken her? She feared that she had all too accurate an idea of what he planned to do with her whenever they eventually reached their destination. She swallowed hard, an icy cold filling her at the thought of what lay before her.
She tried to turn her thoughts to something else. She wondered if any of the servants had seen Perkins carrying her from the house. Certainly he had not been quiet when he had run down the stairs with her. He was bound to have awakened some of them. But even if one of them had come running and recognized Perkins, what could her servants do?
They would have no idea where he had taken her. And where would they go for help? Fenton might think of Rochford, but if he went to the duke, would Sinclair even care what had happened to her? Her heart squeezed inside her chest as she thought of him turning away, still cold with anger.
Maisie might go to Irene. With Callie out of town, Irene would be her closest friend and the one most able to help. Dominic, of course, would be more than willing to help, but he lived at Redfields, a good day’s ride away. If Fenton decided to go to him, the trail would be terribly cold by the time Dominic got to London. And she—well, she had no doubt that Perkins would have taken his revenge on her by that time.
Her best hope was that they would go to Irene. She would help, and her husband was the sort of man who would have a good idea what to do. She would put her hopes on that—that one of the servants had come out in time to see Perkins carry her out the door, and that Fenton or Maisie would have the good sense to run to Irene immediately with their story.
If they did not…but no, she refused to think of that. She would plan instead what she could do to escape, how she might loosen her bonds or surprise Perkins.
She turned away from him as best she could, curling in on herself. She suspected that he would think her posture sprang from fear of him, and she hated to give him that satisfaction, but it was more important that she hide her hands from his sight. Surreptitiously, she began to work at her bonds, stretching the sash as much as she could. The cloth dug painfully into her skin, but she would not let that stop her. It was a much softer material than the rope he had used on her ankles, and while that meant that he had been able to tie it more tightly and securely, it also meant that it would stretch more easily.
Unfortunately, in an attempt to keep what she was doing hidden from her companion, she had to make her movements small. No matter how she pulled and twisted, she could loosen the ties only a fraction, nowhere near enough to enable her to slip her hands through. Moreover, all the tugging had managed to tighten the knot into a hard, tiny ball, almost impossible to undo. She needed something sharp that would cut the bonds, but nothing like that was in evidence.
As she worked on the sash that tied her hands, she also moved her feet as much as she could without being obvious. But the ropes were even more unyielding than the cloth sash. She was, she thought with despair, utterly unable to get out of her bonds.
After a time, she could feel the carriage slowing down, and she shifted, trying to see out the window. However, the curtains covered it completely, and she could see nothing. She glanced across at Perkins, and his mouth pulled into a familiar grin, the one that made her shiver inside.
“Yes. We are here already. Surely you did not think I would take my time to get what I want. I’m not a man who likes waiting.”
Francesca stiffened her spine, sending him her fiercest look. He merely laughed.
“Oh, aye, glare at me all you wish. It’ll be different in a little while. You’ll be begging me then.” He leaned forward. “And that bastard Rochford will have to live with the fact that I got there before him. He won’t like that, will he, the mighty duke? Finding out that his precious little lady is just a doxy, like any other. Knowing I’ve plowed that furrow long before he had a chance to.”
Francesca would have dearly loved to spit back an answer at him, but of course, the gag prevented it. She waited, her body tensing. The moment when he pulled her out of the carriage would be her best chance to create a fuss, although, bound and gagged as she was, she was not sure what she could manage to do. But surely, if they had stopped at an inn, there would be people around, and the sight of him hauling out a bound-and-gagged woman would appear extremely odd. Someone might come forward and question them.
But then again, it was still night, no later than dawn. Even at an inn, there might be no one about. Far worse, they could have driven to some cottage on the outskirts of town, where there would be no one to see or wonder.
Perkins leaned across the carriage, and she squeezed back into the corner, determined to make a fight of it. But to her surprise, he did not take her arm and pull her out. Instead, he seized the dangling end of the sash he had wound around her wrists, looping it through a small bar beside the door and tying it there.
Then he took her chin between his forefinger and thumb and pinched it, giving her a wink, and left the carriage. Francesca stared after him, filled with impotent rage. She jerked hard at the tie, but it was firmly secured. Next she tried to undo it with her fingers, which had room to move a little, but the knot he had made was hard and fast, and her hands had grown so numb that her fingers were clumsy. She made little headway.
She kicked the side of the carriage in frustration. Encouraged by the sound it made, she continued kicking with both feet, making as much noise as possible. No one came to check on her.
It seemed forever that she was out there by herself, alternately kicking and working at the knots. She was beginning to wonder if Perkins intended to leave her alone for the rest of the night.
Finally, however, he opened the door and climbed back in. “You’re a noisy one, aren’t you? I thought you would have grown tired by now.”
The stench of alcohol filled the carriage, and Francesca realized that he must have spent most of his time inside drinking.
“I’ve gotten my poor sick wife and me a room,” he told her, reaching under the seat and pulling out a drawer. From it he extracted a large piece of fabric, which he unfolded to reveal a dark, hooded cloak.
Sitting down beside her, he arranged the cloak around her shoulders and tied it at her neck. There was little she could do to thwart him except lash out at him with her bound legs. He solved that problem by shoving her legs hard against the side of the carriage with one booted foot and holding them there. Finally, he pulled the hood forward so that it covered most of her face.
He did not try to undo the knot he had tied in the sash but merely drew out a knife and slashed through the material close to the bar, leaving the remnant hanging there. Francesca tried to move away from him, but it was no use. He wrapped the cloak tightly around her, binding her even more, and hauled her out of the carriage.
With his arms tightly around her, carrying her as one would a child, he was able to keep the cloak tightly in place, thus hindering her movements. The cloak also hid the bindings around her ankles and wrists, and the hood, pulled far forward, effectively concealed her gagged face. She would look, she supposed, just like someone asleep or ill.
Still, she did her best to move, hoping that she might throw him off balance or arouse attention, and she screamed against the gag. But the sound was almost entirely muffled, and she doubted that anyone would notice the little wriggling movements she was able to make—if, of course, there was even anyone about to see.
They must be at an inn, given his words, but it was probably still too early in the morning for the other guests to be around. Though it was no longer the black of night, it was only pale dawn. Only the servants would be up, and they would be working in the kitchens, not waiting in the halls watching guests go up to their rooms.
She had no chance, she knew, but she struggled anyway.
It must have had some effect, for she could hear Perkins’ ragged breath as he climbed the stairs, and once he grunted and nearly dropped her. He set her down to open the door, keeping one arm tightly around her. Then he jerked her inside and closed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock.
Letting loose a string of curses, he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, then turned away and went to the small chest of drawers across the room, where a decanter of liquor and glasses stood on a tray. He poured himself a drink, quickly downed it, and poured another.
Francesca managed to wriggle to the edge of the bed. If he got drunk enough, perhaps she would be able to escape him. She knew the likely futility of trying to get away, even from a drunk, with her ankles tied. Still, she had to try. Otherwise, her only choice was to give in to defeat and despair.
He watched her as he drank the second glass. She lay still, not looking directly at him, but watching him from the corner of her eye. When he turned away to pour himself a third drink, she brought up her hands and hooked her fingers beneath the gag, tugging it down. It was tight and hard to move, but she felt it give, and she pulled harder.
Perkins let out an oath, and the glass crashed back down on the tray. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and clamped his hand down across her mouth just as Francesca drew a breath to scream. He jerked the gag back in place. She swung her legs off the bed, but he grabbed her and threw her back onto it, pushing her so far up on the mattress that the back of her head cracked against the wooden headboard.
The blow stunned her for a moment, sending pain lancing through her head. Perkins took the end of the sash dangling from her wrists and wound it around one of the bedposts, tying it firmly, then stepped back, panting, and surveyed her.
“There! You won’t be getting away now, will you? Trussed like a pig for slaughter, aren’t you?” He grinned, the imagery obviously pleasing to him. “I’ll have you squealing like one soon enough, as well.” He chuckled and returned to the decanter, pouring himself another drink.
He lifted the glass to her in a mocking toast and drank it. “How’d the duke like seeing you now, I wonder. How you think he’ll like getting my leavings?” He grinned. “Won’t be so full of himself then, will he?”
Pouring another drink, he sat down in the chair. His movements were growing increasingly clumsy as he drank, so that he plopped down more than sat, the whiskey splashing over the side of the glass. He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Arrogant bastard—telling me to get out of the country. Like I’d bow down to him like everybody else.” He let out a noise of disgust. “Doesn’t know Galen Perkins, though, I’ll tell you that. No man’s my master, least of all him.”
After finishing his drink, he set the glass on the chest and stood up. He made his way over to the bed, staggering a little as he walked. When he reached her, he leaned against the bedpost, gazing down at her, his eyes glittering with malice. Then he hooked his hand in the neckline of her nightgown and jerked downward, ripping it down to her waist.
Francesca shrieked behind the gag and lashed out at him with her feet, managing to slam her shins into him. The blow unbalanced him, and he staggered to the side and went crashing into the washstand.
The malice in his eyes changed in a flash to pure hatred, and he managed to right himself and charged toward her, his hand raised to strike her.
At that moment something slammed against the door. Perkins whirled, startled, to face the door as another blow hit it and it crashed open, sending Rochford bursting into the room.