Chapter Forty-One
Charlotte surfaced to consciousness slowly, and in considerable discomfort. She was cold, she was in pain, and found herself in a place where barely anything could be seen through the gloom. There was a dank, moldy smell, totally different to the stables.
Where was she?
As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she could see a dim disc of moonlight above her, coming through an oculus in a domed ceiling. She was in a circular building, windowless, with a sunken and uneven floor that glistened faintly with moisture.
It was cold. Very cold. Maybe she was in some kind of dungeon?
But where in Portland could one find a dungeon, except perhaps at the fort? And it was highly unlikely she was there.
A huge shudder shook her body, making her teeth rattle. Her flimsy dinner gown was no protection against such intense cold. She couldn’t chafe her chilled arms because her hands were bound with cord. So were her feet.
The knobbly ground on which she lay was actual ice. She rolled over and, suddenly, she understood.
She was in an icehouse. Lord Culverdale’s icehouse, of course.
Had he left her here to die of cold?
No, that wasn’t his way—he’d just kill her if he were so inclined. There must be a reason for keeping her alive. She dreaded what it might be.
There was no time for fear, no time for self-pity. She had to escape.
If she hadn’t been unconscious too long, the party might still be going on. If she’d been missed, there could even be people looking for her. Hoping against hope that someone was within earshot, she shouted an experimental, “Help!”
Her voice bounced back at her from the domed roof of the icehouse, a fearful, lonely sound. She took in a deep breath, and made a more robust effort.
“Help!”
It was no good. She was in too awkward a position to fill her lungs properly. If she could wriggle across to the wall, she might be able to push herself up and at least get partly upright.
After a considerable struggle, she was able to do so.
She let out another rasping shout. “Help me!”
Relief flooded through her at the sound of a door scraping open, but her relief was short-lived. The short, thickset man who entered didn’t look like a party guest—or a rescuer.
With a shock, she recognized him as one of the free traders she and Rafe had seen that day they found the cave, so many weeks before.
“Keep the noise down, my lovely. It’ll do you no good, only annoy his lordship. Believe me, you don’t want to annoy him.”
“In what way might she annoy me?” Another voice, cultured and cold, cut the air like a blade.
Culverdale!
She tried to control her shaking. He must never see she was afraid.
“You may go,” he told his henchman.
“Should I leave the lantern, my lord?”
“No, take it with you, man. But cover it before you go outside. I don’t want to attract attention.”
The smuggler slunk off, closing the door of the icehouse with a snap. She listened intently, but there was no sound of a key turning in the lock, no click of a padlock.
She felt a trickle of hope. She could still escape. All she needed to do was overpower Lord Culverdale, get herself through the doorway, and scream like a banshee before the guard outside could overpower her.
Right.
Culverdale stepped carefully onto the icy floor. She could just make out his features in the gloom—the glitter of sharp, intelligent eyes, the line of his thin lips, and the languid composure of his face. A composure that had fooled so many into thinking he was a harmless fop.
He bristled with menace. Perhaps her last hour had come. He had both hands free and was no doubt armed, while she had nothing but words to defend herself.
“I won’t keep you long, my dear,” he said, and she dared to hope he meant to release her, not to kill her. “I’ve urgent business elsewhere, but for the moment, they can manage without me. I aim to net a bigger prize than French brandy, Flemish lace, or Sevres porcelain. And you, my dear, shall be my bait.”
Her heart quailed.
Rafe.
She was sure he meant to use her to lure Rafe here, and into a trap.
She lifted her head. “I don’t know what you can possibly mean.”
He came closer and pressed his long, hard fingers under her chin. “Yes, you do,” he said, smiling. “It’s too late to play games.”
She licked her lips, which were threatening to crack in the icy air. “He won’t come,” she said defiantly. “He means to bring you down, and he won’t let any distraction get in the way. Especially a woman. You might as well let me go and stop wasting your time.”
“Oh, he’ll come. You can be certain of it. And I’m looking forward to his arrival enormously. Have you ever seen a man tortured? No? Then you shall absolutely watch.”
Bitter bile rose into her throat. This man had been to the royal court. He’d meted out justice in the village. He held the welfare of dozens of dependents in his hands. She’d even danced with him, for heaven’s sake!
How could he live such an outrageous lie?
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. She truly wanted to know. “You have everything you could possibly want—rank, privilege, wealth. Why throw in your lot with our country’s enemies? With a regime that has slaughtered countless innocents, including most of your fellow noblemen?”
His smile contained no hint of humor. “I welcome challenge,” he replied, “and I welcome change. The old order is dying, anyone can see that. What use have we for kings in their dotage, for fat princes who care only for their own pleasure? None, whatsoever. The new order in France is refreshing. It must happen here, as well.”
“I don’t necessarily disagree. But what of the bloodshed?” she countered. “You’re prepared to risk lives, even of innocent children?”
“Everything comes at a price.” He fetched a silk handkerchief from his pocket and made great play of stifling a yawn. “I tire of this discussion. Perhaps it’s time to gag you, so I can finish you off in peace. I have to occupy the time somehow until Beckport comes.”
She turned her head away as he seized her bound hands and flung her to the floor. But she’d barely time to register the fresh agony when, with a rush of air, a dark shape hurtled past and knocked Culverdale off his feet.
He gave a grunt of pain, and when she looked up, two men were grappling violently on the slimy surface of the ice. She tugged at her bonds, desperate to escape them, but it was useless. All she could do was watch as the men rolled over and over, clawing, striking and grabbing at one another.
She saw the glint of a knife in Culverdale’s hand. He struck at his assailant, but the man just swore and sent the weapon flying.
Her heart stilled at the curse. She knew that voice. Rafe!
But why was he wearing such ill-fitting clothes? Clothes that made him look a little like…Justin?
There was no time to puzzle it out. She must get herself free, or at least get close enough to distract or immobilize Culverdale.
But Rafe needed no help. He bore down on his foe with grim determination, trapping the older man’s flailing legs, countering every blow with iron strength, and finally pushing Culverdale’s head backward with the flat of his hand until the man’s neck creaked.
The traitor’s body went limp, but Rafe took no chances. He drove his fist so hard into the man’s face the whole body jerked. Culverdale’s head struck the ice.
Then all was still, except for the slow leak of dark blood from the traitor’s nose.
Rafe rolled the inert form away from Charlotte. “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” he said.
A swift step brought him to his knees beside her. He drew her to him, and she collapsed into the strength and safety of his embrace. “Oh, Rafe, thank God.”
“My darling,” he rasped. “Did that whoreson hurt you?”
She could force no more sound past the knot of emotion lodged in her throat, so she just shook her head against the sturdy column of his neck. His chest heaved as he held her closer still, and the moment spun out like a thread unraveling, until her fear and shock slowly ebbed away.
He rocked her in his arms, and soon she felt as if the world was empty but for the two of them, melded together like the strongest steel, one being, unbreakable.
When she finally found her voice, she asked, “Is it over?”
He kissed her hair. “Unfortunately, my love, it isn’t. I still have more battles to fight.”
Which meant he was going to leave her and risk his life again.
How was she going to bear it?