Chapter 20
The blindfold Samantha was forced to wear during her abduction had been removed.
Her wrists, however, were still bound behind her back.
The leather cord digging into her flesh restricted her movements.
It prevented her from grabbing the blade that was strapped to her thigh or the hairpins placed in her coiffure.
She’d already tried numerous times but to no avail.
Exhausted from the futile efforts, she relaxed against the backrest of the chair in which she sat — the only seat the room had to offer. Her mouth and throat were horribly dry. A drink would be welcome, though she wouldn’t dare swallow anything she received from her captors.
Bloody bastards, the lot of them.
Annoyed with herself for becoming a victim, she pulled on her restraints once more, this time with increased force, and winced in response to the sting from a now-open wound. Panting lightly, she studied her dim surroundings and uttered a groan of frustration.
This shouldn’t have happened.
She should not be here and yet she was, exactly as O’Leary no doubt intended. And Murry…
She dared not wonder what had happened to him.
She should not have let Murry leave her side. Whatever slim chance they’d had of avoiding capture, it had been lost the moment he’d gone to face their attackers alone. A mistake that might have cost him his life.
The thought made her heart burn with rage. Not only at O’Leary but also at herself. She’d had her hairpins after all, along with the pistol she kept in her reticule.
But she hadn’t been thinking of the possible danger to either herself or Murry just then, not with Adrian facing a new murder to solve. And she’d extracted her pistol too late. Squeezing her eyes shut, her mind filled with the recollection of what had occurred in the moments that followed.
The carriage doors had swung open, revealing two men.
One was the same hulking thug who’d blocked her escape when she’d met Finn O’Leary for the first time.
The other had been shorter, though equally stocky.
Both had aimed their pistols toward her, assuring her she would be shot if she tried anything.
Despair had prevailed, not because she’d feared for herself, but rather because she’d feared for Murry. Adrian’s loyal valet was nowhere in sight.
“What have you done with him?” she’d asked while her heart thumped wildly against her breast. “Where’s my servant?”
All she’d received in response were some arrogant smirks.
She squeezed her eyes tighter and shivered at the reminder of those men placing their hands upon her.
Their pawing fingers connecting with hers when they’d wrenched her pistol from her grasp made her stomach turn with disgust. A wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to gulp down air in an effort to fight it off.
“Where is my servant?” She’d repeated the question even as they blindfolded her. Again when they dragged her from her carriage and shoved her into another. “What have you done with him and my coachman?”
One of the men had knocked on the carriage ceiling, prompting it to take off. “Both were sent off on foot.”
Having heard no shots, Samantha had no reason to think this wasn’t the case. In all likelihood, their purpose would be to let Adrian know what had happened.
She clung to this possibility as she studied her current surroundings. The paint on the walls of the room was peeling, the floorboards stained with dark splotches, lending an overall sense of squalidness to the space.
The stench of filth and the general gloom that hung in the air when she’d finally stepped from the carriage reminded her of St. Giles.
No doubt she was in some sort of slum, though it could be any.
They’d driven around for what she would estimate being a good half hour.
St. Giles wasn’t too far from Mayfair. Jacob’s Island was slightly farther.
Wherever they were, it did not matter. Adrian would tear London apart to find her.
She glanced toward the only window the room had to offer. Covered in grime, it concealed the view. What was the chance she could escape through it? When she’d arrived here, she’d had to climb stairs, so there might be a direct drop on the opposite side of the blacked-out pane.
Wrists bound and dressed as she was in a ballgown, attempting to leap from this height could lead to a dangerous fall.
Plus, the moment she broke the glass she’d have to be swift or the men would surely catch her.
Had she not been with child she might have risked it.
In her current condition, however, she did not dare.
This left her with no other choice but to wait and see how the situation unfolded. Finn O’Leary had captured her for a reason.
He wanted to see Adrian destroyed and clearly meant to use her to this end. How, she’d no idea, but at least she still lived. And as long as this was the case she’d gather whatever information might aid her later.
Approaching footsteps drew her attention. She straightened her spine and stared at the door, heard a bolt sliding sideways, then the sound of a key being turned.
The door creaked open and Finn O’Leary’s sleek figure appeared. Hands in his pockets, he entered the room and kicked the door shut behind him. He gave no orders for one of his men to stand guard. No one even bothered to slide the bolt back into place.
Samantha stood and met his pale blue gaze.
A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips. He was just as handsome as she remembered, though in that chilling way that froze the blood in her veins.
This was the sort of man who’d make love to a woman, then slit her throat when she failed to compliment his efforts.
She swallowed — a careful movement to keep him from sensing the tight coil of fear in her belly.
Just breathe. Slow and easy. He was smartly dressed.
His appearance was not what one would expect to find in a slum.
Indeed, his clothes looked pricy. Well-tailored.
Which meant he had means and this chosen location was more of a carefully acquired lair than a place he’d picked for financial reasons.
Clever. If this house was indeed located in the heart of a slum, it was unlikely that law enforcement would come calling. Rather like building a castle surrounded by vermin-infested water.
O’Leary approached, slow and deliberate, until he stood directly before her. A whiff of his scent floated toward her. Peppermint, overshadowing hints of tobacco and gin.
His hand rose and Samantha’s heart leapt. More so in response to the feel of his palm as he placed it against her cheek. The touch brought her close to retching, but she held herself perfectly still. Reminded herself to breathe.
She would survive this.
“I’d forgotten how pretty you are,” O’Leary murmured, his voice like poison. His fingertips trailed down her cheek, to her chin, then down the front of her throat before falling away. “Croft is a lucky man.”
She suppressed a shudder. “He’ll come for me, you know.”
A snort of amusement. “Of course he will. In fact, I’m counting on it. Though not until I’m ready and certainly not until you and I are better acquainted.”
There was no mistaking what he meant. The promise of what she would have to endure unless she fought tooth and nail barreled through her while realization struck.
Neither Jennings nor Murry had been told to inform Adrian of her location.
O’Leary was in control. He wouldn’t let Adrian come for her until after he’d gotten what he wanted from her.
She had no choice. Not any longer. She had to try and get out of this mess no matter the risk to herself or the child. Anything less and she’d not be able to live with herself.
Chin raised, she stared O’Leary down. “My husband’s network is vast. He’ll figure out where you’re holding me and launch a surprise attack. By the time he’s through, you’ll pray for death to claim you.”
“So smug, so arrogant, so confident even though you’ve been caught in my snare.
” He swept his gaze along the length of her body, and Samantha recoiled, earning a smirk that revealed the cruelty this man was capable of.
“For an operative trained by Harlowe himself, I expected more, yet I’ve already gotten the upper hand on you twice. ”
The mention of Harlowe caught Samantha off guard. Her mind whirled. How the hell would O’Leary know about that? This information went beyond looking into her background. It meant he was privy to data only a few people knew of. Someone must have talked. Maybe someone else looking for vengeance.
Sir Nigel Clemens, the former chief magistrate, maybe? Or possibly Viscount Carver, the former home secretary? He’d fled the country as far as she knew, but maybe he and O’Leary had been in touch.
“I can see that sharp mind of yours working to figure out how I know about Harlowe,” he said. “It’s an interesting story. Maybe I’ll share it with you one day. For now, however, I plan to keep you guessing.”
He leaned in as though meaning to whisper something next to her ear, and Samantha struck. Her head jerked forward, crashing straight into O’Leary’s skull while her knee came up into his groin. An anguished groan filled the room as he doubled over in pain.
Samantha shoved her way past him. The door was unlocked so opening it wasn’t hard, even with her hands at her back. Foulmouthed insults chased her as she swept out onto the landing. The stairs were right there and she started down them, cursing the length of her skirts which impeded her steps.
“Brian, Sean, Patrick! Stop her, damn you.” O’Leary’s fury exploded behind her.
She was halfway down the stairs when she leapt, at the same exact moment the massive brute entered the foyer. Her shoulder scraped his torso as she landed and twisted, directing herself toward the front door. It was so close, the path to freedom. But she already knew she wouldn’t make it.