Chapter 20 #2
And then the brute caught her hands and jerked her back into his hulking frame. His arm came around her next, turning her from her destination until the stairs filled her vision.
“You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that.” O’Leary’s voice slithered toward her as he descended the steps, a leisurely gait that showed no hint of the agony she had inflicted seconds before. “All I wanted to do was talk, but now…”
She stared at him, not believing a word he said. He’d wanted more than conversation. She’d seen it in his devilish eyes. Hadn’t she?
“You need help managin’ ’er?” It sounded like the brute would like nothing more than to break Samantha in two.
“No.” O’Leary reached around her head and grabbed her by the hair, then started dragging her back up the stairs.
She yelped in response to the pain and stumbled after him, tripping as her feet caught the hem of her gown.
Each time she lost her footing and fell, O’Leary yanked her upright once more.
By the time they returned to the room at the top of the stairs, she’d murdered him in her mind a thousand times over.
O’Leary led her into the room as though she were a dog on a leash. He shoved her into the chair, which nearly sent her toppling onto the floor. She managed to stay upright, only to feel the sting of his palm as it landed against her cheek.
“Remember this,” he told her darkly before he slapped her again, so hard her head spun sideways. “You chose violence.”
Again he struck, then again, and again, and again. Until her face burned and the taste of blood filled her mouth. Until she knew she’d soon be black and blue. It felt like he’d crushed her cheekbone.
His fingers caught her chin, like earlier though more roughly, directing her gaze to his.
Only frosty vehemence showed in his eyes.
“The next time you try anything, I’ll do exactly as you imagined I would.
It wasn’t what I planned for you, but since you’re so eager to turn me into that sort of monster, I may as well play the part.
More than that, I’ll let my men have a turn once I’m done. ”
Samantha pushed down her terror and forced herself to produce a mocking laugh of her own. “A woman can only hope.”
O’Leary’s eyes sharpened. He angled his head, studying her. “What are you saying?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “You saw me leave Doctor Wolf’s office a few months ago.”
“And?”
It was easier to produce a sly smile now that she had him hooked. All that remained was to reel him in. “My husband bedded a lot of women before we married. Unfortunately, one of them left an unpleasant reminder of their time together, for which I now have to suffer.”
O’Leary’s mouth fell open. “You have the pox?”
She held his gaze. “Have your way with me and I’ll give you more than you bargained for.”
His hand closed around her throat. He leaned in. A grimace of utter disgust curled his lips as he searched her face. “You’re lying. I reckon you met with the doctor because you’re increasing.”
Samantha struggled to keep all emotion buried so deep he’d not know for certain. “Is that a chance you’re willing to take?”
He sneered at her, then released her neck and stepped back. “The next time you try anything, I’m breaking your arm.”
She heard the truth in his words and knew he meant it. Head held high, she watched him leave, waited for the door to close and lock before expelling the breath she’d been holding.
Upon which she started to shake.
* * *
Ensconced in darkness, Murry listened to the slow drip of water that had kept him company since his arrival. He never should have allowed his captors to take him or his mistress. He should have fought.
But they’d been outnumbered. Six to three, if he’d counted correctly. They’d also had the advantage of surprise. Had he stood his ground, they’d likely have killed him before he managed to do any damage. It would have been a wasted death since they’d still have taken Mrs. Croft.
At least this way they’d taken him too, though likely to a different location.
He questioned the logic of such a decision since it meant the group would have spread itself thin.
Unless, of course, it was all a ruse to make him and Mrs. Croft think they’d been separated and had no hope of helping each other.
He tugged on the cord that bound his wrists behind the chair on which he sat. His ankles were tied to the legs, which made it impossible for him to stand. But if he could find some way to smash the chair to pieces, he’d be free and able to plan his escape.
Pushing up from the soles of his feet, he hopped to his right a couple of times. Just an inch or so before he was forced to sit back down and rest a moment.
He repeated the action, hopping and resting, until he met a wall.
Now for the challenging part. Carefully, he started tipping forward, onto his toes.
A pause to steady his breath and calm his movements allowed him to find his balance.
He inhaled as he swung the chair slowly away from the wall, then straight back against it with added force.
The only sound was a loud bang.
Undeterred by the strength of the wood he made another attempt. The chair smashed into the wall. Over and over, until Murry’s calf muscles screamed for him to give them rest.
He refused and stubbornly sent the chair into the wall once more.
A faint groan met his ears.
Panting, he finally sat and allowed himself to gather strength.
It seemed he was either unguarded or so secluded his captors couldn’t hear him or they would have come to see what the noise was about.
Hopefully this would remain the case a while longer, for it sounded as though the chair’s structure was finally starting to weaken.
He took another deep breath, resumed his position, and continued swinging the chair against the wall. Once…twice… His voice was hoarse as he kept on counting. Eleven…twelve…
Something snapped and he instantly felt the strain in his right arm ease. Part of the right back post had broken and this gave him hope. He resumed his efforts with force until additional splintering sounds filled the room. The chair’s backrest was breaking apart.
Stilling his movements, Murry resumed his seat and bent forward. The action raised his arms at his back and allowed him to feel for one of the broken slats. Finding one, he pushed the rope binding his wrists down against it, forcing the splintered remains of the slat between the coils of rope.
It didn’t take long before they started to slacken. A bit of added wriggling and he was able to pull his hands free, allowing him to work the rope that tied his legs to the chair.
Free at last, he blew out a breath and gave himself a moment to gather his strength. The room was still pitch dark. Not a window in sight, which meant his only escape would be through the door.
He stood, stretched out his limbs and rotated his shoulders, then dropped to a squat and searched for the best broken chair slat he could find. His hand connected with a sharp piece, and he curled his fingers around it.
Back on his feet, he prepared to seek out the door by using the wall for guidance, when a loud clanging echoed around him.
He turned in the direction from which it had come and watched a sliver of light appear in the darkness.
It spread, growing in size as the door swung open, revealing a man who matched his own size.
Murry stared at him for the second it took to assess the situation and make a decision. His captor appeared to do the same. He started raising his hand, drawing Murry’s attention toward the weapon he carried.
One more second of hesitation and he’d be dead, unable to help Mrs. Croft.
Gripping with all his might the piece of broken wood he held, Murry attacked.
* * *
Dissatisfied with the state of London affairs, the gentleman crossed to the window in his study and looked out onto the flowerbeds lining this side of the house. Though he enjoyed watching the daffodils grow, not even this joyful herald of spring was able to cheer him today.
Another murder had taken place last night. At Moorland House, no less. And just when Croft had started to pay attention — to aid the investigation — his wife was abducted.
According to the gentleman’s informant at Bow Street, Kendrick had done what he could to help Croft track her during the early hours of dawn.
But the chief constable also had a murderer to catch, and doing so would be harder the more time passed.
He couldn’t afford to turn his attention to other matters, but without Croft there to lend assistance, would he even succeed in his quest?
The gentleman watched a robin land on the stone path, tracking it as it proceeded to hop toward the back garden.
Mrs. Croft had to be found. Her disappearance and all it entailed was not a distraction London could afford.