Chapter Thirty-Three
Franny’s slippers slapped the floor as she paced the length of the gymnasium.
She hadn’t realized how annoying the unrelenting clap of her short stride was until now.
Of course, she’d never spent an evening alone in the massive space fretting about the whereabouts of the man she loved.
Halting her frenetic movements, she tried to think clearly but failed miserably.
Frustrated, she again paced.
An epiphany at last. Perhaps Edward and Harry were seeing to something outside.
Maybe a shingle had come loose. Or perhaps they were checking on how the repairs were holding up.
Although most likely they were enjoying one of the last warm nights before the autumn chill settled over London.
Whatever the case, fresh air would do her good.
Laughing at her missishness, she grabbed one of the lanterns, exited the gymnasium, and inhaled.
To think, less than a year ago, if she’d taken a deep breath, she’d have choked on the foulness permeating St Giles.
Here, on the front stoop of The Silk Knuckles, the breeze tickled her skin, invigorating her.
Holding her lantern high, she searched the arc it illuminated. In the distance, a few carriages moved about, and a gig she didn’t recognize was parked in front of the church. No surprise there because masochistic parishioners desiring self-flagellation often visited the nasty vicar.
Even though her surroundings were as they should be, her unsettled fears returned.
“Edward! Harry! Are you out here?” she called.
The chirping crickets answered, their stridulations eerily echoing.
Even though the men were probably around back enjoying the lovely night, prickles of trepidation crawled up her spine.
Her steps tentative, Franny cautiously patrolled the perimeter of the building, her senses on high alert. A loud, hooting startled her. Halting at the back corner of her property, she peered through the darkness, praying her night companion wasn’t a vengeful ghost.
Hoot. Hoot. Hoot. Two glowing eyes peered down at her.
The moment called for a self-depreciating chuckle. “Silly goose,” she said with her laugh. This wasn’t the first time that the owl that normally roosted in the church tower had startled her. She quickly sobered. How could she step back into the ring if even a bird of prey unnerved her?
Something crackled as if a large animal had stepped on a branch.
The sound was much too loud to be a night critter.
Or a cat. Or a dog. And it certainly wasn’t the blinking owl.
It sounded like a bear, but since when did bears roam around London?
Gooseflesh erupted, and Franny’s entire body tingled, but not in the magical way it did when Edward touched her.
Someone or something besides the owl was watching her.
Her best guess was that her stalker hid behind the greenery that separated the church and The Silk Knuckles.
Her heartbeat sped up and pounded so loudly that the rhythmic whoosh of pumping blood echoed in her ears. She needed to get to safety. Once she was inside her building, she would lock the door and wait for sunrise. Since she didn’t want to instigate a chase, she moved slowly.
Something behind her crunched. If someone was hiding near the hedgerow beside her, and someone else was behind her, she was surrounded. She needed to charge straight ahead. She picked up her pace and did just that.
The tramp of heavy footsteps followed her.
There was no mistaking the danger; Franny was being hunted.
She took off, sprinting the length of the building.
She was almost to the front corner when someone grabbed her around the waist. Her lantern toppled to the ground.
It broke and then fire flared on the path, burning the spilled oil and the hedge.
“I got her,” a man yelled.
She elbowed her attacker.
“Ouch, bloody hell.” He grunted and let go of her.
She dashed forward but didn’t make it far because a second man’s arm locked around her neck, cutting off her airway.
Franny gripped his forearm and lifted, ducking beneath it.
In one smooth move, she came out on the other side of him, twisted his arm, pinned it to his back, and shoved him away from her.
He lost his footing and fell face-first, taking his partner to the ground with him.
While the men rolled about trying to get to their feet, she stomped on the fire and then slid out of her blazing slipper.
She simply, no matter what, could not allow her building to catch fire again.
Picking the shoe up by the heel, she slapped it on the ground until the flames fizzled.
Half hobbling, half-sprinting, on her blistered foot, she dropped the charred leather onto the ground.
Her action gave her attackers time to recover.
Meaty paws grabbed her arms and yanked, then pinned them behind her.
The owner of the rough hands pushed his hips into hers, knocking her backward and off balance.
She was powerless with all her weight in her heels, and her shoulder blades pressed against his torso.
She attempted to slam the back of her head into his face but was met with air and maniacal laughter.
“Whore,” the man spat in her ear. A noxious mixture of cheap gin and stale smoke blew across her neck.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she asked.
“To keep you from spreading your wicked ways to the women of London,” he said. “I will see you dead before I let you poison my wife.”
Who was his wife? He didn’t sound like an aristocrat, and to her knowledge, their newest student, Roseanna Chapman, wasn’t married. Franny sorted through all of her companions, coming up blank.
And then a terrifying thought hit her. These men might have harmed Edward and Harry. She had to free herself and find them.
Before she could ask him who his wife was or scream for help, the second man lunged in front of her. Between the dark night and a mask that hid half his face, she couldn’t discern his features. He wrapped a gag around her face, shoved the knot into her mouth, and tossed a sack over her head.
She kicked and gave muffled screams as they hoisted her off her feet.
One held her hands, the other her ankles.
She swung between them like a sagging bridge as they carried her.
Assuming they meant to toss her into the gig parked in front of the church, she wriggled and thrashed with everything she had.
“If you know what is good for you, you will stop fighting us,” one of the men said.
She would tell him to go to hell if her mouth weren’t full of foul-tasting fabric.
“How in the devil are we going to get her into your gig?” the man holding her arms asked. “And once we do, she’s gonna have to ride on my bloody lap.”
“If she’d stop squirming like a headless chicken, she’d be light,” the other said.
She’d be damned if she’d make this easy for them.
Besides, she had to escape in case Edward and Harry needed her.
She kicked out her arms and legs at the same time.
She wobbled in their grip, and her head hit something hard.
An excruciating pain, unlike anything she’d ever experienced—and she’d taken her share of facers—seared her brain.
How ironic. It wasn’t a blow to her brain in the boxing ring that stole her intellect. Her demise was to come from smashing her head into…something… while being abducted by misogynistic apes. How utterly devastating and disappointing.
“Serves you right, whore,” one of the men said, his voice fading to a faraway whisper.
Wait! What served her right? What was happening to her? Edward? Where was Edward? Franny’s world whirled into a single point of nothingness.