Chapter Thirty-Five
Franny awoke blind and befuddled. She wasn’t in her bed, and her tongue was tangled in something putrid tasting.
She attempted to rub her aching head, but her arms were tied to the chair.
She tried to move her feet, but her ankles were bound together.
Since she could wiggle her toes, and the bottom of her left foot itched and burned like the devil, at least she wasn’t dead.
Slowly, memories filtered in, and she shuddered in horror.
She had been looking for Edward and Harry when two vile men who smelled like a windowless tavern abducted her and carried her to a gig.
While fighting them off, she’d hit her head so hard she knocked herself out.
And now, here she was, a burlap sack over her head and strapped to a chair, and not in the exciting way Edward had restrained her.
These ropes cut into her skin, and the sack and gag were practically suffocating her.
She fought her desire to thrash about. Instead, she cocked an ear toward a faint conversation off to her side and eavesdropped.
“I say we cut the redheaded witch into pieces and dump her in the Thames. Then we leave a note for that ridiculous coach telling him his girl champion is next if he doesn’t shut down the boxing saloon. How dare he tempt women with false notions of equality?”
It was a good thing Franny was gagged because it muffled her outrage and kept her from calling attention to herself.
“No, Jackson. We stick with the original plan. We send a note to the coach telling him that if he ever wants to see his daughter again, he needs to close The Silk Knuckles Saloon immediately and permanently. Then we hold her captive until the sign is taken down and the building is empty.”
The man she assumed was Jackson harrumphed. “I’m worried about that big officer who follows her everywhere. He doesn’t seem like the type of man to take kindly to threats. He might come looking for us.”
“Mother says Williams isn’t happy about being next door to the house of she-devils. If the lawman gives us trouble, we’ll convince the vicar to lodge a harassment complaint with the magistrate. Besides, no man in their right mind is going to want that place to reopen.”
Franny knew it. The vicar had something to do with this. Still, she did not know these men or their mother.
Shuffling through her memories, Franny landed on the Mrs. Browns.
The older Mrs. Brown had mentioned having two sons.
“…both good men who have welcomed God into their hearts.” The younger Mrs. Brown’s eyes had been filled with desperation.
Now it all made sense. The timid woman wanted to learn to protect herself from her husband but had been afraid to approach Franny in front of her mother-in-law.
Perhaps her husband had found out and had tried to stop her.
If true, then his young wife’s interest in The Silk Knuckles might have intensified her beatings.
Good men, Franny’s arse. They were deplorable knaves, and when Franny freed herself, they would rue tangling with her.
Testing out the tension in the rope, she twisted her wrists.
As she suspected, the binds were tight. She attempted to circle her ankles, and the rope cut into her skin.
Interestingly, the men hadn’t secured her calves to the chair.
Maybe they had run out of rope. Or perhaps they were dimwitted and didn’t realize how strong her legs were.
The clod-pates were so single-minded they probably didn’t understand that women could kick.
A grave miscalculation on their part because this “red-headed witch” could crack a man’s skull between her thighs. Especially if she was angry.
Or furious.
“It seems the whore is awake,” one of the men said.
Franny winced. Unfortunately, she had called attention to herself with her subtle movement. She held her breath as their footsteps moved closer. One of the men rested his lips against her ear. Thank heaven for the burlap that kept their skin from touching.
“Do you understand that you are being punished for peddling nonsense to the fairer sex? What do you think will happen to these ladies after you turn them into heathens and no man wants them?”
If only Franny could talk so that she could tell them that these remarkably strong women were better off on their own than with abusive husbands.
One of the men ripped the sack from her head, yanking her hair in the process.
She blinked until her eyes adjusted to the light.
The men who stood before her could have been twins, except that an ugly thunderbolt scar started at one of the brothers’ brows.
It cut an angry path that split his eyelid, then traveled down his cheek.
The other brother was missing the top button on his rumpled tailcoat.
Hadn’t Edward mentioned finding a button?
“Do not try to yell for help,” Jackson said. “No one in this neighborhood will come to your rescue.”
Scowling, Franny perused the barely furnished, filthy space searching for an escape. A large window on the opposite side of the room. A couple of wooden chairs. Litter piled on the table. A mattress on the floor.
Franny concluded two things: Number one, she had no idea how to free herself. Number two, whichever brother lived here had fallen on hard times. How they managed a horse and a gig was anyone’s guess. Although arses like this were not above thieving.
“I’m going to take off the gag,” Jackson’s brother said. “Keep your voice down, or we will punish you. Do you understand?”
Wanting to be rid of both the gag and the knot that was choking her, Franny nodded in agreement. Truthfully, they could sod off. She had no intention of following their arbitrary rules.
Once he unwound the gag, Franny swallowed. What she wouldn’t give for a large cup of water.
“Where am I?” she croaked.
“Good try, wench,” Jackson said. “You will get no information from us.”
The name-calling was getting old.
“You won’t get away with this,” she said with all of the defiance she could muster. “Edward will find me.”
Jackson chuckled. “Eventually. But he won’t like what he sees.
” He turned his back to her to retrieve a knife from the overfull table.
When he faced her, half his mouth grinned.
The scarred side of his face twisted, and it was as if she was looking into the face of a monster.
Brandishing the knife like a child proud of a new toy, he bent over her.
“Lucky chit, my brother wants you alive for the time being. I agreed to the compromise as long as I get to carve up that pretty face of yours.”
How apropos. Then she could be as hideous as he. Sighing, she rolled her eyes. She would not be baited. He was a cowardly buffoon trying to intimidate her and she refused to take him seriously.
“Jackson,” his brother reprimanded. “We need her alive and unharmed if we are to make the deal.”
“Richard, I told you that wife of yours is making you sentimental,” Jackson hissed.
Richard must be Jane Brown’s husband, the poor thing. No woman should ever, for any reason, be saddled with such a burden.
“Mayhap,” Richard said with a snarl. “But at least I don’t have scars from a bloody whore.”
“Bugger off,” Jackson said.
The brothers engaged in an epic battle of glares. Perhaps if they exchanged their scowls for fisticuffs, and beat the shite out of each other, Franny could escape.
“Which of you is your mother’s favorite?” she asked.
They turned their angry gazes on her.
“What the bloody hell?” Jackson asked.
“She is trying to turn us against each other,” Richard said.
Franny itched to ask him why he had been cut. She wagered he hadn’t paid for services rendered. Or maybe he had gotten too rough. Probably both. Inquiring into his business would not garner the results she needed; however, a bit of manipulation would.
Feigning indifference, she shrugged. “Richard, when your wife and mother visited my gymnasium a few weeks ago, your mother mentioned she had two sons. She said one was an angel going to heaven and the other a devil going to hell. Jackson,” she rambled on, “I wager that after the prostitute sliced you up, you decided to punish all women. I suspect you also convinced your brother that the best way to handle his wife was to beat her. ’Tis rather pathetic when you think about it.
One brother gets a lovely wife and the other has to go to a brothel for cunny. ”
Jackson lunged, pressing the tip of his knife into her neck. He lowered his face until their noses were inches apart. Every time he growled, his saliva spattered her cheeks. “Go tack that note on the door, brother. Before I make this witch as ugly as me.”
Well, that had not gone as planned. Instead of making the brothers turn against each other, she’d incurred the devil’s wrath all to herself.
Jackson pulled the blade back, and relief coursed through her. But a second later, he settled the tip against her cheek.
Blast, he wasn’t bluffing. He truly was going to mark her face. As terrified as she was, she could not let these men know. Beneath their bluster, they were cowards who were petrified of women. She must use that fear.
She met Jackson’s gaze and stared into his putrefied soul. “I am not afraid of you.”
Growling, he stepped back. The knife caught a ray of sunlight shining through the window. If only someone would peek in, see Franny, and come to her rescue. Unfortunately, she suspected that no one would take notice, or care, if they were in one of the rookeries.
Jackson stabbed her cheek. A trickle of sticky blood dripped. As much as she wanted to cry out and beg him to stop, she couldn’t. If she meant to save herself, she must remain brave, think clearly, and fight back.
Maybe she could kick him in the bollocks.
She’d have to lift both legs simultaneously since they were tied together, but she could manage that.
She had one chance to inflict pain because after that, they would anchor her calves to the chair’s legs.
Ultimately, her sally wouldn’t save her because she would still be their prisoner, but it might buy her time and halt the incision Jackson was slowly and gleefully carving into her face.
You can do this, Franny assured herself repeatedly as she steadied her nerves. Ignoring the burning in her cheek, she squeezed her ankles together and engaged her quad muscles at the same time that a face appeared in the window. She blinked and looked again.
Edward brought his index finger to his lips.
The brilliant man had found her. Edward Robinson would forever be her hero.