Chapter Forty-Three
I knew where I was before I opened my eyes.
How could I not? There was only one festering pit of hell in Linden that stank this badly of desperation, piss, and wet straw.
For a moment, just one, I was terrified I had dreamt it all—that I had never left this place. But, no, I felt the story playing
out on my body, the bruised aches and jagged pains. The hollowness that yawned open inside me.
I was alone. There was no telling how much time had passed, and maybe it didn’t matter; this was a hell that existed beyond
the reach of a clock’s hands. I steeled my heart against the tide of emotion that threatened to rise.
I was here, and I was alone. No one had come for me, and after what I’d done, I knew no one would.
Not until they stretched my neck at the gallows.
My cheek scraped against the rough ground as I shifted, trying to take account of myself. A harsh throb clanged through my
skull in time with my heartbeat, the worst of the agony centered on a spot just above my neck. Fire and needles rushed through
my arm as I lifted it, feeling along my head until it found that place where the pain emanated from. I hissed as I felt the
crust of dried blood.
Right. Brighten had been all too eager to put me down like a dog. The King’s mangled face and unseeing eyes flashed in my
memory.
I forced my eyes open. Darkness breathed around me, damp and freezing. A pile of straw lay just to my left and a suspiciously
familiar wood bucket to my right.
It couldn’t be . . .
I rolled off my stomach and onto my back, wincing as I jarred my ankle. My eyes drifted up along the cell’s crooked stone
wall until they found the message scrawled there. hell’s tits.
“Indeed,” I rasped out, turning to stare at the low ceiling. The bastards had put me back in the same damn cell.
My bravery lasted about as long as my sense of humor. A bleak feeling swept over me, rising from the pulse of my swollen ankle. If Branson was still alive, if he was still walking these halls, I wouldn’t be able to run.
A woman began to sob loudly from a nearby cell, and I felt every tear, every catch in her breath, as if it were my own.
My thoughts spiraled toward the shadows above me and I shivered, the damp ground soaking through the bodice of my dress. I
could only imagine what the others would think of me, once they’d heard what I’d done. After all the kindness they’d shown
me, inviting me into their home . . .
Home. Tears gathered at the edges of my eyes, threatening to spill down my frozen cheeks. I had been so close to having that.
Maybe it had been a dream, but, for a moment, it had been mine.
And Hugh . . . God, was he even alive?
I raised my fists to my eyes, pressing against them to stop the flow of tears before it could start. He would hate me for
this, and even if he lived, even if he desired to help me now, not even his title would protect me. The privilege of peerage
didn’t extend to high treason. I told him that myself. There had been witnesses to the death of the King.
The guard. The new, too-young Queen. My handing the physician the flacon. The way I’d stood there, shocked, doing nothing
to help. How I’d fled.
It’s the running that outs the guilt, as Arabella always said.
And I was guilty. I had gone there to make certain the King would die.
“Stop this,” I mumbled, trying to will the dark thoughts away. “Stop this. You have to find a way out.”
There is no way out, a voice whispered in my mind, but with a deep breath, I pushed myself up, lightheaded and dazed, crawling over on hands and
knees to the wall, to rest against it. I wouldn’t be lucky enough to find a weapon in the cell this time, I knew, but . . .
I eyed the bucket contemplatively. Perhaps something could be improvised.
Thunder rumbled overhead, somewhere beyond the prison. The walls growled with the force of it. Wonderful—the day had apparently
decided it could get worse.
Using my good foot, I caught the bucket’s handle and shifted it over several inches, to catch the rainwater that would come
pouring through the crack in the ceiling at any moment. But no rain came. Only another blast of thunder.
This one rattled the bones in my body and clattered the bars of every cell in the hall. The other women woke with startled cries as dust pelted us from the ceiling. I threw my arms over my head, covering it as best as I could.
That—that was not thunder.
Distant shouting rose, and I jumped at the report of gunfire. Heedless of the sharp bite of pain in my ankle, I clawed my
way up the wall, feeling the dirt and grit pack beneath my nails. I hobbled forward, catching myself on the bars of the cell.
I looked to the end of the hall just as the door there swung open with a metallic bellow.
A hooded figure appeared, thrusting a lantern into the darkness. The light illuminated the confused and anxious faces in the
other cells as it passed by. My heart sped with each step they took. Closer . . . closer . . .
I didn’t let myself believe they were here for me. Not until they stopped before my cell and turned, raising their lantern
to illuminate their face.
Shock raked its claws through me. It was a moment before I could find the words to speak.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”