Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

He lifted the cord, gripped it in his teeth, then grabbed first one of Penny’s hands, then the other, securing both in one of his on the other side of the bedpost, stretching her arms back so she couldn’t move. Only then did he take his knife from her throat, deftly placing it between his teeth as he removed the cord and quickly used it to lash her wrists together, effectively tying her to the post.

She mentally swore, searched desperately for something to slow things down, to delay or distract.

Fothergill tied the last knot, took his knife from his mouth, and moved around her; silent as a ghost, he glided toward Nicholas.

Who was still staring, unknowing, at the windows.

Penny kicked out as far as she could—and managed to tangle her feet and skirts in Fothergill’s boots. Fothergill staggered, tried to free himself, tripped, fell. His knife went skittering across the floor.

“Nicholas—run! Go! ”

Penny fought to keep Fothergill trapped, but he rolled away, wrenching free of her skirts.

Nicholas sprang to his feet, took in the scene, saw the knife lying free. His features contorted. Instead of obeying Penny, he flung himself on Fothergill.

“ No! ” Penny screamed, but too late.

Rolling on the floor, Nicholas grappled with Fothergill. Even had he been hale and whole, it would have been an uneven match. But Nicholas was injured and Fothergill knew where. Penny saw the punch aimed directly for Nicholas’s injured right shoulder, saw it land, heard Nicholas’s shocked, pained gasp. Fothergill’s next blow plowed into Nicholas’s jaw and it was over. Nicholas slumped unconscious; Fothergill clambered to his feet.

Swearing softly, continuously, in French.

From beneath lowered brows, his gaze locked on Penny.

She screwed her eyes shut and screamed—

He struck her savagely with the back of his hand.

Her head cracked against the bedpost, pain sliced through her brain. She sagged against the post, momentarily nauseated, dizzy, her wits reeling.

Fothergill swore viciously in her ear; she understood enough to know what he was promising. Then he moved away.

She dragged in a breath, forced her lids up enough to see. Through her lashes she watched as he swiped up his knife. Hefting it, he turned to her, then his gaze went past her—to the priest hole.

The glittering boxes distracted him. She didn’t move, sagging as if unconscious. He walked past her without a glance, paused on the threshold of the priest hole, then stepped inside.

Should she scream again? She had no idea whether there had been or would be anyone in the front of the house to hear. Her head was ringing; just thinking was painful. If she screamed again, now he had the knife once more in his hand…

Before she could decide if it was worth the risk, she heard a faint scraping sound. She thought it was Fothergill in the priest hole, but then it came again—she looked at the main door.

Nicholas had locked it, yet now it slowly, very slowly inched open.

She knew who stood in the shadows beyond even though, with the sun slanting in through the windows, with her eyes still watering with pain, she could only make him out as a vague shape.

Hope leapt and flooded through her. Her brain started to race. Opening her eyes wide, she frantically signaled to the open priest hole beside her. Not knowing where Fothergill was, she didn’t dare move her head, but he couldn’t see her eyes.

Slowly, clearly, Charles nodded, then silently closed the door.

Penny stared at the panel. What was he up to? Her head throbbed. She heard Fothergill’s footsteps on the priest hole’s stone floor; he was no longer slinking silently as he returned. Lowering her lids, she stayed slumped against the post, feigning unconsciousness.

Fothergill strode out of the hole; he marched straight past her to the side of the bed. She heard the tinkle of metal, then other, softer sounds…after a moment, she understood. He’d made his selection from her father’s collection and was stripping off a pillowcase to use to carry them.

He was loading the pillboxes into the case when the knob of the main door rattled.

“My lady?” Norris’s voice floated through the door. “Are you in there, my lady?”

Fothergill froze. Penny knew the door was unlocked; Fothergill didn’t.

In the next breath he was at her side, his knife in his hand, his gaze on the door. Then his eyes cut sideways—and caught the glint of her eyes before she shut them.

He moved so fast she had no chance to make a sound; he whipped a kerchief from his pocket, forced her jaw down, and poked the material deep into her mouth. She choked. It took a few seconds of wheezing before she could even breathe—screaming was out of the question. She couldn’t get enough breath even to make loud noises.

Satisfied he’d gagged her, Fothergill left her; silently crossing the room, eyes on the door, he went to the double windows, looked out, all around, then unlatched the windows and set them wide.

His escape route?

Turning, he looked at Nicholas, still slumped unmoving on the floor. Silently, he walked over, then hunkered down at Nicholas’s side. After a moment, Fothergill lifted his head and looked at her. Then he reached for Nicholas, hauling his unconscious form around so he half sat, slumped before Fothergill. Facing Penny.

Balancing Nicholas against his knees, Fothergill looked again at Penny. His knife flashed in his right hand as he raised it. A smile of inestimable cruelty curved his lips.

He was going to slit Nicholas’s throat while she watched.

Her mouth went dry. She stared.

And felt a cool draft drift across her ankles.

It could only come from the priest hole.

She screamed against the gag, flung herself against her bonds, stamped her feet—made as much noise as she could to cover any sound Charles might make.

Fothergill only grinned more evilly. He reached for Nicholas’s chin, drew it up.

His gaze deflected, going past her. His smile froze.

Charles appeared—was simply suddenly there—beside her.

“I think she means don’t do it.” He moved farther into the room, away from her. “Wise advice.”

He held a dagger, a much more wicked-looking weapon than the one Fothergill had; he turned it in his fingers, his dexterity screaming long and intimate acquaintance with the blade.

Fothergill saw. Understood. They each had a knife. If he threw his and missed killing Charles…

Quick as a flash, Fothergill threw his knife at Charles.

Charles dived, rolling back toward Penny. Fothergill’s knife hit the wall and bounced off, spun away, landing closer to Charles. Charles surged to his feet between Penny and Fothergill. He’d expected Fothergill to go after Penny, the best hostage, or if not that, the door, behind which half the household staff waited.

He’d forgotten the old rapier that hung on the wall above the mantelpiece. Fothergill flung himself at it, yanked it from the fixed scabbard. It came free with a deadly hiss.

His lips curled as he swung to face Charles.

With one quick, swirling turn, Charles grabbed up Fothergill’s dagger, crossed it with his, and met Fothergill’s first rush. Catching the rapier between the crossed blades, he steadied, then flung Fothergill back.

Fothergill staggered, but immediately reengaged.

Much good did it do him. Charles let his lips slowly curve. Despite the furious clashing of the blades, the sparks that flew as dagger countered flexing steel, within a minute it was clear that Fothergill wasn’t up to his weight, at least not in experience of the less-civilized forms of hand-to-hand combat.

The rapier was longer than Charles’s blades, giving Fothergill the advantage of reach, but Fothergill had never been trained to use the weapon—he wielded it like a saber, something Charles quickly saw. Trained to the use of every blade imaginable, he could easily predict and counter.