Lanky shadows and thick mist did not look very inviting. In fact, it gave Sabrina a sense of pending doom. Her doom. She was just being foolish, she tried to convince herself. London was a foreign land. Of course she was nervous to wend through it on her own. But she had no other choice in the matter. She had to get away from Anthony. She had to try to forget him. If she didn’t, her heart would be eternally chained to his. And that was a tragic fate indeed. To be tied to one man without any hope of ever being with that man.
It was too much for her to bear. She had to move on. She had to take a chance at a new life. She might even come to be happy again, if she ever found another tribe to join.
Her bag of belongings flattened against her chest like a shield of armor, she hastily moved away from the grand townhouse, glancing down either side of the walkway to confirm she was indeed alone. A shrill voice inside her head insisted she stop, turn around, and get back inside the safe haven of Anthony’s house. She didn’t listen to that voice. It was just the gloomy silhouettes of the buildings in the distance that rustled her fears. She would learn to conquer her trepidation of the city, to accept and get accustomed to the fog of London. Why not sooner rather than later?
The sudden thought of always being alone in such a dour place made her pause and pivot. She looked back at Anthony’s townhouse. Soft light flickered through the sheers of the main floor windows. Such a warm and inviting glow, she reflected. Her gaze lifted to the second level, where another streak of light spilled through Anthony’s bedroom window, a beacon summoning her home.
What rubbish!
She twisted on her heels again and headed stealthily through the street. Anthony’s home was not her home. She had to accept that. She had to move away from any illusions to the contrary.
Sabrina lowered her gaze to her booted toes, watching them disappear beneath the churning mist with each hastened step. Her heels clicked the cold pavement in faint strikes. It was so hushed, it was a wonder she hadn’t heard the footfalls behind her before it was too late.
A hand broke through the thick shadows, smothering her lips before she could scream. She didn’t think to struggle, not once she felt the cusp of a blade prick her in the back.
“Rather good of you to come out of there,” rasped a strange voice by her ear. “Saves us the trouble of having to go in after you.”
Nerves humming, Sabrina listened to the steady approach of creaking axle wheels. Sweat pooled at the base of her spine. On impulse, she sent her heel swinging into her assailant’s shin.
The ruffian cursed, lurched in reflex, but maintained his tight grip on her face, winding the blade around her waist and wedging it just under her chin.
She sucked in a sharp breath, trying to make some room between the cold cutting edge and her neck.
“Inside,” barked the voice, nudging her toward the now stationed carriage.
The door opened from the inside, revealing another kidnapper, and the driver in the top seat made the band of three complete. Three villains. She could think of no one who would want her so desperately save Gillingham.
Sabrina rooted her heels in the pavement, pushing back against one assailant’s chest, while trying to evade the other’s reach. But a mighty shove sent her crashing to the floor of the carriage. She gave a piercing shriek in the seconds before a foul sack was draped over her head, suffocating her.
“Stop with the hysterics or I’ll squeeze ‘til you’re quiet.”
And to support his threat, the fiend strengthened his hold on the sack, wringing the very breath from her lungs. Sabrina grappled frantically at his fingers, hard as rocks. Her neck felt as if it was about to snap, the pressure was so great. Before she lost all her waking senses, she stilled. Quiet as a mouse, she sat in trepidation at the cat’s feet, waiting to learn whether she would live or die.
Ready to weep with joy when those thick fingers finally loosened their grip on her throat, she slumped forward, weak and lightheaded. Sputtering, wheezing, she gasped for precious air. But she didn’t touch the sack around her head. She didn’t dare. Wherever the bandits were taking her, they didn’t want her to see where she was going. And she’d oblige them for now. She had little strength left to defend herself against three brutes. If she attempted to remove the sack now, she’d likely get a smack across the head for her efforts, and as dizzy as she was, Sabrina couldn’t risk losing consciousness. She had to stay alert. She had to regain her strength. She would need both when the time came to escape.
The carriage lurched in motion and took off at a high speed. The chance of escape grew bleak with each passing moment. By the time the carriage had rolled to a halt, Sabrina not only had a sack around her head, but her wrists were trussed with coarse rope that chafed her skin and made it blister and bleed. The blood had stopped flowing once she’d ceased trying to wriggle free of the binds, dry crusted scabs having formed over her tender wounds. She didn’t feel the pain. Drenched in a cold sweat, her belly in tight knots, she thought only of her one chance to escape. And it was upon her, that one chance. She heard the door of the carriage swing wide open, felt the weight inside shift as one kidnapper stepped down.
She waited for a brute to haul her out of the carriage. The second her feet touched the ground, she was off.
Bound and blindfolded, though, she didn’t get very far. Within seconds, arms grabbed her, but she didn’t submit quietly. She kicked and thrashed ‘till her toes stung.
It was only when the same vicious hand as before came to close around her neck and squeeze, that she gave up the struggle entirely.
“So we have ourselves a little spit-fire, do we?” Cruel laughter was followed by a wallop to her behind. “That was for trying to get away.” Another hard smack. “That was for all the kicks.” The brute then leaned in close to warn, “And if you try anymore tricks, you’ll get one hell of a beating—and you won’t have your skirt for padding next time.”
Tears gushed forth, followed by hot bile rising in her chest, burning her throat. She was dragged. She couldn’t fathom to where, but with each wretched step she was forced to take, the phantom hand of despair tightened around her heart.
To offset the panic welling in her breast, her thoughts turned to Anthony. At least he was safe—for now. So long as Gillingham believed she had the locket, he would not harm the viscount. But the ruse could not go on forever. Gillingham wanted the locket. Since she didn’t have it, he would eventually go after Anthony. After all, she was seen coming out of the viscount’s townhouse. Gillingham would naturally suspect she and Anthony were cohorts in some scheme, concealing the locket and its secret.
A chill fell over her. The panic was back. How was she going to protect Anthony? How was she going to convince Gillingham the viscount was not involved in this miserable affair?
There was a cruel irony to her present predicament. Having abandoned Anthony with the intention of forgetting all about him, she found herself in a situation where she could do nothing but think of him. And fret over him. And yearn to be with him. Forget Anthony? She was a fool to have thought it was possible.
Sabrina was forced to stop. Orders were shouted to open the gates. And they were massive gates by the sound of the loud wail of rusted hinges. The true horror of her situation didn’t kick her in gut until she heard the moans. There were so many voices, so many sobbing pleas and aching howls. Such misery. Her heart sank to her toes in an instant.
A fierce tug at her arm urged her to move on. She wouldn’t budge. Fixing her heels to the ground, she resisted taking another step.
“That beating is looking ever more promising,” came the threat.
Curse the devil and his promises of pain! Did he think she would simply walk into hell without a whimper of protest? She wanted to rail and brawl and cleave to the fresh spring air. But her captors were impatient and so much stronger than her. She was whisked through the gates, stumbling over her own feet in the haste.
The low boom of heavy wood doors closing behind her, echoed throughout the space. Her bones shuddered in response.
Trapped.
“This way!” came the barked order, and she was pulled along in a roughshod manner, still unable to see her surroundings.
Her other senses were working just fine, though, and what she picked up on made her stomach churn. A dank stench filtered through the thick burlap sack over her head. A bitter odor of sweat and filth. Her nostrils flared in offense of the stinging intruder, so foul, it made her gag. She whisked her head from side to side in an attempt to fan away the pungent scent, but the rapid movements only sent pain to her temples, and she was compelled to steady herself. Once she did, she heeded the oddly soft floor beneath her feet, so slimy and clammy, she could feel the icy wetness seep through her leather boots and bite her toes.
Her salty tears brought her some mild relief, cooling her burning cheeks, all scratched and raw from the rough sack. But tears alone could not alleviate the crushing weight that was pushing down on her chest, squeezing her heart. A weight of utter agony, as she moved further and deeper into the hell that would become her home for the next few . . . hours? Days? Weeks? She had no idea. Heaven forbid it was years. Years of isolation and perhaps torture, until she turned into one of those groaning, howling voices herself.
Another door opened.
The hairs on her arms bristled at the sound of the whining hinges. With a swift movement, the binds at her wrists were severed, and she was shoved inside a room. A small room, for she collided with a wall almost straight away.
The sack was the first thing to go. She whipped it off her head, the cool air dousing her flushed features. In the moments it took her to get accustomed to the low light, it was gone. Darkness fell over her once more, the door swinging shut with a thunderous bang.
Alone.
Sabrina just stood there, quietly staring at the thin, luminous crack under the doorframe. How she wished she was small enough to fit through that crack and scramble on to freedom.
But maybe there was another way to escape? She glanced around and quickly discovered her eyes were of little use to her. Instead, her trembling hands went up to press against the wall. A rutted and dewy stone wall. She moved along the frosty surface, dust and debris crumbling through her wide-spread fingers.
Nothing.
The space was so small, she had circled every inch of it in a matter of minutes and found nothing. No hole in the corner, no weakness in the door. Nothing to help her escape. Only a small barred opening high above her head provided the room with air and a faint source of light. Too faint to be practical. A ghostly pale glow from the outdoor lanterns filtered in, but with the vines twisting around the iron bars, obscuring much of the opening, only a trickle of illumination made its way into the . . . what? Dungeon? Is that where she was?
Sabrina suddenly found it hard to breathe. She was, in fact, gasping for air, but she couldn’t seem to get enough of it. The thought that she might remain here, penned in this squalor for the rest of her days, ripped at her heart. She would die in confinement. Her entire life up to this point had been spent wandering in open spaces. Her spirit wouldn’t endure two days in captivity before it withered away.
That, in the end, might be her sole means of escape, she concluded in sorrow.
Death.
Wedging her shivering body in a corner, she sank to the soiled ground, her knees pressed up tight against her chest, her arms twisting around her legs. There she sat, rocking and cradling herself, weeping for comfort.
God, how she missed Anthony. How much she yearned to be with him at this very moment. To feel secure in his tight hold. To hear his deep and soothing voice. To see his beautiful green eyes smiling at her.
Someone was coming.
Her gaze darting to the thin beam of light under the doorframe, Sabrina saw nothing yet, only heard the poundings of quick and determined steps making their way toward her cell. At last shadowed feet appeared beneath the door.
The lock snapped and the door swung open.
She instantly knew who it was. “Gillingham.”
The rangy figure stepped into the dungeon, lantern in hand. He was alone. It would take only a second to slam her shoulder into his chest, send him stumbling backward into the corridor, and make a dash for her life.
But she didn’t shift from her corner. One look into his eyes, murky brown pools of mud, and she was pinned to the spot. She knew that look well. A look of disgust and loathing. A look she had so often received from gadjas throughout her life. But there was something more beneath his piercing stare of disdain. A reflection of cruelty. And despite his slender frame, she sensed intuitively that he would snap her in two if she tried to tackle him.
The door closed softly behind him. “So you think you know who I am, do you?” His voice was scantly above a whisper, and yet so cutting, she could feel his every word jab her in the chest. “What is in a name? It reveals nothing about one’s character. It certainly doesn’t tell you anything about my capabilities—which are varied indeed.”
He set the lantern on the ground and crouched across from her. She saw the hard lines etched across his face. Lines of long suffering frustration. And of resolve. Invincible resolve.
“I believe you have something of mine.” His gaze dropped to her neck in search of the gold locket. “Where is it?”
There was no sense in pretending ignorance. His aura of impatience and brutality convinced her it would be foolish to tangle with him. But she wasn’t about to reveal the truth either. To tell him that Anthony still had the locket would mean certain death for the viscount. And she would endure the torture before she allowed any harm to come to Anthony.
“I don’t have the locket anymore.” And then, before Gilingham could clout her for her willful response, she added hastily, “I lost it in the struggle with your men.”
But he didn’t look like he was going to smack her. His fingers rested quietly between his spread legs. It was the fire stirring in his copper brown eyes that had Sabrina’s teeth clicking together in swift succession.
“So you’ve lost the locket? That is a shame.” With a shake of his head, he made a tsking sound. “And here I thought this was going to be a simple exchange. Your peaceful death for my locket.” He heaved a sigh of feigned distress. “I see it will prove more complicated than that.”
“I told you, I don’t have the locket,” she grit through teeth and tears alike, gathering her crumpled wool skirt tight between her fingers.
He leaned in just a smidgen to whisper, “The trouble is I don’t believe you.” He then rocked back on his heels. “Now, how to nudge your memory? Let me see. A fortnight in dark isolation might help you to remember the locket’s location. Unfortunately, I can’t wait a fortnight. So that leaves me with a rather regrettable alternative.”
Sabrina’s muscles, pinched taut in apprehension, jerked wildly at the sound of the sudden shrill scream that ripped through the building.
Gillingham only grinned. “That must be Lizzy. Perhaps it’s time we find her a replacement? I think you’ll do very nicely.”
“W-what will you do with me?”
“Well, you see, very beautiful women like yourself, who happen to find themselves locked away in here, will occasionally find themselves chained to a wall, where respectable gentlemen—who pay a small fee of course—are free to make merry havoc with their bodies.”
Sabrina gulped back a sob. She suddenly wanted to howl like all the other miserable souls trapped in hell. She kept her trembling lips pressed together, though. She wouldn’t give Gillingham the sadistic pleasure of witnessing her fear. And to stop from shrieking, she bit the inside of her cheek hard, the warm blood seeping through one corner of her mouth.
“Why don’t I give you some time to think about my proposition?” He lifted to his feet, lantern in hand. “And I advise you to think carefully on the matter. A quick death is so much more appealing to torture. You have until dawn to decide.”
The boom of the closing door was like a death knoll.
A choice? It was the last thing she had. For torture or no, she would never endanger Anthony’s life. That was final and absolute.
And so, the sorrow she had tried to hold back from Gillingham now came rushing forth. Sobs which only she heard and in which only she drowned.