She awoke in a moving carriage. Her head felt heavy, her throat raw. Sounds came and went, as if she were beneath a pillow or under water; the blowing of the horses, endlessly pounding hooves. A painful jolt as the wheels bumped through a rut.
She didn’t want to open her eyes. This didn’t smell like her own carriage; it was musty and filled with a strange, smoky odor. Opium. She knew the scent from Blackwall—many sailors, especially those from the east, favored the stuff over regular tobacco.
She cracked her lids apart, praying she was alone, and suppressed a groan. Josiah was sprawled haphazardly on the opposite seat, watching her with a smug, satisfied expression. A small oil lamp burned on a wooden crate next to him, and as she watched, he held the bulbous end of a long pipe over the flame and took a deep inhale. His exhale sent a thin stream of blue smoke in her direction.
She opened her eyes and struggled to sit up and found to her fury that her wrists and ankles had been tied. She coughed and waved her bound hands in front of her face to dispel the cloud. Anger warmed her veins. She’d been abducted! In broad daylight, by her slug of a cousin. She’d never imagined him capable of such stupidity.
Josiah sent her a blissful, relaxed smile. “Ah! You’re awake. I did worry I’d been a little rough with you. I’m glad that’s not the case.” He coughed, and it turned into a high-pitched giggle. He sounded unhinged. Had he lost his mind? She could escape him if he were slow and incapacitated. If only she could get free of her bonds. If he’d missed the knife in her boot she might have a chance.
She wriggled into a more upright position and scowled at him. “This is ridiculous, Josiah. Where are we going?”
He sent her a dreamy smile, took one last puff of the pipe, then set it aside and extinguished the little lamp. “Somewhere we can be completely private.” The way his gaze roamed over her body made her stomach curdle. “Always thought you were pretty,” he murmured. “Not as sweet as Juliet, of course, but I like your haughty manner. More of a challenge.” His lip curled, as if he’d been reminded of something unpleasant. “Wylde accepted that challenge, didn’t he, eh? You’re a real woman now. Know what it’s like to have a man between your legs.” He licked his lips. “You’ll find out again soon enough.”
She quelled a whole-body shudder.
“You think he’s shagging you because he wants you?” Josiah continued, his voice soft. “The whole ton knows he needs cash. His estates are mortgaged to the hilt. His brother’s scarcely managed to keep things afloat since their father cocked up his toes and left them neck-deep in debt.”
He smiled at her furious expression. “Ah yes, I’ve done some digging on your Mr. Wylde. He’s tried everything to make a shilling, you know. Cards. Horse races. Sharp-shooting contests. Those didn’t last long—he was too good. Nobody’s stupid enough to accept his challenge now.” He shook his head and shot her a sorrowful look of mock-sympathy. “His other women have all been beautiful. Experienced. Sophisticated. Why’d he want a fumble with a virgin, eh?”
“You don’t know anything about it,” Georgie snapped, stung to respond. “He knows he can’t touch my money. He signed the contract I had drawn up. He—”
Josiah scoffed. “He’s playing you like a fiddle. Just biding his time, waiting for you to fall in love with him, so you’ll change your mind and insist he has access to it all.”
Her voice shook with tightly controlled rage. “That’s not true!”
But Josiah’s words were like poison; he voiced every negative thought she’d ever had about her interactions with Benedict, all her insecurities. Was he only taking advantage of what she offered so willingly? Was he laughing at her eagerness? Her inexperience? Did he pity her? That would be unbearable.
She leaned her aching forehead against the cool glass pane of the window, even though it rattled horribly, and stared at the drab landscape flying past. It looked as though they were on the outskirts of London, but she had no idea where.
Josiah was wrong. Benedict wasn’t conning her. There was more between them than lust. They were friends. They enjoyed each other’s company, made each other laugh. And it went deeper than a shared sense of humor; they both believed in protecting family, no matter what. She would do anything for her mother, sister, Pieter. He would do anything for his brother, and for his family-in-war, his comrades at the Tricorn Club.
The difference between Benedict and Josiah was that Benedict wouldn’t sacrifice his own sense of honor to achieve his ends. He was a decent man beneath his cynical, playboy veneer. He’d earned her respect. Georgie blinked as everything came into sudden focus. Benedict didn’t just have her respect.
He had her heart. Her love.
Her chest pounded, and she almost laughed, despite the dire situation. How simple it was. She was in love with Benedict Wylde. Her own husband.
Josiah was still talking. “I’ll bet a rake like him’s taught you all sorts of whore’s tricks, hasn’t he? I used to think you were so cold.” He laughed, a thoroughly unpleasant sound. “It’s true what that say, though. Blood will out. You’re no highborn bitch with ice water in her veins, are you, Georgie? You’re your father’s daughter, a merchant’s brat. No better than a tavern wench.”
She was saved from answering when the carriage took a sharp turn between a pair of low stone markers. They hadn’t passed another dwelling for some time—only ploughed fields flanked the narrow track—and her sense of panic increased.
“Nearly there,” Josiah said cheerfully. “This is about the only place I haven’t had to sell. Used to be Great-Uncle Rupert’s hunting lodge. No one will disturb us here.”
That’s what she was afraid of.
The vehicle rocked to a stop, and Josiah climbed down and spoke briefly to the driver. Then the door on her side opened, and he reached in and grabbed her waist. Not wanting to risk being dropped, Georgie suffered his touch until he’d placed her on the patch of overgrown gravel, then she used the few inches of slack rope between her tied ankles to hobble away from him. She looked up at the tumbledown building in front of her with a sinking feeling.
“Hunting lodge” was too grandiose a description. The place was barely more than a cottage, with a roof that looked like it was about to collapse and several broken panes of glass in the front windows.
She tottered wildly around to face the driver. “Sir, please. Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll triple it.”
The man, a skinny, rat-faced fellow with sunken cheeks and dead eyes glanced at Josiah, then pretended he hadn’t heard her. He flicked the reins over the horses’ backs, and Georgie bit back a howl of fury as the carriage lumbered away.
“A hundred pounds!” she called after him desperately.
He didn’t even pause.
So much for helping a damsel in distress, the swine.
Josiah chuckled and unlocked the front door. It had dropped on its hinges, and he had to push hard to get it to open, but with a shriek of protest the wood scraped across the flagstones and he stepped inside.
“This way, my dear.”
With no other option, Georgie hobbled after him and into the first room on the right, a tiny front parlor with a fireplace filled with ashes and dead leaves, a shabby chaise longue, and an overstuffed armchair that seemed to have been recently inhabited by mice. The straw stuffing spewed out of it onto the floor as if it had been disemboweled.
Josiah indicated the chaise longue—only slightly less moth-eaten than the chair. “Have a seat. I’ll see if I can make a fire.”
As soon as he’d left the room, Georgie felt for her knife in her boot. Hell and damnation—it wasn’t there. He must have searched her whilst she was unconscious. The thought of his hands sliding over her body made her nauseous.
She made a quick search of the room, looking for anything she could use to free herself or use as a weapon, but there was nothing except a small mirror-backed wall sconce. If she could break it, she could use a shard of glass to cut her bonds. A few heavy-looking books sat on a bookshelf, their leather bindings dusted with white mold, but she doubted she’d be able to lift them with her hands tied.
Her stomach churned as she tried to imagine what Josiah planned. Did he mean to rape her? She clenched her jaw. If so, she wasn’t going down without a fight.
Josiah returned with an armful of logs and set about building a fire in the grate.
“Now what?” Georgie asked stonily.
“Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“Your husband.” He almost spat out the word. “He’s going to bring us the funds we need to get to the Scottish border. And I’m going to kill him.” He smiled at her horrified expression. “You’ll be a widow before the day is out, my dear. When we reach Gretna Green, you’ll marry me, without some ridiculous contract restricting my access to your fortune.”
Georgie tried to keep her voice calm. “How will Benedict know where to come?”
“I’ve sent instructions to the Tricorn.”
Her stomach dropped. “He won’t be there.” He’d already be in that tavern on Ore Street waiting for Johnstone.
“Then it will take him a while to get here. I’m sure we’ll be able to think of something pleasant to pass the time.”