I can get away.” The lights in the room flashed, blinding her eyes, making her head swim. “I can get away. Do you hear me?”
He didn’t answer.
Again.
Why wouldn’t he talk to her?
She crossed the room to the mantel, ran her hand down the smooth length of it. “After Peter is safe, you can get help. There is nothing … nothing to fear.”
The floorboards creaked with his steps. Pacing, always pacing. In the name of heaven, why wouldn’t he speak?
Hurt carved into her chest, slicing, reshaping. Dear God, how shall I bear this? Sick everywhere, aching everywhere. So many lights in the room. Why were they so bright?
She rubbed her eyes. “It will be midnight in but a few hours. I had better change for riding.” She made it no more than three steps before he seized her.
He held her at arm’s length. Slowly drew her closer to him. “Go to your bedchamber and lock the door. Do not come back out.”
“You ask the impossible.”
“Ella—”
“No.”
His face in hers, breath tingling her skin. “You cannot think I would surrender you to such a man. I will not.”
“At the price of your son?”
“My son would not want this.”
“But I do.” She tore away from him. “And I will not bear having a child’s life on my hands—nor can I expect that of his father.”
“We would never get you back.”
We?
“He would be gone with you before I could get help … before I could save you.”
I know.
“If you tried to escape, he would kill you.”
Then let me die.
“Ella.” He grabbed her again, pressed her against him. “Ella, this is not the way. We shall save Peter. I shall save Peter.”
“How?”
His lips firmed.
“How, my lord, do you propose to save your son’s life?”
The words must have cut because he stepped away from her so abruptly that he nearly stumbled. He marched from the room and sent the door crashing shut behind him.
There was no pain in gathering the money, in placing it in a woolen bag, in tying the string to secure it.
Henry sank behind his desk. From somewhere in the house, a clock chimed eleven o’clock. Oh, how he wanted to pray. Never wanted to pray so badly in his life.
Yet he couldn’t.
He sat still in his chair, hands spread out in front of him, and couldn’t form a single word.
Minutes sped by.
One.
Two.
Three.
Grabbing the bag, he went to find Ella. The drawing room was empty, so he limped up the stairs and rapped twice on her door.
No answer.
“Ella, let me in.” He pushed the knob and slung open the door.
No figure on the bed or by the window or occupying the small chair. Only one thing caught his eye, a wrinkled dress tossed into the floor in a heap.
A green dress. The same one she’d been wearing earlier when she’d wanted to change into a riding habit, when she’d wanted to …
No. Henry hobbled back down the stairs, the money in his clutch. No.
Night air pulled her hair from its pins as she lunged for the path. Her boots skidded over rock, sand, grass, until the slope evened into the beach.
I must do this. Over and over. Half coherent. A helter-skelter ghost racing the corridors of her mind. God, I must do this.
Her gaze swept from the shadowed rocks to the path growing more distant with each step. The ocean rumbled behind her as if taunting the lack of escape.
Where was Becker?
He should have been here. He should have been waiting. He should have had Peter with him, as he’d promised.
Or was the letter a lie?
No, no.
Couldn’t be a lie, because that would mean her life was sacrificed for naught, her death sealed for—
“There.”
A scream caught halfway up her throat, one second before a hand seized the nape of her neck.
“There,” came the breath again. “My little biddy at last.”
She didn’t have time to answer, to move.
Hard metal struck her skull and drove her into the sand. Her vision blurred with pain, a ringing filled her ears. The world spun around.
“A little early, are you not, biddy?” He swung her over a shoulder. “Not that I don’t gain pleasure from your presence.”
Odors of cheap port and unwashed flesh fumed from his clothing as he deposited her at the base of the cliffside.
She landed on a rock, rolled, and sank into moist sand. Her vision cleared enough to see him looming over her. Fear dried her mouth.
“Lost a bit of spirit, eh?”
Her tongue slid over her lips.
“At our last encounter, you were a mite more … vigorous, it seems.” He snatched her chin. “But we shall have plenty of time to discover your more exciting side, my maiden.”
“Peter.” Her jaw flexed under his touch. “Where is he?”
“Lying behind those rocks over there.”
“Is he—”
“Aye, he is dead, little biddy. But let us not say a word until after his lordship appears with our request, hmm? I should not wish to be unrewarded.”
Anguish gnashed at her, biting, ripping—until she clawed at his hand. “No.” A scream, but his hand clamped over her mouth. No, no, no.
“There it is,” he said. “A bit of life back into your feisty little soul. But come now, let us be rational. Do you really think I would do such harm to a little one—especially one of such great, shall we say, worth?” Amused eyes drew closer to her face. “Now, let us discuss other matters, for I do not wish to see this little meeting go awry, do you?”
She shook as he pressed her harder against a rock. The pressure of his hand stifled her breath, choked her.
“I had not counted on the lordy sending you down alone, but no matter. Just stay here out of my way, and I shall return to you with the money. You’ll be happy to know I traded my cumbersome wagon for a steed, so our escape will be quite simple.”
Peter …
As if sensing her thoughts, his hand loosened. “The little one shall come with me. An even trade. I foresee no gunplay, as I am certain his lordship would not pay so great a price, only to risk his son’s death afterward.”
“Y–you cannot think he will let you go unfollowed.”
“Quite true, my maiden. But you see, I have already thought of this too. Why do you think I insisted on Miss Pemberton?” Voice thickened. Hands threaded through her hair. “Surely you are not so vain as to think I wanted you merely for pleasure?”
From behind his shoulder, something snagged her gaze.
A lantern.
Becker shifted on his haunches and followed her stare, then he uttered an oath. “Here at last, my biddy.” With a gun pulled from his trousers, he weaved his way through several rocks, disappeared behind the largest, and pulled out a small figure.
Peter.
Walking, breathing, living.
Alive. She cupped her hands over her mouth, muffling broken sounds. Dear God, he is alive.
She watched as Becker hauled him out onto the beach. Stood a few feet away from Henry’s rigid stance. Waited until the bag was thrown to Becker’s feet.
Then Peter lunged forward. He tackled the legs of his father, became swallowed into arms that embraced him.
Ella’s mind caved. She tried to look, to keep contact—but Henry was already carrying Peter away, and Becker was sprinting toward her.
“Fight me now, and I’ll kill you.” He snatched her arm with a panicked grip. “Now run.”
God, please. Her legs pumped, digging into the sand. Twice, she slipped, but he yanked harder and dragged her on until finally they reached a horse.
He tossed her onto the saddle. “Hold this.”
A heavy bag was shoved into her chest, then he heaved himself up. His arms enclosed her. Trapped her. Terrorized her.
My God, help me.
The horse charged into a gallop. No shots rang after them, not even the pound of horses or the shouts of men.
Not that she fathomed there would be. Not enough time. Only seconds, minutes—yet already, they were so far away. How long would it take Henry to get Peter into the house, how long before he grabbed a gun, and how much distance would be put between them while he saddled his horse?
Agony doubled her over with cries that had no sound. Dear God, no.
Because Henry had been right.
There was no escape.