Each step took her further from safety, further from the ball. She had to get away. He pushed her again, and she tripped, twisting as she did so. Her sudden movements left her captor slightly off balance and, ignoring the shrieking from the roots of her hair, she stomped down hard on his foot. His grip faltered, and she struck out again, clawing at anything she could lay hold to, punching and tearing at whatever her fingers encountered. When he jumped back, she pulled free with a wrenching twist, reeling at the jagged stab of pain as a several strands of her hair ripped out.
But the stinging burn of pain was nothing compared to her panic. She staggered forward, tripping over her long skirts, then hiked them up and ran. The sharp stones of the path bit through the sensitive skin of her foot. Somewhere she’d lost one of her slippers, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but escape. He was behind her, blocking the path to the house, so she cut toward the stables, praying someone—a servant, a groom—anyone would be there.
Behind her she heard her assailant grunt, swear, and then follow her with quick, heavy footsteps. She pulled at her last reserves and increased her speed. Topping a small rise in the path, she saw the stable complex before her. Her heart sank at its deserted appearance, but she kept running. It was her only chance.
Hoping the stables only looked abandoned, she screamed. The sound was barely audible. She would have ripped the gag off, torn the foul cloth from her mouth, but she needed her hands to hold her cumbersome skirts at her knees. Her overtaxed lungs gasped for air, but she told herself to keep moving. She was almost there.
She raced down the small hill, conscious that her attacker was right behind her now.
His footsteps were louder. Pounding.
Just a few more yards. If she could just keep ahead of him...
Cutting pain bit into her foot, and she floundered. It was all the opportunity her pursuer needed.
Merciless arms gripped her, throwing her to the ground. She thrust her hands out in a vain effort to ease the fall, but her cheek hit the hard dirt and she tasted bitter earth on her lips. Her breath knocked out of her, but not her will to fight. When the man’s hands gripped her around the waist, lifting her to her knees, she kicked and squirmed. He swore again as she wrested one arm free and twisted to claw at his face.
Instead of flesh, she felt the rough material of a hood. She grasped the material and pulled, but the man managed to take hold of her wrist, wrenching first it, then the other, behind her back. She fought for breath as he secured her with what felt like a coarse length of rope.
“I came prepared,” her captor panted from behind her. “Did you think you could escape me a second time?”
Using her bound arms, he dragged her to her feet. She still faced away from him, and he pushed her forward, toward the woods. Her heart seized. She’d have no chance among the shadowy, silent trees. She prepared to fight again, but then he seemed to change his mind. He shoved her in the direction of the dark tack house.
Through blurry tears, Francesca looked longingly at the stables. There was still a chance Ethan and Selbourne had gone there. But nothing stirred in the
silence. There was only the stomping of hooves, the rustling of horses settling in for the night, and the man’s ragged breath at her back.
She dragged her feet and pulled away from her attacker as he prodded her the short distance to the tack house. When they reached it, he shoved her against the building, opened the unlocked door, and pushed her inside.
She stopped fighting then. She needed to conserve her strength, what little remained, for the next opportunity of escape. She had three choices—the window beside Ethan’s makeshift desk, the door she’d just come through, or the small back door, which was rarely used and might even be locked.
The main door was her best hope, but her assailant was behind her, blocking it. As if reading her mind, he leaned close.
“Planning your escape? Won’t your lover be disappointed when you fail to meet him?” His voice was low and hoarse. “That’s why you were outside, isn’t it, Cesca?”
She flinched, her entire body convulsing at the obscene sound of her private nickname on his tongue.
He knew her. And she knew him too, though she couldn’t place how. From the beginning there had been something familiar about his voice, though he tried to disguise it. But something about the way he clipped his words tickled her memory. She forced herself to be calm, more observant, listen carefully.
He wheeled her around, clutching her neck with one hand. With a quick jerk, he pulled the gag from her mouth, then yanked the foul cloth out as well. She coughed, tried to breathe, but his grip on her neck tightened.
She stared into the darkness that was his face.
“I want your mouth free,” he rasped. “I want to hear your feeble pleas for mercy.”
His fingers flexed on her throat, and she looked into the black holes of his eyes. It was too dark in the room for her to see their color, and they were shadowed by the hood, but enough light spilled through the window so she could see they glittered coldly.
“Who are you?” she wheezed, forcing the words through the clench of his fingers on her neck. “Why are you doing this?”
He laughed. It was a high-pitched, hysterical cackle that scared her more than anything else he’d done.
“Because you deserve it, you little bitch.”
He pushed her back a step, and she struggled to maintain her balance.
“Why? What did I ever do to you?” Her last words were a barely audible gasp as his fingers flexed, all but cutting off her air.
“I think the question,” he said, trapping her against the plank serving as a temporary table, “is what willIdo toyou?”
