She’d not saved herself, though.
Power returned to her limbs, a surge of defiance. Shewouldsave herself. And she would not have to do it alone. She needed to find Samuel.
She kicked at Parkington’s leg, stomping his foot. “I’m not marrying him. I am already—”
Her body dragged forward, her defiance silenced by the loss of breath as her father and Parkington yanked her limbs until she was imprisoned in the shadows of the hallway beyond the ballroom.
“One of my daughters will marry him,” her father said, his face so close to hers, she held her breath to keep from breathing his foul air. “For a considerable yearly price, you’ll marry him, and if it’s not you, it can be Glenna.”
Emma's heart stopped. Her tongue somehow still shaped the right words. “Glenna is too young.”
“Seventeen is as good an age as any to become a wife,” her father said.
Where was her knife when she needed it most? She’d unfold it, slip it between her father’s ribs, and twist. She’d cut a pretty red ribbon around Parkington’s throat. She had no knife. The only weapon currently at hand to save those she loved… her freedom.
Life slumped out of her, and the two men dragged her from the ballroom.
“Emma! Emma!” A sweet, high voice yelled over the buzzing chatter, and Emma managed to look over her shoulder as her father and betrothed pulled her down the hallway.
Felicity, pale and brave and screaming Emma’s name. Offering hope.
“Stop,” Emma begged. “Please. If you do not let me tell her where I’m going there will be a fuss. You must let me speak with her.”
“In front of me, lass.” Her father pinned her to his side. “No secret conversations.”
She shook her head, and Felicity surged toward them, stopped as her gaze flew between Emma and the men she did not know.
“What is wrong?” Felicity asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Here.” Emma didn’t have to do this on her own. There was someone to lean on. She reached into her pocket for what she’d placed in there when she’d dressed that evening. She handed it over to the young girl. “Give it to him. He’ll understand.”
“Emma.”
“She’s safe,” her father snapped. “I’m her pa, ain’t I? And this one here’s her betrothed.” He jabbed a thumb toward Parkington.
“Betrothed?” Felicity’s voice small, her gaze on the pink handkerchief she held in her hands, her thumbs rubbing over the bright garden embroidered along its edges. “Emma, I do not understand.”
“He will.”
“No more.” Her father yanked her toward the outer door. The last thing she saw through the doorway was Felicity's pale face, her frantic eyes a stormy gray like her brothers, her bloodless, parted lips, and Emma’s name dying in the space between them.
Someone was screaming Samuel’s name, and he placed a hand on Lottie’s wrist to stop her warm congratulations. The dancers and partiers looked in the same direction, searching for the source of the scream. Samuel found it first.
Halfway up the staircase, Felicity clutched the railing with both hands.
“Something's wrong,” Samuel said, and he darted away from Lottie.
She followed, her skirts rustling close behind. When he reached Felicity, she was shaking, fighting to breathe, and he scooped her up and climbed the stairs, marched her into the hallway at the top of the balcony, found an empty, private parlor, and laid her down on a sofa. He knelt beside her and brushed hair off her face.
“Felicity, calm down. Breathe.”
“What happened?” Lottie asked, sinking to her knees beside them.
The door shut, and the lock clicked home. He looked over his shoulder. It seemed everyone was there. His sisters, their husbands, and Emma’s sisters, too. The youngest of them gathered close to the sofa, hugging one another.
“They have her!” Tears spilled down Glenna’s cheeks, and she dashed them away with fisted hands.
“Emma!” Felicity gasped, pushing upright and knocking away Samuel's concerned hands. “Two men took her, dragged her from the ballroom. Her father, they said, and her betrothed.”
