Chapter 19
Fear does not make for a good companion, Honoria thought as she watched Danior, pistol in hand, pace the length of the cottage, his agitated steps dragging from one end to the other. Fear finally ruled her, summoned by the Rom’s dance of impatience.
Part of her reasoned that she need not fear for her life, as killing her would mean losing his advantage. But reason did not seem to matter. Fear had sunk its claws into her mind, knocking all other thoughts aside.
But fear was good, Honoria told herself. It served as the body’s way to signal danger—a precious reminder not to do anything foolhardy—like contemplate a reckless attempt to escape.
Which of course she’d done. Which of course she was still doing. Because she was Honoria MacCallan.
Her eyes traveled over Danior, watching him drag a pistoled hand along the side of his face. Restless. To give this villain his due, he was a scary man, and for all her earlier bluster, he terrified her—specifically, what would happen when his patience finally snapped.
Plan. Escape. Triumph.
The first point of action? Freeing her hands. Also, arguably, the hardest part. But no reward came without risk. Honoria gathered her courage and cleared her throat, drawing the eyes of one of the band members.
“I’m in need of the privy.”
The man looked to Danior, who pulled his lip in distaste. “Can’t it wait?”
“Not unless you want your sensibilities offended.”
One of the men chuckled but swiftly silenced by a death glare from Danior. To Honoria’s relief, Danior nodded to one of his men, who moved to untie her hands.
Och, it worked!
“Come on,” the man growled, yanking her up by the arm.
Her eyes flicked to the rest of the band, nary a muscle twitching. Only one of them would chaperone her? Their lack of confidence in her capabilities was inspiring.
The Rom had splendidly underestimated her.
“Must you be so barbaric?” Honoria muttered as she followed the man to the door. The moment an opportunity presented itself, she’d make a run for it. Her mind leaped ahead; deliberating how to convince the man to turn his back long enough while she escaped.
“You took up with a barbarian,” Danior taunted after her.
Honoria snorted, momentarily distracted from her plan, and glanced over her shoulder to the beast. “Your brother is much more civilized than you.”
“Our very existence denies that term.” His laughter held a chilling note of menace. “But then his father was nothing but a bastardgadjo.”
Her eyes widened. Lash and Danior were half-brothers? She blinked back the shock. Did Lash know? Why hadn’t he told them? Nay, had he known, he would not have hidden the truth from them.
Something felt off.
Danior felt off.
What twisted game was he playing with his brother?
She searched his gaze. In their depth, she caught a glimpse of his dark, twisted soul. How dare the brute use a superior tone when speaking of his brother? He would never be better than Lash, no matter the circumstances of his birth.
“The only bastard here is you,” Honoria said.
The grating sound of his evil cackle filled the cottage. She opened her mouth to blast him with a creative retort, so provoked she almost missed the Rom dragging her by the arm had yanked the door wide and froze mid-step.
Honoria turned to look at what had spooked him.
And swallowed her gasp.
There was no time to think, only act. Honoria twisted sharply from his grasp, taking advantage of her guard’s initial shock, and dashed from the cottage.
