Each time, Lord Livingstone yanked her up. By the time they reached even ground, where stone boulders jutted into the air like castle ruins, dizziness swayed her vision.
“After you, my darling.” After Pike had squeezed inside a small hole in the rocks, Lord Livingstone motioned her through.
She hesitated then pressed herself into the opening. For a second, she was back at the seashore archway. She pretended all over again. When she stepped through, she would awaken. She would be back at Sharottewood Manor, back at the garden, back at the stables or her bedchamber or—
A bruising shove plummeted her to the other side. She let out a whimper, a chill passing through her as her eyes adjusted to the disorienting lights.
Ragged men emerged from broken huts, some with torches, others with swinging lanterns. Shadows and ghoulish light rippled on their filthy faces. Quiet murmurings and mossy scents of heather filled the air, and from somewhere close, chains rattled the stillness. What was this place? Who were these men? Who was Lord Livingstone?
She jumped when he grabbed her again.
“Men, allow me to introduce you to our honorary guest.” He nodded to Pike. “See that our newfound treasures are distributed unto the men, but do so quietly in your own quarters. Do not disturb me until morning.”
Until morning.Her breathing hitched as the men parted a path, one she was forced to follow.God, please protect me.
In the blazing glow of torchlight sat a small brick house, covered in stucco, with a dark thatched roof. A chimney spewed smoke. At the corner of the house, two grey dogs barked and lunged forward, straining against their giant chains.
“This way, my darling.” Lord Livingstone kicked open the door with his foot and swept a hand inside. “Do not mind the dogs. They shall not devour you so long as you are out of their reach.”
Please.She pressed her hands against her chest as she entered, the throb of her heartbeat vicious and frenzied. She took in the room in one panicked glance.
Large and open, the floor was covered with colorful rugs and gleaming parlor furniture. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, the windows bore gold-tasseled draperies, and the mantel sported figurines and hand-painted vases.
Then something moved. A woman by the window, dressed in a long cream gown, with limp blond hair that hung to her waist.
“It is but a humble abode, I admit.” Lord Livingstone hugged Isabella to his side. “But we are not without our luxuries, are we, Cressida?”
She stepped toward the center of the room. Sweat marks ringed the satin dress, and a face that once might have been beautiful was bloodless, despondent, and thin. Her eyes roamed the length of Isabella then lifted to Lord Livingstone in waiting.
“You are more revolting every time I behold you.”
She accepted the injury without so much as a blink.
He slung Isabella to the rug. “Feed my little dove and lock her up. Do not disturb me tonight.” Cursing, he stepped across Isabella’s body, brushed past the woman, and slammed himself into another room.
Cowardice fissured through Isabella. She could not look up. She could not meet the woman’s eyes—perhaps because she was too afraid she would see herself in their haunting depths. What had Lord Livingstone done to the girl to scar her with such agony?
“Your wrists are bleeding.” The tone was neither warm nor cold, and the woman made no move to loosen the course, bloody ropes.
Instead, she bent next to Isabella and helped her stand. “I had better lock you up.”
William brushed down Duke with his hands, the slow rubbing motion soothing to him. His eyes were bleary, whether from another nightfall or his lack of sleep, he could not tell.
Men whispered and hovered in circles around whist games, sometimes cheering out, other times laughing. The echo of their voices faded on the night wind.
“Kensley.” The gruff word turned William toward a figure approaching in the darkness. As the man neared, Lord Gresham’s features became more distinguishable. “The colonel has drawn out a map to the fortress. According to his estimations, we should arrive in three days.”
William nodded. Three days was hardly anything to cheer over. How many had Isabella been with Lord Livingstone already?
As if sensing his thoughts, Edward frowned. He started to turn but hesitated. Then he faced William again and outstretched a linen-wrapped pastie. “Here.”
“I have no hunger, my lord.”
“Neither have I.” Edward pushed the food against William. “But it is the only way we shall keep our strength. God knows we need that—Isabellaneeds that—more than anything.” He walked away with tight, unbending shoulders, and a small trickle of respect ran through the parched places of William’s soul. One thing was certain about Lord Gresham.
He loved Isabella as much as William did.
Leaning against Duke, he bit into the cold pastie and forced the nourishment past the lump in his throat. If it was strength Isabella needed from him, it was strength she would get.
