Whoosh, plunk.The oars slapping in and out of the water.Whoosh, plunk.
Maybe if she jumped, she would have a chance.
Whoosh, plunk.
If she swam to the curved shoreline, if she ran hard up the slope …
Whoosh, plunk.
She lunged before she had a chance to reason through the consequences. Cold water engulfed her. The cut on her foot stung, as she kicked both legs and used her tied hands to bring her head above water.
A wave knocked her back down. A shout filled the air, but it was watery and deafened.
Help, Savior.The panic wracked her chest as she tried to paddle toward shore. She surfaced, then sank again. Flailed, but didn’t move. Gasped in air, then sucked salt water in her nose when the coldness drew her under again.No, no.
The burn intensified as she gulped in more water. She was going to die. She wasn’t strong enough. Not with the ropes. She couldn’t escape, but mayhap that was best. The sea would lull her and rock her and suffocate her gently. The sea wouldn’t claw her. The sea wouldn’t laugh at her. The sea wouldn’t hurt her like the beast—
A hand snatched her arm and lifted.
Then air again. She gulped it in and gagged, water spewing from her mouth, as the hands hooked under her arms and dragged her back into the boat.
He rolled her over. Hard.
More water rushed out her nose and mouth, and the terror slowly dissipated into numbness. Nothing could change what was meant to happen. He would have her, the beast. Just as he’d always wanted. Just as she’d always feared.
Please, please help me.The boat jarred, as if they’d already reached sand. Breage must have thrown the oars because they clattered to the bottom of the boat, then he pulled her with him into knee-deep water.
They splashed to shore. To the cave.
The opening was black and round against the craggy, yellow-tinted rock. At least there would be no windows. No curtains. No red.
Breage forced her one step in, but she wilted.
“Get up.”
A sob rose, the weakness and fear paralyzing her limbs. “Please.” The word left without sound. Just a moving of her lips, a frantic pleading as she squeezed his arm in one final attempt to escape.Please.
But he hauled her up anyway. He guided her through the yawning darkness, the mud cool to her feet, the air stale to her lungs—and pushed her into a rounded opening.
There, half-illuminated under the light of a torch, stood her beast.
Ready to kill her.
Just as he’d been trying to do every night of her life.
Felton crouched behind a jagged boulder and darted his gaze around the bay. A ship anchored close to shore. A cave, half-hidden by the boulders on each side of the entrance.
And two men. Both tall, wearing dark clothing and Monmouth caps—and guns.
Felton pulled his own flintlock from his waist. Where was Lord Gillingham with the constable? They should have been here by now, or at least close behind.
Close behind, however, might not be enough.
He needed them now.
The metal was cold in his sweating hand, as he peered over his shoulder, then turned back to the two men pacing before the cave. He needed to bring them down without gunshots. As far as he could tell, the anchored ship was empty—but who knew how many were inside the cave. He didn’t want alarming shots to bring them rushing out.
Or to endanger Eliza.
