Page 5 of The Captive

He didn’t kill me.

He used my captured wrist to haul me against him. Through robe and nightgown I fetched up against a body with all the give of a saddle tree, and his voice came down from very close, rough now, the French gone dark and soft.

“And if you refuse to be parted from them, my lady—then we will take you too.”

His gaze dropped and made the journey down me, slow, thorough, entirely without shame. My robe hung open. Beneath it was one thin layer of lawn, and beneath that was a widow of six-and-thirty in her bare feet, in front of a dozen mounted strangers.

I did not have to guess at his meaning. It stood plain in his face, along with the scar and the beard and that ruinous half-smile, waiting to see what I would do about it.

Well.

I had told my son I wanted to see the edge of the civilized world.

It appeared the edge had come to see me.

Damn.

It was impossible to think that a lady—a dowager duchess—could go with this—this—this outlaw! It wouldn’t be proper. It wouldn’t be safe.

But here, beyond civilization, beyond everything I knew, beyond everyone who knew me…I stood on a precipice.

The man’s expression softened into that devil-may-care grin once more, although I saw the threat, the danger, lurking in his eyes. He was trying to charm me.

“My lady, there is no need for you to endure hardship.” His French was melodious, with a hint of a Russian accent. “We will take some of your silver, da, and the English animals, but leave you the rest of your provisions and the horses to pull your wagons. You and your people can return to civilization with a tale worthy of the campfire.”

Could he feel the way my pulse was hammering beneath his fingers? Did I imagine the way his hand flexed around my wrist, or the way my breasts tingled, pressed against his chest the way they were?

I swallowed my fear, telling myself my love of Juno and Hector was worth a little adventure.

“You cannot take them from me.” My voice shook, damn me. “Please.”

When he grinned, his teeth were white against his beard. “Little rabbit, I have told you that the alternative is to take you with them, and you do not want that. I can tell you are a lady—it would ruin you.”

No one would know.

“You will not hurt my maid?”

I surprised him, judging from the way he blinked. “Schto? I mean, what are you talking about?”

The breath I took was shuddering, terrified, and I tried to stop my mouth from saying the words. But it was as if I were ignoring the logical part of my brain, and acting solely on impulse.

“If I go with you, monsieur…You will not hurt my men or my maid?”

Slowly, his frown of confusion melted into a smug grin of power, and he made a show of considering me. “You think you are in a position to negotiate, my lady? What makes you worth the lives of six men and an Englishwoman?”

The lives? Dear God, he would kill Hobbs and Semyon and poor Pytor Ilyich and the others? I panicked.

“I am a duchess!” I cried, leaning toward him, craning my neck to hold his gaze, resting my free hand against his chest in my desperation to make him understand. “The dowager Duchess of Wrentham! My son will pay for my safe return, and for that of my people and horses!”

One of his brows had risen at my title. “The Duchess of Wrentham?” Suddenly, he stepped away from me, far enough to affect a curt bow, without dropping my wrist. “I am Dmitri Andreyevich Volkov.”

Volkov—Russian for wolf. It fit him, with his toothy grin and hard eyes.

He rose, tugged me hard so I fell against his chest once more, and sneered down at me. “And you are merely a woman. If I were to ransom you and your people and your animals back to the Duke, I would have to keep you alive for many months, in my camp.”

Oh God. Oh God.

I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, but little beyond that.