Page 76 of The Courtship Dance

The stench of alcohol filled the carriage, and Francesca realized that he must have spent most of his time inside drinking.

“I’ve gotten my poor sick wife and me a room,” he told her, reaching under the seat and pulling out a drawer. From it he extracted a large piece of fabric, which he unfolded to reveal a dark, hooded cloak.

Sitting down beside her, he arranged the cloak around her shoulders and tied it at her neck. There was little she could do to thwart him except lash out at him with her bound legs. He solved that problem by shoving her legs hard against the side of the carriage with one booted foot and holding them there. Finally, he pulled the hood forward so that it covered most of her face.

He did not try to undo the knot he had tied in the sash but merely drew out a knife and slashed through the material close to the bar, leaving the remnant hanging there. Francesca tried to move away from him, but it was no use. He wrapped the cloak tightly around her, binding her even more, and hauled her out of the carriage.

With his arms tightly around her, carrying her as one would a child, he was able to keep the cloak tightly in place, thus hindering her movements. The cloak also hid the bindings around her ankles and wrists, and the hood, pulled far forward, effectively concealed her gagged face. She would look, she supposed, just like someone asleep or ill.

Still, she did her best to move, hoping that she might throw him off balance or arouse attention, and she screamed against the gag. But the sound was almost entirely muffled, and she doubted that anyone would notice the little wriggling movements she was able to make—if, of course, there was even anyone about to see.

They must be at an inn, given his words, but it was probably still too early in the morning for the other guests to be around. Though it was no longer the black of night, it was only pale dawn. Only the servants would be up, and they would be working in the kitchens, not waiting in the halls watching guests go up to their rooms.

She had no chance, she knew, but she struggled anyway.

It must have had some effect, for she could hear Perkins’ ragged breath as he climbed the stairs, and once he grunted and nearly dropped her. He set her down to open the door, keeping one arm tightly around her. Then he jerked her inside and closed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock.

Letting loose a string of curses, he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, then turned away and went to the small chest of drawers across the room, where a decanter of liquor and glasses stood on a tray. He poured himself a drink, quickly downed it, and poured another.

Francesca managed to wriggle to the edge of the bed. If he got drunk enough, perhaps she would be able to escape him. She knew the likely futility of trying to get away, even from a drunk, with her ankles tied. Still, she had to try. Otherwise, her only choice was to give in to defeat and despair.

He watched her as he drank the second glass. She lay still, not looking directly at him, but watching him from the corner of her eye. When he turned away to pour himself a third drink, she brought up her hands and hooked her fingers beneath the gag, tugging it down. It was tight and hard to move, but she felt it give, and she pulled harder.

Perkins let out an oath, and the glass crashed back down on the tray. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and clamped his hand down across her mouth just as Francesca drew a breath to scream. He jerked the gag back in place. She swung her legs off the bed, but he grabbed her and threw her back onto it, pushing her so far up on the mattress that the back of her head cracked against the wooden headboard.

The blow stunned her for a moment, sending pain lancing through her head. Perkins took the end of the sash dangling from her wrists and wound it around one of the bedposts, tying it firmly, then stepped back, panting, and surveyed her.

“There! You won’t be getting away now, will you? Trussed like a pig for slaughter, aren’t you?” He grinned, the imagery obviously pleasing to him. “I’ll have you squealing like one soon enough, as well.” He chuckled and returned to the decanter, pouring himself another drink.

He lifted the glass to her in a mocking toast and drank it. “How’d the duke like seeing you now, I wonder. How you think he’ll like getting my leavings?” He grinned. “Won’t be so full of himself then, will he?”

Pouring another drink, he sat down in the chair. His movements were growing increasingly clumsy as he drank, so that he plopped down more than sat, the whiskey splashing over the side of the glass. He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Arrogant bastard—telling me to get out of the country. Like I’d bow down to him like everybody else.” He let out a noise of disgust. “Doesn’t know Galen Perkins, though, I’ll tell you that. No man’s my master, least of all him.”

After finishing his drink, he set the glass on the chest and stood up. He made his way over to the bed, staggering a little as he walked. When he reached her, he leaned against the bedpost, gazing down at her, his eyes glittering with malice. Then he hooked his hand in the neckline of her nightgown and jerked downward, ripping it down to her waist.

Francesca shrieked behind the gag and lashed out at him with her feet, managing to slam her shins into him. The blow unbalanced him, and he staggered to the side and went crashing into the washstand.

The malice in his eyes changed in a flash to pure hatred, and he managed to right himself and charged toward her, his hand raised to strike her.

At that moment something slammed against the door. Perkins whirled, startled, to face the door as another blow hit it and it crashed open, sending Rochford bursting into the room.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ROCHFORD CROSSED THE room in two long strides and plowed his fist into the other man’s jaw. Perkins reeled back and crashed into the wall beside the bed. As he struggled dazedly to right himself, the duke grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. He wheeled and, grasping the back of Perkins’ jacket, propelled him with all his force forward, so that Perkins slammed into the wall beside the door. Perkins bounced off that wall and staggered back, falling in a heap on the floor.

Rochford turned to Francesca. “My God. Are you all right?”

Gently he pulled the sides of her nightgown together, covering her nakedness, then reached up to unfasten the gag that was wrapped around her mouth.

“Sinclair! Oh, Sinclair!” She fought back the tears of relief that threatened to flood her eyes. “Thank God you came! But…how did you get here?”

He bent to kiss her forehead, then turned to unfasten the knot that bound her to the post of the bed. Behind them, Perkins thrashed about on the floor and pulled himself up on all fours, then to his feet. Weaving drunkenly, he reached behind him, beneath his jacket, and pulled out a knife.

“No! Sinclair! Watch out!” Francesca cried.

Rochford whirled and saw the man lurching toward him, knife in hand. Dodging to the side, he grasped Perkins’ arm in both hands and slammed it against the footpost of the bed. There was an audible crack, and Perkins shrieked as the knife tumbled harmlessly out of his hand. Bunching his fist into the front of Perkins’ shirt to hold him in place, Rochford jabbed the other man twice in the face.

Only his hold kept the other man upright. Rochford spun him around, and, seizing his unbroken arm and twisting it behind his back, once again propelled Perkins into the wall beside the door.