Page 88 of His Sinful Touch

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HE WAS RUNNING. Running and running as he had that time across the roofs of the buildings, his captors behind him. But this time it wasn’t roofs over which his feet flew, but cobblestones in narrow, twisting streets. And he was running, not toward freedom, but toward something even more important. It was the most important thing in the world to him, and if he failed, if he lost, everything would end. His head ached, and his mouth was so dry it felt like cotton batting. He could feel his energy flagging. He was sweating, and yet he was cold all over. He stumbled. They would soon be on him.

He could not fail. He could not.

Alex jerked awake. He actually was cold, he realized, and his head was pounding like the devil. Alex sat up, and the world tilted alarmingly. Curling his fingers around the wooden side board of the bed frame, he set his teeth, waiting. After a few moments, the dizziness receded.

Where the devil was he? This was not his room. Not anyplace he’d ever seen. He looked around, careful not to move his head too quickly lest he bring back the vertigo. It was a small room and dimly lit, the only light coming through a small window high in the wall. His stomach lurched.

This was the room of his dream. It wasn’t the room from his childhood captivity. It was this damp, cold tiny box of a room, with walls of stone rendered grimy through the years. He was imprisoned. The familiar terror washed through him. But this time it had a reason.

Sabrina was in danger. They had taken her or were about to. Fear paralyzed him, and for an instant the past and present mingled, the ice that had lain in that boy’s chest long ago growing now in the man. The dark closed in.

But, by God, he hadn’t given in to fear then, and he wasn’t going to now. He could get away; he could figure it out. He’d always been able to meet whatever came. Idiotic to think he couldn’t do it now. Alex surged to his feet.

He wavered but planted his feet farther apart and let the dizziness subside. He lifted his hand to the back of his head, where the throbbing pain was centered. It hurt like hell to touch it, and something sticky matted his hair. Blood.

The fog in his mind was beginning to lift. What the devil had happened? He closed his eyes, calling up the memory. He had been in his office working. He’d heard a noise and stepped outside into the hall. There had been a street urchin there, grubby and thin, and he’d said, “Help me, mister.” Alex had started toward him. Then his head had exploded, and he remembered nothing.

Good heavens, what a complete ass he’d been. He should have known that was a trick. They must have knocked him out and carried him somewhere. That had been noon because he had just begun feeling hungry. A fair amount of time had passed, given that he was much hungrier now. But surely he hadn’t been knocked out for several hours. Light was still coming through the window.

So, it was afternoon. And wherever he was could not be too far from his office. It would have been hard carrying an unconscious man, not to mention noticeable, even if they’d wrapped him up in something to conceal him. They could have put him in a vehicle, but in London even that was slow-going, given the traffic. They wouldn’t have wanted him waking up in transit, so they would have had a hiding place nearby.

Well...none of that was any help. He turned, taking stock of his prison for the first time. A short, stout door stood on the opposite wall. There was a narrow open slot three-fourths of the way up, no more than an inch or two wide. No doubt it was some sort of spy hole through which one could check on the prisoner.

There was nothing in the room besides the bed and a tray sitting in front of the door. He moved closer. The scarred wooden tray held a cup of water and a bowl of some sort of soup, as well as a slice of coarse brown bread. Alex’s stomach rumbled at the sight of the food, and his mouth felt dryer than ever. But he thought of Sabrina’s drug-laced soup. He didn’t dare eat or drink anything.

It was a basement room; it had the damp chill of belowground, and he could see the wheels of a cart rattle by the high window. He thought of somehow climbing up to the window, but it was too small for him to fit through. Breaking it and yelling for help might be an option.

Perhaps the simplest solution was the best. Walking over to the door, he began to pound on it and yell. He was beginning to wonder if no one was there when finally there was the thud of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Alex bent and peered out through the narrow viewing window. He could see nothing but a stone wall a few feet opposite him.

The footsteps stopped, and Alex began to pound and yell again, eliciting a loud “Shut up in there!”

The guard came closer and Alex could at last see him. “Let me out. Please.” And then he spoke words his egalitarian brain had never thought he would utter. “Do you know who I am?”

“Aye, I ken who you are,” the man said in a thick Scottish accent. “A murderin’, thievin’ Sassenach bastard.”

Wonderful. His jailer was an English-hating Scotsman. “I promise you, I have never murdered nor thieved. And my family owns nothing in Scotland.”

“Huh! Ye canna fool me. Yer kin of the Butcher.”

“Who?” Alex searched his mind. Clearly he should have studied Scottish history better. “Oh! Cumberland? You mean Lord Cumberland? We are in no way related to him, I assure you. Not one drop of royal blood.”

“Well, ye would say that, wouldn’t you?”

“Look, I can pay you. More than they are.”

“Nae. They said ye’d try that. Ye’ll play no tricks on me. And none of your witchery, either.”

“My witchery!”

“Aye, they told me about yer family. I don’t hold with magic.”

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps they’re lying?”

“No. Now close your mouth. Yer not gettin’ out on my watch.”

He lumbered out of sight. Alex pounded on the door in frustration, picturing getting his hands around his guard’s neck. It took him a few minutes to pull himself back from his rage and return to reason. There was obviously no hope of being set free.