Alison DeLaine – A Wedding By Dawn (страница 7)

“How intimate that will be.”

And how mistaken. He would endure the voyage to England, collect his money and once the mortgage on Taggart had been lifted, he would lock her away where she could not injure his person or his reputation.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” he said, turning now. “You have been apprehended. And unless you’d care to be tied up, you will sit. In. That. Chair.” He pointed at it. “And I shall sit in the other. We shall pass what remains of the night, and in the morning you will become my wife. Depend on it.”

* * *

THERE WAS A time and a place for defiance, and that time and place ended when he threatened to tie her up.

And so she sat.

Minutes ticked into an hour. More than an hour, though it was impossible to tell for sure, except for the candles slowly, slowly shrinking.

India fixed her eyes on Nicholas Warre, barely daring to breathe. It couldn’t be possible. After all his threats, his manhandling, his confident declarations—

She sat perfectly still and watched. Yes, he was falling asleep.

From somewhere in the distance, a drunken sailor song lilted through the open window across the room. She didn’t dare glance at the window.

His eyes drifted shut, only to open again and fix on her. “Go to sleep,” he said. In that hard face with its purpling bruises, those eyes were like chips of green winter ice.

Very fatigued winter ice.

“I’m trying,” she murmured, and shifted in the lumpy armchair. She let her own lids droop closed and flutter open, exactly as his had, so he might assume she, too, was drifting off.

If there was one thing that could be learned from a childhood spent locked away until the impossible was accomplished, it was how to wait.

After a moment she shut her eyes completely. The street below was silent. The only sound was the distant swoosh of waves coming ashore in the harbor. His scent came to her on a puff of breeze.

Falling asleep! Could he really be that foolish?

No. Which meant either he was pretending, or he was as tired as he seemed.

Her hands tightened in her lap. A glance out the window earlier had revealed a drainpipe not two feet from their room. It hadn’t seemed possible that the opportunity would present itself.

Until now.

She opened her eyes just a little and found his still closed. Dark lashes lay against sun-kissed skin, and his lips had relaxed into a less grim shape. A moment passed, then another, but those eyes did not reopen. Small creases at their corners testified that he was no mere youth, but with a face like that... No, ancient was hardly accurate.

Fascinating.

He was incredibly handsome. There was no denying it.

But she’d spent too much time locked away in rooms, too many years at the mercy of a man who showed no mercy. She would not exchange Father’s unyielding lack of compassion for a husband’s—not now, not when she was finally mistress of her own life.

Her toes curled restlessly inside her shoes while his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, a little more deeply with each breath. Wait. Just wait.

Minutes passed.

More minutes

Slowly, carefully, India sat forward. A fresh puff of night air was just cool enough to make her shiver.

Silently she rose to her feet, tensing, fighting off a sudden nervous tremor as she fixed her eyes on Nicholas Warre.

His hands lay slack on his lap. No movement. Nothing.

She crept toward the window. It was torture knowing her pistol was tucked into his breeches, but there was no help for it. She paused at the window and stared at the back of his head, willing him to stay asleep. Between them, the bed sat untouched. Whatever might have happened on that shoddy bed behind him wasn’t going to happen tonight. Or ever.

Slowly, quietly, she stuck one leg outside.

Listened.

Swung the other leg around.

Listened.

The only thing she heard was her own heart thundering in her ears. Hurry!

She sprang into action, reaching for the drainpipe, gripping it with both hands as she swung out of the window and landed with both feet against the building. Through the window she could see his arm and the top of his head.

She willed him to stay asleep and began her descent. The distance to the ground was nothing compared to a ship’s crow’s nest. Every scrape of her feet against the building sounded like the drag of twenty saws, but already she was near the next floor. The guests in the room directly below theirs had left the window open. She prayed the sound of her feet would not wake them.

One more floor and she would be on the ground.

And then, from above, a shout.

“India!”

Nicholas Warre’s angry bark shot into the night from inside the room.

No!

She glanced up but he hadn’t come to the window—not yet. There were only seconds to spare.

“Lady India!”

There was only one escape. She dived toward the open window to her left and clambered through it just as Nicholas Warre’s voice came more clearly from above.

“Lady India!”

She tumbled through the window and onto the floor, bruising her elbow. A woman screamed. A man shouted. A large form leaped from the bed just as India scrambled to her feet and darted half-blindly toward the door.

“Arretez!” the man shouted.

“Excuse me!” No—French! “Pardonnez!” India stumbled over an open trunk. The woman in the bed screamed loud enough to wake the entire city.

A pistol shot exploded in the darkness. India screamed and dropped to the floor just as the ball whizzed past her head and slammed into the door. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

“Henri!” the woman shrieked. “Tirez! Tirez!”

“No! Don’t shoot!” Thank heaven she could speak French—thank heaven she hadn’t needed to read to learn it. There were shouts from other parts of the hotel. Doors slamming.

A match flared. “Ne bougez pas!” the man ordered.

“I won’t—I won’t move!” She kept her head buried and her faced pressed to the floorboards. Footsteps pounded upstairs, outside the room, and she needed to leave now or the chance would be lost. “It’s a mistake,” she told him in French. “You must let me go. Please—quickly! I must go!”

Candlelight sputtered to life. “Un voleur, eh?” He snorted. “Vous allez le regretter.”

“I’m not a thief. And I am sorry—very sorry. But I must go!” She started to sit up.

“Henri, idiot! Tirez!”

“Tais-toi!” There was a mad rustling as though he were struggling into his clothes. Footsteps thundered outside the room. A crescendo of voices poured through the paper-thin walls. Someone pounded on the door.

“What is going on in there?” came an angry voice in Italian.

“Please—you must let me leave by the window. There is a man trying to abduct me, and I was only trying to escape—”

“Silence! The authorities will make quick work of you.”

The authorities! “No, you must listen. I am not a thief—ouch!” He yanked her to her feet, not listening at all. “I am staying upstairs with a man who is trying to abduct me!”

He dragged her to the door.

“I am not a thief!” If he summoned the authorities, she could end up in gaol.

He wrenched the door open. Nicholas Warre burst into the room followed closely by a man who could only be the innkeeper. There was a commotion of angry voices—the innkeeper furious over the damaged door, the Frenchman outraged by India’s invasion, the woman screaming and huddling beneath the covers, the onlookers exclaiming from the hallway.