Her Reluctant Viscount (Rakes and Rogues) (26 page)

Once she passed, he finished descending. The smell made his eyes water. Christ, what the hell was Jo going through? A single torch offered minimal light, but it was not enough to hide the despicable conditions. The place was lined by cells. Dirty cells.

He paused at the corner of one and peered down. A skinny female scurried to another part, eyes wide and overflowing with fear.
Christ, they have young women here too
. His heart went out to her but, right now, he had to find Jo. He kept on and found her almost diagonal to the other cage. At least he thought it was her.

This woman lay in a corner, her blue dress torn and dirty. “Jo?” There was little movement. “Jo?”

He shook the bars, cursing when it did not open, not that he had expected it to. Staring at the lock, he reached for his pocket withdrawing tools to pick it. He paused when she rolled toward him. Her face was battered and bruised, lips split.

They would die. All of them. Rage unlike anything he had felt before swarmed over him. He made short work of opening the door and hurried in to crouch beside her.

“Jo.” He tapped her cheek. “Open your eyes, baby.”

Only one opened. Only one could for the other was swollen shut. Fear so thick he could taste it filled that eye and broke his heart. Eventually it turned to confusion and disbelief.

Her lips moved but no sound escaped. He stroked her face with a gentle touch.

“I am here, baby. I am getting you out of here.”

A single tear ran down her face and he swiped it away with his thumb.

“Tryst?”

“Right here, hellcat. We need to go.”

She had been beaten. Badly. And he wanted revenge for it. First, he had to get her out of here.

“Door.”

He turned to check the door and found it had closed behind him. Shite. He had been so focused on Jo he had not even paid attention.

Her body shuddered and she tried to speak again. “What Jo? I will get you out of here.”

“Save the girl.” The words were so faint he had to strain to hear her. “Promise.”

“I will do what I can.”

“Thank you.” Her one moving eyelid closed only to fly back open. “Alchemist…she…careful.”

The words came out jumbled and only part of whatever she tried to tell him. He had to get her out of here, then they could talk. The Alchemist
would
pay for daring to harm her. He left her side and checked the door, then took her in his arms and left the cell. At the barred cell of the other female, he paused, readjusted his hold on Jo and undid the lock.

“Can you understand me?” She nodded, still in the corner with wide eyes. She was much younger than he had first estimated. A child. “Stay behind me and keep quiet.” He opened the door and walked off, it was her decision on whether or not to follow. His primary focus glued on Jo.

It did not go as smoothly on his way out. He ran into two men. Stabbing them both in the chest, he kept the three of them moving. Jo’s head lolled on her neck, there was no response from her. He noticed how the young girl watched over her while he fought. Finally they made it out into the fresh air of the outside. He hesitated, his horse could not carry all of them. He would have to steal another. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way toward where he left Ptolemy.

It was a miracle which showed him the sign. A sliver of moonlight broke through the clouds and struck the sign. Pierre’s. The friend of Jo’s father, perhaps. It had not registered when he first arrived in town.

“Here,” he said gruffly.

He pounded on the door. Repeatedly until it swung open, a single candle illuminating a tall, reed thin man with small tufts of hair over his ears.

“What is the meaning of this?” the man demanded.

“You Pierre?”

“Yes. You need to move on, son, to take your woman elsewhere.”

He hefted her in his arms. “You know Viscount Adrys?”

“Haywood? Of course. What has this to do with anything?”

“This is his daughter. She needs help.” He gestured with his head to the other girl. “Her too.”

Pierre frowned and looked harder at Jo. “Dear me. Come in.”

Ushered in, he stared out just to ensure no one had followed them. He trailed the man to a small room in the back where he laid an unconscious Jo upon a bed.

“Jo.” Trystan touched a portion of her cheek without any bruising. “Come on, look at me.” She barely moved.

“She will not speak for a while. What happened?”

Reluctantly, Trystan left her side. The other girl lay on the same bed under direction from Pierre.

“Water,” Trystan ordered.

The man returned briefly with both cloth and a basin of water. “It is not safe here.”

“She is in no condition to travel. Neither of them are.”

“I have a house on the outskirts of town. Safer there.”

Tryst wanted to argue but he knew the man had the right of it. The dead bodies would be found and alarms raised.

“Do you have a carriage?”

“Yes.”

“Ready it.” His words were ironclad even though his touch on Jo’s battered face was gentle. Not much later, he had settled her in the carriage, the girl beside her again. Then he faced Pierre. “Keep her safe.” He did not try to disguise the threat.

“Where are you going?”

“Make sure no one follows. I will be along.”

Pierre gave him a brief description of his house and, with a nod, Trystan ducked away and hastened to where Ptolemy remained. In the saddle, he returned to the house where Jo had been held. Assured no one had been discovered and therefore no pursuit, he skirted the town edge and set out for Pierre’s house, ignoring all the need within him to kill each and every one of them.

He stabled Ptolemy and went to the house. One light, which he had not seen while he was outside, beckoned him. He pushed open the door only to sigh in both relief and concern. The women were each on a bed. The candle rested on a table between them. Pierre cleaned up the smaller girl as Jo lay alone. However, Pierre paused and glanced up at his entry. Past Pierre, a skinny female watched him with uncertain eyes.

“I thought you would prefer to see to Jo.”

He thought right. “Has she spoken?” Tryst gestured to the girl with a hand.

“Yes. Only her name, but it is a start. Her name is Vittoria.”

Tryst gazed about the room. Dolls were here and there along with ruffles.

“My daughters grew up in this room.”

“Thank you for helping us.” Trystan bathed Jo’s face and hands.

“Hayworth is one of my oldest friends. Jo is a daughter in my eyes.” Pierre turned totally around to face him. “There is a bedroom at the end of the hall. Get some sleep.” At his hesitation, Pierre pointed. “Go. You do neither of them any good if you are tired. I will stay with the girls.”

Trystan went, reluctantly, and climbed into the bed after cleaning up a bit. The door, he left open, just in case.

A piercing scream woke him. Before he had come too fully, he thundered to Jo’s room and burst in. Vittoria sat huddled in the corner of her bed, shaking while Pierre tried to calm Jo. Her eyes were open and wild with fear as tears streamed from them. Pierre muttered to her but it did not work. Her cries increased along with her struggles.

As he replaced Pierre, Trystan scooped her up and held her tight in his lap. He recognized the language she called out in, the same dialect Najja spoke. In it, Jo begged for help, from anyone. Brushing back some of her sweaty hair, Trystan shook his head.

“Calm down, Jo,” he said in the same language. “You are safe now.”

It took a while before she ceased her struggles. He continued to talk to her in that language. Her cries softened as he told her things he seriously doubted he would have the confidence to say were she fully awake.

“She trusts you.”

Trystan glanced up at that statement. He had forgotten Pierre remained in the room. “I will stay here, you can sleep.”

“You have barely slept four hours.”

“I am fine.” He stared at the man until Pierre got the message. He was not leaving.

Pierre nodded and left. Trystan readjusted so he sat more comfortably on the bed. Vittoria, slowly relaxed. Frankly, he did not care about her feelings. The only reason he had brought her was because Jo asked him to.

While Jo alternated between sleep and panic, he tried to figure out how he was going to get them home. Hiding in plain sight would only work for so long. What could he do? He dozed before waking again to her fear-filled cries. He brushed his lips over her forehead.

“I am so sorry, Jo. This is all my fault. I will fix it, I swear.”

He meant every word. Blood
would
spill.

Chapter Ten

Today was another boring outing. Lord Collins is a bore. And a Boor. He tried to steal a kiss and instead found himself acquainted with my knee. Do I fear he will tell? Yes. But my virtue is more important than any rumor he can manufacture.

~From the private journal of Josephine Adrys

Jo opened her eyes. Something was different. She was no longer cold. Thick blankets covered her from feet to chin. A bed? Last she recalled she had been kept in a dank, cold cell. Almost no food and then there was the other.

Her tremors could not be contained and she lay there as they racked her. After a while, she got them to cease and she sat up. She did not take too long before the realization of where she was sunk in.

Pierre de Sauveterre’s house. But how? Who?

Could her vision of seeing Trystan not have been a figment of her imagination? She breathed in relief as she saw Vittoria sound asleep on the other bed in the room. Part of her wanted to get up but she was still so tired. So, she lay back down and returned to the land of slumber.

Next time she woke, Pierre stood in the room. He faced her almost immediately. Tears sprang to her eyes as he placed the tray down and moved to her side.

“Josephine, what did they do to you?” he asked in French.

Her chin wobbled as the memories were refreshed.

He hastened to console her.

“No more tears. Your man brought you here. He will keep you safe. Allow me to get him.”

Her man? “No.” She shook her head, desperate to not have to face Trystan. Not now. Not like this.

“Are you sure, little one?”

Definitely. “Tell him I am sleeping if he asks.” Her French was a bit rusty but she figured he got it.

Pierre watched her a bit before nodding, his expression one of deep sympathy. Pierre gave her some water then left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Sure enough, a short time later, the door opened only this time it was Trystan who stepped through. She lowered her lids and feigned sleep. Even so, she could see him as he moved toward her. Tanned breeches hugged muscular thighs. They were tucked in top boots, which had seen better days. They were no longer shiny and polished as they had undoubtedly been at one time. Her heart rate accelerated when her gaze lingered over the bulge in his crotch. She could only move a bit higher without alerting him she did not actually sleep. His shirt was dirty and torn. He looked wonderful to her.

“Jo?” he asked softly.

She ensured to barely move and maintain her relaxed breathing. He took two more steps in her direction before halting. The hand nearest her clenched and unclenched a few times. He had large hands, cuts and scrapes were on the back. She had done it before and she did it now; compared him to the men she dealt with in London. Milksops. Milquetoast. Dandy. Many other very unattractive things to call them. Then there was Trystan. Big and hard all over, calluses on his hands.

A flash of him sawing with her, sweaty and incredible, hit her. Pulsing began in her lower core and she struggled not to moan aloud at the recollections of their kisses. Mistake, hell.