Highland Heat (18 page)

Shortly after leaving the major's house, the men, after a brief argument, had decided to blindfold Grace. Another dirty cloth was tied around her eyes, leaving her both blind and mute. She sat with her legs drawn into her chest and her arms wrapped around her shins, bouncing around in the back of the cart for what seemed like forever and a day but was probably only a couple of hours.

When they'd finally stopped, the three men had half carried, half dragged her into a building, sat her against a post on a dirt floor spread with what smelled like sour hay, and tied her to the post.

“I like a woman all trussed up like a hog for the slaughter. Makes 'em more docile,” Tibbets had said.

Grace had never hated anyone in her life, but she hated this man with all her being.

Tibbets ran a hand under the hem of her dress and up her leg. She jerked away, but he slammed his forearm onto her stomach, pinning her down as his dirty fingers moved roughly over her thigh.

“She's got soft skin.” He sounded like he was salivating. “Just like a baby pig's.”

“Aye, well you mightn't want to poke this pig just yet,” said the stout one. Grace had heard the other two call him Bindly. “Mr. Dunn and Mr. Faulkner might want her untouched.”

Faulkner.
These were the Newsmiths.

“I could just pop it in,” Tibbets purred. “Just a wee bit. Mr. Dunn won't notice a thing.”

His hand cupped her buttock, and Grace cringed away, her chest heaving with dry sobs, but it was no good. He was touching her intimately, and it was disgusting and evil, and she'd never be able to wash traces of him off her body.

“Stop,” she cried out. “Stop! Don't touch me! No!” But the words just came out as garbled sounds from the gag. Tears soaked her blindfold, snot ran from her nose, and she could do nothing to stop it, as they'd bound her hands behind her before tying her to the post.

“Such a firm, round little arse.” And then Tibbets flipped up the skirt of her nightgown, revealing her body from hips to toes. Grace screamed and kicked out with all her might, catching him somewhere—perhaps in the chest—that made him gasp and stumble back. And then he was on her, slapping her hard across the face, once, twice, three times.

“Oy, lay off, Tibbets. Ye don't want to kill 'er before Mr. Dunn has a chance to decide what we're going to do with 'er.” The voice came from the green-eyed man, Forester.

“Rank bitch.” Tibbets's spittle hit her stinging cheeks, and his fingers dug hard into her shoulders, making her gasp in pain. “I'll show ye what happens to whores who think they can fight back.”

“Let 'er go,” Forester said tiredly. “You need to check in with Mr. Dunn.”

“You do it. I'll watch 'er.”

“Ye mean you'll rape 'er.”

“She wants it. Can't you tell? Look at all those fancy bits, all ripe-like and waitin' for my cock.”

Grace's heart was pounding out of her chest. She was shaking and crying and sucking in air through her clogged-up nose. The men's voices were beginning to sound garbled. She swayed, then shook herself, trying to focus, trying to stop herself from fainting.

They were arguing about her, about who would leave and who would stay to guard her. About what they were allowed to do to her and what they weren't.

Finally, the voices went silent. Grace sat still and on alert, her muzzy mind clearing even as an even stronger panic filled her chest. Had they left her alone with Tibbets?

There was a heavy sigh, and someone flipped her nightgown back down over her legs before moving away. “Be quiet now,” he said. “I'll leave ye alone if ye don't make trouble.” It was Forester's voice. Not friendly, but not nearly as awful as Tibbets's.

Grace gulped, trying to suck in air through the nasty-tasting gag. Thankful and frightened and wondering what would come next.

She sat tense and alert—exhausted but too panicked to sleep—for an hour, or maybe it was two. It was difficult to judge the passage of time when her body was so saturated with terror.

She saw nothing except the gradual lightening beyond the blindfold as morning brightened the sky. The only sounds she heard were the movements and soft whickers of horses, along with the occasional movements of Forester, who was seated somewhere nearby.

Finally, she heard footsteps—several of them—approaching.

“Mr. Dunn.” It sounded like Forester had snapped to attention.

“Let's have a look at your prize, Mr. Forester.” This man sounded more cultured and educated than the other three. He must be one of Faulkner's partners or lieutenants.

“Hello, milady. Forgive me for the condition of your overnight abode, but it was all the accommodation we had on such short notice.” He chuckled, as if he thought that was a humorous statement. She didn't move.

“Untie her,” he commanded. “Bring her to my office.”

She was released from the post, but her hands were still tied. They'd fallen asleep hours ago, and her shoulders were so stiff, she wondered if they'd ever move properly again.

A man on either side of her hefted her up, and she stumbled, her knees buckling, but they held her upright, their fingers digging into her arms. They dragged her out of the building, over a rocky dirt path. Her feet felt wretched, and she couldn't help but to mince her steps all the way, trying not to slice them up more than they already were.

Finally, they pushed her into a stuffy building that smelled of stale coal smoke. Down a corridor and into a room. The door snapped shut behind her.

“Close the curtains,” Mr. Dunn said.

Someone obliged him, and the light grew dimmer behind her blindfold.

“Now remove her gag and blindfold, and the bindings on her hands,” Mr. Dunn ordered. By the way these men were so quick to follow his orders, it was clear he held quite a lot of authority over them.

The bindings came off one by one—first the twine on her wrists was untied, then, as she tried to flex against the pain in her shoulders, the gag came off, then the blindfold. Though the room wasn't bright, she squinted while her eyes adjusted to the light.

Mr. Dunn sat at a desk across from her. He wore a waistcoat that showed to great effect the massive roll of fat that poured over his pantaloons, and constantly dabbed at his sweating forehead with a graying handkerchief.

He smiled at her. His teeth seemed unnaturally small. “I'm so very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Campbell.”

She looked wildly around her. Forester stood beside the desk, and Tibbets leered at her from where he had positioned himself in front of the closed door. Staring at her with dark, beady eyes, Bindly leaned against the wall behind Mr. Dunn.

Finally, her gaze returned to Mr. Dunn. “I…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. “I'm not Lady Campbell.”

“Aren't you? My men say they've seen you with Sir Robert Campbell in his home. If you're not Lady Campbell, then who are you?” He leaned forward in sudden interest. “Sir Robert's mistress?”

“No.” She didn't want to tell these men anything. Why give them information they could use as power? But, for some reason, she didn't want them thinking she was Claire. She wasn't sure if that made things better for her or worse—she just didn't want them thinking it.

“Who, then?”

She remained silent. Tibbets grabbed her arm just above the elbow, and squeezed until she thought the bone might pop.

“Mr. Dunn is asking you a question, woman,” Tibbets growled.

“Grace,” she bit out. “I'm Grace.”

“Grace,” Mr. Dunn said mildly. He nodded at Tibbets, who released her arm, and gestured toward a high-backed chair across from him. “Do sit down.”

Woodenly, Grace walked to the chair and sat into it.

“And what is your purpose in being inside Sir Robert's home?” Mr. Dunn asked.

She glanced at Tibbets, who was poised to hurt her. They would just inflict pain upon her until she gave them the answers they wanted. “I'm Lady Campbell's sister,” she said, defeat bitter in her throat.

“I see.” He tapped his fingers on his desk, then glanced up at Tibbets. “You were wrong, then.” He said the words mildly, but there was a dark threat behind them.

“She looks just like 'er,” Tibbets said defensively.

“I'm sure she does. Though right now, she doesn't look much the role of the high-and-mighty aristocrat, does she? How's it feel to be as dirty and bereft as a common wench, milady?”

She didn't answer.

“The sister's near as good as the wife, sir,” Bindly said. “He wouldn't be wanting harm to come to 'er. He'll pay a pretty penny to get 'er back.”

“Do you think so?” Mr. Dunn's dark gaze remained focused on Grace—he didn't look at Bindly at all.

“Aye, I do.”

“You're probably right, especially given the fact that the Earl of Norsey must be her father.” He tilted his head at Grace in question. “He
is
your father?”

She gave him a slight nod, not sure whether answering would put her father at risk.

Mr. Dunn's expression turned cold, and he glanced back at Bindly. “Good. One of the old monarchists. It'll be a pleasure to deliver our message to him, and it'll be a greater pleasure to use his blunt to fund our cause.” He flexed his fingers on top of his desk, then slid an empty sheet of paper across the table to her. He dipped a pen in the inkwell and handed it to her.

“Write, Lady Grace.”

She looked at him in question.

“Take the bloody pen,” Bindly snapped.

She reached out and took the pen with a trembling hand. “But…what do you want me to write?”

“A letter. Perhaps two. One to your father, the Earl of Norsey. One to your famous brother-in-law, Major Sir Robert Campbell.”

She nodded shakily.

“Here's what you shall say,” Dunn said. “Dear Sir Robert…”

She wrote. The major would know right away that these weren't her words—she'd never called him Sir Robert.

“I am currently in the care of some men you might have heard about,” Mr. Dunn dictated. “They call themselves the Newsmiths. They are kind men, who are concerned with nothing but the future of our blessed country. They are taking very good care of me. However, they are in need of your help. You see, they have reason to believe you intend to thwart their plans. I honestly don't know why you'd do that, Sir Robert, as their intentions are quite pure. They will only bring peace and prosperity to us all in the end.”

Mr. Dunn was becoming rather carried away, Grace thought—clasping his hands together, fidgeting in his seat, his dark eyes becoming bright and his expression rather fanatical—and she had to force herself to keep her expression flat and concentrate to keep her hand from shaking as she wrote.

“Therefore,” Mr. Dunn continued, “they are asking for a sum of fifty thousand pounds…”

Grace's hand faltered, and she looked up at Mr. Dunn with wide eyes.

Mr. Dunn laughed and waved his hand. “Come now. Sir Robert Campbell and the Earl of Norsey are rich beyond most men's imaginations. And it is all money that should be spread among the populace, not squandered between two spoiled aristocrats. Surely the two of them can find a way to acquire such a sum.” His eyes narrowed. “Now write it, milady.”

Grace dropped her gaze to the page and wrote. When she'd finished, she looked back up at him.

He nodded and continued, “…to be delivered to the enclosed address by Friday next.”

Grace schooled her face into impassivity once more and continued to write.

“Furthermore,” Mr. Dunn said, “the Newsmiths respectfully demand that you leave Lancashire immediately, and no longer interfere with their dealings in any way. They will hold me until such time as you meet these terms.”

Mr. Dunn paused, looking at her with a speculative expression. Then he smiled, and finished, “However, if you do not comply, they assure me that I will be thrown into a dungeon to never be heard from again. I implore you to listen to their demands and abide by them. For though they have been kind and generous with me to this point, they assure me that your denial will only serve to cause me great pain, anguish, and misery.”

Grace wrote, her hand cramping, her shoulder screaming from her wrists being tied behind her back all night. Were these men quite mad? Or simply such zealots that they would go to any lengths for their cause?

And did they really intend to cause her great pain, anguish, and misery?

“And I fear, dear brother-in-law,” Mr. Dunn continued dictating, “that these men are serious. They are willing to go to whatever lengths necessary to achieve their goals, and the sacrifice of one woman is nothing to them compared to the importance of curing the dastardly sickness the monarchy has inflicted upon our country.”

Good Lord. They were zealots, then. Dangerous ones, with a leader who had the power, money, and a growing army to back them.

“Good, now close it with ‘Your affectionate sister-in-law, Lady Grace,' etcetera, etcetera.”

Grace did as she was told, laying the pen down when she was finished. Mr. Dunn reached his hand out. “Give it here.”

She slid the letter across the table to him. He read it slowly and carefully—Grace didn't understand why it took so long for him to read it, except that he was perhaps looking for some kind of secret code buried within the words he'd ordered her to write.

Finally he set it down. “Very good. Now, I cannot be entertaining spoiled aristocrats when I have far more important work to do. You must go back to your little prison for now.” He glanced back at Bindly and said, “Get her something to eat. And arrange a more secure place to keep her. I imagine we'll be keeping her here for at least a week.”

“Aye, sir.”

She glanced warily at Tibbets, who stared at her with a terrifying gleam in his eye, his lips curling at the sides.