“We’ll be gone the night,” Jamie said, a dark frown curved his lips. “Lest you get the idea to do something foolish again, there is a guard stationed outside.”
Her mouth went dry as she remembered the last guard they’d assigned to watch her. The blare of his pistol echoed in her memory. She shook her head to erase the face of the nameless prisoner and the blood that had blossomed on his chest like a crimson butterfly spreading its wings.
He’d been the last man she’d freed. They’d both paid dearly for it.
Georgina bit back the stinging retort on her lips. “Should I allow the guard entry?”
Father shot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. “You’ve got a lot of questions, gel.”
“I just want to help,” she lied.
Jamie’s lips turned up in a sneer. “She is a dutiful girl,” he said. He no more trusted her than she did him.
Georgina bowed her head and a wry smile played about her lips. “I strive to do my father’s bidding.”
Father and Jamie had come to expect small showings of disobedience from her, but neither suspected the truth—she stole information from them and dashed notes off to the Crown, providing details about their plans. All the while, she plotted to leave this hell. She was biding her time, waiting to find a way out of this lonely, dark life. The only thing that had kept her in this hellish place was a sense of obligation to the men brought here to suffer at Father’s hands. That, and the fear they would hunt her and kill her themselves.
As if suspecting the deceptive path her thoughts had wandered down, Father glowered. “You aren’t to let anyone inside.”
She took a deep, slow breath when they finally left. Georgina locked the door and leaned against it. Her eyes slid closed at the blessed silence.
“I said let me out, you bastards!”
The thunderous shout above the stairs brought her back to reality.
Georgina hurried to the kitchens and prepared a tray of bread and cheese, a pitcher of water, and a glass of red wine to the sound of the captive’s furious shouts. She sliced an apple into neat little pieces. Then she carried the tray to the captive’s chambers and turned the door handle. For all intents and purposes, the room might as well have been an elegant bedroom for an esteemed guest. A four-poster bed sat in the center of the room and a small table with two chairs had been tucked in a corner.
She stepped inside.
One of those chairs was now occupied.
“You bloody bast—” His invective died a swift death. The stranger, his arms tied to the back of his seat, eyed her warily. The dimly lit room and the ten feet of space separating them did nothing to diminish the sparkle of wariness in his emerald green gaze.
With the tip of her slipper, Georgina closed the door and faced him. Her stomach turned over at his bloodied and battered face; his hard lips swollen and cracked, the green of his irises glimmered, like a wild animal’s, full of the need for retribution. The slight tilt of his aquiline nose indicated it had been broken at some point. Her heart tugged. She, too, had known physical pain. “Hullo,” she said quietly.
He studied her in mute silence. The black and blues marring his face did little to detract from his breathtaking beauty; the hard, chiseled lines of his angular face, a square jaw with the slightest indentation at its center. This wary man possessed the kind of power artists celebrated in stone. She cursed herself for thinking such thoughts at a time like this. Yet she could not take her eyes from him.
“Why are you here?” That hoarse question yanked her from her reverie.
Georgina rushed to his chair and set down the tray. Even strapped to the chair as he was, his long muscular frame filled the room. Her hand quaked as she dipped a rag into a bowl of water and gently wiped the blood from his face. It stained her fingers, and the potent smell that was sickly sweet and harsh metal combined, filled the air around them. Bile climbed to her throat.
A hiss slipped from between his teeth and she bit her lip, hating that she’d caused him further pain. Moments later, the blood was gone, but the bruises stood in dark purple contrast to the olive hue of his skin. Georgina knelt at his feet. When she picked up his bound wrists, a groan grumbled in his throat.
“Forgive me.” Georgina lightened her grip and focused on his left hand, bound to the back of the mahogany shell chair. She’d done this many times before—loosened each prisoner’s bindings one limb at a time in order to massage the bruised skin, knowing even as she did that it was dangerous. But compassion overrode logic. Within moments, she’d worked one binding over his wrist. Georgina probed the area for any breaks but found none. Wordlessly, she continued to rub his injured flesh.
The stranger held up his other wrist, clearly expecting her to release him.
Georgina shook her head. “I can’t.” With every breath in her body, she wished she could set him free of this hell. But it would mean death for him and other horrors for her. In time, she would plan a way to save him, but it couldn’t be right now or her own life would be forfeit.
His hand fell back to the side of the chair.
In a sudden move, he trapped her chin with his large, strong hand. A startled squeak escaped her. She tried to shake loose his grip but he held tight. “What do you want then?”
“I only want to help.”
“The men who brought me here, who are they?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
He wrapped long fingers around her neck, his hold gentle, but firm. “Who are they?” Despite the furious demand, his thumb rubbed the spot where her pulse fluttered wildly.
She clawed at his hand, wanting to be free of his touch, to escape the vulnerable feeling of being helpless against him.
His grip tightened the slightest bit.
All Georgina’s earlier resolve to set aside her own well-being and help this man at all costs, slipped. For as dark and lonely as her life was and always had been, Georgina didn’t want to die. Not now. Not like this. She had given too much of her life to her father and the Crown to die here at the hands of this stranger. Enlivened, she raked sharp nails over the flesh of his forearm.
His lips curled in a sneering grin, as though he were amused by her ineffectual attempt at freedom.
“I could kill you right now.” That whisper-soft threat chilled her. Still, he didn’t harm her, proving with that hesitancy how vastly different he was than every other man she’d known. “Give me the answers I need.”
Some of her courage restored, she forced words past dry lips. “Release me.”