Beatrice clung to that minuscule hope as they descended farther into the depths of the mansion. They reached an uneven stone floor at last, and she saw that it was a kind of dungeon. The house above must be built on some type of older fortification. Hasselthorpe backed her into a stone wall. She heard the clank of chains and then felt cold metal against her wrists.
He stepped away and nodded. “That’ll hold you until your bastard husband comes to take your place.”
Beatrice strained, trying to say something, anything to get his attention, but he simply walked away, taking the light with him. She was left in cold, dank darkness. She pulled hard on the chain, hoping the anchor might’ve rotted, but it held fast. And then she could only stand and wait, for the chain would not let her sit. Would she die here, alone in the blackness? Or would Lord Hasselthorpe or one of his servants rescue her? She thought of Reynaud, his angry black eyes, his confident hands, his gentle mouth, and she wept a little, wondering if she’d ever see his dear face again. She knew he wouldn’t come for her, though.
He’d told her already. He’d not put himself into the power of another ever again.
REYNAUD’S FISTS SLID against the horse’s sweaty neck. He bent low over the animal, his hands on either side of the beast’s neck, a rein in each hand. He’d traded in his own horse two hours ago when it’d begun to lag, throwing an exorbitant sum at a sleepy innkeeper for his best horse. The gelding was a great bony animal, not pretty, but he had stamina.
Stamina and speed were all that mattered now.
Bulging saddlebags were tied behind him. They held a small fortune—every bit of gold he could find in the house, as well as his mother’s jewelry. He’d stuck a pistol in each coat pocket before he’d ridden out of London, though it was mainly his speed that deterred robbers.
The horse’s gait jarred him with each leap of his great legs, but Reynaud no longer cared. His arms and legs and arse ached, his hands had gone numb, his fingers were stiff with cold, and still he urged the beast on. He rode through black night, hell-for-leather, not caring of potential holes or unseen barriers in the road, endangering both the horse’s neck and his own.
It didn’t matter. If he wasn’t in Sussex at Hasselthorpe’s door by dawn, that madman would kill Beatrice, and he wouldn’t have a reason to live anyway. It was ironic, really. All this time he’d thought only of what he’d lost and never of what he’d gained. He’d wanted his title, his lands, his money, when all along they meant nothing without her by his side. Those calm gray eyes watching him curiously, showing no fear and no illusion as to who he was. That sweet, amused smile in an otherwise tart expression when she ticked him off for being an ass. The erotic surprise on her face when he entered her, her mouth opening in wonder.
God! Oh, God! He was going to lose her. Reynaud felt the burn of tears on his cheeks. The dawn was coming soon. He urged the gelding on, hearing the rasp of the horse’s breath, the jingle of the tack, and his own desperate heartbeat in his ears, knowing it was too little, too late. He wasn’t going to make it in time.
He’d kill the bastard, the murderer of his wife. He’d take his revenge in blood and pain, and then he’d end all this himself.
If she was dead, he’d have nothing to live for.
Chapter Nineteen
All night Princess Serenity journeyed. As the sun’s first rays blessed the earth, she came to the place where a year ago she had met Longsword. It was a barren spot, devoid of trees or even grass. The princess looked about her but could see no other living thing. Just as she began to wonder if she’d come in vain, a crack appeared in the dry ground. Wider and wider it grew until the Goblin King rose from the depths of the earth.
His orange eyes glowed bright at the sight of her, and he smiled with yellow fangs as he said, “And who might you be?”
“I am Princess Serenity,” she replied. “And I have come to take my husband’s place in the kingdom of the goblins. . . .”
—from Longsword
It was dark, so dark, and she’d lost track of the time. She could’ve been standing here for minutes or hours, her arms wrenched painfully behind her, her eyes straining uselessly in the blackness. Every now and again she’d nod off despite the pain and fear, but as her body sagged forward, her shoulders would be yanked by the chain on her wrists, and she would startle awake. At first she’d thought the dungeon was silent as well, but as she stood there, she began to hear things. Small rustlings. The scrape of a tiny claw against stone. The slow drip of water somewhere. In the dark, all alone, the sounds should have frightened her more. Instead they were almost comforting. She wasn’t sure she could’ve remained sane if her hearing had been taken away as well as her eyesight.
Finally she heard footsteps, distant but drawing nearer. She straightened, trying to look serene, trying to be brave. Reynaud had been brave in captivity and so could she. She was a countess. She wouldn’t meet death weeping.
The door to the dungeon was thrown open, and she flinched away from the lantern light.
“Beatrice.”
Oh, dear God, it couldn’t be. She squinted and saw her husband’s broad shoulders blocking the light from the lantern. He was hatless, his boots muddy and scuffed, and he carried a full saddlebag over one shoulder. She jerked forward, her throat working, trying to say something. To warn him. Lord Hasselthorpe had ranted for nearly an hour when first they entered the carriage about the revenge he would inflict on Reynaud.
“Don’t touch her,” Lord Hasselthorpe said, and Reynaud stepped aside. Behind him was Lord Hasselthorpe, a gun pointed firmly at Reynaud. “Here she is. You can see that no harm has come to her. Now give me the money.”
Reynaud didn’t look at the other man. His eyes were on hers, blazing, black, and dangerous. “Take off her gag.”
“You’ve already—”
Reynaud turned his head and hit Lord Hasselthorpe with a stare. “Take it off.”
Lord Hasselthorpe frowned, but he stepped forward, keeping his eyes on Reynaud. He fumbled, one-handed, with the cloth tied at the back of her head, and then the binding fell.
Beatrice spat out the wadded cloth in her mouth. “Reynaud, he’ll kill you!”
“Shut up,” Lord Hasselthorpe said.
“Don’t.” Reynaud took a step toward the other man, seemingly oblivious to the raised gun between them. He stared at Lord Hasselthorpe a moment, then looked at Beatrice, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “Has he hurt you?”