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“What is she saying?” Pratt’s words came out harsh, and he pushed her harder to the door.

“It’s Monegasque, my lord.”

Another sob started in her stomach and convulsed its way upward, this one making it all the way past her lips. She couldn’t even speak the right language. Couldn’t act, couldn’t escape, couldn’t help Justin—and that was assuming he wasn’t beyond help. She couldn’t give her father the truth, couldn’t keep her maid safe, couldn’t break the curse that greed had wrought.

The necklace felt like hands around her throat. Pratt’s hands, stained with blood. So much blood. “Justin.”

“Should have learned long ago to control that temper of his. Now talk. Where are the Fire Eyes?”

“In my necklace.”

He pulled her back a few inches just to slam her to the door again. “English!”

She was
trying
! But when she opened her mouth again, no words emerged at all, only a cry that snatched her breath away and made her every muscle shudder. Once open, the floodgates wouldn’t be stopped. Her knees buckled, and she would have slid toward the floor if he hadn’t still been holding her there.

Pratt made a disgusted noise, gripped her shoulders, and tossed her aside. Landing on the floor, she drew her knees to her chest and shut her eyes against the light from the lamp. It
had no place here, with all the darkness. With the thunder of his anger. With the lightning of his hatred.

She wanted Justin. To hear his voice, whispering assurances. To feel his arms about her, promising a tomorrow worth fighting for. She wanted her father, with his dry sense of humor and fathomless understanding. She wanted home.

All she had was a bloodied ring and a tongue that wouldn’t speak English long enough to make it all stop.

Hands soothed over her hair, so gentle that they must be Deirdre’s. “She needs time to calm down.”

As if time could reverse the damage done. Could heal him, bring him to her door.

“She has an hour—or Whitby’s next. It would be easy enough for him to meet with an accident while out looking for her.”

“Non!”
She forced her limbs to uncurl, forced herself up, away from Deirdre. To her knees and then her feet.
“Non!”

The door shut with a pistol’s bang. The key in the lock ground like a bullet sliding into the chamber.

She fell onto the door again, pounding. Screaming. Even she didn’t know now what words she shouted, whether they were plea or command or denial. She didn’t know what she meant to do when he reentered. She should have thought. Should have found something to use as a weapon. Should have . . .

When the door pushed back, he had his gun in his hand and fury in his eyes. “Shut
up
!”

Never.
Bellowing at the top of her lungs, she threw herself at him. If he shot her, she’d at least draw some blood first. Her nails bit his cheek, raked down.

A sickening thud echoed in her ears . . . in her skull. All other sound faded. The world went fuzzy and seemed to freeze, then shift. Slowly, as if she were viewing it all through morning fog, the room went sideways and the floor embraced her. Then the lamp went out.

“Wake up, my lady. Please.” Deirdre had said the words so often, they had begun to sound nonsensical. The burning of the lamp was the only measure she had of passing time. She had filled it while Pratt cursed and lifted the baroness onto the cot, the only thing she could think to do to look unconcerned, when she’d
wanted
to rush over and try to rouse her.

She’d refilled it again since. That meant that at least sixteen hours had passed. More, now. A day must be done, a new one beginning. And still the baroness hadn’t stirred. Hadn’t wakened.

He’d come back once, when the lamp was still half full. The tempest on his face when he saw the lady was still unconscious . . . To her utter surprise, he hadn’t taken it out on Deirdre. He had, instead, left her with a key to this door, though that would only give her access to the hall. She had tried every door along it, tried the key in every lock, but the only one that would open was the one she’d seen before.

He’d left food there, and water. She’d tried dribbling some onto her ladyship’s lips, but that earned her no response either. She’d thought to try reading to her, but the journal was all they had, and it was in French. There had been a letter tucked into the last page though. That had been in English, and she’d read it aloud . . . then almost wished she hadn’t.

It had been from them, the elder Pratt and Rushworth. To the late Lady Whitby. Claiming they’d killed her husband, saying that the body found in York the night before—a newspaper clipping was included, about a body so badly mutilated as to be unidentifiable—was him. Warning that if she didn’t hand over the Fire Eyes, the baby would be next.

Deirdre’s fingers went knotted as the words swam before her again. How horrified must the lady have been? A young mother
getting such news, convinced, it seemed, by the horror. No wonder she had fled, thinking it the only way to save her babe.

The floor was cold and hard under Deirdre’s knees, and the lamp did little to make the shadows flee. “Lord God.” She had prayed more these hours than at any time in her life—other than when it was Da who had lain unresponsive on a lumpy mattress. She picked up His Grace’s ring from where it had skidded under the cot and put it in the baroness’s hand, curled her fingers around it. “Lord above, I beg you. Restore her. Deliver her. Give her back to her father and . . .”

She’d nearly said “His Grace.” But that wasn’t possible now, was it? She pressed her lips together. Pratt had said there would be no questions about killing him, that the constable had witnessed it. But no one could kill a duke without consequences, for sure and certain. Even if Pratt saw no prison term for it, there would be questions. He had to know that. It had to be what had put him in such a rage.

And what if he were taken away to answer for it? What would become of them then, with neither water nor food?

“Wake up, my lady. Come now.” Deirdre rested her head against the side of the tick. Had she slept at all this night? If so, not for more than a minute here or there. “I’ve the key to the door. Not the outer one, only this one, but it’s something. Wake up, and we can make a plan together. Lie in wait in the room by the outer door. You’ll think of something, fearless as you are. But sure and you have to wake up first.”

Not a whimper. Not a flinch.

Deirdre closed her eyes—jolted when her head slipped, and sure and that made her eyes fly to the lamp. Was the oil lower? She couldn’t remember, now, what level it had been at. But enough remained that she could get up, walk to the end of the hall and see if new water awaited, or breakfast. Perhaps the aroma of food would stir her ladyship.

Deirdre’s joints creaked when she arose, her muscles screamed. And as she walked, her feet dragged. It took all her focus to get the key into the lock and turn it. She shuffled her way down the hall.

A scratching reached her ears halfway down. She paused, the sound bringing her awake a bit more. Mice? A rat? Her pulse hammered at the thought. She lifted the lamp, though she saw no evidence of the rodent. But sure and it was the sound of claw on wood at the end of the hall.

It stopped. Then came again, louder. She squealed, though quick as a flash she clamped a hand over her mouth.

The scratching stopped. And in its place came . . . a hiss? Did rats hiss? No, wait—that was
words
! Praise be to the Almighty. Someone was at the door!

“I’m coming.” Her voice came out the barest whisper, but she hoped whoever it was could hear her. Tremors possessed her by the time she reached the door. What if it was a trick? Did Pratt doubt her? Was he testing her?

It was a risk she had to take. “Is someone there?”

“Bless my soul!” came the muted reply. “I didn’t hear awry, then. Who is in there? Is this the baroness?”

Someone knew! Deirdre pressed close against the door, her mouth at the crack. “Aye! I mean, not I, but I’m her maid, and she’s in here too. Do you work for Pratt?”

“Much to my dismay—but I’m cousin to the constable, and he told me to be on the lookout. I was seeing to repairs outside this wing and heard the screaming. Took me all night to find the hall what corresponded. Are ye well in there?”

She splayed her fingers against the wood. “Nay. I’m well enough, but the baroness is hurt. He struck her in the head, and she’s not woken for so very long. I don’t know what to do.”

A shuffling sound reached her, one that went away from the door and then back. “He’s coming. We haven’t much time. But
he’s joining the search this morning, ordered his horse to be ready at eight. He’ll be away. Two hours’ time. I’ll get you out, somehow or another. Aye?”

“Aye! Aye.” Two hours. She didn’t know how she’d gauge it, but she knew answered prayer when it scratched. The constable’s own cousin—praise be to heaven. He could help her carry the baroness out, help them sneak from the house. Then it would only be a matter of getting her the miles back to Whitby Park.

Heaven help her—how was she to do that, if her ladyship didn’t awaken?

She would worry with that later. For now she rushed back to the cell, where the baroness lay as she’d left her. Golden curls tucked beside her, soiled gown half covered by the ratty blanket. Hands limp and useless at her side, with Pratt’s blood still staining her nails.

The distant creak of the door echoed down the hall. Footsteps. And then a curse. “Blast it, Deirdre—why the devil is the door open?”

She spun, her fists at her sides. And took what was likely a sinful amount of pleasure in seeing the angry welts on his face, the bruises and cuts. “And what harm can it possibly do, when she hasn’t so much as twitched a finger since you struck her? She needs a doctor.”

“A doctor would do nothing but wave smelling salts under her nose.” Apparently doubting her word, he strode to the cot. Cursed again when the truth spoke for itself. “Idiot woman, forcing my hand.”

Never in her life had she been so tempted to strike a gentleman and add another mark to his once-beautiful face. She would do it, too, if the baroness didn’t need her to keep his trust. But the words . . . the words came forth of their own volition. “You call
her
stupid? How did you
expect
her to react when you come barreling in here and tell her you’ve killed the man she loves?”

He jerked toward her, looking ready to bite. Then, with a low mutter she couldn’t discern, he knelt down and pressed a finger to her ladyship’s neck. “Her pulse is still strong—she cannot be too hurt. She will wake up soon, and when she does, the door had better be locked. And
you
had better be ready to get answers from her.”

He stood straight again and strode for the door. Deirdre followed him out—closing the door behind her. “Sure and I will be,
if
she awakens. And what if she doesn’t? Or what if you’re arrested for killing the duke? Will you let us die of thirst?”

He’d left a lamp at the end of the hall. Its light outlined the hard angle of his brows. “I won’t be. I did nothing but defend myself.”

“But—”

“Shut up, Deirdre, or I swear I’ll lay you out along with her.”

Never, in the year she’d known him, had she seen his nerves so frayed, his temper so close to the surface. Perhaps, devil though he was, he hadn’t been prepared for the effects of his own actions. Perhaps he staggered under the weight of his sins. Perhaps . . . perhaps he realized he’d dug himself too deep a pit.

She followed him into the other open chamber, where a new tray had taken up residence on the table.

He motioned to the bread, the cheese, the ham, the pitcher of water. “That ought to keep you alive, don’t you think?”

She folded her arms over her chest. It was more than he usually brought—which meant he intended not to be back by the midday meal, she would guess. And also, praise God, that there would be plenty for both of them when the baroness awoke.

“Well then.” He turned to the door.

“Wait.” She didn’t know what she meant to say, only that she wanted to prick at him. Needle him in whatever way she could. She lifted her chin. “If thirst doesn’t kill me, boredom
might, while I wait for her ladyship to flutter her lashes. Have you a book in this house of yours? One written in English?”

One she could actually read to her ladyship, that didn’t speak of the horrors that had brought them here?

Pratt snorted, though not with amusement. He stood stock-still for a moment and then reached into his jacket pocket. Pulled out a newspaper, still crisply folded and bound with twine, and threw it to the floor. “Don’t get the pages out of order—I’ll want to read it later.” Not awaiting her response, he hurried out. Though he did toss over his shoulder, “And lock the blasted door!”

Thirty-Two