Page 100 of While You Were Spying

He shoved her down hard, and she felt a splinter from the edge of the wood cut into the bare flesh just above her gloved elbow. With her arms still secured behind her, she was forced to twist sideways. She felt his hands under her skirt, groping, and began to kick and thrash again. “No!”

He laughed, but though the sound made her shudder, she didn’t stop fighting.

Not here, not in this place, was all she could think. Not where Ethan had touched her, kissed her, caressed her. Anywhere but here.

She struck out wildly and managed to lodge her foot in some soft part of him—stomach or groin—then used the added leverage to push away. She drew her legs up and rolled awkwardly across the plank of wood. Arms still useless, she fell over the side of the table, hitting her temple on the edge as she did so, then cutting her mouth on the rickety chair below.

It wasn’t a long fall, but it knocked the breath out of her. She had to struggle to rise. She could see the outline of the back door now. Nothing was blocking her way. But it was no use. Her attacker strolled around the side of the table, taking his time, taunting her with his unhurried steps, while she fought frantically to make her body obey. She had just gained her feet when he reached her, snatched her by the hair, and dragged her to her full height, which was still far inferior to his.

“You don’t give up easily, do you?” His hooded eyes stared down at her, and she heard amusement in his voice. His hand closed over her throat, squeezing it

brutally and cutting off her supply of oxygen again. “Keep fighting me, Cesca. I like it.”

She was jolted again by his use of her name, then gasped when he pressed her back against the table. He fumbled with his breeches with one hand while the fingers of the other were bars caging her throat. Francesca managed a swallow as she felt the hard press of his male member against her stomach. She knew what was coming next and bucked against him, trying to slide away. But she was trapped between his legs, helpless with her arms bound and her air supply limited.

His shadowed eyes seemed to laugh at her, and she wrenched her head away from him, glancing out the window.

And saw her salvation.

Strolling down the path from the stable to the tack house were Ethan and Selbourne. She caught only a glimpse of the men before her head was twisted back and her vision started to fade under her attacker’s tight fingers. Her skirts were tossed up and she was pressed harder against the table. Everything around her began to blur and the man’s actions seemed excruciatingly slow. She wondered, as she felt the man tug her legs apart, if she had only imagined seeing Ethan. Then she welcomed the blackness closing in on her.

She began to fall. The hole was dark and deep. There was no pain, only peace.

But her peace was interrupted when she felt a sharp jab, and her lungs seized and snatched at a trickle of oxygen. With effort, she opened her eyes and felt her assailant’s tense grip on her neck slacken further. She gulped the air greedily. His hands on her legs stilled and, when the blackness before her eyes began to fade, she saw that his hooded face was turned to the door.

Blood rushed to her head, was loud in her ears, but she heard what her attacker had clearly heard. Voices. She sagged in relief, wanted to laugh, to cry. Her elation was short-lived. With a rough shove, her captor dragged her off the table and thrust her underneath. A moment later he was beside her. His hand scrambled across her face until he found her mouth and locked over it.

Hunching beside her, he whispered, “Do you feel this?” He jabbed her ribs with a weapon—something cold and hard. “Doyou?”

She nodded, terrified.

“I have another as well, and if you so much as breathe, I’ll shoot your lover and his brother, then use my knife to slit your throat.” He shoved the muzzle of the pistol into her for emphasis.

She gasped at the sharp thump of pain.

“Do you understand?”

She nodded again, a new fear engulfing her.

The door creaked open, and she sent a silent message to Ethan to leave, to go before the madman beside her hurt him too.

“—left it on the desk and forgot it when Pocket buttonholed me.” It was Ethan’s voice, and though she feared for his life, the velvet sound of him washed over her, comforting her.

She heard him step inside and approach the plank she was crouched under. “Is there a lamp somewhere?” Selbourne asked. His voice was farther away, still in the doorway.

The man beside her stiffened. Francesca’s heart rammed against her chest. She need only make the smallest sound to alert Ethan and Selbourne of her presence, yet if she did so, this man would undoubtedly kill them all. She was dead anyway. Could she possibly justify taking Ethan or his brother with her?

“I can go back to the stable and get a lantern,” Selbourne offered. Above her, Ethan paused before the desk.

“Don’t need it.” She heard him say. “I know my way—”

There was an audible creak as her captor inadvertently leaned against the ramshackle chair beside the desk. The man froze, and Francesca held her breath.

Ethan’s voice hitched for the briefest of instants. If she hadn’t know him so well, she wouldn’t have thought he’d heard it.

“—around this room,” he finished.

She heard him shuffling something on the desk above her—surely he’d realize everything was out of place—then Selbourne, still in the doorway said, “Oh, bloody hell. We must have let the dog out. He’s running around the yard. I’ll go back and—”

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