Page 80 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
Around them, agents were falling into position. A woman sauntering along in a light skirt’s saucy attire, her layers of skirts concealing her weapons. A staggering drunk who’d propped himself up against a lamppost, steadying legs that deliberately quaked beneath his weight. An old man with a walrus-like mustache sitting on the bench of a workman’s wagon. A second glance revealed the man’s identity. MacAlister Campbell had aged himself a good two decades with the disguise. Even the scrawny lad hawking papers was an agent in disguise—the expertly trained female marksman had slipped into character as a youth clad in dirty trousers and a flat-brimmed cap.
A cold wind once again carried with it the foulness of the Thames, a detestable stench. He gave a sniff in disgust, then turned toward the warehouse where they believed Alex was being held. A fitting location for such a bleak rendezvous.
Devil take it, he had to keep his mind on the positive, meager as it was. If he lived past the initial encounter with her captors, he had a chance. At the very least, he might distract the bastards long enough for Colton’s agents to make their move and rescue Alexandra.
He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. A heartbeat. No more. No less.
And then, he issued a simple plea.
Let me have the strength to save her.
…
Alex studied her captor through lowered lashes, trailing his nervous strides as he paced the chamber. Stockwell appeared edgy, more dangerous by the moment. Like a caged predator, his impatience was rapidly turning to anger—rage that would eventually turn against her.
She had to get away from him. His weasel-eyed henchman had left Stockwell to his own devices shortly after delivering her to this foul place. With any luck, the rotter would not return.
Glancing about the chamber, she confirmed Nelson had not skulked back inside as she worked at the ropes on her wrists. A bit more slack, and she might wriggle free. Another tug, and the binding went looser. She squeezed her hand into a tight fist.
Blast it, she still could not slip away.
Biting back a sigh, she resumed her struggle against the bonds. Slow, subtle movements, frustratingly slow. But she had no choice. If she attracted his notice, her efforts would be for naught.
Turning to her, Stockwell flashed a look that spoke of violence. As he closed the distance between them, he slid a hand inside his jacket, retrieving an object from a concealed pocket. Emotionless, he pressed a switch on the handle he gripped against his palm. A blade as long as her hand sprang forward. Light glinted off the razor-honed steel blade.
Fear chilled her blood. Fighting a sudden surge of panic, she contorted her hand. Just a bit more…
He crouched beside her, near enough to touch her—near enough to cut her. Tipping up her chin, he met her gaze with cold, heartless eyes. “Do you believe yourself to be a pawn in this game?”
Swallowing against her fright, she shook her head.
“You are a clever one, aren’t you?” he said. “Have you figured it out yet?”
“I cannot say that I have,” she murmured.
He drew the pad of his finger over the curve of her jaw, smiling evilly. A shudder rippled through her. “You are the queen in this game of chess. And we both know how valuable a capture that is.”
A man’s voice stilled him. Stockwell rose to his full height, the tense set of his body betraying he was on full alert as he strategically positioned himself behind her.
Benedict!
He’d called out to Stockwell, announcing his presence. Her heart stuttered. A blend of pride at his courage and fear that penetrated to the marrow surged through her. She’d prayed that Benedict would ignore her captor’s demands and save himself.
But he’d shown his fortitude.
He’d come after her.
Dear God, please help him. Please do not allow him to sacrifice himself.
As he came into her line of sight, she froze. Benedict stood tall, his jaw hard with determination. Streams of dim light gleamed silver off the gun in his right hand. His gaze flickered to her, and he gave a small nod of assurance before he locked his sights on her captor and entered the chamber with long, confident strides.
“I knew it was you, Stockwell,” he said, making no effort to hide his disgust.
“So, you did muster the spleen to accept my invitation. I wondered if you’d be man enough to come after her.”
“Man enough?” Benedict cocked a brow. “Might I remind you that I do not employ others to do my dirty work.”
Stockwell shrugged. “If it gets me what I want, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
