Page 85 of The Ladies Least Likely
“They’ll kill Daron.” Anne’s pupils were tiny blue dots in the huge whites of her eyes. “They told me they will kill him if I didn’t bring all of you, and if we fight or struggle—” She pressed a fist to her mouth to stop a whimper. “They’ll kill all of us.”
Prunella shrieked and her eyes rolled back in her head. Gwen was ready to applaud the girl’s cleverness until she realized her swooning was not a ruse to give them a chance to rush their guards and escape. As Prunella’s body folded, Pedr lunged forward to catch her before she toppled to the ground, and Gwen could have laughed at the comical look on his face as he found his arms full of round, soft woman. Lydia screeched and stepped away as if Pedr, or Prunella, had something catching, but she couldn’t go far with another of the Black Hound’s henchman crowding in from the side. Pedr scooped Prunella into his arms, grunting a bit as he adjusted his grip, and his cohorts herded the rest of them toward the shallow wooden boat that had been lowered to the ground.
“Hey, now, into the jolly-boat with you all!” Minikin barked. He caught Gwen’s eye. “The Moll doesn’t have the—this time?” He made a motion toward his waist.
“The what?” Gwen shot a glare at one of the men shouldering her toward the tiny boat. He had pox scars on his face and only a few stumps of teeth. He looked hungry and angry.
“The—achoo!” Minikin pretended to open a pouch at his waist, then sneezed.
The sneezewort she’d used on him before.Twpsyn! She always traveled with it, except when she was invited to tea with society ladies.
“I don’t have it,” she bit out.
Minikin, strangely enough, looked disconcerted. “Ah. Well, then.” He shared a glance with Pedr and, with a wince of apology, shooed all four women into the yawl and indicated that they sit. The hard wooden plank pressed against Gwen’s rear and the tiny boat jolted as men above cranked the winch to haul up the ropes. Like water being fetched from a well the boat carried the four women and their captors up the side of the brig, and men on the main deck unceremoniously hauled them over the rail like so many sacks of flour.
Gwen was too busy cursing herself to take proper note of her surroundings. It was a regular ship, strung with a spider’s web of ropes and riggings, instruments with unaccountable functions scattered here and there. Pedr’s compatriots reached into the yawl and heaved out two small firkins, the half-sized casks used for ale. Gwen’s stomach jumped as she recognized a mark on the side. The casks came from St. Sefin’s, and they held the brew Pen had made with the infected darnel seeds. She’d carefully marked the firkins so no one opened one by accident and drank the poisoned brew. What was it doing here, with Minikin so cheerfully rolling a cask before him, as if he hadn’t a care in the world?
“Master wants to see you.” He whistled as if calling a dog. “Come along, fair ladies, come along.”
Gwen, herded by the much larger and clearly armed men, had no choice but to follow. Anne trailed behind her, whimpering and fretting. Lydia marched with her head up, going to the gallows with pride, and Pedr caught up the rear with a groggy Prunella in his arms. Minikin pointed to a short stair at the back of the deck leading downward. “There. Try not to anger him, chick. He’s in a foul temper to begin with.”
Where was Pen? What would he do when he learned what had happened? For that matter, what did the Hound want with them? Gwen’s courage quailed as she stepped down the short, dark stairwell into the unknown.
The captain’s cabin spread over the entire rear of the ship, and a more sumptuous boudoir Gwen had never seen. Half a dozen narrow arched windows let in a buttery spring light, and on a small raised platform tucked against them stood a large feather bed clothed in silk damask. Shelves and cupboards with polished brass handles lined the walls. In the center of the room stood a large walnut dining table draped in a crisp white linen cloth, and around it sat several Gillow armchairs in gleaming walnut. Comfortable chairs, with shepherd’s crook arms and tapestry seats. Nestled in one was an older man dressed head to toe in black, save for a flash of startling white at his shirt collar and a red silk cravat.
“Y Gwyllgi.” Gwen said it like a curse.
He rose and bowed. He was a large man, stocky, and he wore his own hair, white and cupped around his ears. His cheekbones stood out like knobs, his mouth was a thin straight slash across his face, and his eyes were so deep-set beneath heavy coal-black brows that Gwen at first couldn’t discern the gleam of malice in them. Altogether, he was terrifying.
“The Black Hound, is that it? I didn’t choose the name for myself. My real name, if you want to know, is Bryan.” He moved around the table to regard them. He was very tall. “But I believethe Black Hound suits me, for all that. I am single-minded in my pursuits. I enjoy a fight. And I never give up until I have what I want.”
“Hardly a fair fight when you hire thugs to beat a man senseless, or kidnap ladies,” Gwen said. Pedr and Minikin left, but other men stood guard in the tiny stairwell. These were the rough men they’d heard reports of roaming Newport, causing fights and hassling merchants. Who was this man to command a small army of henchmen, all to do his will?
“Gwenllian ap Ewyas,” the Hound said softly, regarding her intently. He spoke English but with an accent she couldn’t place, lilting and rhythmic, but not Welsh. “I’ve heard of you. Princess of an ancient kingdom that no longer exists. Warrior in a world where females are meant to be gracious and silent.” His thin lips flattened in a sneer. “I cannot think of a worse torment for a woman of pride. It must be purgatory on earth.”
“Where is my brother?” Anne choked out, stepping forward. Behind them Lydia and Prunella clung together, wide-eyed and silent, their skirts rustling like a pair of dainty stonechat.
“Why, he’s right here waiting for you.” The Hound gestured toward a shadowed corner where a chair sat before a built-in desk. Daron Sutton sat bound to it by long thin ropes. His blue coat was torn, his cravat rust-stained, and his head hung heavily on his chest, his golden hair matted with blood at one temple. Anne rushed to him with a low cry.
“Is he dead?” She looked at Gwen with anguish.
Gwen’s heart twisted despite herself. She hadn’t wished Darondead. Mauled by corgis, perhaps, but not blotted from the earth. “Check his pulse,” she said roughly.
“I don’t know how to do that.” Anne gazed on her brother forlornly, touching his shoulder as if fearing to find him cold.
Heaving a sigh, Gwen stepped forward and pressed two fingers beneath Sutton’s fleshy chin. “Alive.” She dropped herfingers, loathe to touch him, and instead snatched a linen serviette from the table, snapped it open, and bound the length around Sutton’s head. “Does he owe you money, too?”
The Hound grinned. The expression resembled the gape of a skull removed of flesh. “He approached me with a bargain. I’m ensuring he maintains his end of it.”
“What bargain?” Gwen swallowed a sour taste in her mouth.
The Hound nodded towards the two viscountesses, watching white-faced and silent. Gwen had to commend Lydia’s ruthless self-control. She appeared outraged at the indignity being done her. Poor Prunella looked prepared to faint again.
“These two,” the Hound said, “bring the viscount to me. He owes me a debt. He,” he nodded toward Sutton, “keeps you.”
“And me?” Anne gave a soft yelp.
The Hound watched her with his tiny, piercing eyes. “I fancy a wife,” he said. “I’ve always been partial to those English blue eyes and that skin, like a—what’s that white flower you see in the spring?”
