“I am.”
“But we don’t want to go borrowing trouble. Mayhap you just… wait. Once we’re at the grange, you can have her cunt, her arse, and any other hole you can name.”
Eliza’s jaw ground together, and she fought with everything she had to keep her expression neutral and unphased. Still, her knees trembled as she pressed them tighter together underneath her rumpled skirt. She couldn’t help but be grateful for the many layers of silk petals that comprised the gown—more barriers between them, no matter how flimsy.
“It’s unnecessary.”
This was the most surreal moment of her life—two men debating whether it was more prudent to rape her now or later. And still more ludicrous, she needed a chamber pot.
“You ain’t seen what Blackwood did to his own boy. Whipped the flesh clean off his back. Think he won’t do that to you? Or worse?”
Eliza’s stomach threatened to rebel again. Benedict had been whipped—that explained the scars she had seen. Were those old wounds, or did this explain his cry when she touched him in the orangery that night?
“Blackwood has no power over me,” the gentleman—Draycott, the other man had called him—insisted.
“Power ain’t worth horseshit after thirty strokes of the lash. I was fair surprised to see the lad alive tonight.”
Benedict was injured recently… Eliza swallowed the bile pooling in her mouth.
“Enough!”
Startled by the volume, Eliza jerked her hand to her chest.
Draycott continued, “This is not a democracy, Stark. I thought we were clear on that. If he doesn’t pay in pounds, he’ll pay in flesh.” He turned to her, another sneer on his lips. “Relax, sweetheart, I enjoy all manner of depravity, but an audience of this clump isn’t one of them.”
That notion did not comfort her. But she decided to remain within arm’s reach of this Stark.
On the seat, Draycott’s hand clenched again. The fingers stretched back out slowly, struggling. The flesh had an odd, mottled shading—somehow too red and too pale. Near where the palm met the wrist was a haphazard strip of linen—a makeshift bandage. Was that the hand Bella had bitten? Had that moment been a creation of her own dazed mind?
Draycott tried to tighten his hand into a fist, but two of the fingers refused to cooperate.
No, Bella had bitten him. And someone else, perhaps another woman, had caused that scar across his face. Eliza felt an odd surge of pride at their courage. She fought to summon the same sort of brazen savvy.
Unfortunately, no plan was forthcoming. Her mind was still slower than usual, and entirely occupied with her physical discomforts and fears for her safety—no room for anything else.
Eventually, the inevitable became clear. She had two options: ask them to stop or soil herself. While she didn’t fancy either, the second was the greater evil.
“Gentlemen,” she said, directing the title to Stark, whom she hated slightly less than the other. “I find myself in need of a discrete moment.”
Her mistake was immediately apparent when confusion washed over the man’s brow.
Draycott, on the other hand, took her meaning, and graced her with a bemused chuckle.
“What’s that mean?” Stark asked.
Eliza rolled her eyes. “I need to piss, unless you’d enjoy that soaking into your boots along with my sick.”
“Why did you not say so?” He thumped on the roof of the carriage with a fist, and it veered off the road.
“What is it?” another man called from up front.
“She needs a piss.”
Any shred of dignity that had remained abandoned her entirely. She was honestly surprised to find she had retained any at all—given the situation.
She reached for the door handle only for Draycott to smack her hand. The gesture rankled her; she was no misbehaving child.
“You don’t think we’ll be letting you out there alone, do you?”
