“It was a naive sort of hope, I’ll admit. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll ask Mr. Stark here to guard me.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, gesturing toward the door with his wounded hand. Eliza noted a tremor in it before he yanked it back.
She stumbled outside and listened to the carriage rock as Stark clambered after her. Any weak optimism she possessed vanished.
Behind them, a plume of white dust was beginning to settle—disturbed by their carriage. The scenery was unfamiliar. Which meant they were probably not headed east or north, as her family had traveled in both directions before. The chalk-packed road and lack of other travelers marked this as a less-traversed route.
High grasses, gorse, and bramble bushes lined the road, which seemed to go on for leagues in each direction. There was no civilization and no turns, only gently slopping hills in the cool damp of encroaching night.
She shivered. The situation was dire. She had no notion of where she was, no idea how far or in which direction she should travel. And she was in a ballgown and slippers. Both would make the terrain difficult to navigate. Loath as she was to admit it, she would have a better chance with the men.
“Well, get to it.”
She turned to find Stark staring at her.
“You’ll turn your back at least.”
“Afraid not,” he said as he settled his thumbs into the tops of his trousers and rocked back on his heels. “If it was polite you wanted, you should’ve picked the lordling.”
Her sigh was long and put upon. Even though every part of her revolted at the sentiment, she squatted beside the road.
Impossibly long and humiliating moments later, they got back inside the carriage.
“Have fun?” Draycott asked with a cheeky smirk.
“Never more,” she retorted, then settled back into her seat as the carriage lurched forward.
“Brandy?” the man asked, shaking a small metal flask—in his left hand. The flask was nearly identical to the one Benedict had shared with her all those days ago. Her heart gave a pang, desperately wishing he were there beside her.
“Laced with laudanum?”
“Some of this, some of that…”
“I’m not thirsty,” she lied. Now that her bladder was no longer her most pressing need, she realized she was quite parched. And worse still, the lingering taste of her sick clung to her tongue.
“Suit yourself,” he said before taking a small sip.
Stark peered at him curiously but didn’t comment. Instead, he reached beneath the bench to reveal a flagon of ale and a crust of bread. She watched with envy as he took a heavy swallow, his throat bobbing with the effort. He ripped off a chunk of the stale bread with his molars in a truly revolting display.
Night was fast approaching, and Eliza’s earlier worries crept back in. Would the looming darkness entice Draycott while the other man slept? She had nothing, no means of fighting him off if he tried. She found herself longing for the hairpin knife that had apparently been tucked away in Bella’s curls from the moment they met.
Sitting primly, she pressed her legs together so tightly she could feel the muscles beginning to protest. Consciously, she relaxed them, loathing the understanding that they may have to serve as a last line of defense later—it wouldn’t do to have them fatigued.
Stark offered the other man the remnants of his crust but Draycott sneered at it, merely taking another sip from the flask. Her gaze went to his other hand—the one that pained him.
Whether or not he had been truthful about the flask’s contents, she hoped he would take a few more sips. The more he imbibed, drugged or not, the more likely he was to fall asleep and leave her in peace.
“Ho!” the driver called. “Approaching a gate.”
Suddenly, Stark was beside her. A glint of silver caught the lamplight between them. A knife—pointed at her side. “Not a single word from you.”
She nodded, her lips pressed together, trapped between her teeth from the inside. For the minutes it took the keeper to open the turnpike gate, she hardly dared breathe.
When the carriage set off again, tears pricked at her eyes. That gatekeeper had been her best, perhaps her only, hope for assistance. And she’d been too startled, too frightened, to do anything at all.
“Oh, do stop the blubbering. Have you not learned yet? Help is not coming. Not from a gatekeeper. Not from Stark over there. Not from your father. And not from theBenedictyou were whimpering to in your sleep. Sinclair never wanted you—it was all a ruse. The best you can hope for is that your father pays quickly, before Blackwood loses patience. And I promise you, he is not a patient man.”
“You’re wrong!” Her protest was instinctive, certain. No hint of doubt lingered at the corner of her mind or in her chest.
