Oh, God.
She was trembling, and her bath was cold. She should pray that she wasn’t pregnant. But she couldn’t. Another fact to race. Despite all the problems, she wanted this baby—she wanted this part of Jack.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Candice watched as the big, red-bearded man set a dinner tray down on the table. He straightened and studied her. Candice was sitting on the bed, and fortunately there was only one light in the room, but she knew the night rail she was wearing hid little, if anything. She stared back defiantly. She refused to be intimidated because Kincaid wouldn’t let her have decent clothes. The man grinned and left.
Candice was off the bed and racing to the table. A knife! She was trembling with excitement at her success. As she ate quickly, because she was famished, she began to plan. Would Kincaid come back tonight? Tonight would be perfect. The room was mostly dark, and if she extinguished the one kerosene lamp, hid the knife under her side of the mattress …
Someone had included a bottle of wine with the meal, but Candice ignored it. Wine always made her tipsy, and she needed all her senses as keen as they could be. She pushed aside the plate. And waited.
An hour later the red-haired man appeared, grinning at her. Candice was in bed, pretending to sleep. He bent over the tray, then set it down. “All right, lady, where’s the knife?” He reached her and pulled her upright. “Gimme the knife, now, ’cause I ain’t leavin’ without it.
“What knife?” Candice feigned innocence. “There wasn’t a knife on the tray.”
“Liar.”
For an instant she tensed, sure he would hit her. Instead he threw her off the bed, hard, and she landed on her hands and knees, watching as he proceeded to check under the pillows, under the mattress—she wanted to shriek in frustration.
He tucked the knife in his belt. “Kincaid ain’t gonna like this.”
Candice leapt to her feet. “Wait! Please.” Her tone softened. She smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Jim.” He eyed her suspiciously.
“Jim,” she repeated, and swayed closer to him, provocatively. “Jim, won’t you be my friend?” she breathed.
He stared at her, mostly at her breasts and at the dark gold patch of hair between her thighs. Candice placed her hands on his chest, letting her breasts brush his shirt. “Let’s be friends,” she murmured huskily, her hands sliding over the barrellike surface.
“And what do I get?”
“You know what you get,” she whispered. “But leave the knife.”
He pushed her aside. “If I touched you, Kincaid’d shoot me in the head. When I’m not lookin’.” He grimaced with a kind of smile. “Besides, he already promised I could have you when he’s through. I may look addle-witted, but I ain’t.”
Candice clenched her fists. He snickered at her expression, picked up the tray, and left. She listened for the lock turning, then moved to the bed. I’ve made a horrible mistake, she thought, to agree to come with Kincaid. But what else could I have done?
Kincaid didn’t come, and finally sleep did. It was a fitful, agonized sleep, haunted with bits and pieces of dreams, of Kincaid, and of Jack. When she awoke the next day she couldn’t recollect any of the details of her dreams, she just knew they had been awful, and full of despair.
Carla brought breakfast consisting of coffee, fresh cinnamon rolls, sweet butter. The coffee was delicious, but for once Candice’s appetite deserted her. She couldn’t eat. She felt a depression like a huge weight sinking down on her. And it wasn’t like her. She had always been a fighter, always. But she had never been treated like this, not ever before. Candice spent the morning pacing.
When she finally heard the lock turning, she was sure it was evening, and her heart sank. To her surprise, Lorna entered, not Kincaid. She was smiling, clad in a sheer gown and wrapper, her blond hair falling down her shoulders, her face unpainted. “Good morning.”
An ally, Candice prayed. Then she quickly remembered that this woman and Kincaid were most likely on very intimate terms, and he’d called her a friend, not a mistress or a whore. “Is it morning?” Candice was abrupt. “Does Kincaid intend to keep me under lock and key until he tires of me?”
Lorna had closed the door behind her, her eyebrows arched. “You are beautiful, truly, when you’re angry, Candice. I can see why Kincaid is keeping you against your will.”
Candice seized the opportunity. “Lorna, please, help me. I must escape or I’ll go crazy—if I don’t kill him first!”
Lorna laughed lightly, her gaze roaming over her.
“Please!”
“Dear, Kincaid is very powerful, and he won’t let you go—or escape—until he is finished with you. So relax. Why don’t you just give in and enjoy him? He is good in bed.”
“I hate him,” Candice flared. “I will never enjoy his touch. He will have to rape me every time.”
Lorna looked at her admiringly. “You are everything Kincaid said,” she breathed. “Truly mangificent.” Her glance swept over her again.
