“I did not want you to be as concerned about my well-being as I was for yours,” he said simply.
I bent forwards and took his face in my hands, pressing a petal-soft kiss to his broken cheekbone. “Do not play the great protector with me,” I told him. “I can avenge my own injuries.”
“And mine as well,” he answered with a sudden grin. I felt a constriction in my chest ease. I had feared, almost without knowing it, that something had changed, that one of us would shoulder too much blame for this and shatter the fragile thing we had nurtured between us. But the smile that lightened his expression was familiar, and it promised that we would get our own back before this adventure was finished.
“Where do you think they put the drugs?” I asked. “The porridge or the beer?”
Stoker shrugged. “Either. Both. Little matter. They no doubt wanted to keep us quiet for a period of time and heavy sedation was the simplest way to do it.”
“Very possibly,” I agreed. I toured the perimeter of the space, realizing that there was only one door—the one my uncle and his villain, Quiet Dan, had used. The windows were high and small and the floor was swept clean with no remnants, no discarded tools that might help us fashion a weapon. We talked in whispers as Eddy still slept.
“Do you think we should free him?” I ventured.
Stoker shook his head. “Let the poor devil sleep for now whilst we form a plan.”
“Have you anything upon your person that we might use?” I asked.
Stoker patted himself thoroughly. “No, and you will remember someone has taken the precaution of removing my boots.”
I shrugged. “Can you pick the lock? Even if we must escape with you in stocking feet, we should at least attempt to get out of this room.”
During my tour of the room he had been applying himself to an examination of the lock. He rose, shaking his head.
“Not a chance without tools. There are two heavy locks, quite new.”
“New? Installed on our behalf?” I wondered.
“Quite possibly.” He straightened and stretched a little, wincing as he straightened his arm. A dark crimson stain had settled on the white cotton of his sleeve. “Those bollocking stitches have burst again,” he said in some annoyance. He had sustained a light stabbing—Tiberius’ handiwork—during our foray in Cornwall, and the stitches—my contribution—had been repeated after the first attempt had failed during the exertions of an unexpected swim. It was yet another indication that my uncle and his fiends had been none too gentle in their efforts to convey us to our present location. I added a new hash mark to the tally against them as Stoker settled himself back onto his chair.
“What are you doing?” I demanded as he folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.
“Resting.”
“Resting? Stoker, we are meant to be escaping!” I remonstrated.
He opened one blazing blue eye—the other was swollen nearly shut—and regarded me. “We have no means. We have been fed drugs, and judging from the angle of the sun through that beggarly little window, we have gone without food or water for the entire day. My head hurts. My arm hurts. My cheek hurts. When de Clare deigns to make another appearance, I will dismember him with my goddamned teeth if I must, but until then, I mean to marshal my strength. I suggest you do the same.”
“How you can sit so calmly right now is beyond me,” I fretted.
The eye took on a roguish look. “Can you think of anything else to occupy our time?”
“You cannot seriously be attempting to seduce me into physical congress at such a moment,” I said in an appalled whisper.
“No, but I have distracted you enough to stop your infernal pacing around.” He closed the eye and sat, brooding or sleeping, I could not have said which. I drifted off myself after a while, and was just enjoying a rather pleasurable dream involving Stoker and a picnic hamper in a rowboat on a glittering sea when the key scraped in the lock. The noise roused all of us as Quiet Dan entered, this time with a companion. Stoker jerked awake with a growl while Eddy came to slowly, blinking and yawning until he spotted the revolver clutched in Quiet Dan’s hand.
“Are you pointing that atme, sir?” Eddy asked, his indignation unmistakable.
Quiet Dan said nothing but kept the pistol aimed at Eddy while his companion carried in a tray laden with dishes. Whatever advantage our being loose from our bonds might have won, it was lost with the precaution of keeping the prince under the beady eye of the gun’s barrel. De Clare had clearly anticipated the fact that we would liberate ourselves at the first opportunity and had taken no chances that we might escape.
Quiet Dan remained just inside the doorway, never taking his eyes from the prince as his colleague set the tray down upon the floor with a resounding clatter. He disappeared through the door and returned with a porcelain pot for hygienic purposes. He placed it wordlessly in the corner and gave a jerk of the head to make certain we saw what he had left for us. He paused long enough to unlock Eddy’s chain to permit his use of the hygienic equipment and left us as silently as he had come, Quiet Dan keeping the gun trained upon Eddy to ensure his safe departure.
“And they say the Irish are talkative,” Stoker said, coming forwards to inspect the tray with a connoisseur’s sniff. “There’s no pudding.”
“Don’t be such a child,” I scolded fondly. “Look, there is an overripe pear. You can have that for your sweet.”
For the rest, there was a watery-looking but not entirely unappetizing stew, fresh bread rolls, a wedge of cheese, and some apples, soft and a little bruised but otherwise wholesome enough. I held one out to Eddy. “Eat,” I instructed. “We will need all our strength if we mean to fight our way out of here.”
He took it with fingers that trembled slightly. “That fellow had a revolver,” he said slowly. “Pointed atme.”
