“I’m not the duchess.”
“No, you are not.”
Nor would she ever be. If the vainglorious Duke of Hartwell wouldn’t have a wife who’d attended a masquerade with no one the wiser, he would never marry a lady who’d been tarnished by a highwayman.
Funny how moments ago, that’s all she’d wanted. Now she wanted the safety of the church and…
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Meghan’s throat worked wildly.
Her punisher stopped, terrific in his height.
“If you think to play games”—his voice emerged as ragged as shattered glass—“be prepared to find yourself hurt.”
In one fluid movement, he placed a black satin cloth over her face. A sweet, cloying floral scent flooded her mouth and nose. Meghan gagged and shouted behind the soft material.
“Shh,” he whispered, sounding strangely regretful. “Do not fight it, princess.”
Meghan’s eyes flared wide. Not fight it? “Thef heff ahf wonf.”
Her highwayman gave a pitying look.
A fresh wave of panic rooted around her brain. Meghan flailed and fought against her punisher, but her head grew increasingly heavy.
Her knees buckled.
A pair of strong arms caught her and swept her into an embrace.
Darkness licked at the edges of her mind. A strange, heavy languor overtook her body. As a velvety darkness swept over her, a single whisper reached her. “Rest.”
Meghan remembered no more.
Chapter 8
Meghan fought to keep her wits about her. Aside from a short battle in the snow, Meghan had not fought her captor. Whatever he had used to render her unconscious hadn’t had a lasting effect. He had just settled Meghan across his lap when she roused.
She hadn’t even panicked when she discovered herself bound and blindfolded. Well, for a moment she had.
She had quickly regained her composure and put up a rather solid performance at being unconscious. The entire ride, Meghan conserved her energy, saving it for a fight, and intently listened for some hint of where he was taking her, planning her moment.
At last, she had her answer.
He had brought her to a tavern.
Meghan had visited enough inns along the English and Scottish roads that even blindfolded she recognized the clang of tankards. The stale stink of Mundungus tobacco smoke, roasted meat, and pungent spices. The off-key ribald songs of drunken revelers.
A cold shiver raced along her spine.
Do not think about it…Do not think about it…
As a girl with a vivid imagination that led to too many nightmares, Meghan learned to talk herself through the terror, until she fell back to sleep.
Using that same mantra now couldn’t help.
This moment was real.
Bound and blindfolded, with only a wall of blackness before her, each harsh drag of Meghan’s breath thundered in her ears.
