Just then, Pembroke crowded toward her and grabbed her arm. Gemma made to step back when she saw the flash of metal at her side. Panic shot through her. Pembroke was brandishing apistol. He wrapped his arm through hers and pressed the weapon to her ribs. “Don’t move. Don’t say anything. Come with me.”
Gemma’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded unmercifully. A hundred different thoughts raced through her mind. This wasn’t happening. Pembroke was her friend. What in the world was he doing with a pistol?
“You must be jesting,” she said. “But honestly, it’s not very funny.”
He jammed the pistol into her ribs, making her grunt. The pain demonstrated how very real it was.
“Do as I say,” Pembroke demanded. His eyes, which had darkened considerably, were scanning the crowd.
The street was busy. Scores of people were walking about, but none of them knew there was a weapon pressed to her side. How could they? Gemma’s pelisse and Pembroke’s coat obscured it. Not to mention, Pembroke had a wide smile on his face, as if they were doing nothing more than having a pleasant chat. Gemma tried to catch the eye of the passersby, but none of them appeared to notice her.
Pembroke pulled her roughly alongside him a few paces to his coach. “Get in,” he demanded. The door was already open, and the steps were down, so Pembroke was able to help her up and push her in without the aid of a footman. He kept a hold of her arm, the pistol still clutched in his other hand. He pushed into the coach directly behind her, so she didn’t have time to try to jump out the opposite door.
The moment the door closed behind them, Pembroke banged on the ceiling, yelling to the coachman to go. Moments later, the coach rolled into the crowded street. And with every turn of its wheels, Gemma felt more trapped.
She forced herself to breathe and count ten. She could handle this. This was Pembroke, after all. They’d shared wine and laughs and dances for the better part of the last year. He couldn’t possibly mean to harm her.
“What are you doing?” Gemma asked in as calm a voice as she could muster.
“I’m getting what I deserve,” Pembroke replied. He sat on the seat opposite her, but the pistol was firmly trained on her.
Gemma swallowed. What in God’s name did that mean? “What you des?—?”
“Shut up,” Pembroke demanded. “No talking until we get home.”
She drew her brows together. “Home? Are we going to your home?” What in the world was happening?
“No talking,” Pembroke ground out.
She’d never heard his voice angry. She didn’t like it. Apparently, Pembroke was an actor too.
Gemma took another deep breath to calm her nerves, then she turned to look out the window at the crowded street. Everyone was going about their day completely normally. And why wouldn’t they? None of them knew she was being held at the end of a pistol in Pembroke’s coach. No one knew she was in the middle of a nightmare.
She had to think. What could Pembroke possibly want? What did he think he deserved from her?
The only thing she knew for certain was that whatever he was up to, it couldn’t end well. He couldn’t let her go without harming her. Unless… She would just have to try to reason with him.
She folded her hands carefully in her lap and spoke in a calm, quiet voice. “You don’t have to do this, you know? I would visit you if you asked.”
“Shut up. You cannot visit me now that yourhusbandis back.” He sneered at the wordhusband.
“That’s not true,” she insisted. “I don’t tell my husband everything I do.” She wasn’t lying. She hadn’t even told Lucian she’d gone out shopping today.
“Your husband won’t like what I want from you.” Pembroke’s stare was positively leering.
Cold sweat beaded down Gemma’s back. Oh, God. Did that mean—? Did Pembroke intend torapeher? If so, he’d have to kill her first. She would fight him without end.
“My husband will come looking for?—”
“SHUT UP!” Pembroke’s voice was so loud the carriage shook.
Gemma sucked in her breath. Her eyes widened with fear. She’d never seen him like this. It was as if something had come over him, a rage unlike anything she’d seen before. His eyes had gone dark. He’d turned into a completely different person. One she was truly frightened of.
Swallowing hard, Gemma turned back to stare out the window. Given the extent of his anger and the fact that his finger was on the trigger of a pistol, it was probably best not to rile him further. She would wait to see where they were going. Perhaps there would be a chance to escape on the way out of the carriage.
Within the hour, they pulled to a stop in front of Pembroke’s town house. Gemma had never been inside his home before, but she had waited outside for him upon occasion. It wasn’t that far from the milliner’s shop, but the traffic had been so thick, it had taken a long time to make it here.
Just like when he’d hustled her into the coach, Pembroke took no chances. Pulling her from her seat, he wrapped his arm through hers and stuck the pistol to her ribs. “Let’s go,” he said the moment the footman opened the door and let down the steps. “And don’t try to run or I’ll shoot you.”
