A scream caught in her throat when Horace leaped from her arms and strolled into the study where the villains stood, his tail high in the air. Evidently his feline sense of danger was sorely lacking.
Her heart thundered, but she couldn’t very well leave them to continue their misdeeds now that they’d seen her. “I beg your pardon!” she said, straightening her back and trying to appear taller. “Precisely what do you think you’re doing?” Her study was in tatters. Papers thrown about and books on the floor. What kind of barbarians . . . she picked up the book resting by her toe and clutched it to her chest.
They were of equal height, but one was clearly more athletic and stronger than the other. The larger one strode over to her and she realized, far too late, that she had nothing to use as a weapon against the brute. Even her slippers were worthless for that sort of deed. She supposed she could whack him on the head with the book she held, but it was her prized copy of Gulliver’s Travels. She certainly couldn’t risk damaging the book. Besides, she didn’t want to wake her aunt or her elderly servants lest she put them in danger too, so Esme stood her ground.
“I can assure you I have nothing here worth stealing. You are in the wrong neighborhood for that,” she said. “Although you are doing an admirable job of destroying my library.” Then it occurred to her that her precious books might very well be what they were after. “I have no original texts,” she lied. “These are all silly novels, not worth anything.” Another lie.
The man took another step toward her. His eyes were wild and frightening, and when he ran them up and down her body, she became all too aware of the clothing she wore. Or rather the lack thereof. Granted, it was several hours after midnight, and a woman was generally given the right to sit in her own home wearing a night rail and robe. This man’s intense gaze penetrated her and caused the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand erect. She forced herself not to shiver.
Surely they were not here to ravish her. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she eyed her opponent. She would certainly cause all sorts of noise if that was the case. No matter that the other three persons in the house were grayed and wrinkled, they could grab a fire poker or sturdy umbrella and fend off her attackers. And Aunt Thea had those ridiculously heavy candelabra in the dining room. Perhaps it would have been much smarter had Esme grabbed one of those before storming in here unarmed.
“Where’s the key?” the man asked.
“Evidently you don’t need keys.” She pointed to the emptied drawers and shelves. “You simply force things open when you need to see within.”
He closed in on her, his expression one of ravenous greed. He ripped the book from her grasp and whisked it across the room. It landed on its spine, the pages fanning out until they settled open. Esme winced. Panic fluttered in her chest as she considered the damage they’d already done to her desk and books. She didn’t like to contemplate the damage such fiends could perpetrate on her person.
She narrowed her eyes at the man. “You should know that if you intend to ravish me, I will scream the house down,” she said, forcing her voice to be as calm as possible. “And believe me when I say that the people who will come running to assist me will do you much bodily harm.” An absurd notion.
He reached out and fingered the ruffled hem of her sleeve. His lip curled. “Tempting. But we only want the key.” His voice was deep and raspy as he added, “And we’ve seen your staff.” A smirk, then a vicious chuckle escaped his ugly mouth.
Bored with the exchange, her cat took that moment to flip his tail in the air and strut out of the room. Now she was utterly alone with these dangerous men.
She crossed her arms over her chest, mostly to hide her shaking hands. She hoped it made her look formidable. Not an easy task for one so small in stature, but she did her best. “I simply don’t know which key you’re referring to.”
The man on the other side of the room twitched. “Thatcher, we don’t have time,” he said, his voice heavy with a Cockney accent.
“We take her, then,” Thatcher said.
“You will do no such thing,” Esme said, taking a step backward.
The man in front of her silently closed the door behind her, then shoved a cloth into her mouth. Furiously she tried to spit it out, then reached up for it, but before she could he grabbed her wrists and held them tight.
Esme tried scratching him while he manhandled her, but her blasted nails were so short, she caused little damage. She really must stop chewing them. With her feet she kicked and flailed, trying anything to deter them from taking her.
Nerves rippled through her stomach in sickening waves. She was in serious danger. With renewed effort, she kicked her legs about, desperately aiming to hit a target, but failing nonetheless.
This simply was not happening.
Her efforts to wrench herself from her captor’s viselike grip only succeeded in exhausting her. She fought to keep her breathing under control lest she end up hyperventilating and suffocate herself on the gag. Think, Esme. She could find a way out of this situation.
Surely they had mistaken her for someone else. She didn’t own anything valuable. Certainly not any keys. They didn’t even have a cabinet to lock up the family silver. Of course, they no longer had any family silver. These foolish men were in the wrong house, kidnapping the wrong woman.
Thatcher yanked the tie to her robe and the loose folds fell open, leaving her exposed to the chill. “Waters, tie her hands together.”
Waters did as he was told while Thatcher climbed out the library window. The thin satin sash became a harsh cord as he tightened it around her wrists. With the stronger of the two captors distracted, she doubled her efforts at trying to break free from Waters’s clutches. But despite his slender body, his hands gripped her arms, sealing her in place.
“Hand me her feet,” Thatcher said in a harsh whisper. Waters complied, and in an instant she was being passed through the window as if she were nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
“Her bum is stuck on the window,” Waters said. “Well, lift her up.” Thatcher’s impatience was evident.
Waters gave her a lift. “She has quite the bottom for such a wee thing.”
She glared at him, but he was not looking at her face. More than anything she wished to take the wretched cloth out of her mouth and give them both a tongue-lashing for speaking so cruelly about her bottom. Perhaps it was a bit on the large side for a woman of her size, but she had always been rather fond of it.
Once they were all out on the ground, Esme noticed the waiting coach. Four black steeds stomped impatiently. Clearly owned by someone quite wealthy, the large carriage was black with gilded filigree, and despite the dark night, Esme noted how it shone. A crest emblazoned the door, backed in red and in the center a great black bird, its wings spread as if it were about to fly away.
The street was barren except for the coach, but she was only a few steps from rounding the corner to a much busier lane. Now was her chance to try to get away. She bolted toward the front street, but the clouds shielding the almost full moon made seeing rather challenging. Nevertheless, she’d made it a far distance before one of the men crashed on top of her, knocking the air from her lungs and crushing her with his weight.
