Page 90 of Barbarous

Malcolm laughed. “Now, now, my dear, I know you are eager, but you must wait for those pleasures,” he said, purposely misconstruing her reaction. “Although it seems as if you are not very good at waiting.” He pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket with his free hand and tapped her on the nose with it before holding it up before her face for her to see.

Daphne didn’t need to read it; she recognized Hugh’s bold handwriting.

“You disgusting, loathsome swine.” She could hardly force the words past her fury.

“Tut, tut,” he warned, raising the knife once again, pressing it into the hollow of her throat. Daphne stared at Malcolm’s slimy smile, the urge to disregard the knife at her throat and slam her forehead into his mocking face almost unbearable. As if reading her mind, he pressed the knife harder. “No, you will not do what you are thinking, because I will not hesitate to begin carving on you, and that might diminish your value with that great buffoon I hope will pay so much for you.”

So that was his plan, extorting money from Hugh for her release. Daphne could not help the hope that flared in her breast. Hugh would find her.

Once again Malcolm read her face with ease. “Oh yes, I mean to sell you to the highest bidder.” He gave a rude bark of laughter. “Well, the only bidder. But I am not a stupid man, nor am I in a hurry. Maybe I won’t turn you over to him so readily. Maybe I’ll keep you for a while and see if he is even more generous the second time I make my demand. When he understands how serious I am.” He smiled at whatever vile thoughts were in his head before pressing the knife harder. “I should have liked to bring our charming sons along. They look very much like I did at their age. Handsome young fellows, and clever like their father, I’ll bet.” His smile dissolved as quickly as it came, and for a minute Daphne thought he might press the knife deeper. But he lowered the knife to her thigh, shaking his head.

“I’ve been watching you for quite some time, my dear, and I have seen Ramsay with the two brats. It would seem he has formed some inexplicable attachment to them. You cannot have told him the truth about his little cousins.”

“There is nothing you can blackmail me with. He knows the truth.”

“My, my! You must have given him a better ride between those sweet thighs than I recall having. Perhaps I will have to revisit your pleasure palace before letting him have you back?” He stroked her thigh and leaned closer, sour alcohol misting her skin.

Daphne jerked back, relieved to the point of fainting when he chuckled and relaxed against the seat.

“Don’t worry, pet, there will be plenty of opportunities for me to scratch your itch later. I’ve not sent Ramsay a list of my demands yet, so we have some time. I need to make sure you’re nice and snug before I alert him to my plan.”

Daphne almost laughed. The stupid man had forgotten the boys and Rowena would have seen the coach and its crest. She turned to face the blackened window and hid her smile.

* * *

It felt as though the journey would never end. After the horse-change—when Malcolm entered the carriage and held her at knife-point—the lumbering coach had stopped to change horses again, but that had been hours ago and Daphne thought the new horses must be half-dead by now. Not that Malcolm let that sort of thing concern him.

Thankfully he’d left her alone in the carriage shortly after their departure from the first posting house and she’d not seen him again. She could not say how far they’d traveled, but she could see the sky was dark through a tiny scratch in the window. At this time of year the sun did not go down completely until well after nine o’clock. By that reckoning they must have been on the road for at least ten hours. It had been shortly after noon that she’d finally herded the boys into the barouche for their trip to the park. Where was he taking her? Whitton Park? If so, it would not be longer than a few more hours. But surely he would need to change horses again or—

The rickety coach shuddered to a halt and Daphne struggled to sit up higher on the seat, biting back a scream at the pain in her arms. She heard the murmur of men’s voices and then the sound of the steps being lowered before the door creaked open.

“Hello, darling, still awake?” Malcolm held up a lantern, casting a glow into the carriage as well as illuminating his flushed and excited face. Daphne shied away from the light and buried her face in the side of her arm, not bothering to answer.

“We’re here, sweetness.” His blunt fingers yanked at her bound wrists and Daphne had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out. He cursed, frustrated when the knot held.“One of you get over here and give me a hand.” He was slurring, as if he’d been drinking.

The smaller man scrambled into the coach, studiously keeping his eyes away from her as he cut the rope that held her bound.

Malcolm raised the knife. “Now then, don’t try any of your tricks on me, sweet cousin. There would be nowhere for you to run even if you did break free. Behave yourself and perhaps we’ll let you have a little private time to take care of your womanly business. No doubt you’re busting for a slash.” His use of the vulgarism caused hilarity among his two henchmen. Daphne didn’t care. It was all she could do to stop from weeping as blood rushed into her limbs.

At least Malcolm looked beaten to an inch and it was her guess all three men would need several hours of sleep and rest before they were fit to make their next move, whatever that might be. She, on the other hand, had already enjoyed several hours of sleep and only needed to ease the screaming pain in her arms to feel normal.

Malcolm took her wrist in a proprietary grasp and pulled her toward a small thatched cottage not far from the coach. It was partly hidden by the scruffy oak trees the locals referred to as “Sussex Weeds.” The building itself was a ragged assembly of wooden slats with boards nailed over the spots that once had contained windows. It was a mean hovel, and Daphne would not have thought it occupied but for the light that escaped between the haphazard boards.

The big man pounded his fist against the door.

“It is Hastings,” Malcolm shouted. There was a long moment in which nothing but shuffling and murmuring could be heard behind the rude wooden door before it finally swung inward.

Daphne tried to step back but Malcolm’s grip tightened like a steel trap around her upper arm, almost as if he were. . . scared.

As well he should be.

The man who stood in the open doorway had one of the most frightening faces Daphne had ever seen. It wasn’t that he was deformed or hideous. In fact, his features might actually have been handsome if they’d not been so twisted with contempt. What frightened her—what almost sent her running—was the hatred that boiled off him like steam from a kettle.

He was tall and stocky, his ruddy face and clothing proclaiming him a sailor. His eyes narrowed and he gave her a rude once-over before moving on to Malcolm. Daphne wouldn’t have believed it possible, but even more menace filled his gaze when it settled on Malcolm. Her cousin must truly be a fool if he couldn’t see this man meant him grievous harm.

“Well, if it isn’t little Lord Hastings,” the man drawled, his mouth twisting as he misstated Malcolm’s title. His English was strange, as if rusty from disuse. He smirked at Malcolm before returning his gaze to Daphne. “What have you brought me? This does not look like money, lordling. Do you think to curry my favor by bringing me a whore?” He gave a rude bark of laughter. “I’m afraid you have mistaken my tastes, my friend.” Daphne was staggered at the derision he put into the last two words. It was a depth of loathing that should have put even a stupid man on notice. Not so Malcolm.

“Hallo, old chap,” Malcolm exclaimed merrily, as if he were greeting an old school chum. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve brought for you, Captain, something even better than money.”