What Happens in London

So she wasn’t guarded. This had to be a useful bit of information, although given her currently bound state, she wasn’t certain how. And she really wasn’t certain how she might maneuver herself back onto the bed. She could try to prop herself up against one of the legs, but the table with the teapot was still blocking the one by the head of the bed, and-

The teapot!

A surge of excitement and strength burst through her, and she literally flipped herself over in her haste to get back to the table. From there it was a scoot, scoot, shove, and-

She was there. Now how would she send it crashing down? If she could break the pot, she could use a shard to cut through her bindings.

With great effort she managed to get her feet beneath her. Using the side of the bed for support, she rose slowly, her muscles screaming, until finally she was standing. She took a moment to catch her breath, then backed up to the small table, bending at the knees until her hands were at just the right height to grab the teapot handle.

Please don’t let there be anyone out there please don’t let there be anyone out there.

She needed to get good force. She couldn’t just drop the thing on the floor. She glanced around the room, looking for inspiration. She started to spin.

Please please please.

She spun faster and faster, and then-

She let fly.

The teapot hit the wall with a mighty crack, and Olivia, terrified that someone might burst through the door, hopped back to the bed and lay on her back, although how she might explain the broken teapot on the far wall, she had no idea.

But no one entered.

She held her breath. She started to rise. Her shoes touched the floor and then-

Footsteps. Fast, moving toward her.

Oh God.

Voices, too. In Russian. They sounded urgent. Angry.

They wouldn’t hurt her, would they? She was too valuable. She was to be ransomed to Prince Alexei, and-

And what if Prince Alexei had said good riddance? He was no longer courting her. And he knew that she was smitten with Harry. What if he felt spurned? What if he felt vengeful?

She scooted back on the bed, cowering in the corner. It would be so nice to be brave, to face whatever was coming with a curl of the lip and flip of the hair, but she was no Marie Antoinette, dressing in white for a beheading, regally begging the pardon of her executioner when she accidentally stepped on his foot.

No, she was Olivia Bevelstoke, and she did not want to die with dignity. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to feel this awful terror, clawing at her gut.

Someone started pounding on the door-hard, rhythmic, and brutal.

Olivia started to shake. She curled into the tiniest ball she could manage, burying her head between her knees. Please please please, she chanted in her head, over and over. She thought of Harry, of her family, of-

The wooden door began to splinter.

Olivia prayed she would not lose control.

And then it all came crashing in.

She screamed, the sound ripping from the back of her throat. It felt as if the gag was clawing at her tongue, as if a puff of dry, scorching air was whipping through her windpipe.

And then someone said her name.

The air was obscured by dust and darkness, and all she could see was the massive figure of a man moving toward her.

“Lady Olivia.” The man’s voice was gruff and deep. And accented. “Are you hurt?”

It was Vladimir, Prince Alexei’s hulking and usually silent manservant. Suddenly all she could think of was the way he’d yanked and twisted on Sebastian Grey’s arm, and oh dear God, if he could do that, he could break her right in two, and-

“Let me help you,” he said.

He spoke English? Since when had he spoken English?

“Lady Olivia?” he repeated, his deep voice barely a grunt. He pulled out a knife, and she cringed, but he just brought it to the back of her gag and sliced through it.

She coughed and choked, barely hearing him as he shouted something in Russian again.

Someone replied, also in Russian, and she heard footsteps…running…coming closer…and then-

Harry?

“Olivia!” he cried, running toward her.

Vladimir said something to him-in Russian-and Harry gave a curt reply.

Also in Russian.

She stared at both of them in shock. What was happening? Why was Vladimir speaking in English?

Why was Harry speaking in Russian?

“Olivia, thank God!” Harry said, his hands cupping her face. “Tell me you haven’t been hurt. Please, tell me what happened?”

But she couldn’t move, could barely even think. When he’d spoken in Russian-it was as if he had been an entirely different person. His voice had been different, and his face had been different, the mouth and the muscles moving in a completely different way.

She shrank from his touch. Did she know him? Did she even know him? He’d told her that his father had been a drunk, that his grandmother had brought him up-had any of that been true?

What had she done? Oh dear Lord, she had given herself to someone she did not know, could not trust.

Vladimir handed something to Harry, who nodded and said something else in Russian.

Olivia tried to back away, but she was already at the wall. She was breathing fast, and she was cornered, and she didn’t want to be here, not with this man who wasn’t Harry, and-

“Hold still,” he said, and then he raised a knife.

Olivia looked up, saw the glint of metal as it came toward her, and screamed.

It was a sound Harry never wanted to hear again.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said to her, trying to sound as calm and reassuring as possible. His hands were steady as he cut through her bindings, but on the inside, he was still shaking.

He’d known he loved her. He’d known he needed her, couldn’t possibly be happy without her. But until that moment, he hadn’t understood the breadth of it, the depth of it, the absolute knowledge that without her, he was nothing.

And then her scream, her fear…of him.

He’d nearly choked on the anguish of it.

He freed her ankles first, then her wrists, but as he reached out to comfort her, she made an almost inhuman sound, and leaped off the bed. She moved so quickly he wasn’t able to stop her, and then, when she hit the floor- her feet must have been burning with pins and needles-her knees buckled, and she tumbled to the floor.

Dear God, she was terrified of him. Of him. What had they said to her? What had they done to her?

“Olivia,” he said cautiously, and he reached out to her, keeping his movements slow and even.

“Don’t touch me,” she whimpered. She tried to crawl away, dragging her useless feet behind her.

“Olivia, let me help you.”

But it was as if she did not hear him.

“We need to go,” Vladimir said, saying the words in gruff Russian.

Harry didn’t even bother to look at him as he insisted on another minute, the Russian words rolling off his tongue without a thought.

Olivia’s eyes widened, and she looked frantically toward the door, clearly intending to make a break for it.

“I should have told you,” Harry said, suddenly realizing the cause of her panic. “My grandmother was Russian.