Blood Curse

There would not be a next time.

That made her smile. Smugly.

* * *

Ophelia pushed open one of the front doors. It creaked as it opened. She winced, then remembered she didn’t have to. There was no one to hear it.

After she had taken the key, she had hurried up to her bedchamber to hide it. She knew she could never escape with him in the house.

He had come up to her room at dark, had shouted through the closed door that he was going out and he had laid out a supper for her in the dining room.

She hadn’t planned to waste time eating, but once she was racing down the stairs, she’d smelled the delicious aromas and she’d run to the table to grab some food before making her escape.

Where the food came from, she had no idea. There were no cooks or maids after all. She’d stuffed a slice of roast beef in her mouth in the most unladylike way, swallowed it fast, and thrown down a glass of wine for courage.

Now she stepped out onto the front step, her heart thundering.

She was outside. She’d done it.

She quickly drew the door closed behind her and locked it from the outside. There was a slim chance Ravenhunt had no other key and would find he was locked out of his prison of a house. At the very least, a closed and locked door might give her time to get away before he discovered she was gone. It would be what he would expect to find.

She was out, but she had no idea where she was. On the outskirts of Mayfair, she would guess. Ravenhunt’s house was old—but across the street there marched a line of new townhomes. The street appeared to have some affluence, but was not of the best address. Perhaps it was a street where city merchants lived. It was quiet—only two carriages rumbled down it. But having at least some people around her gave her confidence. She must be safe now. If Ravenhunt pursued, she would scream. On a street such as this, which was not the stews, surely a cry for help would actually bring assistance.

But she was not about to wait about and be caught again. Ophelia lifted her hems and ran down the street. At the corner, she saw the name. Hope soared—she knew where she was. Only a few blocks from Mrs. Darkwell’s house.

One of the carriages slowed in the street at her side. A young man leaned out and called, “Can I help you, miss?”

She was about to shout, “Yes!” Then she stopped. Beneath his beaver hat and mop of brown curls, the young gentleman stared at her. What if this man was helping Ravenhunt? What if he meant to take her back to that prison?

She kept running. It took only two more blocks and she was panting. Her chest heaved. Pressing close to the edge of a fence that surrounded a house, she sucked in deep breaths. A narrow and shadowy lane led off from the street—she stood at the corner of it.

What on earth was she doing? She didn’t want to return to Mrs. Darkwell’s, but where else could she go?

She had escaped Ravenhunt’s prison. Why should she rush back to Mrs. Darkwell’s house, which was also a prison to her?

She was free. She could finally, for once in her life, make a choice. Eight years ago, she had been taken away from her family to protect them. Willingly, obediently, she had gone, because she had been so afraid of hurting people.

She did not have to live in a prison anymore.

She could go anywhere in the world—well, she could if she had some money, and if she stayed away from people so she did not hurt them—

“Lady Ophelia. How clever of you to have escaped that fiend.”

The clipped baritone voice startled her. It certainly didn’t belong to Ravenhunt—it wasn’t as drawling, jaded, or gravelly.

Ophelia spun around and found a gentleman standing behind her. Beneath his tall beaver hat, gray hair fell across his lined brow. A gray beard adorned his long, thin chin. Spectacles reflected street flares. Two younger, thin men in dark tailcoats accompanied him, flanking him. They carried . . . pistols.

“Who are you?” She had never seen this man before. How could he know she’d been a prisoner?

“I am Cartwell of the Royal Society.”

She frowned. “Why in heaven’s name is the Royal Geographical Society interested in me?”

Cartwell smiled, his manner paternal and condescending. “Not that Royal Society, my dear. Now you must come with me.”

“No. I have no idea who you are, so I have no intention of going with you.” She was tired of being forced to do things. She wanted her choice.

The men advanced and she backed away.

“I am here to protect you,” Cartwell said.

“I’ve escaped. I am going to protect myself.”

“I cannot allow that, Lady Ophelia.” He spoke calmly, but with an implied authority.

“I do not give a fig what you want,” she retorted.

“Do not force the issue, Lady Ophelia,” Cartwell snapped. “It is the best for you if you quietly come with us. Given you were taken captive by a dangerous man, I should think you would be appreciative—”

“Appreciative?” she snorted. “I am tired of people telling me I should be thankful that they’ve locked me in a room and won’t let me out.”

“This is madness.” It was one of the young men who spoke. He had tangled red hair beneath his hat, as if he never combed it. He pointed the pistol at her, bringing it level with her bosom. “You are to come with us.”

“Or you will shoot me?”

Ravenhunt’s words came back to her. He had warned her that people wanted to hurt her and that she should depend on him for protection.

She should be afraid.

But Ophelia was tired of people wanting to hurt her. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. She wanted to be normal.

Suddenly, she realized they had backed her into the shadows in an alley between houses. Where people from the street would not see her.

She held out her hands and lunged toward the redheaded man with the gun. He jerked back, obviously terrified of her touch. “Boo!” she cried. “If you shoot me, I’ll still touch you first.”

The other young man was moving toward her, and he trained his weapon at her head. “I’ll grab her—”

“Stop,” barked Cartwell. “Do not lay a hand on her. It will kill you.”

“I should shoot her now,” snarled the redhead, his voice filled with arrogance and bravado. “She is a monster. This idea of studying her is madness. She should be destroyed.” His finger was on the trigger.

The shot fired, smoke rushing from the pistol. The explosion roared in her ears. Darkness rippled in front of her eyes, as if a curtain had been drawn. Her hands went to her chest.

She expected to feel pain, to feel her body be ripped apart.

But there was nothing.

Dazed, she looked up. Ravenhunt stood there, between her and the pistol.

Ravenhunt. Naked.

How had he—? How could he have moved there so quickly? He half-turned to her. Blood poured from a wound in his chest. “Are you all right?” he shouted at her.

“You’ve been shot.”

Her eyes widened as she drank in the muscles of his chest—which she had seen before, but which looked all the more impressive under the glow of the streetlight. Her gaze went lower. Yes, utterly naked. Not a stitch on him.

“Ravenhunt, for heaven’s sake, you don’t have clothing,” she cried.

“This you notice, when one of these idiots shot at you?”