She would not give in to it. Somehow she must fight this thing. Sylvia’s cousin would not get her, not get his horrid, cruel, greedy hands on her inheritance. She would rather die than marry him. And she didn’t want to die.
Sylvia . . . Was she part of this? Would she do something so cruel? No. Why would she do such a thing to Lily? What had Lily ever done to her except try to be her friend?
• • •
The journey seemed endless. They stopped at inns and posting houses to change horses, but Nixon never left her alone, never let anyone come near enough to hear her. He sat on the seat above her whistling and kicking his heels. Mr. Carefree.
The pressure on her bladder was becoming unbearable.
Without much hope of being heard, she did her best to call out again, but almost immediately the lid of her imprisonment was lifted. “What?” Nixon demanded.
She couldn’t speak, so she tried to signal her desperation.
“Need to piss?”
She nodded.
He put the lid back down, and if she could have, she would have screamed. Surely he couldn’t ignore her urgent need?
But a few moments later the coach pulled up and the lid was jerked open again.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her upright. “Come on, then, out you get.”
Acting dizzier and more lethargic than she felt, Lily struggled to free herself of the heavy blanket and climb out of her imprisonment. It wasn’t entirely an act—she was stiff and sore, aching from being squashed into the cramped space for who knew how many hours.
As she jumped down from the carriage her legs crumpled beneath her and she found herself sprawled in the mud. “Get up,” Nixon said.
She struggled to stand, but her legs were so cramped from being in a confined space for so long, there was no feeling in them. He jerked her roughly to her feet, and she stifled a moan of pain as pins and needles—painful pins and needles—brought the return of sensation.
The wind blew sharp and strong over the moors. After the smothering airlessness of her confinement the bitter cold of it sliced through her, but Lily didn’t care. Anything was better than being in that black hole. She inhaled deeply, breathing in energy and clarity as she took stock of her surroundings. Moorland as far as the eye could see, muddy and wet from recent rain. No buildings, no sign of life.
She glanced up at the coachman, who sat holding the reins, staring straight ahead, pointedly indifferent to her fate. No help there.
Nixon gave her a little shove. “Go on, then. What are you waiting for?”
She indicated her bound hands—she couldn’t relieve herself without free hands to deal with her skirts. He hesitated, then untied her. “Don’t think you can get away. There’s nothing for miles.”
She pulled the gag off and, rubbing the circulation back into her hands, she staggered toward a small clump of grass, slipping and stumbling in the mud as she went.
The clump of grass didn’t provide any privacy, and she was aware of him standing only a few yards away, openly watching her, enjoying her shame and embarrassment as she squatted to relieve herself.
Despite her fear, despite the drug and the freezing cold and her deep humiliation as she squatted in the open under the gaze of two horrid men, a warming surge of anger sparked deep within Lily. This man, this vile excuse for a man, was nothing to her—less than nothing. He was vulgar, greedy and cruel, but even though he had her trapped and in his power at the moment, she vowed he would not win.
She would not be a cowering frightened creature, a victim of his evil scheme. Die before she let him marry her? Never!
She would kill him before she let him take her as his wife.
“Finished?”
She straightened, feeling so much better than she had just a few moments before. The fear of lying, trapped, in a puddle of her own making had passed, and the bracing, moisture-laden wind had given her fresh hope and determination. And anger, she discovered, gave her strength.
She looked around. Even if she’d been steady on her feet, there was nowhere to run. The road was empty and there was no sign of people or any kind of habitation. She had no choice but to return to her captivity.
She made her way carefully back to the carriage to where Nixon was waiting. He grinned at her discomfort, at her disorientation and unsteady gait.
How she loathed him.
She wasn’t even a person to him, she was a thing, a way to get money. He would happily ruin her life just to enrich himself.
He retied her wrists and replaced the gag, then helped her into the carriage. He lifted the lid and gestured for her to get in. It was fastened, she saw, with a small hook catch. If she could block that . . .
“Carriage coming, sir,” the coachman called out.
Nixon swore. “Get in, blast you, woman.” He shoved her roughly back into the space beneath the seat, and jammed the little blue bottle into her mouth. She managed to stop it again with her tongue, but not before a trickle of the vile liquid made it down her throat. He pushed her head down and closed the lid. An instant before it closed, Lily tried to slip a fold of cloth over the catch. But in her haste, she missed, and the lid closed tight above her.
As the lid closed over her once more, shutting her into that dark, cramped airless space, Lily fought the sensation of despair that threatened to swamp her.
For the second time, she’d managed to block the neck of the bottle with the tip of her tongue and keep from ingesting the amount of drug he intended. That was some kind of victory, she told herself, a kind of fighting back.
And
