“It would make the consummation easier. A bit boring, though. I think I might enjoy it if you fought a little.” His grin reminded her of a predator showing its teeth.
Intuition told her he spoke the truth. A man who would kidnap and slap a woman wouldn’t draw the line at rape. A shiver shot through her system that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. If she were unconscious, she’d be without means of defending herself. Somehow, she must hold him at bay while not making him so angry he’d knock her unconscious again.
“Consummation will have to wait.” Lottie forced a dismissive tone.
“Do you think I’m going to wait until we reach Scotland?” Even his laugh sounded cruel. “How am I to keep busy for the next few nights, except to roger what is rightfully mine?”
Blinking innocently, Lottie ignored the panic clawing at her. “I thought men were put off by a woman’s menses. I’m afraid you’ve made far more work for yourself by kidnapping me during this week of the month.” Rumor had it he was an awful gambler. Let’s hope he didn’t know a bluff when he heard one.
Montague’s laughter stuttered to a halt, and he raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“My courses began this morning. I’ve always been subjected to excessively heavy monthly cycles. Our first concern is procuring rags. Unless you want to see my gown and these lovely cushions stained with blood, you will have to ask for rags from the posting houses as we pass them. I go through rags quite quickly during these first few days, you see.”
“How am I supposed to obtain rags for…that…at a posting house?” Montague’s face would have been comical if she’d been capable of laughter at the moment.
“You’ll have to ask around. My maid normally takes care of this for me. As I have no maid, because—oh yes—you knocked her out and left her in the gutter to die.” Lottie did not try to hide her bitterness. Appearing to comply this soon would only make him suspicious, and her face hurt from the last point he’d made at her expense. “You will have to figure it out. Since you’ve already decreed that I stay in the carriage, you’ll need to fetch them.”
Montague looked uncomfortable, but Lottie kept her expression steady, maintaining eye contact. He must not suspect she was lying. “Ensure they are clean, please. I do not need to be dealing with someone else’s stains.” Montague looked a little green, much to her satisfaction. If at all possible, giving him a disgust of her could only work to her advantage. Thankfully, few men claimed a working knowledge of women’s menstrual cycles, and even fewer were prepared to deal with the reality of them.
The carriage slowed at a posting house to change horses. They couldn’t be that far from London. If she ran now, perhaps—
“Not so fast, little wife.” Montague reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out a handkerchief, a rope, and a length of fabric. In the split second while Lottie calculated the chance of a successful escape, Montague lunged, twisting her and pressing her face against the seat.
He was not a large man, and she was by no means a dainty, delicate female, yet he pinned her easily, as though she were a recalcitrant child in need of a spanking. Kicking blindly but connecting with only air, she struggled to throw him off. Lottie’s sound of outrage died against the revolting velvet cushion.
Above her, he muttered about feisty women, chuckling as he bound her wrists and ankles. Montague shoved a handkerchief into her mouth, securing it in place with another wrapped around her head, leaving her twisted and vulnerable. She lay trussed like a hog ready for the spit and fire.
The gag prevented screams and absorbed every last bit of moisture in her mouth. Lottie tried not to whimper. All the power she’d claimed a moment before with cheeky demands for rags leaked out her eyes as tears. Laughter tickled her ear, making her skin crawl.
Montague kissed one cheek and winked as if this were all a game. With a light swat on her bottom, he said, “I won’t be gone long. Wait here. Be a good girl. If you don’t make a fuss, I might even untie you when I return.”
She glared ineffectual daggers and tried to roll away to dislodge his hand.
Montague whistled as he walked away. Whistled, for the love of all that was holy. Tears fell, only to be caught by the gag. Lottie rested her forehead on the cushion, refusing to think of the travesties committed on this seat before her arrival, and tried to batten down her mind against the wave of defeat cresting over her.
The rope chafed her wrists, leaving no wiggle room for comfort. This position strained her shoulders, and one calf cramped in protest.
To think, she’d briefly considered marriage to this monster. Like those venomous insects she’d read about in a huge book in her father’s library, Montague enticed his prey with beauty. Most animals realized flashy colors and gorgeous skin meant danger. Obviously, there were things human women could learn from the natural world.
Outside the carriage, low murmurs of conversation kept her prison from feeling empty. Surely people would come for her, eventually. There had to be an end in sight. Her very sanity might rely on the notion of imminent escape or rescue. The trick would be somehow slowing Montague’s progress enough for rescuers to catch them. Considering her current position, that seemed an impossible goal.
One thing remained certain—she couldn’t manage an escape if she was tied up. Which meant building trust or making Montague believe she would go along quietly.
Montague returned a few moments later. With a lowered gaze and blazing cheeks, he shoved a small bag toward her,
