His wolfish grin broadened, revealing yellow canine teeth, and his eyes blazed with fury. He was crazed with the need to assert his dominance over her. If he hit her again with the anger seething though him, she would lose consciousness and her life. He punched her in the ribs, forcing the breath from her lungs.
“You’re nothing but a whore.” He punched her again. “Tonight, you won’t be warming McCabe’s bed. You’ll be begging me to fuck you.”
Barely able to speak, she hissed, “You can’t get it up.”
He cocked his head, eyebrows lifted, as if he had heard wrong. Then he snatched his gun up off the seat, holding it above his head by the barrel. Her eyes widened then squeezed shut in reflex as he clobbered her on the head with the butt of his revolver.
86
Washington City, 1865
Consciousness returned some time later, but Charlotte wished it hadn’t.
Had she wrecked her car? She had no memory of an accident. Why was it so dark and cold? She shivered and tried to shake off the chill, but it only made her head throb worse. Did she hit the steering wheel? Must have. Her face hurt, too. She touched her cheek. It was swollen, but not cut. There was pain in her mouth. At least one cut on the inside. She ran her tongue over her teeth. A couple molars wiggled slightly, but none were missing. Her airway was open, but taking deep breaths hurt. Maybe bruised or cracked ribs. She ran her hands down her arms and legs. Everything moved. There was no external bleeding. No belly pain.
She tried to open her eyes and realized they were already open. Total darkness surrounded her. No cracks of light. No red exit signs. Where the hell was she? On the ground. She must have been thrown from the car. There was a dank, sour, musty smell in the cold air. She wasn’t outside in the dark. She was inside. Then she hadn’t been thrown from a car?
The trauma came back in a terrifying rush. There had been no car accident. Gordon had kidnapped and beaten her, and must have dumped her here. How long ago? And where was she?
Oh God, her head hurt. How long had she been unconscious? She had no memory of riding in the carriage or being dumped wherever she was now. There were no voices. No footfalls above her, below her, or around her. She managed a feeble yell. “Help.” Nothing. She was completely alone in the terrifying darkness.
Why did Gordon take her? Braham would be going crazy by now, wondering where she was, and so would David. Neither of them would stop looking until they found her.
But if Braham was looking for her, he wouldn’t be in court defending Jack. Was that what Gordon had planned? The bastard. She bristled at realizing she was a pawn in a game she couldn’t win.
She prayed Braham would continue to concentrate on helping Jack and let David find her. Meredith had said David could do the impossible.
Would Gordon kill her? Not right away. He’d make her suffer first. Hah. Like she wasn’t already. How long could she live without food or water? She could last weeks without food, but she’d be dead in a few days without water. And what about the cold darkness? Her coat wasn’t very warm, but it was May, not January, so she didn’t have to worry about hypothermia. There were a few cracks of light in the ceiling, but when the sun set…oh God, it would be like wearing a hood. How long could she handle sensory deprivation? Not long at all.
She cupped her elbows and shuddered, remembering Gordon’s twisted face as he was posed to smash the revolver butt down on her head. She took as deep a breath as she could, stilled the scurrying thoughts in her throbbing head, and rolled her shoulders, trying to stretch raw nerves to calm them.
The stench in her prison intensified. It seemed to clutch her face like the man with the onion hand. Something close by was dead. The scratch of rodents triggered an immediate wave of panic. Not rats. Anything but rats. She curled up into a ball to make herself a smaller target.
Gordon had clobbered her hard. Meredith’s wig probably saved her life. What if she had a concussion? She had lost consciousness, and now had severe head pain and queasiness. For the next few hours, she’d have to stay awake. But what if she got confused? No one was there to help her.
Her stomach roiled, and she turned her head to the side and vomited what little she had in her stomach. She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket. Pain lanced through her face and jaw, and she groaned as she rolled back on her side.
The scratching of rodents inched closer. She used the moldy straw on the ground to wipe up the vomit and threw it in the direction of the scratching. Take my lunch and leave me alone. Sitting here helpless wouldn’t keep the rats away. She had to move.
When she put her hand out, her fingers touched a dirt-packed wall. Maybe she could dig her way out. With what? Her nails? She always protected her hands and kept her nails neatly trimmed and buffed. So no digging. In the darkness, locked in fear, she squeezed her eyes shut. Pinpoints of light flashed behind her eyeballs. Stars. Millions of bright, twinkling stars pointed toward home.
She dozed, dreaming of the messy bedroom she left behind, and when she woke, rats were scampering lightly across her shins, frequently changing directions. How many? One on her right leg shifted its weight and skittered higher, toward her thigh. Its nails pricked her skin through her wool trousers. Another one crawled over her left ankle and chewed on her leather shoestring. A third one
