into his groin.
“Bitch!” he shouted, releasing her with a shove that sent her hurtling backward to trip and sprawl on the rug near the fallen bells.
She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, eyeing Corey with disgust and loathing.
He loomed over her, fury making him seem even larger, his scar white against the scarlet of his flushed complexion. “I’ll show you what kind of proper gentleman I am and not take you on this floor here and now. You can play the simpering innocent, but not for long, my darling Miss Hawthorne. Not for long.”
“You’re a pig.”
He smiled as he bent, placing a hand around her throat, his fingers gently squeezing. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe. Madness flickered in his gaze. “I’m going to enjoy our wedding night. Pain can be such an aphrodisiac, did you know?” She clutched at his hand, trying to loosen his hold before she passed out. “So, if you want to keep all that lovely pink flesh intact, you should be very careful how you speak to me from now on.”
He released her, straightening to adjust his cuff, pluck a hair from his sleeve.
Callista scrambled to her feet, her chest heaving as she sucked in great lungfuls of air. If he had hoped for screams or sobs, he was disappointed. She glared at him, fury hazing her vision. “Why me? You could buy any woman in London for your bride.”
His eyes slid casually over the bells scattered on the floor before returning to her face with a blaze of triumph. “Because I’m a businessman, Miss Hawthorne. And I know a bargain when I see one.”
Before she could respond, voices sounded in the corridor: “. . . must have dropped it in the room . . . go and have a look . . .”
Mrs. Hopewell.
Callista didn’t think twice. Leaving her bells behind, she ducked between the curtains where a hidden door led to the dining room. Fumbling with shaking hands for the handle, she yanked it open, tumbled inside, and threw the latch behind her. Fleeing up the stairs, she slammed her bedchamber door shut. Not that it would keep anyone out. Corey had been right on one point. She and David did have much in common.
They were both prisoners whose time was fast running out.
By the gods, he was dead.
Pocketing the key filched from Branston’s office, Callista rushed to David’s side. He remained as she’d left him twenty-four hours earlier, knees drawn up, eyes closed. But now all the color had drained from his skin and long purple streaks inched their way up from his bound ankles. Matching ugly patches of red stretched from the ropes at his wrists almost to his shoulders. Unthinking and in a panic, she knelt, placing her cheek upon his bare chest, praying for a heartbeat.
“You smell like cabbage.”
The deep voice rumbled against her ear, throwing her back onto her haunches. “You’re alive.”
A corner of his mouth curled up in a tired smile. “Really? What gave me away?”
“I didn’t sense death like I usually do right here”—she tapped her breastbone, then added with a frown as she realized he was joking, not actually asking for an explanation, “Do I really smell like cabbage?”
“Good, comfortable smell. Reminds me of the army.”
She gave herself a surreptitious sniff. “I’ve been in the kitchen assisting Mrs. Thursby. She needed someone to keep her gin glass filled.”
“Knew a soldier in the Forty-third. Killed a man over a plate of boiled cabbage. Shot him right between the eyes.”
“That’s horrible.”
He chuckled, his smile widening to a boyish grin. “You didn’t taste the cabbage.”
Feeling herself blushing, Callista hid her discomfiture in a quick scan of the room. A nearby trunk looked her best bet. Dragging it over, she rummaged through old magazines, a moth-eaten fox muff, and a set of mildewed cravats. “I suppose I should be relieved. If you’re well enough to tease, you’re probably not in imminent danger of expiring.”
He gave a gruff bark of laughter. “You’re not like most women, are you?”
She paused, every sense on alert. “What makes you say that?”
“Most women, upon being told they smell like boiled cabbage, would fly into the boughs over the insult.” Even now, a spark of impish mischief lurked in his bleary, bloodshot eyes. Did he never take life seriously? She thought of her own predicament. Did he never despair?
She shrugged and continued to search through the trunk. “You’ll have to do better if you’re going for outrage. I’ve grown a thick skin over the years.”
“Actually, I was going for compliment. Illness has affected my aim.”
“But obviously not your tongue.”
“Minx,” he muttered.
She withdrew an old velvet frock coat and draped it over his midsection. He didn’t seem to be cold, but he was definitely, awkwardly, very . . . very . . . male.
“Glad to see you safe, Fey-blood,” he said, licking some moisture back into his chapped lips. “Worried you caught trouble sneaking up here last night.”
“You’re a prisoner, tied up and half-dead, and you’re worrying about me? That’s rich.”
“What, this?” He shifted, wincing as he did so, a quick indrawn breath between gritted teeth. “Minor setback. Hardly worth mentioning.”
She eyed him speculatively. The bone-white pallor of his body worried her. His gaunt, sickly features scared her to death: eyes sunk within deep hollows, lips tinged blue. Had she waited too long? She’d batted her idea back and forth all day and seen no other alternative. But now the reality of the plan seemed ludicrous. Even if she didn’t sense the presence of imminent death, he was clearly unwell. But was that her only reason for second-guessing herself? Or did it have more to do with his quicksilver charm and his stomach-fluttering stare?
She’d no experience with men of his quality. She felt like a child as she struggled to counter his witty banter and a fool as she melted at his enticing smile. But better a live fool than a dead bride. If anyone could help her escape Branston and Corey, this man could. He was her best—and maybe her last—hope.
“I have a proposal for you.”
“Really?” The smile vanished. She caught a glimpse of the dangerous beast she’d watched savage Corey’s hired killers and was oddly reassured. “Go on.”
“If I help you escape, you agree to take me with you.”
His brows inched skyward. “You’re more brazen than you look.”
This time she refused the blush stealing up her neck. Yes, she was proposing a very unorthodox idea to a nude man, who even sick as death looked like your average Greek god, but it was that or marriage to Corey. Embarrassment was nothing compared to what awaited her at his hands.
“I need an escort to my aunt in Scotland. You need the knife I have secreted in my pocket. I think we can help each other.”
“What about your brother?”
“He doesn’t want . . . that is . . .”
“Scotland is your idea. Not his.”
“I’m of age. He has no legal right to keep me here.”
“Why doesn’t your aunt come and collect you?”
“The particulars of my dilemma aren’t your concern.”
“It’s my concern if I’m carting you all over the countryside with an irate brother after me.”
“Your choice is simple, Mr.—”
“David.”
“It’s simple . . . David; escape with me or rot here alone.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Callista.”
She straightened, chin up. “Miss Hawthorne to you.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “When?”
“Now. My satchel is packed, my brother won’t be back for hours. Mrs. Thursby is downstairs sleeping off her
