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C atherine fought uselessly against the languor that drained her muscles and the cotton wool that filled her head. Her eyes drooped, sleep threatening to obliterate the world. She took deep breaths and blinked.

Masculine laughter, reminding her she was not alone, was like bellows to anger’s coals. Kirkson. He was responsible, and it was he who sat beside her now, laughing at her and gloating over his success.

“Wh-hat do you wa-ant?” She struggled to get the words out, but they lacked the intensity of the anger she felt.

“My dear Miss Shreveton, such naiveté! Why would any gentleman be reduced to kidnapping a young woman? Marriage, of course. Only in your case, not immediately. First, I intend to ruin you. Ruin you so thoroughly that no other gentleman would possibly want my leavings. Then, after a time, I shall marry you.”

“How mag-magna-a-animous.” The word came out in a yawn. She tried to edge away from him, but her limbs refused to obey.

“Yes, I think so, considering the humiliation you have caused me,” he said harshly. “No, don’t try to slither away. The laudanum will soon have you asleep.” He grabbed her, pulling her against him.

Catherine tried to struggle, to call out for help, but it was impossible.

Never in her life had she felt so helpless and never so frightened.

She fought to stay awake, but the drug spread through her body, insidiously inviting sleep with its peaceful oblivion.

She pulled on her anger to keep her awake and reminded herself that Lady Welville did not get all the laudanum down her throat.

What a fool she’d been to enter into conversation with the woman.

Somehow Lady Welville maneuvered her so that her back was to the door.

She was not aware of Kirkson’s presence until he grabbed her from behind and Lady Welville shoved the bottle of laudanum into her mouth.

She managed to spit some of it out, hopefully enough to keep her from falling soundly asleep.

She dreaded that, for she feared the liberties Kirkson might take with her in that condition.

A shudder ran through her body, and her head lolled back against the velvet squabs of Kirkson’s carriage.

I must keep awake!

The litany echoed in her head, clanging like a bell.

She did not doubt that her absence would swiftly be detected and a hue and cry would soon ensue. What she wondered was how long it would take the Marquis to deduce that Kirkson was her abductor.

Funny, though she had no reason to suppose he would, Catherine did not doubt that Stefton would come to her rescue.

It gave her a comfortable feeling inside and helped to mitigate the fear.

The question was, how quickly would he discover her whereabouts?

Perhaps not quickly enough. She would have to do something to save herself.

A little hysterical laugh burbled up inside her.

Save herself? She could scarcely move and didn’t even know where she was or where she was going to be: on earth, in heaven, or hell.

She laughed hysterically again, realizing it was partially the drug that caused her laughter, but it couldn’t be helped.

Kirkson looked at her askance.

Vaguely Catherine knew it was her drugged behavior that caused his disgust. He probably wanted a somnolent woman.

What he got was a half-drugged, silly woman.

She giggled again and threw herself to the left, her head resting in the corner.

Kirkson swore viciously, and in his diatribe Catherine heard Lady Welville’s name mentioned, but he did not try to pull her back.

In the dark shadows of the carriage, Catherine smiled.

It was a small victory, but it restored her heart.

When the carriage stopped at last, Catherine roused herself.

Her mind felt a little clearer, though not much.

Belatedly she realized she must have dozed for a while, but it seemed Kirkson had as well.

He unfolded his body, stretched, and looked out the window.

A groom hurried around to open the carriage door.

Quickly Catherine closed her eyes and willed her body to be limp, feigning sleep.

She heard Kirkson swear softly; then her wrist was grabbed, and he was pulling her body toward him.

He caught her underneath the arms before she could slide to the floor.

His touch made her skin crawl and instinctively she began to stiffen.

Angrily she fought the impulse and allowed him to toss her over his shoulder.

“Did you have much trouble?” Kirkson asked the man who opened the front door.

“None, sir. It was as Stefton’s man said it would be. Just the caretaker and his wife. I’ve them locked in their quarters, sir.”

“Excellent, excellent. Stefton will not think of looking here, and in the future, when it becomes known I took her to one of his estates, Society will not believe he did not know my actions.”

Catherine stifled a gasp.

“Yes, sir. It is a small house. There are not many bedrooms, but I think I have chosen one suitable for the lady. Shall I show you the way?”

“Yes, and quickly. She is no featherweight,” Kirkson said as he moved toward the stairs.

Catherine’s eyes flew open at his comment, but in her position, neither man noticed.

She looked about as well as she could from her present position and the indifferent light cast by the branch of candles the unknown man held.

They were in a well-appointed country house.

That it was not often used was evidenced by the Holland covers on all the furniture.

If this was truly one of the Marquis’s estates, then Kirkson was correct.

There would be no reason for Stefton to suspect their location.

The hope she’d held in her heart snuffed out like a candle flame. She would have to rely upon herself.

Kirkson’s henchman pushed open a door at the far end of the upstairs hallway. “Here, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of removing the Holland covers and starting a fire.”

“Thank you, Jordan. In your investigation of the house, did you discover if it possessed a wine cellar?”

“Yes sir, and I’ve already appropriated a few bottles,” the man said as he circled the room, lighting candles.

“Excellent. I will meet you downstairs.”

Kirkson waited until Jordan had left the room before he turned to dump Catherine on the bed.

She allowed herself to fall limply backward, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed.

“I know you’re not asleep, Miss Shreveton. I felt you stiffen when you heard this was Stefton’s estate,” Kirkson said in a mocking tone.

Catherine opened her eyes, her face a careful mask to the emotions she felt. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing either her fear or her hate. Her body still felt sluggish, and her thoughts continued to be slow to form, but she was shaking off the drug's effects.

“That’s better. You’ll find we’ll deal much better together if you do not resort to artifice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to write, but we will be together very soon, that I promise you, my dear,” he said, leering down at her.

In the flickering candlelight, his expression was demonic, and Catherine felt an uncontrollable shudder run through her body.

Abruptly he turned on his heel and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Catherine stayed still, listening until she heard his tread descend the stairs, and all was quiet again.

She struggled to stand, grabbing the bedpost for support.

Her head spun, but she marshaled her energies toward her goal, the window.

If she could get to the window and open it, perhaps the cold air would help revive her.

Slowly she made her way to her goal, stumbling and hanging on to furniture for support.

When finally she reached the window, she rested her forehead against the cool glass, a hand reaching up to fumble with the latch.

It was stuck.

A cry of frustration lodged in her throat.

She tilted her head back, her other hand joining the first to increase the pressure.

She panted as she pressed on the latch. She could not give up!

When it screeched open, she whimpered in relief.

Shakily, she pushed the window open, allowing a cold night breeze to blow across her face.

She didn’t know how long she stood there before she realized two things: her head was clearing, and there was a narrow ledge of ornamental brickwork jutting out and extending horizontally from the bottom of her window to the next bedroom window.

That window, directly over the front door, sported a wrought-iron ornamental balcony.

Further investigation revealed a similar ledge at the top of the window, also connecting to the other window.

She pulled her head in and sat down in a chair to think for a moment. Dare she try it? She’d rather die than submit to that slimy toad! What other recourse did she have? None, but she couldn’t do it wearing a ball gown.

She got up and began to prowl the room, happy to discover that though her limbs still shook, they obeyed her and she could move, albeit slowly, without stumbling.

In a wardrobe in the corner, she found men’s clothing.

Stefton’s? She ran her hand down the fine material.

Yes, it had to be. That knowledge gave her a strange confidence.