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“Wait, you’ll need weapons,” said Branstoke.

St. Ryne stopped short. “Blast! There’s no time, and in the temper I’m in, I could rip Tunning to pieces with my bare hands.”

“What about Mannion’s poppers?” suggested a gentleman from the top of the stairs.

“He’s right,” Branstoke admitted. “Mannion’s carried dueling pistols with him anytime these past twenty years.”

“I’ll rouse Mannion,” another offered.

“No time, he’s passed out in the library. Porter! Fetch Lord Mannion’s greatcoat, they’re probably in the pockets. Get St. Ryne’s as well!” Branstoke called after him.

The front door burst open. “Sir, I brought the horses,” huffed the footman.

“Here they are, my lord!” exclaimed the porter, trotting back into the hall. “They’re in the pockets like you said.” He pulled out an old flintlock from a deep pocket.

In two strides St. Ryne was at his side, relieving him of the pistols and slinging his own coat over his shoulders.

“Thomas, can you handle one of these?” he asked, handing him a pistol. Thomas nodded. He turned to Branstoke. “Thank you for the horses. I don’t know when?—”

“Say no more. Just save her and don’t ever let her go again.”

St. Ryne nodded once curtly, then reached out to squeeze his shoulder, silently thanking him for all his efforts on their behalf. “Give my compliments to Mannion,” was all he said, then he followed Thomas out the door.

After Thomas related the events of the evening, the ride to Larchside was hard and grimly silent, each man alone with his thoughts. For St. Ryne it was the longest ride of his life. If what Thomas said was true, then Bess must have forgiven him. Why else would she plan to return to London?

Oh, Bess, he silently called, don’t give up.

What a consummate fool he had been. He remembered the Amblethorp rout when he first saw her and thought she looked fragile.

She didn’t appear the shrew until he goaded her.

He had been blind to the clues as to her real nature, so intrigued was he to play Petruchio.

Now he could only hope that her shrewish mask would again give her strength.

They were surprised, when they turned into the drive leading to Larchside, to see the manor ablaze with lights.

Without a word they laid their heels into their mounts and galloped up the drive.

St. Ryne was off his horse and running for the door even before the horse stopped.

The door flew open before he reached it.

“Oh, my lord, thank heavens you’re here!” Ivy exclaimed. “We got the Atheridges locked in the kitchen pantry.

“And Bess?” St. Ryne asked anxiously.

“Tunning still has her.”

“Who’s we?” asked Thomas, tethering the horses.

“Peter and me. We forgot he were here, too, Thomas. After you left, I got to worryin’ and thinkin’. Then I remembered Peter, so I roused him and told him all. Together we captured ol’ hatchet face, and when Atheridge came creeping back, we bagged him, too.”

St. Ryne grabbed her. “Can Atheridge tell us where Tunning’s taken her?”

“Already done that—leastways where they’re headin’. You were right, Thomas,” she said looking past St. Ryne. “That harness did break, not three miles from here. Caused a devil of a fight atween ’em, says Atheridge.”

“Damn it, woman,” roared St. Ryne, “where’s Elizabeth!?”

“Hav—Havelock Manor.”

“Where’s that?”

“About seven miles by road,” said Thomas. “But I thought that burned down.”

“Atheridge said one wing’s sound, and Tunning's takin’ her there, but they had to go the last four miles on foot, on account one horse ran off when it were unhitched and the other come up lame.”

“Come on, Thomas,” ordered St. Ryne grimly, swinging around to the horses.

“Have a care!” Ivy called after them.

Tunning shoved Elizabeth and she stumbled, falling onto the makeshift bed. She drew her cut and bleeding feet close to her body as she huddled in the corner, silently watching him as he laid a fire in the massive hearth.

She was cold, colder than she had ever been before, but she refused to let Tunning see her weakness.

At first, during the long walk, he delighted in prodding her and laughed when she fell.

He even removed the gag in an attempt to goad her to speech, but she doggedly remained silent, only glaring at him.

As the miles stretched and the cold penetrated their bones, he became quiet and morose, occasionally muttering to himself as he was now. At the moment, she feared him more, for it seemed there was little left of the civilized man. His mind was captured by the notion of revenge upon her.

He turned his head from the fire he built to look at her, and laughed.

The high-pitched sound sent shivers down Elizabeth’s spine.

She wondered how long he intended to toy with her.

She moved her hands, testing the bonds, drawing in her breath sharply to prevent crying out when the rough rope bit into her chafed wrists.

She relaxed. Even if her hands were free, she doubted she could have escaped, so damaged were her feet.

As the piercing cold eased, she felt her feet burning and sharp pain shooting up her calves.

She doubted her legs and feet could even bear her weight.

“Trollop,” Tunning said. “The veriest trollop you look, fit for the London stews.” He walked toward her. “Perhaps that’s where I’ll drop you when I’m through,” he said consideringly, then laughed again. He dropped to his knees beside her and reached out.

She flinched away from his touch, sending him into another paroxysm of laughter.

“I only want to untie those pretty little hands so they can get warm. Got to be warm to touch me like I want.”

Elizabeth bit back a denial and allowed him to untie her.

Even if her legs failed her, perhaps with her hands free she could find a way to protect herself.

She began to study the room covertly, searching for any likely weapons.

Tunning must have moved here directly from the estate cottage.

There was a pile of clothes by the window, some crockery and food on a rickety table by the door.

Nearby was a stack of logs, a few ledgers, and a keg of ale.

The candelabra on the mantel were silver, and beautifully wrought. Probably originally from Larchside.

When her hands were free, Tunning rose, drew himself a mug of ale, and shuffled back to the fire, swearing about how cold it was.

Elizabeth stroked her chafed wrists and attempted to move her legs.

They screamed in agony, but she forced her muscles to respond.

She couldn’t afford for them to stiffen and cramp.

Draining his mug and wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve, Tunning turned his backside to the fire, relishing the warmth. He saw Elizabeth moving on the bed. He licked his lips and shifted his feet to ease the pressure on the swelling in his pants.

“In a moment, pet, in a moment,” he said.

Elizabeth’s eyes flew up to him. Too late she realized what her gentle squirming on the bed caused. She had been so caught up in studying the room she hadn’t been paying any attention to Tunning. Now she saw the sweat break out on his forehead and the lust in his eyes.

“No.” The word fell from her lips. Oh, Justin, she wildly prayed, help me, please! But she knew her prayer to be useless, for he was in London, and no one would know of her disappearance until morning.

Tunning slowly advanced, rubbing his hands together, then reached out toward her, his fingers flexing like talons.

A triumphant grin carved his face into a demonic semblance of a man.

Elizabeth shifted warily to her knees, her pulse pounding.

She eyed the distance to the table where the crockery sat, some heavy enough to bludgeon him with—if she could make it that far.

He moved in front of her, blocking her view of the table.

He chortled at the fear he saw on her face. “Yes,” he murmured, “ol’ Tom Tunning's spear will pin you to that bed, squirming.”

He lunged. Elizabeth screamed, throwing herself off the end of the bed.

Tunning's hand caught the fabric of her clothes and she heard it rip when she rolled away.

She scrambled, crablike, as he came after her, his face convulsed with rage.

He fell on her. Her nails raked his face, her legs kicking wildly, as they rolled on the floor.

His hand found the neckline of her gown, ripping it. Her terror threatened to overwhelm her.

She screamed Justin’s name, imagining she heard her name called in return.