M
ax’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton. His wrists had begun to bleed—he could feel the stickiness of the blood as it oozed onto his hands.
His stomach growled, he was growing a scruffy beard, and he stank, but those were the least of his problems. He’d go mad if he was forced to stay in here much longer. There was nothing to do. Nowhere to go. The room was small and cold. There was nothing beyond the steady burn of the lantern, and the chaise longue, and the musty, enclosed odor of the place.
One could only think of how many ways to kill someone for so long. It felt like he’d been imprisoned for years, but Max guessed this was only the fourth day… or night. It was difficult to be certain—there was no distinction between day and night down here. The sounds of the house above him gave him the only clues as to the time of day. Everything became quiet and peaceful in the latest hours of night.
He heard the scraping sound of the bolt being drawn, and though his heart pulsed, speeding up the sluggish blood through his veins, he didn’t move from his slumped position on the chaise longue.
It was probably Fenwicke come to taunt him again. God help him, but even that sounded far more appealing than sitting here alone for hours on end, with nothing but one’s own increasingly violent thoughts for company.
It was Fenwicke, unsurprisingly. Also unsurprising, his hired brutes hovered in the doorway.
Max didn’t bother to look at the man. “What do you want this time?”
“How rude.”
Max glanced up, raising a brow. “I’d kill you with my bare hands if I had the use of them.”
It was then that he noticed the odd scratch marks on Fenwicke’s cheek. It looked like the man had been attacked by an angry cat. It wouldn’t surprise Max that a cat would dislike Fenwicke. Animals seemed to sense the evil in things.
“Well, I have news for you,” Fenwicke said, “but if you’re going to be so disagreeable, perhaps I should save it for another time.”
Perhaps Fenwicke had purchased some instrument of torture he planned to try on him to induce him to sign the counterfeit confession. That was the next step, Max was sure of it. He gave Fenwicke a nonchalant shrug, as if he didn’t care whether the man came or went.
Fenwicke clasped his hands together. “Well, I might be too eager, but I’ve a lovely surprise for you.”
Max was certain he wouldn’t be surprised. Still, he braced himself.
“In the form of a lithe, lovely young thing.”
“A woman,” Max said flatly. What the hell?
“Not just any woman, my friend.” Fenwicke’s lips curled. “Miss Olivia Donovan.”
Max jumped to his feet. “Where? Is she here?”
God, please let her not be here. Please let her be safe… shopping on Regent Street with Lady Stratford, perhaps, or tucked into an armchair reading, or sipping tea with her aunt…
“She is here.” Fenwicke’s smile broadened. “And she knows you’re here, too.”
The thoughts roiling in Max’s brain instantly calmed. He took a menacing step toward Fenwicke, noting that his men came to instant attention. These weren’t dolts. If he attacked, they’d be on him in a second.
“What did you tell her?” he growled.
“That you’re in dire circumstances.”
Max narrowed his eyes.
“That I just might kill you.”
Max let out a hissing breath.
“That she is the only one in the world who can save you.” Fenwicke chuckled. “Such a biddable girl, isn’t she?”
“Shut your mouth, Fenwicke.”
Fenwicke didn’t fear Max like he should, though. He didn’t shut his damn fool of a mouth. “So very pretty. And delicate, isn’t she? Like a bird. I could snap her bones as easily as I could break a toothpick.”
That was it. Max lunged, aiming to wipe that sneer off Fenwicke’s face. Without the use of his fists, he head-butted Fenwicke, landing a hard blow right on Fenwicke’s cheek. Fenwicke’s head snapped to the side and back, and Max was tossed backward by God knew how many men.
He struggled. Kicked and fought, and he fought dirty like they’d taught him. He managed to knee one of the men between the legs, taking him out of commission, but another came to take his place, pinning Max’s arms down.
Heavy force threw him on the cement floor. He went down with an
umph,
the impact sucking the breath from his lungs. And then they pinned him, four men at his shoulders and legs. As much as he struggled, he couldn’t move. Clenching his teeth, he looked up at Fenwicke, who hovered over him, holding his damaged cheek, blood dripping from between his fingers. Max had no idea if he’d caused a new wound or reopened the scratches that had already been there.
It suddenly hit him: the scratches… those were Olivia’s work.
God, if Fenwicke had hurt her, he’d kill the man, no matter what it took.
“You’ll regret that, Wakefield,” Fenwicke said from between clenched teeth.
Max didn’t respond.
“Your pretty little lady is prepared to do anything to help you out of here, did you know that? So she and I made a little bargain. She’s upstairs right now, preparing.”
“For what?” Max growled.
“I’ve provided her with some provocative garments for our upcoming night together,” Fenwicke said simply. “In my bed.”
Fury, hot and sharp, and unlike anything Max had ever known, arced through him. He twisted, breaking free from the men grasping his shoulders, and wrenched his legs out of the other men’s holds. He fumbled for balance,
managed to get himself into a lunging position, and once again went for Fenwicke, this time for his gut.
He barreled into Fenwicke’s stomach with all the force and power of his anger, and Fenwicke, taken completely off guard, went flying. His back slammed against the cellar wall and he crumpled to the floor.
But the other men were on Max again. He fought with everything he had, but his opponents were four strong and well-fed men, and he didn’t have the use of his hands.
It took them a while, and by the time it was over, they were all sweaty and bruised. One of the brutes’ eyes was already swollen shut, and blood was running down Max’s chin from a cut in his lip. His wrists screamed in agony from the stress he’d put on them during the fight, and blood flowed freely to his fingertips, hot and wet.
They trussed him like a Christmas turkey, tying his ankles in much the same fashion as his wrists were tied. But Fenwicke was still in the room. If Max didn’t have the use of his body, he still had the use of his voice.
“If you so much as touch her, Fenwicke, I’ll kill you.” Through his rage, the words came out icy and calm. “If you lay a hand on her, that’s the hand I’ll be cutting off. If you—”
“Gag him,” Fenwicke snapped.
Quickly, the men did as they were told, as if they’d been prepared for this inevitability. Within seconds, he was choking on the cloth they’d stuffed into his mouth, trying to spit it out. But they tied a strip of muslin around his mouth, holding the cloth in place, and he could do nothing but breathe angrily through his nose.
Fenwicke stood at the door, watching him. Max saw the anger in the tightness of his cheeks and the flat press of his pale lips.
God… oh God, he might have just made it worse for her.
This was his worst nightmare come to life. This couldn’t be happening. He wanted to pound his head against the floor in frustration… in total failure and defeat.
“I’m going to be busy tonight, Wakefield,” Fenwicke said quietly. “We’re going to leave you right where you are, as you are, so you can spend the night thinking about the folly of your ways while I”—his lips cracked into a smile—“plant my seed inside your pretty little whore.”
Olivia stumbled into the drawing room, but she didn’t turn around as the maid snapped the door closed behind her.
Even though it appeared as though he’d somehow reopened the marks she’d made on his face, Fenwicke smiled in pleasure. Olivia glared at him. He thought he’d won, the bastard.
The harsh word spoken in her mind didn’t even make Olivia flinch. She’d scream it out loud, a hundred times, in front of all of London:
Lord Fenwicke is a bastard.
Then his expression softened until, if she didn’t know better, she’d say his face was awash with sympathy. With compassion. She did know better, though.
“Alas,” he said sadly. “I am an honest man. I feel it is my duty to warn you of something before we begin. Something that might change your mind about your beloved duke. And, sadly, it might affect the bargain we made earlier.”
“Nothing will change my mind.” She looked Fenwicke in the eye. Her hatred made her strong. Once she might’ve wilted like a flower being at this man’s mercy, but with every minute that had passed since she’d learned Max was here, she’d grown stronger. She knew what the stakes
were now. She knew what to fight for, and she knew she
could
fight.
He gave her a gentle smile, and sighed deeply. “I feel I must tell you this. For your own protection. You see, the Duke of Wakefield isn’t exactly who he seems.”
“What are you talking about?”
He tilted his head at her. “He’s not a very good man, Olivia.”
She made a scoffing noise. This man, telling her that Max wasn’t very good? Laughable.
“Oh, I do dislike having to be the bearer of this news….”
She stared at him, her lips set. She challenged him with her eyes, daring him to tell her something that would change her mind about Max, confident that it couldn’t be done.
Fenwicke drummed his fingers on his chin. “Would you like to see him before you make your final decision?”
“Yes!” The exclamation burst out from her before Olivia had the chance to modulate it.
Fenwicke stepped toward the door, a sly smile spreading over his lips. “Very well, my dear. This way.”
Gesturing at the two men stationed at the drawing room door to follow them, he led her down a long, opulent corridor lined with damask wallpaper and gilded wall sconces and into a spotless kitchen. A tall, narrow door in the wall led to even narrower stairs. At the bottom, they turned down another long corridor, this one bare, with white plaster walls and a cement floor. Two more of Fenwicke’s burly guards were stationed in front of a door halfway down the corridor.
Olivia swallowed hard. Her heart felt like it was going to beat its way out of her chest.
Max… she was going to see him, make sure he was all right, talk to him…
At the door, Fenwicke hesitated. “Now, Olivia, love, I’d prefer it if my men weren’t forced to touch you, but they will do whatever it takes to ensure that you behave. Here’s how it will go: I will walk into the room. You will stop at the threshold. You may speak to the duke, but if I were you, I wouldn’t expect any answers. I’ll give you the proof that the Duke of Wakefield isn’t the man he’s feigned to be, and if your duke has any sense at all, he will corroborate the evidence I will offer you.”
Olivia glanced from Fenwicke to the door. She was so distracted by her proximity to Max that she hardly heard what the marquis was telling her.
He nodded at the guard closest to him, and the man drew the bolt and turned the handle.
“Wait,” Fenwicke hissed to her as she began to step forward. The tallest of the men situated himself just behind her, ready to grab at her if she lunged inside.
The three other guards went in first, and Olivia heard a scuffling noise. When the sounds diminished, Fenwicke glanced into the room, then gave her a crisp nod. “They’re ready for us. Come along, my dear.”
Turning, he went through the doorway. Just inside, Fenwicke paused, and then he stepped aside so she could see into the tiny room.
Max was sitting on a chaise longue in the center of the room, looking at the door with narrowed, angry eyes. When he saw her, he lunged up, but Fenwicke’s men were ready for that. They grabbed his upper arms, preventing him from moving toward her.
Not that he could have moved toward her, anyhow. His
ankles were bound with a rough rope and his hands were behind his back, probably bound in similar fashion.
He looked terrible. A gag was tied tight around his mouth, and a line of dried blood descended from the corner of one of his eyes to the gag, staining the side of the dirty rag reddish brown. His other eye was swollen and bruised. His chin was covered in blood. His clothes were dirty, wrinkled, and torn.
Olivia gave a jagged cry. “Max!” Her feet propelled her forward.
The guard standing behind Olivia grabbed her arm and jerked her to a painful halt. She gasped.
Max made a noise of rage and fought against the men, but he was ineffective against them without the use of his arms and legs. He was shouting behind the gag, something that sounded like, “Let her go, damn you!”
She tried to move forward, to get to him, but the hand curled around her arm was like a shackle. She couldn’t move any closer.
“I love reunions,” Fenwicke murmured.
Both she and Max turned furious gazes on him. “How could you do this to him?” Olivia blurted. “Are you mad?”
Fenwicke appeared to think about this for a moment, then he shook his head. “I don’t think so, my dear. It’s just that my enemy has driven me to extreme measures.”
“Nothing could possibly be this extreme!” she exclaimed.
Fenwicke shrugged. “You have spent many years away from London, Olivia. You cannot understand the effects of his slights and slander on my reputation. On my family’s status and well-being. And now I want to show you
proof that you have fallen victim to this man’s conniving nature as well.” His expression gentled. “You see, Olivia, you were nothing but a wager to him.”
Olivia snorted like Phoebe might have. “That’s a lie.”
“Sorry. It isn’t. I was at Lord Hertford’s ball the night the duke saw you for the first time. I watched him watch you, then I took him into the gentleman’s parlor, and I made a wager with him. I bet him a thousand guineas that he wouldn’t be able to seduce you.”
Olivia stood very still, staring at him. What nonsense.
“He readily agreed, then set out to Sussex in hopes of luring you into his bed under your brother-in-law’s roof.”
No. No, no, no. Impossible. She glanced at Max, who was standing very still, his green eyes pleading.