Page 5 of Only Pleasure Will Do

The carriage rocked gently before coming completely to rest.

Body tensed, she waited for the attack.

The door opened with a crash, sending a chilly breeze whirling through the conveyance.

“Grab ’er legs, ’Arry.”

As ’Arry reached for Amorina, she kicked at him fiercely, twisting her body for a better purchase to pound her feet into his face. She connected with something hard and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch.

“Damn it. The ole bawd’s broke me nose. Pound ’er good, Tom.”

Trying to turn in the cramped space to fend off Tom, Amorina found her feet had wedged her between the seats, trapping her like a plump bird limned and trussed for killing.

The other door burst open, and she tried to duck as Tom’s monstrous fist fell on her once more.

* * * *

Insistent throbbing in her head brought Amorina back to consciousness for a second time. Faint light shone from high above her, just enough for her to make out the plain, square, brick-walled room. The rough material she lay on chafed her cheek. With a groan, she cautiously shifted her body and sat up, holding her head.

The throbbing increased momentarily then settled into a dull ache. “Lord God.”

Her jaws ached miserably when she spoke, but the odious gag had been removed, for which she was immensely thankful. Cautiously, she opened her mouth, working the stiff muscles until the pain subsided, all the while taking in her surroundings.

The bed on which she sat—actually a narrow cot—had been covered with a coarse, dark blanket. The four walls of the room rose straight up, broken only at the top by three slits that served for windows. A wooden bucket sat in the corner on the bare dirt floor. To her left, a doorway seemed to lead to an adjacent room—and who knew what else.

The complete silence of the place convinced her she was alone, thank God. Breathing slowly, she released her head and waited to see if it had truly settled. A final throb and the pain eased to a manageable level. Rubbing her face revealed a lump on her forehead. The lout in the carriage would regret that. She held her breath and stood, wobbled, then found her feet. So far so good. They’d left her in her gray traveling gown and sturdy black boots, although her pockets were empty and her reticule nowhere to be found. So no coin with which to buy her freedom. Still, she was alive and had her wits about her. It would serve.

The shadows of the night were retreating rapidly. Putting one foot before the other, Amorina inched toward the doorway. Once there, she steeled herself and thrust her head around the jamb.

Another square, brick-lined room, some feet larger than the one in which she stood. A rustic table holding another bucket, a loaf of bread, a wooden cup and a candle sat in its center, a rough-hewn chair alongside it. On the opposite side of the room a long, narrow staircase led straight up to a door.

A door. Amorina sucked in a breath and stepped forward. It must be locked. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. Still, her feet carried her toward the rough stairs with a mind of their own. Without taking her gaze off the door, she grasped the bannister and sprinted up the stairs. Though her head pounded anew at each step, it slowed her not at all. Grabbing the handle, she twisted it, pulling the door with all her might.

It didn’t budge. Of course they wouldn’t go to all the trouble of kidnapping her then leave the stupid door unlocked. Still, her assailants had seemed rather dim-witted men. Apparently not that dim-witted. She pressed her ear to the door and held her breath, the better to hear anything on the other side of the door.

Nothing.

Not that she’d believed it would be easy to escape. Nothing had ever been easy for her. Tamping down the bitterness in her heart, she slowly trudged down the staircase. She was alive, and for the moment, unharmed. If her head would clear, she could gather her wits and perhaps figure a way out of this prison.

Once at the table, she looked into the bucket and discovered it half full of water. She seized the cup, dipped it in, and drank thirstily. It was warm and tasted of old wood, yet no French wine had ever satisfied her better. She gazed about the room, but there was nothing else to see.

With a sigh, she slumped into the chair, staring into the cold fireplace. Why had she been brought here? By whom?

Her household had known of her journey to Essex, but no one else. The house girls only knew that she went away on business each spring and fall for approximately a fortnight. No one knew where she went or why, and she intended to keep it that way. Surely this kidnapping could have nothing to do with her journey. Her abductors had merely taken advantage of it to carry out their plans. They must want her and her alone.

Her head now much clearer, she closed her eyes and brought to mind the last few pages of her ledger of customers at the House of Pleasure. She could call them up as clearly as if she had the ledger before her, a skill she’d always possessed. Name by name, she went through the gentlemen who’d patronized her establishment during the ten days before she’d left. Might one of them have a vendetta against her?

Lord Clarkson, no. Sir John Abbot, no. Mr. Samuel Jacobs, hardly. He’d been so grateful when she’d given him into the experienced hands of Jenny, he’d returned three times in one week. The list went on, each patron called up in memory with his assigned girl or special need appearing beside his name. Lord Cryr, certainly not. No spirit, that one. Lord Kettleston, no. Not after what Serena had confided to her afterward. So who would want her dead or maimed? Or kept as his own private whore? Or for ransom?

“Hah.” She had to snort out loud at that. No one would pay to have her returned. The girls at the House of Pleasure had precious little to spare. Their money was hard-earned and well-deserved—and she’d be the first to tell them not to waste their meager coins on her. But her kidnapper should know that. If he didn’t, she hoped he wasn’t too outraged to find out he was stuck with her.

Leaning back in the creaky chair, Amorina sighed as the slits of windows drew her gaze upward. At least ten feet above her head, the windows were nevertheless letting light in at a good pace. The rays played through the panes, casting patches of bright light on the wall opposite. As she couldn’t fathom why or by whom she’d been taken, the next best thing would be to find a way out.

The door was locked, so the obvious avenue had been closed to her. However, the small windows tantalized her. No matter how tiny they might be, she’d find a way to squeeze through them, even if she had to remove her clothing to do so. She was petite and if naked, she might slip through. The greater problem was how to get herself ten feet off the floor.

Eyeballing the distance from the top of the table to the window, she shook her head. Even if the wobbly table would bear her weight—not a foregone conclusion by any means—she’d still fall short of the windowsill. She’d never had cause to bemoan her diminutive stature before, but another three inches or so would’ve been most welcome right now. Was there something she could use to lift her higher?

The chair she sat in came first to mind, but it was as ancient and rickety as the table. It shifted every time she moved, threatening to dump her onto the floor. Better not press her luck. Scanning the room, her gaze then lit on the water bucket. Yes. That might just do. She hurried into the other room for what she assumed was the slop bucket, currently dry and empty, thank goodness. The scratchy rope handle pricked her palm when she grasped it, but she paid it little mind and headed swiftly back into the main room. Pushing the table against the wall, she prayed she’d have enough height now to reach the bottom of the windows. Gauging the position as best she could, she placed the bucket, mouth down, on the table and dragged the rickety chair over to help in the climb up.