Kendra scooted up the bed, pushing herself as far as she could into a half-sitting, half-reclining position. It was an awkward angle, straining her arms, but she managed to just graze the back of her head with her fingertips. She tried to relax her muscles as she maneuvered her body up another inch, grateful for the years of yoga practice. The iron manacles bit viciously into her wrists as she moved her hands, but she ignored the pain, and the warm blood that trickled down her arms. Her fingers felt swollen and numb, both from the pressure of the restraints and having her arms above her head.
Tilting her head down so that her chin pressed into her chest, she continued to twist her hands until her fingers dug into the soft coil at the base of her neck. Gritting her teeth, she rooted around and nearly wept with relief when her finger touched the top of one hairpin. She managed to pinch the top of it with her index finger and thumb, and slowly extracted it.
She couldn’t see the handcuffs, although she knew from their size and weight that she wasn’t dealing with a brand she was familiar with. Still, if there was a lock, she’d be able to pick it—she just needed time.
She closed her eyes in an attempt to block everything out. Slowly, she maneuvered the hairpin around until it struck the iron of the manacles, and she then began to tap blindly along the metal, learning its shape, trying to determine its mechanical structure.
She froze when the point of the pin suddenly snagged against the microscopic grain in the iron, bobbling. In reaction, her hand flexed, and she tried to squeeze her thumb and index finger around the pin’s head. Her attempt to control the slender wire was clumsy. She could feel it sliding.
She let out a sob as the hairpin slithered out of her grasp, dropping soundlessly to the bed, out of reach.
68
Alec didn’t bother to knock—he simply barged into Harcourt’s room. The captain had been stuffing a shirt into his satchel, but now whirled around, eyes widening in alarm at the sudden intrusion.
“My Lord? What is amiss?”
“I need you to take me to where Morland holds his club!”
“I-I do not know—”
Furious, Alec shot forward, slamming the other man into the armoire. He pressed his arm into Harcourt’s throat. “Don’t bloody lie to me, Harcourt!”
“Alec!” The Duke and Sam rushed into the room.
Alec didn’t take his eyes off Harcourt. “The bastard’s got Kendra. We’re wasting time!”
Harcourt made a strangled sound, his hands trying to push away the arm cutting off his air supply.
“I know you attended Morland’s club, Harcourt.” Alec eased back, allowing the other man to breathe again. “You will take me there. Now.”
Gabriel crumpled to the ground, clutching his stomach. His waistcoat was already soaked crimson. Blood oozed from between his fingers.
The wound was mortal, Morland knew. He stared down at the young fool and felt the rage rise inside him again. He felt no remorse over killing the man, but was upset that circumstance—not desire—had forced him to take the action. He walked in circles, struggling to control his fury. By the third loop, his vision no longer misted red.
He’d have to get rid of Gabriel, of course. It shouldn’t be too difficult. He wouldn’t be careless like Thomas; there would be no mistakes. The thought calmed him. I’m in control.
“Please . . .” Gabriel moaned. He was shaking, his eyes glazed with pain and shock.
Morland flicked him a dispassionate look. He could finish him off by slitting his gullet, but that would be too easy a death for someone who’d caused him such annoyance. Saying nothing, he turned on his heel, retracing his footsteps down the rough-hewn corridor.
The pressure in his chest eased even more when he pushed open the door, his gaze fixing on Kendra. She was older than his preference, but she was the right size and coloring. Anticipation flooded him as he approached the bed.
“I apologize for the delay, my dear,” he said, shrugging out of his coat. His hand went to his cravat, loosening it. “You and I are going to have a lovely time. I must say that I am quite looking forward to it.”
His gaze slid hungrily over her partially exposed breasts, traveled up the slender column of white throat. He was annoyed that there were marks on it already. Bruises not caused by him.
Still, he smiled as he lifted his gaze to meet her dark eyes, expecting to see fear, the gleam of tears. They did hold a gleam. But it wasn’t terror or tears—it was rage.
Her mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “Fuck you, Morland.”
She came up swinging.
69