Defiant Captive Page 3

  But now the reckoning was come. His wife had mocked his trust and killed his hope, threatening to destroy his very soul. She had left him only ashes and an obsession that threatened his sanity.

  But no longer, Hawke swore. Tonight he would find his scheming wife and destroy her hold over him once and for all.

  No matter what the cost.

  To either of them.

  Chapter Four

  Wherever Alexandra went, fear was her companion, driving her heedless through the darkness. Fear clawed at her heart and sent her blood pounding in her head. With every step her weak ankle cried out for rest, but she pushed on, fighting back the stabbing pain.

  She dared not stop. He was too close. She could sense it even now.

  Only a few feet away from the elegant square, the alley had narrowed almost to an arm span, rimmed on one side by an iron grill and on the other by a brick wall. The air was fetid with rotting garbage and open sewers. Suddenly, Alexandra's ankle gave way, and she nearly fell, then staggered to brace herself with a hand to the ground. When she lifted her palm, it was covered with filth.

  She shuddered and halted briefly to draw a ragged breath. Squinting, she tried to penetrate the darkness before her, but the moving trails of fog were deceptive. Slowly now, she moved forward, more careful after her mishap. The muscles around her ankle tightened in wrenching spasms, pushed beyond endurance.

  A muffled thump echoed down the narrow alley. She pressed back against the wall of brick, wincing as the sharp ridges bit into her spine. Breathlessly, she waited for the large figure to loom from the shifting fog, but no one came.

  Feeling a draft at her feet, she looked down to see a black shape glide past. She nearly laughed out loud when she saw her pursuer was only a cat. She scolded herself silently and put fear behind her, waiting for her pulse to slow down.

  Then she saw him, near enough to touch. He moved quietly, carving the gray fog into pale streams as he passed. Mutely, Alexandra flattened herself against the sharp bricks at her back, vainly willing herself to become invisible. He nearly fell once, stumbling over the same mound of filth that had caught her, and she heard him curse deep in his throat. He laughed silently as the black cat purred companionably at his feet.

  "Are you bad luck, my friend? Then Isobel must be close at hand." The man's broad back blocked the alley as he studied the sooty air.

  If he turned now, he could not fail to see her, Alexandra knew.

  But he did not turn, and a moment later he pressed silently on, slipping back into the fog.

  Only after long seconds did Alexandra dare to breathe, and then her indrawn breath gave way in an explosive burst. Maybe the cat had brought her good luck.

  Heaven knew she could use some.

  "Aye, a close call an' no mistake."

  Alexandra started and dropped her cane as a small figure unbent from the gloom.

  "Don't seem to favor ye overmuch, miss, if ye'll not mind me sayin' so. Took his attention off me right well, though, for which I'll be thankin' ye." The grimy little fellow grinned irrepressibly, holding out Alexandra's fallen cane, and she saw it was the urchin who had filched her captor's purse.

  His brash smile warmed her as no fire could. "Did you really take his purse?"

  "No business of yers if I did," he said tightly.

  "Indeed it is not," Alexandra agreed, "and I've a great deal to thank you for. I only hope the lunatic does not return."

  "Aye, the nob looks like he'd square up to advantage, an' no mistake." The boy's humor faded suddenly. "But I'd best be off.

  Wouldn't half fancy runnin' into Digger right now. Reck'n he wouldn't stop at a fanning this time neither."

  "Who is Digger?" Alexandra asked, struck by the urgency in his young voice.

  "Reck'n yer right enough, miss, but ye'll forgive me if I'll not be answerin' that. Less known, less to answer for, ye understand. Now, if yer lookin' fer a way out o' this alley, why then, just follow me. Know it like my own home, I do." Without waiting for her answer, the boy padded off.

  Alexandra struggled to keep to the pace he set. True to his word, the boy passed unerringly through the bewildering maze of alleys, each more squalid than the one before. Soon she lost track of time, fighting weariness and the throbbing pain in her ankle. At least her pursuer would never find her here, she thought grimly.

  When at last the boy slowed his dogged pace, Alexandra saw lights haloed in the heavy fog. Her small guide turned abruptly. "Lookin' fer a place to hide then, are ye? Happen I can help. Ye'll be lookin' fer somethin' respectable, I'm thinkin', an' the Ten Bells be just the place. Landlord's a right 'un."

  "I don't have a great deal of money," Alexandra said uncertainly. "Is it very expensive?"

  "Cheap as ye'll find in London, miss — for decent lodgin's, that is. Hard times fer ye too then?" He cocked his head up at her, and for a moment she feared she might disgrace herself by crying.

  "I shall manage, my friend. I daresay we both shall. Tomorrow I mean to find a position as a governess or a lady's maid."

  The lad looked at her skeptically and shook his head. "No mistress in her right mind'd take ye on, beggin' yer pardon, miss. Not with that hair, nor that skin." Her companion reddened abruptly and dug his hands deep within his pockets. "Bit o' walnut rinse'll cover the gold like," he added in a muffled tone. "Need a character, too, I expect. Digger's wife used to fix 'em up proper fer servants what was sacked — after they paid her a tidy fee, o' course."

  Oh yes, she had learned about character references. Her inquiries earlier that day had met only with derision when the agencies discovered she had none.

  Had it been only several hours ago? It seemed like a lifetime to her now.

  "Right then. Proper sharp set, I am, so let's eat before we consider the matter," her small protector said thoughtfully. "Happen we could help each other."

  "You must let me stand the cost of the meal then. Though my funds are low, I can at least afford that."

  "Ye'll get no argument from me, miss," the boy replied with a cheeky smile, thrusting out a grimy hand. "Name's Pence, or leastways that's what I been called here in town. Stroke o' luck that our paths crossed, an' no mistake."

  Alexandra shook the urchin's hand warmly. "And I am Alexandra Maitland, just back from Madras. That's in India, you know, so I'm still very green about London ways."

  "India, is it now?" Pence repeated with keen interest. "What I wouldn't give to see the East! Now, who would be the chief in Madras? Governor o' some sort?" He winked and added by way of explanation, "Maggie was forever sayin' a grand lie works better than a puny one."

  Alexandra stiffened. For a moment she did not speak. "His Excellency the Governor-General is the highest representative of the Crown in Madras," she replied woodenly.

  Caught up in his scheming, Pence did not notice. "Right then. We'll fix ye up with a character from the governor-general himself. Not many like to know any different. What's the nob's name then?"

  "Lord Percival Maitland."

  The boy looked up, his attention caught by her tone and the name. His eyes widened. "Yer brother, miss?"

  "My father, actually. I'm afraid it's a very long story." The humor had drained from her voice. Suddenly, she was cold and tired and frightened again.

  Pence whistled soundlessly. "Well I'll be d—" he began, but caught himself up hastily. He reached for Alexandra's hand and pulled her toward the lights at the alley's end. "Come on then, miss. This is one tale I'll not be missin'. And seein' as how yer foot must be painin' ye somethin' terrible, why feel free to lean on me."

  Alexandra sighed and braced her arm against the boy's shoulder, allowing him to tug her forward. He was painfully thin, and the ridge of his shoulder was sharp against her. She wondered how he came to be prowling the London streets, for he certainly did not appear to be a hardened thief.

  Perhaps it would be good to talk with the boy. He was an odd mixture of youthful spirits and practical wisdom. Perhaps he would be the very thing
to pluck up her spirits.

  They made an odd pair as they moved through the fog — the tall, slim woman half pulled by and half leaning on her thin, ragged companion. Caught up in their own thoughts, neither noticed the dark figure who watched motionless from a narrow recess in the wall behind them.

  Chapter Five

  "An' they wouldn't hear his side o' things?" Pence demanded angrily as they settled companionably into their meal sometime later. "Saved the whole region, he did! Kept the bloodshed from spreadin' farther — did that count fer naught?"

  "I expect they needed to lay the blame somewhere," Alexandra said quietly. "My father seemed the best choice. You see, he'd made many enemies over the years for refusing to overlook certain" — she smiled thinly, and her voice trailed off as she shifted a piece of overcooked mutton about on her plate — "certain irregularities that had been accepted by his predecessors. They were glad to be rid of him, I think."

  Pence shook his head sympathetically, studying her pale face. "Bad bit o' luck, that. What'd he do then?"

  "He tried to appeal their decision, of course, but his dispatches were returned unopened. So he followed the only course open to a gentleman and a soldier. He made answer with his life."

  The boy looked at her blankly.

  "He shot himself."

  "Saved his honor an' left ye to stand the racket?" her young companion snorted. "Proper beef-witted, if ye ask me."

  "Perhaps it was," Alexandra said slowly, "but he was a man of strict honor. In the end it meant more to him than his life."

  A firm tapping interrupted them, and a moment later the door opened on the florid, smiling countenance of the Ten Bells' proprietor. Mr. Samuelson had treated them well since their arrival, despite Alexandra's nondescript attire. Samuelson knew Quality when he saw it, although the Ten Bells wasn't often frequented by her likes. If the proprietor had reservations about her young companion, he kept them to himself.

  "Sorry to disturb ye, miss, but yer trunks 'ave arrived. Shall I put 'em in yer room then?"

  "Yes, please — all but the small wicker hamper, which you might be kind enough to bring to me here."

  The landlord fairly beamed as Alexandra awarded him a glowing smile. Moments later, he returned with a woven hamper. " 'Ere's yer 'amper, miss." Suddenly the case began to pitch up and down, startling the landlord so that he nearly dropped it.

  "It's quite all right, really. It's only my cat."

  All smiles, Samuelson deposited the wicker box upon the table. "Let me know if ye'll be needin' anythin' else, miss." After a sympathetic glance at the cane propped beside her chair, Samuelson shook his head and left, drawing the door shut behind him.

  When he was gone, Alexandra shot Pence a conspiratorial smile and raised the lid of the hamper. Immediately, a series of high-pitched squeaks pierced the air. "Don't fret, Rajah," she crooned as she reached into the basket and produced a sleek brown creature, which immediately sprang up to perch on her shoulder. "Pence, meet Rajah, my mongoose and most steadfast friend."

  With a cry of delight the boy drew close and reached up to stroke the animal's velvety fur. "Grand, he is!" The mongoose sniffed the boy's hand curiously, then accepted his caresses with regal disdain.

  "As proud as any of his namesakes, I can assure you. I think he's taken a liking to you. Would you like to hold him?"

  Pence's eyes widened with excitement as Alexandra carefully placed Rajah in his open hands. After a questioning glance at Alexandra the mongoose settled himself gracefully upon Pence's arm, arching his long tail elegantly and turning to examine his new surroundings with bright pink eyes.

  * * * * *

  The proprietor of the Ten Bells had every reason to be happy that night. At precisely the same moment another traveler, also unmistakably Quality, sat drinking in a private room. Although the gentleman had just broached his third bottle, he betrayed no sign of its influence beyond a certain glitter in his lazy silver eyes.

  Only the gentleman's close friends, of whom there were very few, could have told Samuelson that the glitter came from keen anticipation and not from the alcohol the gentleman had consumed.

  With a low chuckle the Duke of Hawkesworth eased his long frame back into the comfortable, if shabby, armchair before the fire. Isobel would be in his keeping before the evening was out, he thought, well satisfied with the night's work.

  His eyes were hard as he raised his glass and offered a silent toast to the flickering flames.

  * * * * *

  Alexandra mounted the stairs to her room an hour later, her spirits much restored. With Pence's assistance, she had penned a most impressive letter of reference from the Governor-General of Madras. As the boy had pointed out, no agency or employer would be likely to question a letter of reference from India very closely. The boy had also wisely advised her to seek a position in the country, where she would run less risk of encountering her pursuer.

  Alexandra shuddered as she recalled the ruthless bite of her captor's fingers against her skin. He must be demented — nothing else could explain his actions.

  She smiled bitterly. Anyone could see she was no seducer. Only a man possessed could take her for a practiced temptress — she who right now was no more than a penniless colonial with an ugly limp.

  Alexandra shrugged and pushed the man from her mind, for she had plans to make. As soon as she secured a position, she would look into the case against her father and the disposition of his estate. After the uprising her father's detractors had raised charges of corruption against him and had begun a long and tedious inquiry into his private affairs while serving as governor-general.

  They had found nothing, of course, for the charges were a pack of lies. But weak men always look to profit from a strong man's death, particularly when the man is unbending and has made many enemies. For five more years her father had waited for the Board of Control of the East India Company to vindicate him. Five agonizing years, during which she watched the torment of his dishonor slowly eat away at him.

  When the board ruled against him, the last of Lord Maitland's hope had been shattered. In one stroke he had lost his back pay and a generous pension from the Crown for his long years of service.

  But that was the least of what he had lost by the board's decision, Alexandra knew, for it was the dishonor that had cost him most dearly. Nor had his pain ended there.

  Her aquamarine eyes hardened as she thought of the formal letter from London that had conveyed the news of the board's decision. All arrogant formality and rectitude, the missive had announced Lord Maitland's immediate recall to London to answer charges of bribery, corruption, and irresponsibility.

  Her father had put a hole through his temple that very night.

  The stairs swam before Alexandra for a moment. Was your pride worth such a price, Father?

  She could still see the casual arrogant scrawls of the three men who had signed the recall notice. Their image was burned into her memory for all time. Anger blinded her for a moment so that she nearly fell.

  Three signatures — three names she would never forget. Yes, Alexandra would make them pay dearly for what they had done. She had made a promise to her father.

  It was that promise that had kept her going in the grim months following her father's suicide. Her affairs had been thrown into chaos after her father's death, and then, to make matters worse, his man of business had disappeared, leaving Alexandra with little more than the clothes she stood in.

  Such problems might have made another woman despair, but Alexandra was made of sterner stuff. Even now she felt no regret for those dusty rootless years growing up in India. They had been rich and exciting times and had taught her to know her own strength — something she had sorely needed when a riding accident left her with a shattered ankle.

  Badly set, the sour-faced regimental physician had pronounced. The ankle would never mend. The more the girl used it, the worse it would get.

  But Alexandra had had no intention of dwindling into an invalid.
In secret she had had her ayah bring a native healer to the house so that she could hear his opinion. Oh yes, the wiry brown man had agreed, the ankle would never be as new, but there were ways to make it stronger. Oh, yes, very many ways.

  And so had begun the long regimen of exercises and massage that had restored partial use of her ankle. Soon Alexandra had walked with only a trace of a limp, except on occasions when she overtaxed the weak joint. And by the age of seventeen, she had grown into a beautiful willful woman, confident of her own strength.

  Except for the Devil's fire, Alexandra thought, feeling a faint tremor run up her spine. Except for the heat flashes that race across the blazing plain before the onset of the cooling monsoon.

  "The Devil's fire" was what Ayah called the storms that terrified her young charge. And Alexandra had been able to find comfort in her servant's capable arms. Until Vellore.

  Until the Terror.

  Suffocating heat. The sickly sweet stench of blood.

  Angrily, Alexandra shook her head, fighting the fragmented images, the only things that remained when she woke from the hellish nightmares. But she could never win the battle with her dreams because she could not face her enemy; in the morning she never remembered any more than fragments.

  Her hand swept across her eyes for an instant. Pull yourself together, she told herself roughly. There were no monsoon winds in England. No relentless thunder to threaten her. She would be safe here.

  Near the top of the stairs she raised her candle higher, for the passage narrowed, making the last feet especially difficult. Better get used to negotiating stairs, my girl, for you'll be doing a lot of it in your new position, she reminded herself grimly.

  If she could find a position.

  The room the landlord had given her was small but cozy, furnished with a narrow bed, two straight-backed chairs, and a chipped dresser. One small closet adjoined a narrow window that looked out onto a bank of fog.