hardness pressed against her legs as he tried to part them. Panic gave way to cold fury.
“Take your person off me this instant,” she spat at him, still struggling with every ounce of energy left. “Or I vow I will see you die by my hand or my brother’s. I care not which. I tell you for the last time that I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam and if you ruin me you bring equal ruin down upon you and your entire family.”
The dark circles behind the glittery mask–all she could see of his eyes–widened and he tilted his head to the side as though puzzled. Perhaps the deadly calm with which she’d spoken or her icy certainty had finally penetrated his lust-maddened brain. She winced when he probed her wrists, explored the abrasions left by the kidnappers’ rope. His mouth pursed, then he loosened his grip on her hands.
She shot a hand out and ripped into his cheek with her nails, leaving three long red gashes spouting blood. The man cursed and straightened, releasing her to clutch his injured face.
Kat leaped from the bed, sprinted to the corner and grabbed the stoneware pitcher from the washstand. She swung the jug around with all the force she could muster, not waiting to see where it landed but aiming high. The solid clunk as the heavy pottery connected with the back of his head reverberated down her arm. The pitcher burst into a torrent of pieces, pattering like rain onto the soft blue rug and the dark red-clad body now sprawled unmoving at her feet.
Grabbing up the basin, she bent cautiously toward the motionless figure. She raised her weapon, but the man did not stir. A flicker of guilt made her search for signs of life, and with the slight rise and fall of his back, relief coursed through her. Clutching the basin, she rose, skirted the still figure and stepped to the door.
Slow and silent, she turned the knob, praying to every saint imaginable that the door was not locked. When it opened toward her a scant quarter inch, she breathed a grateful sigh. She eased it shut and leaned her head against the cool wood, trying to steady her heartbeat. Think, she must think. Plan. Glancing down at her gown–dirty, crumpled, stained with blood–a wave of giddiness overtook her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on gathering the dregs of her courage.
A measure of calm returning, she surveyed the room again, assessing what, if anything, she might use in her escape. Without the benefit of surprise, the earthenware bowl would prove useless as a weapon. Stepping toward the washstand to replace the basin, a sharp prick of pain brought her up short. Shards from the broken pitcher had cut her foot, and with a sigh she remembered her captors had taken her shoes. She must go out into the London streets barefoot, looking like a fugitive from a slaughterhouse, but it could not be helped.
With the basin returned to the stand, Kat peered around once more, irked that there was nothing she might use. Flung into the corner, hidden by the chair, lay the man’s big, black cloak. Gleefully, she grabbed the expensive garment and pulled the warm folds around her. It smelled like him, the clean citrus rising from the collar. That scent might haunt her for the rest of her life, but could be endured for now.
The cloak dragged the ground, so her ankles and legs would not show. Her grubby feet, however, she could do nothing about. At least she was decently covered. Decent. Would she ever feel decent again?
Resolutely, Kat pushed that thought aside. God knew she was not free yet, neither was she home. All that happened tonight would keep until she had time think.
Gathering the cape around her, she cracked open the door, half expecting to see Nigel barrel down the hallway, sword in hand. But no one lurked in the shadowy corridor. The still-unmoving figure lay sprawled on the carpet as if dead, and a twinge of remorse shot through her. A fleeting memory of his lips on hers caused her to catch her breath. She was not sorry she’d struck him. Nevertheless, she hoped the man would recover.
And live another day to debauch someone else? Steeling herself against her previous charitable thoughts and disturbing memories, she peeped out the door. The hallway was still vacant. She sped across the threshold and closed the door with a quiet click.
Rain had fallen since she’d entered this hell house. Shivering, she paused at the back door to raise the hood. With any luck at all, no one here would be able to trace her. Leaving only a trail of small, muddy footprints to melt into the gloomy London night, she slipped out.
4
As she hurried down the dark alleyway beside the House of Pleasure, Kat had no idea where she was. No matter. Rid of kidnappers and purchaser, she drew in an exhilarating breath of damp air to celebrate her freedom. She would find her way home eventually.
Kat crossed a fairly deserted street to avoid two men huddled around a smoldering brazier. The cold cobblestones slick under her bare feet, she tried to keep her balance and squinted in the poor light. Only one lamp lit on the entire block. Despite the need for haste, she had to be careful not to slip and do even more damage to her aching body. Upon reaching the sidewalk opposite, her feet squelched into something soft and slick; an earthy, decaying smell assailed her. A shudder raced up her spine as she tried not to think about what it might have been. Only escape mattered.
At a crossroads, she paused to peer both ways. Her best chance would be to find a more populated area where there might be a night watchman. A glance back the way she came showed no pursuit. Relief washed over her. She was truly free. Now to avoid being accosted by some other man. Pulling the cloak around her tightly–her gown, if seen, would certainly suggest her to be a whore of the first degree–she listened for the din of people. A faint clamor to her left made her pray her luck had turned, and she struck out down the shadowy avenue.
At the end of the street she rounded the corner and stumbled backward. Spread before her in the golden glow of the oil lamps that lined the street, a busy London thoroughfare teemed with life. Street vendors hawked their wares, tempting passersby with bunches of colorful flowers, articles of clothing, and all manner of food. The rich smell of roasted meat wafted over Katarina, and her empty stomach rumbled in protest. Gentlemen in elegant evening attire streamed out of a nearby building, hailing hackney cabs, their brightly garbed companions chatting and clinging to their arms. After the quiet darkness of the previous streets, the bright, bustling scene dazzled her.
One foppishly dressed gentleman on the opposite corner handed a lady into a waiting hack. If only she were that woman. The cab moved off the moment the door shut and there, praise God, on the opposite corner stood two night watchmen. Kat plunged across, disregarding a shouted curse from an oncoming carriage in her haste to find a safe haven.
“Constable! Thank God!” Kat slid to a stop before the men carrying the lanterns and staffs that proclaimed their office. One caught her by the elbow and steadied her before she fell. “Can you please help me?” she panted, overjoyed at the promise of rescue.
The two men, one old enough to be called ancient, the other almost a boy in comparison, measured her with a practiced look. The older one glared and thrust his staff at her. “Get along with you now. Can’t be peddling your wares so brazen in front of us. Take your business ’round the corner.”
All the fear and shame of the evening rushed back. Did everyone tonight think her a harlot? She glared first at one man then the other, but they returned her stare with unwavering condemnation. At the end of her reserve of courage, she collapsed into tears.
“Now, now, dearie. Ain’t no call for all that carryin’ on,” the older man said. “Just move on outta our sight and we won’t bother you no more.”
The younger of the two put a hand on her shoulder, for comfort or to help move her on her way, Kat had no idea, but she broke. No! Not again! She jerked away from the man, drew back her arm and walloped him alongside
