Adam made a hissing sound between his teeth.
“I have questioned the servants and my daughter, but she knew only that Arabella intended to ride today. That is all. I knew it was a mistake,” the viscount continued, his face pale, “to bring her here. I told your father so. I have tried to protect her, but she is as disobedient and willful as her mother.”
Adam wasn’t listening. He was trying to think logically. Arabella had been taken, of that he had no doubt. He crushed the contessa’s letter between his hands, admitting to himself that the contessa had covered herself cleverly. She had guessed that Arabella had informed someone she intended to visit her. And now she was leaving Naples.
Lord Delford said, “Do you know, my lord, where she might be?”
“Perhaps. I must leave you now, sir.”
“How may I assist you, my lord? After all, your sister was in my care.”
“It is impossible that a message will come here. Perhaps a ransom demand, I do not know. But your dau—your family should be kept safe. I have my own men.”
Lord Delford looked thoughtfully down at his signet ring. “My daughter will be presented at court upon our return to England. Indeed, there is a particular gentleman who—In any case, my lord, I do not despair of a felicitous outcome.”
“Nor do I, my lord,” Adam said. “But we have not the time to discuss your daughter’s future.”
“Of course you are right. But know this, my lord: my daughter’s future is in my hands.”
“Your daughter is not a child, my lord, but that must wait.”
Rayna quickly backed away from the library door at the sound of footsteps. She slipped into the dining room, hopeful that Adam would emerge alone. But her father walked with him to the front door to see him out. Slowly she sank onto a chair and lowered her head to her hands.
Chapter 15
Arabella was hot and her head ached from the press of guests at Lady Ranleagh’s ball. The night air on the balcony cooled her and she wished she could stay there the rest of the evening. Lord Eversley was suddenly beside her, his pleasant face somehow different, his eyes hard, cold.
“No,” she said, backing away from him, but he grabbed her and pulled her toward him. His kiss was brutal, his tongue thick and heavy in her mouth. She couldn’t breathe. “No,” she cried out again, but he only laughed, drawing away from her for a moment. Her foot shot out, connecting with his shin. He never stopped laughing.
“Drink this.”
He was forcing her head back, tilting the sweet wine into her mouth. She tried to scream at him to stop, but the wine choked her, and she sputtered, swallowing it in great gulps.
“I don’t want the wine.”
She was moaning softly, her head throbbing. “No wine.” Her stomach rebelled and bile rose in her throat. I can’t be sick on Lady Ranleagh’s balcony, she thought frantically, only to throw herself toward the railing and retch.
She fell back onto her knees, crying softly. What is that strange creaking? It feels like I’m moving. She forced her eyes open to the dim light. She was not on Lady Ranleagh’s balcony, but lying on a rank pile of rags. She was in the hold of a ship. Suddenly memory righted itself, and she saw the contessa’s gloating face above her. The contessa had drugged her wine. Nausea clogged her throat again at the smell of her vomit in the confined space of the hold. She drew up her legs and lowered her head between them, taking short, shallow breaths. As the nausea receded, she felt a pounding in her temple. She clapped her palms to the sides of her head, only to pull them away at the stiff, stringy feel of her hair. Slowly Arabella lowered her hands, and her breath caught in her throat. Her palms were a dirty brown. She jerked a handful of her hair over her breast. Like her hands, it was filthy, a dirty mud color.
She fell back against the rags. “Adam,” she whispered. “I was such a fool. How will you ever find me?” She felt tears fall down her cheeks. The contessa’s voice sounded in her mind again. Kamal. The ship was taking her to the contessa’s son. But why?
There was nothing to do but listen to the creaking of the ship. She didn’t know how much time passed, but the hold became pitch black as the sunlight piercing through the one small porthole dimmed. She heard a sound and sat up quickly, her eyes fastened on the far wall. The hold door creaked open and the light from a lantern filled the small room. She looked toward two rough-garbed sailors. The man holding the lamp was older, his beard streaked with gray. He was staring at her with disgust.
“Here she be, Neddie,” he said, raising the lamp higher.
“Gawd,” Neddie said. “She looks like a street trollop, Abel.”
“And the smell of her.”
“Who are you?” Arabella asked, her voice breaking. “What ship is this?”
Abel set the lamp down and straightened slowly, as if his back was hurting him. “We brung ye some dinner, wench.” He laughed, a low, ugly sound. “It’ll taste better than ye look.”
Ned grinned, showing a wide space between his front teeth. “And here I thought to have a little sport with the wench, Abel. Lawks, I wouldn’t touch that one. She probably has the pox.”
“This here is a lady, Neddie lad,” Abel said. “A little English lass.”
“Gawd,” Ned said again. He scratched his head vigorously and Arabella shuddered at the thought of the lice nested in his black hair.