Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

“Well, we learned from that, didn’t we? Everything’s been taken care of, all nice and tidy like, and the men we sent from London said everything was ready. The fire should burn so hot there won’t be anything left of the whores to bury. We’ve got some of them new Rockite kettles to bring the coals, and it won’t be but the work of a moment to move the debris to the doors, trapping them inside. It’ll burn, all right, and her and all the others with it.”

“What if one of the women wakes up and tries to stop you?”

Collins let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll club her senseless and get on with me work. But I knows how to be quiet. You don’t live to be my age without a lot of experience—that’s why you hired me so long ago, and I haven’t failed you yet.”

“She’s still alive,” Fenrush pointed out fretfully.

“She won’t be for long.”

The carriage was slowing, and Emma’s empty stomach began to tighten. The drive to Suffolk, usually endless, now seemed to have been over in a blink. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, she only knew that they were already nearing their destination. There was still some light left outside—it had been early when she’d stumbled into the hospital, and while shadows were looming it was not yet dark enough to enact the events that Collins had obligingly outlined. They would have to wait, and waiting gave her time to think, to plan.

She didn’t want to die. Brandon wouldn’t like it, and Melisande

would be distraught. If she simply disappeared, as she’d first intended, they would be angry rather than grieving, and they would both recover.

Even more important, she didn’t want the Gaggle to die in the flames set by a madman. Each and every one of them had been through enough horrors, and they’d dragged themselves up and out of an almost inescapable world. She knew far too well that they’d already paid dearly for a life that hadn’t been of their own choosing, and she was damned if she was going to let them suffer any more.

Not the least, of course, was her iron-hard determination not to let monsters like Fenrush and Collins win in the end. Too often the poor unfortunates, usually women, suffered while the men enjoyed the results of their cruelty. She wasn’t going to let that happen again.

The carriage pulled to a stop, and Fenrush slid down the window, letting in a blast of chilly, wonderful fresh air, enough to make a small dent in the miasma of the cramped space. She had her first look at the coachman, and she knew he wouldn’t be of any help. If anything he looked more evil than Collins, and he merely glanced at her, as if a bound woman was normal in his daily duties.

“I’ve parked us in an outcropping,” he said, standing in the open door of the carriage. “No one will see us in the shadows, and it should be full dark in an hour. The lads will be meeting us with the kettles just before midnight—you want me to go check on them?”

“Yes,” said Fenrush.

“No need,” said Collins at the same time. “They know what will happen to them if they fail me—that little chippie from the big house paid the price already. No one wants to end with their parts scattered from here to the coast like she did.”

The coachman looked unfazed. “I expect not. No worries. This is all going to go smooth as silk. You’ve got the best working with you.”

Fenrush sniffed, and Collins chuckled. “I know I do, me lad. And you know what might happen if something goes amiss. I made the mistake of working with amateurs before. Wouldn’t do it again.”

The man jerked his head in her direction. He had a small, rat-like face, a long, thin nose and broken teeth. “She up for some entertainment before we set to work? She’s a prime piece.”

Emma held herself very still, refusing to look at him. She’d survive if he raped her. She’d survived worse.

But Collins shook his head. “Himself says we’re to keep our hands off her. Don’t rightly know why, but there it is.”

Fenrush had lapsed into a mumbling silence, ignoring everything, and Emma’s stomach tightened further. Too bad she didn’t have limitless food to spew over everyone, but she hadn’t eaten much in the last few days. She’d been too busy thinking about Brandon.

He might never know what happened to her. If the flames were as hot as Collins had said, there might be no way to identify the bodies, and she would be buried as one of the nameless women who had tried to better themselves. In a way it would be fitting.

But that wasn’t going to happen. She glanced at Collins from beneath half-closed eyelids, then at Fenrush. He still had the surgical saw tucked into his pants, more visible with the loss of his fancy coat, and she suspected he might have more of his surgical tools tucked on him.

Fenrush lifted his head and caught her watching him. She quickly lowered her gaze, but he was alert now, sounding marginally more rational. “How long do we have to wait?” he said plaintively.

“No more than a few hours,” Collins said. “Why don’t you sleep a bit while we wait? Beedle, you go make sure the fires at the back doors are ready to go. It’s late enough that no one would be using them, and I don’t wants any more mistakes.”

“There’d better not be any,” Fenrush growled, his eyes narrowing, and Emma accepted his mood swing with resignation. She’d have an easier time of it if she only had to deal with Collins, but no matter what the circumstances she had every intention of surviving, and saving the Gaggle as well.

“What say we take her out into the woods and have a little fun with her?” Collins suggested, seemingly ever hopeful. “We’ve got hours of waiting.”

Fenrush shook his head, and Collins made an exasperated sound. “Why not? She’ll be dead by midnight—why not enjoy her in the meantime while we wait? You can’t have any reason to spare her.”

The man outside the coach was looking avid, his mouth open, and Emma could barely control her shiver of disgust.

“No!” Fenrush snapped again.

“Why not? We can all take turns, mebbe have ‘er at the same time. . .”