Heart's Ransom

CHAPTER TWELVE

  I am such a fool, Kitty thought.

  Rafe had left the room. She had remained huddled against the headboard, weeping, refusing any of his proffered words, caresses or other empty sentiments, and at last, he had given up and retreated. She had heard his footfalls on the floor, the creak of the door hinges, and the soft click as the door had closed behind him.

  Gather your wits about you, Kitty, she snapped at herself when he was gone. She sniffled mightily, miserably, and dragged the edge of the sheet across her cheeks to dry her tears. She cocked her head and held her hitching breath, listening for any hint that Rafe might have tricked her and remained in the chamber. When she’d satisfied herself that he had not, she crawled out of bed and limped across the room, her hands outstretched. She felt stiff and somewhat sore, and she clutched the sheet about her, holding it in a makeshift sarong around her narrow frame.

  She reached the door and patted against it, finding a locking latch. She turned it to bolt the door and then returned to the bed. She knelt, pawing against the floor among the tangled bedclothes and fallen coverlets until she found the linen nightgown she had been wearing the night before. Rafe had removed it from her, drawing it over her head, and then he had said such sweet things to her when she had felt ashamed of her nakedness; he had told her she was beautiful. And I believed him, she thought. I am such a fool.

  She pulled the gown on, wishing she had more―fifteen layers at least―to cover her. Something with a high neckline and floor-length hem. Something loose-fitting and shapeless to swallow me whole.

  She sat down against the edge of the bed, feeling the urge to weep again. How could she have possibly believed that Rafe would find her beautiful―much less want to make her his bride? How could I have thought I could love him? Her own foolish naiveté left her abashed.

  He is a bastard, she thought, her tears spilling. He is a bastard and a boor and I hate him. I hate him!

  She covered her face with her hands. She did not hate Rafe; that was the worst part, her greatest shame. Even as she railed against herself for her own stupidity, her mind wanted to return to their lovemaking, to the sensation of him within her, filling her, to the unbelievable, overwhelming pleasures he had brought to her again and again. She had never imagined such wonder; it had been nothing like the messy, painful act that had been described to her by matronly sorts for so long.

  She did not hate him. A part of her had fallen in love with him, and to her shame, that part still loved him.

  “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

  She heard a soft clack, and lowered her hands, turning her ear toward the door. It had sounded like the door had just come unlatched, like someone beyond the threshold with a key had unlocked it.

  She heard the hinges squall as the door swung open, and she rose, her heart aflutter with sudden, damnable anticipation. He has come back for me! It had all been a mistake, some horrible misunderstanding, and now Rafe had returned to beg her forgiveness.

  She heard footsteps crossing toward her, and she struggled to wipe the bright, eager expression from her face. She could not let him escape so readily. She steeled herself by crossing her arms, narrowing her brows and willing her mouth to downturn into a thin, grim line.

  “Did you forget something?” she asked. “Because I do not believe I left anything unsaid that you might have mis―”

  Her voice cut off in a sharp, startled yelp as his hand closed about her arm, crushing just above the crook of her elbow. “Rafe…!” she whimpered as he jerked her forward and she stumbled against him. “You are hurting me!”

  And then she realized. It is not Rafe.

  She drew in an unfamiliar scent―saltwater and sweat―and felt an unfamiliar height and strapping build. Frightened, she tried to shy back, but the grip against her arm tightened all the more, drawing a wince from her. “Who are you?” she gasped. She heard more footsteps now, another set, and then another, and her face whipped about, following the sounds.

  “Who are you?” she cried out again, struggling to pull herself free, frightened now. “Let me go! Rafe, help!”

  A wad of cloth was shoved into her mouth, muffling her. She shrugged her shoulders and tried to fight them as the gag was tied in place. Someone grabbed her free arm, and she was turned briskly, smartly about. She felt a hank of rope drawn about her wrists to bind them.

  “Rafe!” she tried to shriek around the gag, as she was forced to move, shoved in stumbling tow for the chamber door. “Rafe, help me!”