The Seduction (23 page)

She knew that night had fallen. The warmth of the sun had faded to the cool of evening, cicadas chirped raucously all around her, and the night air was pungent with the scent of blossoming lemon trees.

Bound and gagged, she could see no way to escape. Despite her most determined efforts, the ropes around her wrists and ankles refused to loosen, and she only chafed her skin by trying.

Her initial fear had long since given way to frustration and outrage, but there was nothing she could do except wait for the wagon to stop and hope for the opportunity to escape. As time slowly crept by, she began to wonder if they were planning to cart her all the way across Europe.

Perhaps trying to escape was not a good idea. Emilio must have found out her true identity somehow and given a ransom demand to Edward and Cornelia. Her father would have to be notified, and would pay the money. Then perhaps these vagabonds would simply let her go.

The wagons finally halted. Margaret rolled and wiggled herself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain that shot through her cramped muscles. One of the thieves untied her ankles, and she scooted to the edge of the wagon, intending to climb down. But the thief caught her by the arm and spoke sharply in Italian, obviously ordering her to stay put. Margaret could only hope they would eventually free her wrists and remove the blasted blindfold and gag. But it was not until she could hear the crackling of a fire and smell the delicious aroma of something cooking that she got her wish.

The bandits had made camp in a clearing. But beyond the light of the fire, she could see little else. Margaret knew with a sinking feeling of dread that even if she could escape from these thieves, there was nowhere to go.

A man led her to the fire, where Emilio and three of the others were seated. The sixth bandit was dishing up plates of food from a pot on the coals, and Margaret suddenly realized that bandit was a woman.

Bandits should have appeared evil and sinister, with twisted faces and murderous eyes, but these people were quite ordinary looking. The woman even smiled at her as she handed Margaret a plate of fragrant stew and a spoon. Margaret almost smiled back, then caught herself. These people were common thieves, people who could probably kill her without a thought.

Emilio gestured to the blanket on the ground at her feet. "Sit,
Margaux
."

The man who held her by the arm released her to sit down, but Margaret knew it would be foolish to make a run for it. They would certainly catch her before she could even reach the trees. Emilio watched her, smiling, and she realized he knew what she was thinking. Left with no choice, Margaret sank down cross-legged onto the blanket, vowing to wait for a better time. She balanced the plate of food in her lap. "Why have you brought me here?" she asked Emilio, her voice hoarse from hours of having a gag in her mouth.

Instead of answering, he spoke to the woman who stood nearby. The woman immediately reached for a goatskin bag and handed it to Margaret, then sat down.

"Water," Emilio explained. "Drink your fill."

Too thirsty to be proud, Margaret accepted the bag and took several hefty swallows of the cool liquid.

"Slowly," Emilio told her. "It is not good to drink so fast when you are so thirsty. You will make yourself sick."

She obeyed, taking the water in small sips until her thirst was sated. She then handed back the bag and turned again to Emilio. "You did not answer my question," she said. "Why have you kidnapped me?"

"Kidnapped?" He shook his head. "No,
Margaux
, you must not think such a thing of us. You are our guest."

"Guest? Is this how you treat guests?" She rubbed her sore wrists and glared at him across the fire. "And to think I actually believed you were a gentleman!"

Emilio threw back his head and laughed. He then translated her words to the others, and they found her comment equally amusing.

"Eat," he told her, nodding to the plate in her lap. "I know you are hungry, and my mama makes a fine stew."

"Your mother?" Startled, she glanced at the elderly woman beside her, who nodded, clearly understanding enough to confirm Emilio's words. "Your mother obviously does not know how despicable you are."

"She knows I have good reasons for everything I do."

"Reasons? What reasons?" she demanded. "If it's money you want—"

"No, no," he interrupted, shaking his head. "I am not so crude as that. I am no common street thief to do this merely for money."

Margaret was confused by that unexpected statement. "For what, then?"

"For something far more valuable to me than money." Emilio pointed to her untouched plate. "Eat,
Margaux
. We still have another two days of travel before we reach my camp, and you must keep up your strength."

Her heart sank. If not money, what was their reason for taking her? She realized there was more to this than simple kidnapping, and her fear returned. What did they really want?

That night Margaret slept
on cold, hard ground for the first time in her life, snoring bandits all around her, the ropes that bound her cutting into her wrists and ankles, and an itchy wool blanket her only protection against the spiders, snakes, and other horrible creatures she was certain lurked in the darkness. She did not sleep well.

The following morning, Emilio's mother gave her some clothes. Margaret glanced down at the simple white blouse, homespun skirt, thick woolen coat, and sturdy leather boots in her hands. The clothes were so similar to the costume she had worn during her nights at Carnival with Trevor that she felt a sudden, absurd kindling of hope. Maybe he would come to her rescue.

But the feeling died as quickly as it came. Trevor was no hero. He would never risk his skin for her, especially since she'd made it clear he had no chance of marrying her and getting his hands on her money. That was all he was after.

Emilio's mother said something to her, and Margaret glanced up to find the woman watching her expectantly, waiting for her to change into the clothes. She knew the blouse and skirt would be much more comfortable than the delicate white lawn dress and heeled slippers she was wearing, but she glanced at the men all around her and shook her head, her face coloring.

The woman murmured something in Italian, patted Margaret's cheek as any mother might do, and unfolded the blanket in her hands to screen Margaret from view. Margaret didn't think one wool blanket offered much privacy, but it was better than nothing. She reluctantly changed into the clothes, but the men were busy packing up the gear and did not even seem to notice what she was doing.

The bandits left the wagon behind and continued their journey on horseback, taking her into the mountains of the Abruzzi. Margaret's spirits sank lower with each mile they traveled away from Rome.

She rode double with a big, hulking fellow who kept an arm firmly around her waist to ensure she did not try to escape. Though they kept her wrists bound, they had not forced her to wear the blindfold and gag. She was glad, but she knew their reason was not kindness. The countryside was mountainous and wooded. A blindfold and gag were simply not necessary.

By the third day, they had climbed high into the mountains, and the higher they climbed, the more desolate the landscape became. The lush winter greenery of the Roman landscape had changed to brown grass, snow-dusted mountain peaks, and gray granite rock.

By the time they made camp that night, Margaret still had no idea what they intended to do with her.

With her wrists and ankles bound, it was impossible to find a comfortable position for sleeping, and she lay on her side in the dark. Margaret shivered despite the thick wool blanket wrapped around her and stared into the glowing coals of the campfire, her imagination conjuring up all sorts of wild possibilities.

Maybe they weren't really bandits at all. Maybe they were freedom fighters who were going to ransom her for something useful to their cause—guns or ammunition or something.

Or maybe they were going to sell her to white slavers. She'd read a novel once where that had happened to the heroine. She huddled deeper into the blanket, telling herself over and over not to be silly.

The sharp snap of a twig caught her attention. Margaret sat up, listening intently, but all she heard was the uninterrupted snoring of the others. Suddenly a hand was clamped over her mouth, muffling her squeal of surprise as she was forced onto her back. In the dim firelight, she recognized the eyes of Trevor St. James.

Relief flooded through her, and she knew she would be safe. Trevor had come for her. He was rescuing her, just as she had hoped he would.

He lifted one hand, pressing his finger to his lips, and pulled something from the belt at his hip. Margaret caught the gleaming flash of a knife blade. He cut the stout ropes that bound her wrists and ankles, then straightened and began moving slowly backward. He beckoned her to follow him, and she rose to her feet, careful not to make a sound as she followed him out of the camp.

Trevor grabbed her hand and led her through the darkness. He said nothing, but the strong clasp of his hand was reassuring, and she followed him until they came to where his horse was tethered by a lone scrub pine. He halted and pulled her into his arms.

"Maggie, are you all right?" he asked in a whisper, pressing kisses to her forehead, her cheek, her lips.

She started to answer that she was fine, but the only sound she made was a choked sob. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against the solid, comfortable wall of his chest.

"I hope this means we're friends again," he murmured against her hair.

His words reminded her of what his true intentions were and brought all her anger flaring back. "Let go of me," she said through clenched teeth and pushed him away. "You liar. You cad. You snake."

He shook his head and sighed. "This is what I get for saving your life?"

"You only saved my life because you saw your future bank account slipping away," she whispered back.

"You could at least thank me."

"Thank you?" Her hands curled into fists. She wanted to slap him. "Thank you for what?" she asked, her voice rising. "For lying to me, for deceiving me, for being a greedy scoundrel? Thank you so very much!"

He grabbed her again, wrapping one arm around her waist and pressing his hand over her mouth. "For God's sake, do you want those thieving bastards to wake up? Be quiet until I’ve gotten you far enough away, then you can yell at me all you want."

The moment he took his hand away, she said in a low voice filled with loathing, "I don't want to go anywhere with you."

"Fine. Then you can go back to Emilio and his friends." He pointed the way they had come. "They're just over that ridge. Or"—he paused to glance at the barren terrain around them—"you can walk back alone with no food, no water, no blankets, and no map. Good luck."

She bit her lip, hating him, but she knew she didn't want to be left alone, and she certainly didn't want to die.

"It's me or them," he said shortly and untied the horse's lead rope. "Take your pick." He patted the horse's neck. "This is Hadrian, by the way."

She gave the beautiful black horse a doubtful glance. "A stallion? Is he trained?"

Trevor swung up into the saddle, and, as if in answer to Margaret's question, Hadrian shied, clearly resentful of the passenger on his back.

"After a fashion," Trevor answered with a hard yank on the reins. Once the horse was still, he held out his hand to her. "Your father told me you like a spirited horse. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I think I’ve had enough adventure for awhile," she muttered, grasping his hand and swinging up behind him. "This is some rescue. Carrying me away on an untrained stallion."