Page 85 of A Figure of Love

here had been far more activity than normal outside Serena’s prison over the past few hours. In her windowless room she could not tell if it was day or night, but they had last brought her what she was almost certain was her midday meal hours ago. Not that the substance of the meals changed—it was dried fish and ale, three times a day. She had asked one of her jailors for water some time ago, but they had ignored her request. They had ignored her request that they empty her chamber pot, until she had threatened to hurl it at the next person through the door. The biting incident had done one thing, at least, it had convinced them she could be dangerous.

She believed they were here to dispose of her. Serena was not stupid. She could identify the cobbler and his son. They would never let her go, even if Gareth sent somebody with ransom money. That thought had been hovering at the back of her mind for days, but this was the first time she had taken it out and looked it straight in the face: she was going to die. Either in this wretched little cell or with rocks tied to her ankles at the bottom of the ocean. The only thing she could take any comfort from was the knowledge Oliver would be well-cared for. Without her to blackmail any more Etienne would have no reason to tell the duke and duchess of his true heritage. Oliver would go live with his grandparents, just as they’d always wanted.

And even if the truth somehow leaked out, Gareth would take care of Oliver. She’d seen signs of his kindness all over his estate. He might not have cared for Serena, but she’d seen him with her son—had seen the way he’d lost some of his reserve in Oliver’s company. Gareth would take of her son.

Accepting her fate had made her feel stronger, less alone, rather than more afraid. So, when she heard the lock rattle, she sprang to her feet, refusing to meet her captors crouching in the corner or cowering in bed.

The door swung open, but instead of a black hooded jailer, it was Gareth.

Serena thought he was a figment of her imagination. Tall, broad, stern-faced, dressed to perfection, and without a hair out of place. And so very still.

She took a step forward, her hand outstretched. “Gareth?”

A slight flush rose in his cheeks at the sound of his name and Serena launched herself at him. “You’re real!” The words were muffled against his hard, muscular, wonderful-smelling, beloved-feeling chest.

His arms closed around her tighter than the metal rings on a barrel.

She felt the pressure of his lips on the top of her head. “Serena.”

She looked up at the sound of her Christian name on his lips and he claimed her mouth, his kisses fierce, his hold so tight it hurt.

Hands came between them, as if to tear them apart. “That’s enough,” a voice commanded, while another set of hands pulled her away, or at least tried to.

“Christ! They’re as tight as two sides of a bloody clam,” another said, causing chuckles all around.

Cold metal rested against her temple and Gareth’s arms released her. “All right, all right. Bloody touchin’ that is. Now, about the rest o’ the money.”

Before Gareth could answer there were three rapid knocks, a pause, and then another.

The one holding the gun lowered his arm. “It’s about bloody time. Open the door, Kedge.”

Things became something of a blur at that point.

Gareth gave her a shove that launched her all the way back toward the cot while yelling, “Go!” as if she had any choice. He swung his right elbow and a resounding clack filled the small room, followed by an agonized roar as the man fell backward, staggering out of the room into one of the other men. Gareth slammed the door shut and slid the heavy chair in front of it just as a pistol shot rang out and splinters of wooden plank door showered the room.

Gareth’s body landed on her and he dragged her down to the floor, covering her like a human shield while a second shot filled the air, this one sounding farther away.

“Stay still,” he ordered, when she tried to push up and see.

It occurred to her he rather enjoyed giving orders, but she decided this might be a wise one to obey.

“It will be safe shortly,” he told her, easing his weight on to one elbow so he didn’t crush her. Which was too bad, actually, as she’d quite enjoyed being crushed. Although she supposed her current condition was an affront to a man as fastidious about cleanliness as he was.

“Who are they?”

“Excisemen, constables, and one Bow Street Runner named Steele.”

∞∞∞

Serena had to have two baths before she could wash all the dirt and smell away.

Just as Gareth had predicted, the fracas ended quickly and fatally for two of the smugglers. Serena could not say she was sorry to see that her would-be-rapist was among the two who had been shot. His father was still alive, but rather the worse for wear.

He had winked at Serena as the men dragged him off. “Sorry, lass.”

Gareth’s carriage was waiting at the top of a torturous climb, which she made on the back of a sturdy little pony. Her prison had been a smuggler’s shack half-dug into the cliffside, not even a mile away from town.

Gareth himself had stayed at the bottom of the cliff when she left. “I need to stay and give details to the constable,” he’d told her, no longer holding her now that she was wrapped in a cloak—one of her own—and wearing shoes, also her own. “Will you be all right for the ride back to the hotel? Timkins and Butler will be with you, and two of the excisemen.”