Page 47 of When We Touch

Then both would-be lovers were with the girl. She was pressed between them, and again came a simulation of movement. From the edges of the stage, more young dancers began to crawl on. One of the men was drawn away, and a beauty with a length of blond hair crawled behind the girl with the red, and they writhed to the floor together.

It was all quite disgusting!

And absurdly . . . evocative.

Maggie heard the scrape of a chair and turned her head. The diners themselves were beginning to rise; they were disappearing into little curtained alcoves in the shadows on the sides of the room. She turned once more to see that the man in the Charles II wig and mask was approaching their table, offering his hand to Cecilia.

To Maggie’s horror, Cecilia giggled, and accepted the hand.

She was about to shout a protest, then realized that she shouldn’t shout her friend’s name, but then, neither should Cecilia even think about deserting her in this room!

Something brushed her body and she turned. One of the nearly naked dancers was now at her side, gyrating his way down to his knees before her.

“No, no, thank you . . . no,” she murmured. He was persistent. She rose, trying to wedge the chair between them. He seemed to think that she wanted to play. She started to back around the table. “Young man, quite seriously, no!”

She backed into something.

Someone.

Another of the dancers.

“No, and I mean no!” she cried, panic setting in. She turned and shoved hard at the chest in front of her. “No!”

The man started to drag her against him, against his oiled and formidable chest. She realized that she might well find herself the victim of rape, because it seemed evident that they assumed she had come for the fantasy of the chase and the ravage-ment.

She wanted to skin Cecilia alive. But her friend wasn’t there—she was behind one of the curtains with the bewigged fellow, whether he truly was or wasn’t the Crown Prince.

She started to scream. The man behind her clamped his hand over her mouth. The one in front began to lift her.

Then, another man in a Charles II wig and a huge-nosed mask stepped up from behind.

“Whoa, there, my friends. The lady has been waiting for me.”

The dancers were still. The new arrival passed a number of coins into one of their hands. “Share, my good chaps, but the lady comes with me.”

“Wait! The lady doesn’t belong with anyone; she wishes to leave!” Maggie exploded.

She was instantly released into the arms of the stranger. She stared up at him, wondering if her own mask hid the sheer panic, which must now be more than obvious in her eyes. “Let me go this instant! This lady isn’t with anyone!” she cried, and catching his shoulders, did her best to fiercely wound him with her knee.

“Stop it, Maggie, stop it!”

The voice was familiar. And so were the eyes. Steel gray now, glaring at her from behind the mask. His teeth were clenched.

Jamie, she thought.

But she was in a fever to get away. Out of this place.

And he had either thought she would recognize him instantly—or not fight. She had struck gold. He was in pain, and for a moment, his hold had eased. Instinctively, she jerked free. For an instant, she was free. She tore back the way they had come to the table, discovering that now the staircase was dark. Still, she stumbled up, and in her wake, came . . . someone.

She came to a landing and sought the door out. Darkness surrounded her. She slammed against the wall before her, but it was solidly closed, and she stumbled back.

Into a body.

The body of someone large and powerful. Fingers gripped her shoulders.

She was pulled back.

“No!” she cried, and threw herself against the darkness where the door should have been, and this time, when the hands came upon her, they plucked her up physically, and she started to scream in sheer terror, certain that she was about to be dragged back down into a true den of iniquity.