Wanting only to be safely at home, Ellie rounded the corner and made haste down the deserted side street, the parcel strings digging into her cold, gloved fingers.
She didn’t know what to make of the incident. Was it just a horrid coincidence that she’d encountered the same man again? And why had he looked at her so keenly? Of course, she was wearing her cousin’s peacock-blue cloak, the same one Beatrice had worn to visit Lady Milford. Was it possible that he’d mistaken Ellie for Beatrice?
Ellie tried to convince herself that she was overdramatizing a perfectly ordinary situation. He had made no menacing gesture toward her. Perhaps, given her propensity for storytelling, it was only natural for her to conceive the worst.
Then, while going past a dark alley behind the shops, she glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye. A ripple of movement. A black form hurtling through the shadows.
Straight at her.
Ellie sucked in a breath to scream. Before the sound could escape her lips, he pounced. His hand smothered her mouth and cut off her air. As if she weighed no more than a rag doll, he yanked her off the side street and into the gloom of the alley.
The parcel dropped from her fingers. In a wild panic she struggled and kicked. But he subdued her with the iron grip of an ogre. He thrust her up against a wall and pressed a sharp-smelling cloth to her face.
Taking a choking breath, she tried to turn her head away from the sickly-sweet aroma. A wave of dizziness drained the strength from her limbs. And the world melted away into nothingness.
Chapter 6
Ellie had been cast adrift in a shipwreck.
She was floating in an endless black sea. The rhythmic motion of the water rocked her, and she could hear the muted crashing of waves. Voices reached her ears now and then, the words garbled, too indistinct for her to decipher their meaning. At those times she struggled against the suffocating heaviness of lethargy. She wanted desperately to call for help, but only moans croaked from her lips.
Then a spectral hand would press a cup to her mouth, impelling her to swallow a liquid. And she would drift back into the gloom of her watery grave.
At last there came a time when the shroud of darkness began to lift. She grew aware of a warm, soft surface beneath her body. No longer did the vibrations of the sea hold her captive. She knew it to be day because a diffused, lemony light penetrated her closed eyelids.
Again she heard voices. This time, she detected the deep baritone of a man. Two men, to be precise. As she strained to make sense of their mutterings, specific words pierced the veil of her torpor.
Lady … missing key … ransom … the earl …
One voice had a distinct Scottish brogue, and the other the cool, clipped tone of the upper class. Their conversation grew louder as if they had moved to stand right beside her. Gradually, entire sentences became clear to her, though she was too woozy to make sense of them.
“Such a wee, drab wren she is.”
“I daresay you’re right. She did look much prettier from a distance.”
At that, Ellie managed to lift her heavy eyelids. For a moment she blinked against the light and her vision swam alarmingly. Then the dark blotches that loomed over her coalesced into one silhouette.
A black-haired man bent down close, staring at her.
His features had hard edges, as if a sculptor had chiseled them from a block of marble in a fit of artistic fervor without adding any refining touches. His cheekbones were high, his nose a straight blade, his jaw square. In contrast to the somewhat swarthy tint of his skin, he had the most stunning green-gray eyes, and she found herself wondering how to re-create that precise color with paints …
In the same instant, memory struck like a hammer blow. She knew him. He was the stranger she’d seen on the street. The man who had been staring at her cousin. The man who had rushed out of the alley to attack her.
Choked by terror,
She didn’t know what to make of the incident. Was it just a horrid coincidence that she’d encountered the same man again? And why had he looked at her so keenly? Of course, she was wearing her cousin’s peacock-blue cloak, the same one Beatrice had worn to visit Lady Milford. Was it possible that he’d mistaken Ellie for Beatrice?
Ellie tried to convince herself that she was overdramatizing a perfectly ordinary situation. He had made no menacing gesture toward her. Perhaps, given her propensity for storytelling, it was only natural for her to conceive the worst.
Then, while going past a dark alley behind the shops, she glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye. A ripple of movement. A black form hurtling through the shadows.
Straight at her.
Ellie sucked in a breath to scream. Before the sound could escape her lips, he pounced. His hand smothered her mouth and cut off her air. As if she weighed no more than a rag doll, he yanked her off the side street and into the gloom of the alley.
The parcel dropped from her fingers. In a wild panic she struggled and kicked. But he subdued her with the iron grip of an ogre. He thrust her up against a wall and pressed a sharp-smelling cloth to her face.
Taking a choking breath, she tried to turn her head away from the sickly-sweet aroma. A wave of dizziness drained the strength from her limbs. And the world melted away into nothingness.
Chapter 6
Ellie had been cast adrift in a shipwreck.
She was floating in an endless black sea. The rhythmic motion of the water rocked her, and she could hear the muted crashing of waves. Voices reached her ears now and then, the words garbled, too indistinct for her to decipher their meaning. At those times she struggled against the suffocating heaviness of lethargy. She wanted desperately to call for help, but only moans croaked from her lips.
Then a spectral hand would press a cup to her mouth, impelling her to swallow a liquid. And she would drift back into the gloom of her watery grave.
At last there came a time when the shroud of darkness began to lift. She grew aware of a warm, soft surface beneath her body. No longer did the vibrations of the sea hold her captive. She knew it to be day because a diffused, lemony light penetrated her closed eyelids.
Again she heard voices. This time, she detected the deep baritone of a man. Two men, to be precise. As she strained to make sense of their mutterings, specific words pierced the veil of her torpor.
Lady … missing key … ransom … the earl …
One voice had a distinct Scottish brogue, and the other the cool, clipped tone of the upper class. Their conversation grew louder as if they had moved to stand right beside her. Gradually, entire sentences became clear to her, though she was too woozy to make sense of them.
“Such a wee, drab wren she is.”
“I daresay you’re right. She did look much prettier from a distance.”
At that, Ellie managed to lift her heavy eyelids. For a moment she blinked against the light and her vision swam alarmingly. Then the dark blotches that loomed over her coalesced into one silhouette.
A black-haired man bent down close, staring at her.
His features had hard edges, as if a sculptor had chiseled them from a block of marble in a fit of artistic fervor without adding any refining touches. His cheekbones were high, his nose a straight blade, his jaw square. In contrast to the somewhat swarthy tint of his skin, he had the most stunning green-gray eyes, and she found herself wondering how to re-create that precise color with paints …
In the same instant, memory struck like a hammer blow. She knew him. He was the stranger she’d seen on the street. The man who had been staring at her cousin. The man who had rushed out of the alley to attack her.
Choked by terror,
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