Read Online Midsummer Moon by Laura Kinsale - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Kinsale
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consciousness first. In some dreaming, deep corner of her mind, she recognized it from long ago days in her great-uncle's laboratory. She turned over with a groan and lifted her head, mumbling, “Uncle Dorian?"
Darkness and silence answered her. Awareness prickled, pulling her from the edge of sleep. She struggled up with her hands braced in the depths of the down mattress. “Uncle..."
It came to her suddenly that Uncle Dorian was long passed away. The chemical odor burned in her nose, nauseatingly strong. She fumbled for the counterpane in the pitch blackness and threw the bedclothes back.
The rude impact against her face caught her completely by surprise. Her scream choked into a gagging whimper under the saturated cloth and strong hands that forced her mouth and nose into the strangling muzzle. She kicked out, once and hard. Her foot connected with yielding flesh. The answering grunt of pain seemed distant as thickness smothered her thoughts and dragged her down, until she was lost in emptiness and the stench of ether.
When she came to awareness, she was afraid to open her eyes. Sickness pressed in her throat, aggravated by the rolling motion that rocked her body from side to side in a warm cradle. She lay as still as possible, glad of the firm support that at least held and protected her from the worst of the motion. As the nausea receded, her mind struggled to shake off the lingering effects of the ether. She pieced together the movement and the sound of horse's hooves and the rhythmic squeak of wheels and decided that she was in a carriage.
With a sense of detachment, she concluded that she had been kidnapped. For a while, it seemed unimportant. It was enough to overcome the last waves of sickness and meditate vaguely on the notion that her abductors were rather thoughtful to press a cool, sweet-smelling cloth to her forehead.
Eventually, though, she began to come to her full senses. Detachment tightened into a knot of dismay. It had happened, just as the duke had warned her—the enemies of her country were dragging her off against her will, to be forced to work on their nefarious projects, or to be tortured, or to have her throat cut, or ... or ... What had Ransom said would be worse than that? She couldn't remember, but she was sure it must be horrible. She stifled a moan and peeked beneath her lashes at her surroundings.
It was daylight, the gray and watery sun barely, illuminating the elegant red satin interior of the carriage. She was being supported in a surprisingly comfortable position across one seat. The opposite seat was occupied by another victim, a man laid out bound and gagged, still unconscious, his bruised and bleeding head lolling helplessly with the motion of the coach. The sight of his injury made Merlin cravenly glad that she had not had the chance to put up serious resistance to her captors.
The bound man was no one Merlin knew. She hoped that Thaddeus and the duke and Bishop Ragley had escaped safely. The fear that they had not made her go weak and trembling and awful inside. She lay thinking warm, miserable thoughts of how they had only wanted to take care of her, especially Ransom, how his shouting at her had only been concern, and she had been too stupid and obstinate to listen.
Oh, but she should have listened to him! He would be beside himself when he found out she'd really been abducted. The thought of how furious and frantic he might be made a hopeful lump rise in her throat. Perhaps he would rescue her. She would forgive him for shouting at her if he did. She would even forgive him for breaking her kite.
She began rehearsing suitably grateful and contrite phrases under her breath, such as, “Mr. Duke, I can't thank you enough for saving my life, and I know you didn't mean to ruin my experiment.” Or, “It really doesn't matter that you made fun of my flying machine, Mr. Duke, not since you risked your life to rescue me.” Or, in response to his abject apology for destroying
Darkness and silence answered her. Awareness prickled, pulling her from the edge of sleep. She struggled up with her hands braced in the depths of the down mattress. “Uncle..."
It came to her suddenly that Uncle Dorian was long passed away. The chemical odor burned in her nose, nauseatingly strong. She fumbled for the counterpane in the pitch blackness and threw the bedclothes back.
The rude impact against her face caught her completely by surprise. Her scream choked into a gagging whimper under the saturated cloth and strong hands that forced her mouth and nose into the strangling muzzle. She kicked out, once and hard. Her foot connected with yielding flesh. The answering grunt of pain seemed distant as thickness smothered her thoughts and dragged her down, until she was lost in emptiness and the stench of ether.
When she came to awareness, she was afraid to open her eyes. Sickness pressed in her throat, aggravated by the rolling motion that rocked her body from side to side in a warm cradle. She lay as still as possible, glad of the firm support that at least held and protected her from the worst of the motion. As the nausea receded, her mind struggled to shake off the lingering effects of the ether. She pieced together the movement and the sound of horse's hooves and the rhythmic squeak of wheels and decided that she was in a carriage.
With a sense of detachment, she concluded that she had been kidnapped. For a while, it seemed unimportant. It was enough to overcome the last waves of sickness and meditate vaguely on the notion that her abductors were rather thoughtful to press a cool, sweet-smelling cloth to her forehead.
Eventually, though, she began to come to her full senses. Detachment tightened into a knot of dismay. It had happened, just as the duke had warned her—the enemies of her country were dragging her off against her will, to be forced to work on their nefarious projects, or to be tortured, or to have her throat cut, or ... or ... What had Ransom said would be worse than that? She couldn't remember, but she was sure it must be horrible. She stifled a moan and peeked beneath her lashes at her surroundings.
It was daylight, the gray and watery sun barely, illuminating the elegant red satin interior of the carriage. She was being supported in a surprisingly comfortable position across one seat. The opposite seat was occupied by another victim, a man laid out bound and gagged, still unconscious, his bruised and bleeding head lolling helplessly with the motion of the coach. The sight of his injury made Merlin cravenly glad that she had not had the chance to put up serious resistance to her captors.
The bound man was no one Merlin knew. She hoped that Thaddeus and the duke and Bishop Ragley had escaped safely. The fear that they had not made her go weak and trembling and awful inside. She lay thinking warm, miserable thoughts of how they had only wanted to take care of her, especially Ransom, how his shouting at her had only been concern, and she had been too stupid and obstinate to listen.
Oh, but she should have listened to him! He would be beside himself when he found out she'd really been abducted. The thought of how furious and frantic he might be made a hopeful lump rise in her throat. Perhaps he would rescue her. She would forgive him for shouting at her if he did. She would even forgive him for breaking her kite.
She began rehearsing suitably grateful and contrite phrases under her breath, such as, “Mr. Duke, I can't thank you enough for saving my life, and I know you didn't mean to ruin my experiment.” Or, “It really doesn't matter that you made fun of my flying machine, Mr. Duke, not since you risked your life to rescue me.” Or, in response to his abject apology for destroying
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