Page 193 of A Perilous Passion

Had he left her here to die of cold?

No, that wasn’t his way—he’d just kill her if he were so inclined. There must be a reason for keeping her alive. She dreaded what it might be.

There was no time for fear, no time for self-pity. She had to escape.

If she hadn’t been unconscious too long, the party might still be going on. If she’d been missed, there could even be people looking for her. Hoping against hope that someone was within earshot, she shouted an experimental, “Help!”

Her voice bounced back at her from the domed roof of the icehouse, a fearful, lonely sound. She took in a deep breath, and made a more robust effort.

“Help!”

It was no good. She was in too awkward a position to fill her lungs properly. If she could wriggle across to the wall, she might be able to push herself up and at least get partly upright.

After a considerable struggle, she was able to do so.

She let out another rasping shout. “Help me!”

Relief flooded through her at the sound of a door scraping open, but her relief was short-lived. The short, thickset man who entered didn’t look like a party guest—or a rescuer.

With a shock, she recognized him as one of the free traders she and Rafe had seen that day they found the cave, so many weeks before.

“Keep the noise down, my lovely. It’ll do you no good, only annoy his lordship. Believe me, you don’t want to annoy him.”

“In what way might she annoy me?” Another voice, cultured and cold, cut the air like a blade.

Culverdale!

She tried to control her shaking. He must never see she was afraid.

“You may go,” he told his henchman.

“Should I leave the lantern, my lord?”

“No, take it with you, man. But cover it before you go outside. I don’t want to attract attention.”

The smuggler slunk off, closing the door of the icehouse with a snap. She listened intently, but there was no sound of a key turning in the lock, no click of a padlock.

She felt a trickle of hope. She could still escape. All she needed to do was overpower Lord Culverdale, get herself through the doorway, and scream like a banshee before the guard outside could overpower her.

Right.

Culverdale stepped carefully onto the icy floor. She could just make out his features in the gloom—the glitter of sharp, intelligent eyes, the line of his thin lips, and the languid composure of his face. A composure that had fooled so many into thinking he was a harmless fop.

He bristled with menace. Perhaps her last hour had come. He had both hands free and was no doubt armed, while she had nothing but words to defend herself.

“I won’t keep you long, my dear,” he said, and she dared to hope he meant to release her, not to kill her. “I’ve urgent business elsewhere, but for the moment, they can manage without me. I aim to net a bigger prize than French brandy, Flemish lace, or Sevres porcelain. And you, my dear, shall be my bait.”

Her heart quailed.

Rafe.

She was sure he meant to use her to lure Rafe here, and into a trap.

She lifted her head. “I don’t know what you can possibly mean.”

He came closer and pressed his long, hard fingers under her chin. “Yes, you do,” he said, smiling. “It’s too late to play games.”

She licked her lips, which were threatening to crack in the icy air. “He won’t come,” she said defiantly. “He means to bring you down, and he won’t let any distraction get in the way. Especially a woman. You might as well let me go and stop wasting your time.”