Page 91 of A Perilous Passion

And he needed to make it fast.

Chapter Forty-One

Charlotte surfaced to consciousness slowly, and in considerable discomfort. She was cold, she was in pain, and found herself in a place where barely anything could be seen through the gloom. There was a dank, moldy smell, totally different to the stables.

Where was she?

As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she could see a dim disc of moonlight above her, coming through an oculus in a domed ceiling. She was in a circular building, windowless, with a sunken and uneven floor that glistened faintly with moisture.

It was cold. Very cold. Maybe she was in some kind of dungeon?

But where in Portland could one find a dungeon, except perhaps at the fort? And it was highly unlikely she was there.

A huge shudder shook her body, making her teeth rattle. Her flimsy dinner gown was no protection against such intense cold. She couldn’t chafe her chilled arms because her hands were bound with cord. So were her feet.

The knobbly ground on which she lay was actual ice. She rolled over and, suddenly, she understood.

She was in an icehouse. Lord Culverdale’s icehouse, of course.

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.