Page 6 of Only Pleasure Will Do

Carefully standing on the table, she put her hands on her hips and cursed softly. As she’d guessed, she stood several inches lower than the windowsill. Taking a deep breath to steady her, she stepped up onto the bucket.

The top of her head now came even with the ledge of the wall. She reached up, searching for a latch, but found none. Damn. Still, if she could see something of the terrain, perhaps she could understand where she was and who had done this to her—who would have the wrath of Amorina Vestry fall down around their head in short order.

In desperation, she rose up on her toes and a small strip of the outside world came into view. She gasped at the unexpected success, but there was only a moment of triumph, a glimpse of green grass and distant trees before the bucket teetered and she tumbled off the table and crashed onto the floor.

* * * *

Amorina’s eyes popped open. An unusual noise was coming from the other room.

Footsteps shuffled softly on the floor near the door.

That door never opened at night.

A fortnight had passed since she’d awoken, bruised and with a cut on her head from the tumble she’d taken when the bucket had tipped over that first day. In that interminable time, she’d learned the routine of her captors almost to the minute. Whoever was holding her had a penchant for timetables and precision. The door never opened at night.

Had her mysterious captor finally come to exact whatever vengeance he wished upon her? Would she finally find out what this was all about? Quietly, she rose from the bed and slipped on her shoes.

Moonlight lit the square room in fits and starts, and the fire she’d banked before crawling into bed gave off no more than a faint glow, but she knew every inch of the accursed place now. She could’ve roamed it in pitch darkness and not put a foot wrong.

The stealthy steps continued from the other room, though they seemed not to have descended the staircase yet. Why was the person lingering near the door? Waiting for a cohort to join them, perhaps?

Weapons were non-existent in this prison. She’d tried time and again to loosen one of the supports for the bannister, hoping to use it as a club on the jailors who brought her food and water and took away her slops once each day. The nails, however, refused to budge. She could have easily broken up the chair, but none of its rickety pieces would’ve made a decent weapon. Neither would the table do. The spongy old wood threatened to disintegrate each time she put her plate and cup on it, although the soft wood did prove useful for easily gouging out a crude marker for each day of her captivity.

So now, with an intruder in the basement, she was defenseless, though not helpless.

Easing to the doorway, she stopped, took a deep breath, and poked her head around the door jamb. More movement at the top of the stairs.

The angle of the small windows let in less moonlight here than the other room, but her eyes had adjusted to the minimal light. A man’s figure, clad in a light gray cloak, had just set foot on the first step. The wooden riser creaked softly, and the man drew back.

Cautious. Unfamiliar with the room? Or unwilling to give her notice he was here?

Again, the figure moved forward, treading lighter than before for the board remained silent.

Amorina slipped into the room, her back to the wall near the fireplace. Pity the thin streak of moonlight streaming through the window didn’t fall across the staircase. She would’ve paid dearly to see the face of the man who’d done this to her; however, she would exact her vengeance nonetheless.

The man had descended another two of the twelve steps. He’d not heard her yet. Surprise was still on her side, if she could just wait a little longer.

Five steps remaining.

Four.

The dimly moving figure took his time with each riser. His eyes must’ve adjusted to the gloom by now. Did he think her a gray patch on the wall, perhaps? Over the past week, her snowy linen chemise, which she was currently using as a night gown, had grown dingy. She remained rooted to the spot she’d taken once she’d slipped into the room, scarcely daring to breathe.

Three more steps and he’d reach the ground.

She held her breath and prayed.

Two. One.

The man set his feet on the dirt floor and paused, cocked his head.

Willing him to move toward the back of the stairs, Amorina gathered every scrap of courage she possessed.

Shaking his head, the man turned back toward the staircase.

Amorina launched herself at the table, grabbed the ancient chair, swung it up over her head, and crashed it onto the man’s head.

At the last moment he must’ve heard her, for he threw up an arm in defense, but too late. The edge of the chair crashed into the back of his head with a sickening crack before disintegrating in a shower of wooden bits. She’d apparently underestimated efficacy of the old chair as a weapon, for the man dropped neatly at her feet.

Sobbing as relief poured through her, Amorina stood over him, part of a chair leg—the only piece of the weapon still intact—raised once more. But the figure sprawled on the ground didn’t move, and her frenzied breathing calmed. Tossing the mangled stick onto the body, she then leaped over it and nimbly flew up the stairs to the door. Slow and silent, she grasped the handle and pulled.

It didn’t budge.

She tried to rattle the door, but it refused to move at all, as though someone had nailed it shut. Leaning her head against the stubborn wood, she swallowed tears. She was still a prisoner, although no longer alone. Heart racing, she turned to peer over the rail at the still figure below. Who was he? Why was he here? And what did he have to do with her?

Keeping a cautious eye on the man, she crept down the steps. A patch of moonlight fell on the floor not far from where he lay. She could at least satisfy her curiosity about one thing. Grasping him under his armpits, Amorina lifted him and rocked back on her heels, an effective way for a woman to move dead-drunk patrons if the need arose. This man was solidly built, to be sure, but she’d moved heavier bodies.

Four steps and the back of his head popped into the light. She laid him down then tossed the bit of chair leg on the floor. Her hand met the good quality of the pale gray cloak, the material smooth and rich beneath her fingers. A man of some means, then. Likely a former customer, though his form rang no bell of recognition. No need to speculate. She bent and hooked her hands beneath one shoulder and heaved him over. He fell out of the light.

She tugged him back then gasped and dropped his shoulder as though her fingers had been singed. “Reginald Matthews!”