Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(100)

Sara had contemplated her quietly, pondering the woman’s obsession with Derek. Joyce Ashby was insane, or at the very least mentally unbalanced. She seemed like a cruel, selfish child in an adult body. She valued no life but her own, and felt no sense of remorse for her actions. In her mind there would be no consequences for anything she did.

Why had Joyce been allowed to go about unhindered and cause such harm? Surely Lord Ashby must be aware of his wife’s actions. Sara wondered what kind of man he was, and why he hadn’t taken Joyce in hand long before now.

The driver opened the door of the carriage and looked inside. The strange young-old look about him defied any accurate guess of his age. He had a thin, whiskery rat face. His colorless eyes shifted nervously from the pistol to Joyce’s face. “M’lady?” he questioned.

“We’re getting out,” Joyce said. “Stay here until I return.”

“Aye, m’lady.”

Sara spoke swiftly, staring hard at the driver. “You can’t allow this. Don’t be a fool. The law will hold you responsible for what happens to me here—and if not, then my husband will!”

The man flinched and ducked away, ignoring her.

“Get out,” Joyce sneered, gesturing with the pistol.

Sara climbed to the ground, her legs cramped from the long ride. She shot a glance at the driver, who had gone to the front of the carriage with the horses. Since he apparently had no conscience to appeal to, she tried threats. “My husband is Derek Craven, and when he finds out about this, he won’t rest until he’s made you pay—”

“He won’t do anything to help you,” Joyce said, prodding Sara with the pistol. “Start walking.”

The path was illuminated by the carriage lantern Joyce carried. They approached the medieval structure, little more than a mutilated shell of stonework. The windows and doors had crumbled, giving the fortified house the appearance of a jaw with gaps of missing teeth. Slowly Sara entered the central hall. Mice and vermin scuttled in all directions, alerted to the presence of intruders.

Annoyed by Sara’s hesitant pace, Joyce brandished the gun and pushed her toward the broken stone steps that led up to the tower. “Up there,” she said brusquely.

Slowly Sara mounted the first step. Her mouth was dry with fear. She broke out into a heavy sweat, liquid fear seeping from her pores. “Why?”

“There’s a room at the top with a bar across the door. I’m going to keep you there. You’ll be my own private pet. From time to time I’ll come and visit you, and tell you all about your husband. We’ll find out how long he grieves for you, and how long it takes before he comes back to my bed.” Joyce paused and added smugly, “Perhaps I’ll even show you ways to pleasure me, and you’ll show me exactly what your husband finds so compelling about you.”

“You’re disgusting,” Sara said in outrage.

“You might say that now, but after a few days you’ll do whatever I want in return for food and water.”

Sara’s nerves twitched rebelliously, demanding action. She would rather die at this moment than be at the mercy of a madwoman for some indefinite length of time. She had to do something now, before they reached the tower room. After another few steps she pretended to stumble on the landing. Swiftly she turned and grabbed for Joyce’s arm.

Joyce reacted with a hiss of rage, fighting to keep hold of the pistol. She dropped the carriage lantern and tried to claw Sara’s face. Feeling the bite of long nails on her neck, Sara screamed and tried to twist the gun away. They grappled desperately and rolled down the steps together. The painful impact of the stone stairs on her head and back dazed Sara, but she didn’t let go of Joyce’s arm, even as she felt it come down between their writhing bodies.

All at once her ears rang with an explosion.

Sara’s first thought was that she had been shot. She had felt a hard, bruising blow against her breast that she gradually identified as the backward kick of the pistol. Slowly she stirred and sat up, holding a hand to the throbbing side of her head.

Joyce lay a foot or two away, moaning. A patch of crimson blood welled over her shoulder. “Help me,” she wheezed.

“Help you?” Sara repeated, staggering to her feet. Somehow she managed to collect her wits. The discarded carriage lantern was still intact, the tiny flame sputtering as the lamp rolled lazily across a step. After picking up the lamp, she went to Joyce, who was clutching her injured shoulder. I should leave you here, she thought. She was unaware she had said the words aloud until Joyce replied.

“You can’t let me die!”

“You’re not going to die.” Disgusted, terrified, Sara removed her own petticoat, wadded it up, and pressed it firmly against the wound to staunch the blood. Joyce screamed like an enraged cat, her eyes slitted and demonic. Sara’s ears rang from the piercing cry.

“Be quiet, you bitch!” Sara snapped. “Not another sound!” Suddenly her entire body was filled with furious energy. She felt strong enough to push down a stone wall with her bare hands. She went to the crumbling entrance of the castle and saw that the hack driver was still waiting, craning his neck curiously. “You!” she shouted. “Come here right away, or you won’t get a bloody shilling of what she promised!” She turned back to Joyce, her blue eyes blazing. “And you…give me back my necklace.”