Dark Deceptions: A Regency and Medieval Collection of Dark Romances(2)

“Help?” Father erupted into a fit of laughter until he began coughing. He swiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He dismissed her and turned to Jamie. “We have a meeting with Emmet. He’s returned from France.”

Jamie narrowed his eyes. “Does he know we have him?”

“He does.”

Georgina held her breath and attempted to make herself invisible.

Father’s talks of the Irish organization had been as common as a morning meal in their household. She had long heard the story of his mother, a delicate Irish lady who’d fallen in love with an Englishman. When her father had been a boy of five, he’d visited Ireland with his parents, a trip which had proven tragic. While riding one morning, the Irish beauty had been assaulted, and ultimately killed, by English soldiers. Her father had witnessed the whole horrific scene.

Georgina could imagine how such events would ever scar a person’s soul. Still, England was the only home she’d ever known. She wouldn’t blame an entire country for the sins of several, nor could she just sit idly by as witness to the wrongs done here.

Father continued. “Markham should break and give us the information we need.” Her ears perked up. “He…we’ll discuss the details later.”

Without another word, Father and Jamie walked off.

It had been nearly a fortnight since she’d gotten information to the man known as “The Sovereign”. Their absence had made it possible for her to pass along details about the Irish plot for independence.

She hurried after them. “When will you return?”

“We’ll be gone the night,” Jamie said, a dark frown curved his lips. “Lest you get the idea to do something foolish again, there is a guard stationed outside.”

Her mouth went dry as she remembered the last guard they’d assigned to watch her. The blare of his pistol echoed in her memory. She shook her head to erase the face of the nameless prisoner and the blood that had blossomed on his chest like a crimson butterfly spreading its wings.

He’d been the last man she’d freed. They’d both paid dearly for it.

Georgina bit back the stinging retort on her lips. “Should I allow the guard entry?”

Father shot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. “You’ve got a lot of questions, gel.”

“I just want to help,” she lied.

Jamie’s lips turned up in a sneer. “She is a dutiful girl,” he said. He no more trusted her than she did him.

Georgina bowed her head and a wry smile played about her lips. “I strive to do my father’s bidding.”

Father and Jamie had come to expect small showings of disobedience from her, but neither suspected the truth—she stole information from them and dashed notes off to the Crown, providing details about their plans. All the while, she plotted to leave this hell. She was biding her time, waiting to find a way out of this lonely, dark life. The only thing that had kept her in this hellish place was a sense of obligation to the men brought here to suffer at Father’s hands. That, and the fear they would hunt her and kill her themselves.

As if suspecting the deceptive path her thoughts had wandered down, Father glowered. “You aren’t to let anyone inside.”

She took a deep, slow breath when they finally left. Georgina locked the door and leaned against it. Her eyes slid closed at the blessed silence.

“I said let me out, you bastards!”

The thunderous shout above the stairs brought her back to reality.

Georgina hurried to the kitchens and prepared a tray of bread and cheese, a pitcher of water, and a glass of red wine to the sound of the captive’s furious shouts. She sliced an apple into neat little pieces. Then she carried the tray to the captive’s chambers and turned the door handle. For all intents and purposes, the room might as well have been an elegant bedroom for an esteemed guest. A four-poster bed sat in the center of the room and a small table with two chairs had been tucked in a corner.

She stepped inside.

One of those chairs was now occupied.

“You bloody bast—” His invective died a swift death. The stranger, his arms tied to the back of his seat, eyed her warily. The dimly lit room and the ten feet of space separating them did nothing to diminish the sparkle of wariness in his emerald green gaze.

With the tip of her slipper, Georgina closed the door and faced him. Her stomach turned over at his bloodied and battered face; his hard lips swollen and cracked, the green of his irises glimmered, like a wild animal’s, full of the need for retribution. The slight tilt of his aquiline nose indicated it had been broken at some point. Her heart tugged. She, too, had known physical pain. “Hullo,” she said quietly.

He studied her in mute silence. The black and blues marring his face did little to detract from his breathtaking beauty; the hard, chiseled lines of his angular face, a square jaw with the slightest indentation at its center. This wary man possessed the kind of power artists celebrated in stone. She cursed herself for thinking such thoughts at a time like this. Yet she could not take her eyes from him.

“Why are you here?” That hoarse question yanked her from her reverie.

Georgina rushed to his chair and set down the tray. Even strapped to the chair as he was, his long muscular frame filled the room. Her hand quaked as she dipped a rag into a bowl of water and gently wiped the blood from his face. It stained her fingers, and the potent smell that was sickly sweet and harsh metal combined, filled the air around them. Bile climbed to her throat.