That, to her mind, was as things should be.
Escape was her goal—and as soon as possible thereafter, she would speak to Deverell about marriage. If, in extremis, everyone made a vow to God about what they would do if they were saved, then that was her vow. It was senseless to carry on as they were; theirs was no true liaison. They were living in each other’s pockets, sharing each other’s lives—they might as well marry and have done with the charade.
So she would tell him—
Creak.
Phoebe sucked in a breath. A key slid into the lock.
Silently she took up her position behind the door. As it swung open, she hoisted the chamber pot high.
Pewter-gray hair—she didn’t wait to see more but brought the pot whistling down.
He glimpsed movement at the last second and ducked. Instead of cracking the pot over his crown, she dealt him a glancing blow. He staggered.
Phoebe gasped as the pot slipped from her hands and crashed on the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces.
His face contorted in a furious snarl, the man turned on her.
He grabbed her wrists.
She remembered, rotated her arms, and broke his grasp.
He was stunned for an instant; she stepped in and brought her knee up hard and fast, but she wobbled on a pot shard—her blow landed, but not precisely in the right spot.
But the snarl evaporated; his face turned purple. He sucked in a furious hissing breath and grabbed her shoulders. He tried to shake her, but they were both off-balance…for a moment they wrestled, pot shards crunching beneath their feet, then Phoebe remembered and butted him in the face.
He was shorter than Deverell and had his head lowered—she hit the side of his forehead with hers. Hard.
He howled—music to her ears!—but his fingers only bit more deeply into her shoulders.
Phoebe cursed and looked down, trying to locate his feet to smash her heel down on his instep—
“My lord—my lord! You must come quickly!”
Breathless and agitated, the butler’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs.
Phoebe lifted her head, glanced at the open door.
“There’s a gentleman arrived. He’s asking for you on some urgent matter. He won’t be denied.”
Phoebe dragged in a breath to scream—
With a massive effort, the man heaved her from her feet, swung her, and slung her across the room.
She hit the floor and slid into the wall, winded, but with her hands she managed to keep her head from cracking against the paneling.
Looking up, breathless, she saw the man—their procurer—standing before the door, dragging in a huge breath.
His color was high, choleric; his cold gray eyes, filled with fury and vindictive hate, pinned her. His hands shook as he tugged down his sleeves. “I’ll deal with you later.” His voice was a low, raspy growl, nothing like his previously deliberate diction. “And then the slavers can have you!”
He spat the last words at her, then went out of the door, slammed it shut, and locked it.
Phoebe struggled to her feet; she raced to the door and pounded on the panels. “Deverell! I’m here!”
She paused to drag in a breath, listened…and realized that she couldn’t hear the man’s or the butler’s footsteps receding. They’d closed the door at the bottom of the stairs; as she’d suspected, it cut off all sound.
No point screaming.