"I would have been told. And if you were working for Sandringham, why the devil would you act in such a damned ridiculous manner?"
"Perhaps the Duke is testing your loyalty," I suggested at random, preparing to leap to my feet if necessary. His fists were bunched at his side, and the discarded riding crop was within much too easy a reach on the desk nearby.
He snorted in response to this suggestion.
"You may be testing my gullibility: Or my tolerance to irritation. Both, Madam, are extremely low." His eyes narrowed speculatively, and I braced myself for a quick dash.
He lunged, and I flung myself to one side. Getting hold of the teapot, I threw it at him. He dodged, and it hit the door with a satisfying crash. The orderly, who must have been lingering just outside, poked a startled head in.
Breathing heavily, the Captain motioned him impatiently into the room.
"Hold her," he ordered brusquely, crossing toward the desk. I began to breathe deeply, both in hopes of calming myself and in anticipation of not being able to do it in a moment.
Instead of hitting me, though, he merely pulled out the lower right-hand drawer, which I had not had time to investigate, and pulled out a long strand of thin rope.
"What kind of gentleman keeps rope in his desk drawers?" I inquired indignantly.
"A prepared one, Madam," he murmured, tying my wrists securely behind me.
"Go," he said impatiently to the orderly, jerking his head toward the door. "And don't come back, no matter what you hear."
This sounded distinctly ominous, and my forebodings were abundantly justified as he reached into the drawer once more.
There is something unnerving about a knife. Men who are fearless in personal combat will shrink from a naked blade. I shrank myself, until my bound hands collided with the whitewashed wall. The wicked gleaming point lowered and pressed between my breasts.
"Now," he said pleasantly, "you are going to tell me everything you know about the Duke of Sandringham." The blade pressed a little harder, making a dent in the fabric of my gown. "Take as long as you like about it, my dear. I am in no hurry whatsoever." There was a small pop! as the point punctured the fabric. I felt it, cold as fear, a tiny spot directly over my heart.
Randall slowly drew the knife in a semicircle under one breast. The homespun came free and fell away with a flutter of white chemise, and my breast sprang out. Randall seemed to have been holding his breath; he exhaled slowly now, his eyes fixed on mine.
I sidled away from him, but there was very little room to maneuver. I ended up pressed against the desk, bound hands gripping the edge. If he came close enough, I thought, I might be able to rock backward on my hands and kick the knife out of his hand. I doubted that he meant to kill me; certainly not until he had found out just what I knew about his relations with the Duke. Somehow that conclusion was of relatively little comfort.
He smiled, with that unnerving resemblance to Frank's smile; that lovely smile which I had seen charm students and melt the stoniest college administrator. Possibly under other circumstances, I would have found this man charming, but just at present… no.
He moved in fast, thrusting a knee between my thighs and pushing my shoulders back. Unable to keep my balance, I fell heavily backward on the desk, crying out as I landed painfully on my bound wrists. He pressed himself between my legs, scrabbling with one hand to raise my skirts while the other fastened on my bared breast, rolling and pinching. I kicked frantically, but my skirts got in the way. He grasped my foot and ran a hand up my leg, pushing damp petticoats, skirt, and chemise out of the way, tossing them up above my waist. His hand dropped to his breeches.
Shades of Harry the deserter, I thought furiously. What in God's name is the British army coming to? Glorious traditions, my aunt Fanny.
In the midst of an English garrison, screaming was unlikely to attract any helpful attention, but I filled my lungs and had a try, more as a pro forma protest than anything else. I had expected a slap or shake in return, to shut me up. Instead, unexpectedly, he appeared to like it.
"Go ahead and scream, sweeting," he murmured, busy with his flies. "I'll enjoy it much more if you scream."
I looked him straight in the eye and snapped "Get stuffed!" with perfect clarity and terrible inaptness.
A lock of dark hair came loose and fell across his forehead in rakish disarray. He looked so like his six-times-great grandson that I was seized by a horrible impulse to open my legs and respond to him. He twisted my breast savagely and the impulse disappeared at once.