“What will you do with me?” she said quietly, praying she wasn’t a fool for asking.
He had been looking at a spot over her shoulder, but his gaze shifted swiftly back to her face. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“We will see if Prince Alexei still values you. I don’t think we will tell him of your indiscretions. Just in case he still hopes to make you his wife.”
“I don’t think he—”
“Don’t interrupt, Lady Olivia,” he said, his voice holding just enough warning to remind her that he was not her friend, and this was no ordinary tea party.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“If he still desires you, it is in your best interests that he thinks you are a virgin. Do you not agree?”
Olivia held still until it became apparent that this was not a hypothetical question. Finally, she gave a single nod.
“After he pays to get you back”—he gave a fatalistic sort of shrug—“then you can sort it out as you wish. It will be of no interest to me.” He watched her with silent intensity for several moments, then said, “Here, take one more sip of tea before I cover your mouth again.”
“Must you?”
“I am afraid I must. You are far more clever than I had imagined. I cannot leave any weapons at your disposal, including your voice.”
Olivia took her final sip of tea, and then closed her eyes as her captor reaffixed the gag. When he was done, she lay back down, staring stonily at the ceiling.
“I would recommend that you take a rest, Lady Olivia,” he said from the doorway. “It is the only good use of your time here.”
Olivia did not bother to look at him. Surely he did not expect a reply, even one made with only her eyes.
He made no more comment as he shut the door. Olivia listened to the clicks of the two locks, and then finally, for the first time during her ordeal, she wanted to cry. Not to struggle, not to rage, just to cry.
She felt the tears, silent and hot, slide along each temple, down to the pillow below. She couldn’t wipe her face. Somehow that seemed the worst sort of indignity.
What was she supposed to do now? Lie here and wait? Rest, as her captor had suggested? It was impossible; the inaction was killing her.
Harry must have noticed that she was gone by now. Even if she had only been unconscious for a few minutes, he would have had to have noticed. She’d been locked in this room for at least an hour.
But would he know what to do? He had been a soldier, it was true, but this was no battlefield, with clear, well-labeled enemies. And if she was still in the ambassador’s residence, how would he question anyone? More than half of the servants spoke only Russian. Harry could say please and thank you in Portuguese, but that wasn’t going to get him far.
She was going to have to save herself, or at the very least, do her best to make it easy for someone else to save her.
She swung her legs off the bed and sat up, placing her moment of pity firmly behind her. She couldn’t sit here and do nothing.
Perhaps there was something she could do about her bindings. They were firmly tied, but not so tight as to dig into her skin. Maybe she could reach her ankles with her hands. It would be awkward, since she’d have to bend backwards, but it was worth a try.
She lay on her side and curled her legs up behind her, reaching back…back…
There. She had it. It wasn’t rope but rather a strip of fabric, tied in an extremely tight knot. She groaned. It was the sort of thing she’d more likely cut through than attempt to work open.
She’d never had patience for this sort of thing. It went with the embroidery she hated, and the lessons she’d skipped…
If she could get this knot undone, she’d learn French. No, she’d learn Russian! That would be even more difficult.
If she could get it undone, she’d finish Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron. She’d even find the one about the mysterious colonel and read that one, too.
She’d write more letters, and not just to Miranda. She’d deliver charity boxes, not just pack them. She would bloody well complete everything she started.
Everything.
And there was no way she was going to fall in love with Sir Harry Valentine and not marry him.
No way at all.
Chapter Twenty-three
Harry sat in silence while Alexei downed his second shot of vodka. He said nothing when he took his third, or even his fourth, which was actually the one he’d originally poured for Harry. But when the prince reached for the bottle for his fifth shot—
“Don’t,” Harry snapped.
Alexei looked at him with surprise. “I beg your pardon.”
“Do not take another drink.”
Now the prince appeared merely confused. “You are telling me not to drink?”
One of Harry’s hands clenched into a fist, hard and tense. “I am telling you that if we need your assistance in finding Olivia, I don’t want you stumbling and puking down the hallway.”
“I can assure you, I never stumble. Or—what is this puke?”
“Put the bottle down.”
Alexei did not comply.
“Put. It. Down.”
“I think you forget who I am.”
“I never forget anything. You would do well to take note of that.”
Alexei merely stared at him. “You make no sense.”
Harry stood. “You do not want to provoke me right now.”
Alexei regarded him for a moment, then turned back to the glass and bottle in his hands. He started to pour.
Harry saw red.
It was the first bloody time in his life he’d seen the color, but he would have sworn that the entire world seemed to turn a different, hotter hue. His ears roared and tensed on the inside, as if he’d climbed to the top of a mountain. And he no longer had control. Of anything. His body leaped forward of its own volition, and his mind certainly wasn’t doing anything to stop it. He landed on the prince like a human cannonball, and they crashed against a table and then onto the floor, the vodka spilling on them both.
Harry nearly gagged at the heavy scent of the alcohol. It soaked his clothes, and it was cold, so cold against his skin.
But it didn’t stop him. Nothing could have stopped him. He couldn’t say anything, couldn’t think of anything to say. For once in his life he had no words. He had nothing but rage. It poured through him, pulsed with fury, and when he raised his fist, ready to slam it into the prince’s face, all that came forth was a cry of fury. And—
“Stop it!”
It was Vladimir, stepping nimbly into the fray, yanking Harry off Alexei and shoving him toward the opposite wall. “What the hell are you doing?”
“He is insane,” Alexei hissed, rubbing his throat.
Harry did nothing but breathe, but it was a rough, furious sound.
“Shut up,” Vladimir said. He glared at Harry, as if anticipating an interruption. “Both of you. Now listen to me.” He stepped forward, and his foot met with the bottle on the floor. It skittered across the room, spraying what was left of the vodka. Vladimir grunted in disgust but made no comment. After eyeing both men assessingly, he continued speaking. “I have inspected the building, and I believe that Lady Olivia is still inside.”
“Why do you think that?” Harry asked.