She’d still be stuck.
She let out a long sigh, deflating in body and spirit. If it had taken her that long just to do one small part of the knot…
No, she berated herself. She had to keep going. If she could get the next two bits undone, then the rest ought to slip open with a little squirming on her part.
She could do this. She could.
She grit her teeth and got back to work. Maybe this one would go faster now that she knew what she was doing. She knew how to move her fingers, wedging one in the crease and then wiggling back and forth, back and forth, trying to loosen the knot.
Or maybe it would go faster because her shoulders had gone numb. Surely the lack of pain would be to her benefit.
She wedged…and wiggled…and wedged…and wiggled…and arched her back…and stretched…and rolled…and rolled back…
And lost her balance.
She landed on the floor with a loud thump. A really loud thump. She winced, praying that the change in the bindings around her ankles wasn’t noticeable as she listened for the clicks of the locks.
But there was nothing.
Could he not have heard her? It seemed impossible. Olivia had never been graceful; tie both her hands and her feet and she was a complete gawk. Needless to say, she had not landed quietly.
Maybe no one was out there. She had assumed that her captor was sitting in a chair outside her door, but truthfully, she had no idea why she thought that. He certainly couldn’t have thought she might escape, and Olivia was fairly certain that this section of the building was deserted. The only footsteps she’d heard had been immediately followed by the appearance of the gray-haired man.
She waited at her spot on the floor by the bed for another minute, just in case anyone came in, then shoved herself across the wood to the door, where she could peer underneath. There was a sliver of space there, no more than three-quarters of an inch, and she couldn’t see much—the hall was only the slightest bit better lit than her room. But she thought she might see shadows, if there were any.
And she didn’t think there were.
So she wasn’t guarded. This had to be a useful bit of information, although given her currently bound state, she wasn’t certain how. And she really wasn’t certain how she might maneuver herself back onto the bed. She could try to prop herself up against one of the legs, but the table with the teapot was still blocking the one by the head of the bed, and—
The teapot!
A surge of excitement and strength burst through her, and she literally flipped herself over in her haste to get back to the table. From there it was a scoot, scoot, shove, and—
She was there. Now how would she send it crashing down? If she could break the pot, she could use a shard to cut through her bindings.
With great effort she managed to get her feet beneath her. Using the side of the bed for support, she rose slowly, her muscles screaming, until finally she was standing. She took a moment to catch her breath, then backed up to the small table, bending at the knees until her hands were at just the right height to grab the teapot handle.
Please don’t let there be anyone out there please don’t let there be anyone out there.
She needed to get good force. She couldn’t just drop the thing on the floor. She glanced around the room, looking for inspiration. She started to spin.
Please please please.
She spun faster and faster, and then—
She let fly.
The teapot hit the wall with a mighty crack, and Olivia, terrified that someone might burst through the door, hopped back to the bed and lay on her back, although how she might explain the broken teapot on the far wall, she had no idea.
But no one entered.
She held her breath. She started to rise. Her shoes touched the floor and then—
Footsteps. Fast, moving toward her.
Oh God.
Voices, too. In Russian. They sounded urgent. Angry.
They wouldn’t hurt her, would they? She was too valuable. She was to be ransomed to Prince Alexei, and—
And what if Prince Alexei had said good riddance? He was no longer courting her. And he knew that she was smitten with Harry. What if he felt spurned? What if he felt vengeful?
She scooted back on the bed, cowering in the corner. It would be so nice to be brave, to face whatever was coming with a curl of the lip and flip of the hair, but she was no Marie Antoinette, dressing in white for a beheading, regally begging the pardon of her executioner when she accidentally stepped on his foot.
No, she was Olivia Bevelstoke, and she did not want to die with dignity. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to feel this awful terror, clawing at her gut.
Someone started pounding on the door—hard, rhythmic, and brutal.
Olivia started to shake. She curled into the tiniest ball she could manage, burying her head between her knees. Please please please, she chanted in her head, over and over. She thought of Harry, of her family, of—
The wooden door began to splinter.
Olivia prayed she would not lose control.
And then it all came crashing in.
She screamed, the sound ripping from the back of her throat. It felt as if the gag was clawing at her tongue, as if a puff of dry, scorching air was whipping through her windpipe.
And then someone said her name.
The air was obscured by dust and darkness, and all she could see was the massive figure of a man moving toward her.
“Lady Olivia.” The man’s voice was gruff and deep. And accented. “Are you hurt?”
It was Vladimir, Prince Alexei’s hulking and usually silent manservant. Suddenly all she could think of was the way he’d yanked and twisted on Sebastian Grey’s arm, and oh dear God, if he could do that, he could break her right in two, and—
“Let me help you,” he said.
He spoke English? Since when had he spoken English?
“Lady Olivia?” he repeated, his deep voice barely a grunt. He pulled out a knife, and she cringed, but he just brought it to the back of her gag and sliced through it.
She coughed and choked, barely hearing him as he shouted something in Russian again.
Someone replied, also in Russian, and she heard footsteps…running…coming closer…and then—
Harry?
“Olivia!” he cried, running toward her.
Vladimir said something to him—in Russian—and Harry gave a curt reply.
Also in Russian.
She stared at both of them in shock. What was happening? Why was Vladimir speaking in English?
Why was Harry speaking in Russian?
“Olivia, thank God!” Harry said, his hands cupping her face. “Tell me you haven’t been hurt. Please, tell me what happened?”
But she couldn’t move, could barely even think. When he’d spoken in Russian—it was as if he had been an entirely different person. His voice had been different, and his face had been different, the mouth and the muscles moving in a completely different way.
She shrank from his touch. Did she know him? Did she even know him? He’d told her that his father had been a drunk, that his grandmother had brought him up—had any of that been true?
What had she done? Oh dear Lord, she had given herself to someone she did not know, could not trust.
Vladimir handed something to Harry, who nodded and said something else in Russian.
Olivia tried to back away, but she was already at the wall. She was breathing fast, and she was cornered, and she didn’t want to be here, not with this man who wasn’t Harry, and—