His Sinful Touch. Candace Camp
Chapter Three
HER EYES DRIFTED OPEN. It was shadowy and dark, the only light a small kerosene lamp on a chest across the room. But even in the dim light, she knew this wasn’t home. Her eyes closed again, the lids heavy. She wanted to sleep again, but she knew she couldn’t. Foggy and befuddled as she was, there was a sharp, insistent fear that prodded her to wake up.
She had to leave.
It was an effort to pull herself from the suction of sleep, but she had to. Something was terribly wrong. Vague, wavering images flittered through her brain—a dark carriage, a strange parlor, some man she didn’t know talking, talking, his voice droning on. There was another man beside her, more familiar but still wrong somehow.
The only clear thing was an icy dread that was lying over everything. Something awful had happened. Was still happening.
That was why she must wake up. She had to get away. She swung a leg over the side of the bed. The next instant she found herself on the floor in a heap, her head rapping against the wood.
The surprise of the fall woke her up a bit more, and she pushed onto her hands and knees, then staggered up, grabbing at the mattress to steady her. Her stomach lurched and her head spun, and she was afraid that whatever she had eaten was going to come back up. She stood quite still, swallowing hard, and after a moment the dizziness receded.
She had to hurry. He would return. She started toward the door, driven by the need to escape this small, unfamiliar room, but finally her woozy brain reasserted itself. She must think before she acted. She should take something with her. She looked around but could not find her reticule. Where was it? She would need money.
And she mustn’t look peculiar. Half her hair had come loose and tumbled down. Pulling out the pins, her fingers clumsy and slow, she wrapped the hank of hair in a tight knot and stuck the pins back in. She had the suspicion it looked quite off balance, but it would have to do.
She straightened her bodice and skirts, tugging at her sleeves. She wasn’t dressed for traveling, but she was certain that she had, in fact, been in a carriage. There had been the noise of the wheels, the jingle of the harness. And this unfamiliar shabby room looked like an inn. But she was dressed in a frilly evening dress more suited for going down to supper.
Her stomach growled, and she realized she was hungry. There was nothing here to eat, but she saw glasses and a pitcher of water, and she was thirsty, too. She poured half a glass and gulped it down. That, too, threatened to make her stomach revolt, and again she waited it out.
Afterward, she felt faintly more alert and aware. She slid one hand into the pocket of her skirt and touched a folded piece of paper. She knew where to go.
She had spotted her small traveling case standing against the wall beside a masculine-looking piece of luggage. Grabbing her case, she hurried to the door. It wouldn’t open. Numbly she rattled the handle and pulled in vain. She was locked in.
He had locked her in! She was swept by a sense of betrayal. How could he do this to her? She had trusted him. Panic swelled, threatening to overwhelm her. She was alone. All those she relied on had turned on her. Flight was impossible. She was trapped.
Fighting back the panic, she checked the chest and the small table beside the bed, but there was no sign of a key. Her steps wobbled as she went to the window and shoved it open. The room was on the second floor.
She steeled herself against despair. There was a drainpipe within arm’s reach of the window...if she leaned very far out. But she had always been good at climbing and, better than that, there was a small roof below. If she fell, it wouldn’t be nearly as far. The roof sloped slightly, so at the far end, it wouldn’t be as long a drop, and there must be a supporting post to the ground that she