Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [77]
“But what…?” she began.
“Be quiet!” He barely made a sound, but the point was made. He took a step away from her, and her eyes, already accustomed to the darkness, could see that he’d turned his back. Obviously he meant her to strip down here and now, and just as obviously she wasn’t about to object. He had probably seen more of her when she’d been unconscious, and he was clearly uninterested.
The clothes were a pair of black silk pajamas. An odd choice, presumably to give her some camouflage in the darkness, and she pulled off the lacy confection they had dressed her in with relief. She’d never been a glutton for frills and lace; when she was on her own she usually slept in a ratty T-shirt and panties.
The pajamas must belong to Harry—the silk was so fine she could barely feel it against her skin. The sleeves and legs were too long, but at that point there wasn’t much she could do about it. She fastened the buttons up to her neck, and he turned, instinctively knowing she was done.
He reminded her of Peter—that preternatural awareness, that calm, waiting watchfulness. Was he a part of Peter’s shadow Committee? And if he was, did that make him a good guy or a bad guy?
As far as she knew he’d decided not to kill her, which clearly made him a good guy.
He pushed her down on the bed and proceeded to tie her wrists together, tight enough to hold, just short of pain. She didn’t bother to ask why—even in the hushed darkness she could make a reasonably intelligent guess. It was to provide a good cover in case they ran into Anh or any of Harry’s other inquisitive servants.
She held still as he braided her long hair into a thick plait, his hands efficient and impersonal. He put some sort of slippers on her feet, then pulled her to a standing position.
He was going to gag her—she could see the cloth in his hand, and she tried to move away, shaking her head vigorously, but it was too late. A moment later she was silenced before she could say a word.
She half expected him to put a leash on her and make her walk like a dog, she thought impatiently, her mind filled with all the insulting things she wanted to say.
And then they were moving, out of the room where she’d been for so long, down a long, narrow corridor. It was almost as dark as her unlit room.
She lost count of the doors, the flights of stairs. If she had to retrace her steps she’d be totally lost. The last door he opened was different, the air beyond was damp and cold, smelling of the sea.
He said nothing, pulling her inside and closing the door behind them, closing them into darkness.
It felt like a grave—cold and damp and black. Genevieve never like confined spaces, but having a panic attack wouldn’t help matters, particularly with the gag covering her mouth. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths through her nose as he put her bound hands on his shoulder and started to descend into the earth.
She thought she should count the steps, anything rather than think about the darkness and the night closing in around her.
Two hundred and seventy-three steps carved into the side of the rock. She’d long ago stopped thinking of anything, anything but descending those endless steps to what might be her death after all. She’d lost all sense of time, space and reality in the narrow, twisting stairway—all she could do was follow the man who might be her executioner.
She felt dizzy when they finally reached the bottom, and she swayed for a moment. And then a match flared in the darkness, almost blinding her. She looked straight into the ice-cold eyes of Peter Jensen, and as he moved toward her she saw the knife in his hand.
She was going to die after all, at the hands of the man whose job it had been. He was alive, and he was going to finish what he started.
Her knees gave way, and she slumped onto the hard cold floor, finally giving up.
Harry Van Dorn seldom indulged in temper tantrums, but he was about to indulge in a royal one. He took a deep breath, another sip of his fine old bourbon and told himself