Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [80]
How the hell had she managed to get something to knock him out? He’d been all over her body the night before, and there was no way she could have hidden something. It must have been when she insisted on a rest stop. He couldn’t very well follow her into the loo at the petrol station, tempted though he might be. And she’d come right out again. He was disgusted with himself, letting her sucker him. First she’d shot him, then eighteen years later she’d tricked him. He was beyond annoyed.
Isobel wasn’t strong enough to have dragged him to wherever they were if he was unconscious, therefore she must have had help. He was slowly assessing his surroundings—one smallish, dark room with the bed in the middle, and he could just see the faint outlines of a shuttered window. Not much light coming through, but it probably wasn’t daytime yet. He hadn’t been out that long, which meant they must be somewhere in or near London.
He wondered how Mahmoud was doing. He wouldn’t have taken Killian’s abduction well, for despite his elaborate and oft-voiced plans for Killian’s eventual torture and murder, the boy was fiercely protective. He would have put up a hell of a lot better fight than Killian’s own piss-poor performance.
He jerked at his hands, but the ropes were thin and tight, and Isobel’s friends had found just about every weapon he carried. Not that that would stop him; it just might slow him down a bit. He lay still, listening for anything that might give him a clue as to his whereabouts.
He had no doubt Isobel had called for reinforcements; anyone else would have killed him by now. Probably why he’d been so lax—most people simply wanted to kill him, and he was good at avoiding just that. A simple kidnapping was unexpected.
There was at least one other room beyond the small bedroom, and the light emanating from it was dull and yellow. He could see blankets on the wall—for soundproofing, he assumed. He tried to spit out the gag, but someone had put tape over his mouth. He had no choice but to wait until his captor made her appearance. In the meantime, he could work on the ropes that bound his wrists.
He knew she was there before he saw her, before he heard her. It was a sixth sense he’d developed over the years, and when it came to her it was fine-tuned. He turned his head to meet her calm gaze in the shadowed room.
She’d changed her bloody shirt, presumably taken a shower. Her hair was pulled back in an elegant knot at the base of her neck—part of her armor. She looked elegant and unapproachable, the Ice Queen, the Iron Maiden. Madame Lambert—a lifetime removed from Mary Isobel Curwen. She’d probably thought that girl was gone forever. Until he’d reminded her last night on the rumpled bed in the ship’s cabin.
His eyes met hers, and her faint smile was flinty. A bit too sure of herself. “I suppose you want me to untie you?”
Since he wasn’t able to reply he simply looked at her, daring her to move closer. She was a smart woman—she knew how dangerous he could be, and she skirted the bed, keeping out of the way of his long legs. Even tied together at the ankles they could sweep her, knock her onto the bed. He could break her neck in a matter of seconds if he wanted to.
He didn’t want to. She came at him sideways, away from his legs, reaching down to pull the duct tape away.
He didn’t even notice the pain, spitting out the rag someone had put in his mouth earlier. She turned, and handed him a bottle of water. “You’re probably thirsty. The drug I gave you tends to make your mouth dry.”
“No, I think that was caused by the sock someone stuffed in there,” he said. “Your work?”
“Peter’s.”
“What made you think you’d have trouble getting me to come with you? Haven’t I stuck with you for the last few days?”
“I thought it would be better if you didn’t know where you are. That way no one can torture it out of you.”
“I wasn’t planning on being tortured,” he said in his most amiable