what else. Several strategically placed candles illuminated a small, circular area, leaving the room’s corners steeped in darkness. In the center stood a long wooden table with a young man strapped to its surface by thick iron manacles.
A young man. Disappointment spiraled through him. He glanced at Danforth and shook his head, and then evaluated their situation. The corridor beyond the candlelit chamber loomed like a great, impenetrable abyss.
The intelligence Danforth had seduced from Valère’s maid suggested the chateau’s dungeon held twelve cells. If the maid’s information was correct, that left four more chambers to search. Would they, like all the others, be strangely empty?
Guy narrowed his gaze, fighting to see something—anything—down the darkened passage. It yawned eerily silent. Too damned silent. The lack of movement, guards, and other prisoners scraped his nerves raw. That and the realization they would not be able to slide past the nearby cell without drawing attention from its occupants.
Dammit.
He ignored Danforth’s warning tap on his shoulder and peered into the young man’s cell again. The prisoner’s filthy legs and arms splayed in a perfect X across the table’s bloodstained surface. A few feet away, with his back to the prisoner, stood a slender man dressed in the clothes of a gentleman, his unusual white-capped head bent in concentration over an assortment of spine-chilling instruments. Boucher.
Guy watched the man assess each device with the careful attention of an enraptured lover, masterfully prolonging the young man’s terror. Give a victim long enough, and he’ll create plenty of painful scenes in his own mind that the interrogator need only touch his weapon to the prisoner’s skin to elicit a full, babbling confession.
He couldn’t walk away from the poor soul struggling on the table, nor could he cold-bloodedly put an end to his misery. The young man was a countryman, not his enemy, and he would never leave one of his own in Valère’s hands.
With great care, he withdrew a six-inch hunting knife from his boot. He heard Danforth curse softly, violently, behind him, and then a rustle of movement. His hand shot out to stay his friend, and a short struggle ensued. Their roles now reversed, Guy whispered in Danforth’s ear, “There’s no way around, and I’m not leaving him here.”
“We don’t have time—”
“I’m. Not. Leaving. Him.”
After a moment, Danforth gave a sharp nod and settled into the rear support position once more, anger dripping off him in waves.
He couldn’t blame his friend for wanting to press on. Evil penetrated every crack and hollow of this place. Even with his vast experience with the darker side of human nature, Guy felt trapped and edgy and unusually desperate.
Guy shifted his attention to the prisoner just as the young man’s head swiveled toward the open doorway. Bleakness and terror etched his swollen, blood-encrusted face, but something more blazed behind the young man’s steady gaze—strength, fortitude, and a hint of hope.
He was a fighter, a warrior entombed in a rapidly weakening young man’s body. A rush of fury mixed with a healthy dose of respect surged through Guy. How did one so young get involved with the likes of Valère?
The prisoner’s chest rose high with each deep, agonized breath. As his torturer intended, the young man knew Boucher’s next attempt at pulling information from him would be far worse than the last.
Candlelight flickered over his youthful features. When the prisoner focused in on Guy’s position, his terrified blue-green eyes—or eye, as one was little more than a bloated slit—opened wide.
Guy’s heart jolted, fearing the young man would call out. With an index finger to his lips, he motioned for the prisoner to remain quiet.
Familiarity washed over Guy again. His gaze cleaved to the prisoner’s; his focus sharpened.
Blue-green eyes. An unusual color Guy had seen only once before. His muscles contracted. A wave of frigid heat swept across every inch of his skin, and nausea twisted in his gut.
He knew those eyes.
The young man wasn’t a man at all. But a goddamned woman.
Cora.
Acknowledgments
A huge thanks to my amazing editor, Deb Werksman, and my patient agent, Donald Maass, for believing in my stories and me and for helping me make them shine.
Much love to my husband, Tim Curtin. You are my rock, my love, and my sunshine. Thanks for enduring the rigors of my sophomore book and for keeping me supplied with Slim Jims, Starbucks, and pasta puttanesca. On top of all that, you’re a fabulous beta reader, too!
Sending a shout-out to my awesome publicist, Beth Pehlke. Thanks for all your support