Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,91

legs and feet could even bear her weight.

“Trollop,” Tunning said. “The veriest trollop you look, fit for the London stews.” He walked toward her. “Perhaps that’s where I’ll drop you when I’m through,” he said consideringly. He dropped to his knees beside her and reached out.

She flinched away from his touch.

“I only want to untie those pretty little hands so they can get warm. Got to be warm to touch me like I want.”

Elizabeth bit back a denial and allowed him to untie her. Even if her legs failed her, perhaps with her hands free she could find a way to protect herself. She began to study the room covertly, searching for likely weapons. Tunning must have moved here directly from the estate cottage. There was a pile of clothes by the window, some crockery and food on a rickety table by the door. Nearby was a stack of logs, a few ledgers, and a keg of ale. The candelabra on the mantle were silver and beautifully wrought. Probably originally from Larchside.

When her hands were free Tunning rose, drew himself a mug of ale, and shuffled back to the fire, swearing against the cold. Elizabeth stroked her chafed wrists and attempted to move her legs. They screamed in agony but she forced her muscles to respond. She couldn’t afford for them to stiffen and cramp.

Draining his mug and wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve, Tunning turned his backside to the fire, relishing the warmth. He saw Elizabeth moving on the bed. He licked his lips and shifted his feet to ease the pressure on the swelling in his pants.

“In a moment, pet, in a moment,” he said.

Elizabeth’s eyes flew up to him. Too late she realized what her gentle squirming on the bed caused. She had been so caught up in studying the room she hadn’t been paying any attention to Tunning. Now she saw the sweat break out on his forehead and the lust in his eyes.

“No.” The word fell from her lips. Oh, Justin, she wildly prayed, help me, please! But she knew her prayer to be useless for he was in London, and no one would know of her disappearance until morning.

Tunning slowly advanced, rubbing his hands together, then reached out toward her, his fingers flexing like talons. A triumphant grin carved his face into a demonic semblance of a man. Elizabeth shifted warily to her knees, her pulse pounding. She eyed the distance to the table where the crockery sat, some heavy enough to bludgeon him with, if she could make it that far. He moved in front of her, blocking her view of the table.

He chortled at the fear he saw on her face. “Yes,” he murmured, “ol’ Tom Tunning's spear will pin you to that bed, squirming.”

He lunged. Elizabeth screamed, throwing herself off the end of the bed. Tunning's hand caught the fabric of her clothes and she heard it rip when she rolled away. She scrambled, crablike, as he came after her, his face convulsed with rage. He fell on her. Her nails raked his face, her legs kicking wildly, as they rolled on the floor. His hand found the neckline of her gown, ripping it. Her terror threatened to overwhelm her.

She screamed Justin’s name, imagining she heard her name called in return.

T'was I won the wager, though you hit the white; And, being a winner, God give you good-night

—Act V, Scene 1

“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”

There, she heard it again, louder. It wasn’t a dream! He was here. A surge of strength swept through her body.

“Justin! Help!” she cried out as she rammed the heel of her hand into Tunning's nose. Tunning, bellowing with rage, grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her head into the floor.

Elizabeth’s head exploded in pain and her eyes blurred, but she doggedly fought him. She couldn’t give up now with help so close. She heard Justin ramming against the locked door. Though her head hurt, her heart sang.

Finally the wood cracked and splintered, nearly coming off its hinges under St. Ryne’s and Thomas’s weight. They ran to the struggling figures on the floor, Thomas waving his gun, trying to get a clear shot.

Tunning in his lust and anger was oblivious to their presence. St. Ryne grabbed him by the scruff of his coat and hauled him off her, spun him around and slammed his fist into his stomach. Tunning fell backward, gasping for breath.

“Elizabeth!” St. Ryne cried, bending to lift her from the floor and cradle her against