In which case, she needed to avoid Lord Robert as if he harbored the plague.

That decided, she turned to cross the grass to return to the house. Before she'd taken a step, however, strong arms grabbed her from behind. She gasped, and a beefy hand clapped over her mouth.

"Keep quiet," a guttural voice growled in her ear.

Panic along with fury raced through her. She fought against her captor, kicking her legs, trying to disengage his hand from her mouth. She managed to get out a half-cry before he stuffed a foul-smelling rag between her lips. Twisting around, she freed one hand and slashed it down his face, her nails raking his skin. Before she could enjoy her triumph, however, something hard smashed down on her head and her world faded to black.


*******

Robert was halfway back to his rooms when he realized he'd left his walking stick at the town house. He debated whether to return for it, or simply fetch it tomorrow, but decided that as the weather was cool, and the fog had yet to engulf the streets, he could use the extra walk. He certainly had no desire to return to his empty rooms and lie in his empty bed, for he knew damn well that sleep would not come. No, all he would think about was her.

And that was the last thing he wanted to think about.

Her and her big golden-brown eyes. And her silky hair. And the teasing hint of her smile. And what appeared to be an utterly lush figure underneath…

Her mourning clothes.

Disgusted with himself, he purposely turned his thoughts to the tasks he planned to perform tomorrow before calling upon her. The visit to his solicitor. Then perhaps a quick stop at his club.

Taking a shortcut, he slipped into the mews behind the row of Park Lane town houses. His footsteps faltered when what sounded like a muffled cry echoed in the air. Before he could decide if the noise had been a sound of passion or one of distress, or even made by a human, he spied a man with a sack flung over his back entering the mews from-he leaned forward and squinted into the darkness-damn it, from what very well could be Austin 's garden. Bloody hell, what was this about?

Keeping to the shadows, he hunched over and ran swiftly through the mews. The man dashed to a waiting hack, tossed his bundle inside, then clambered in himself. The hack instantly took off, moving swiftly into the darkness.

Straightening, Robert took off at a dead run. He arrived at Austin 's gate several seconds later. His lips tightened into a grim line. The gate was ajar. After assuring himself that his knife was secured in his boot, he ran after the hack. When it slowed at the corner, he jumped onto the back.

The hack left the fashionable West End, moving east toward the docks. Robert held on tight, deciding that he would avoid confrontation with the bastard who'd stolen from Austin, if possible, but if it were necessary to pound the bloody piss out of the man to regain Austin 's belongings, he would. And he had his knife should he need it.

The hack led him through a labyrinth of alleys, and he knew they were nearing the docks when the smell of rotting fish filled the air. When the vehicle slowed to a crawl, Robert jumped down, quickly hiding in the shadows cast by the brick buildings, and continued to follow on foot. Several minutes later, the hack drew to a stop. Pressing himself into the darkness, Robert watched the burly man exit the vehicle with the bundle thrown over his shoulder, then disappear between two buildings. The hackney flapped the reins, then moved off. The instant he was gone, Robert emerged from the shadows and swiftly entered the alleyway the burly man had entered.

He saw the man not far ahead of him. It appeared as if something fell out of the man's sack before he disappeared, turning into what looked like a doorway. Robert moved ahead cautiously, straining his senses to see or hear anything besides the distant shouting of men and wailing of infants. Bending down, he picked up the article that had fallen from the man's bundle.

It was a shoe. A woman's black shoe. A frown yanked his brows downward. It looked like Mrs. Brown's shoe! Could that muffled cry he'd heard have been her?

A noise sounded nearby and he froze. Just as he realized the sound came from behind him, something struck him on the back of the head, and then he felt no more.

Chapter 4

Robert came awake slowly, and quickly regretted doing so. He was lying on his side on the hardest, most uncomfortable bed he'd ever had the misfortune to lie upon. And everything hurt. Arms, legs, shoulders… they all ached as if seized by vicious cramps. Except his hands and feet. He couldn't feel them at all. Nor his arse… it seemed as if his buttocks had somehow fallen off.

But his head… bloody hell, if only it had become detached instead. A gang of demons hammered upon his skull with oversized mallets, and he silently vowed to kill the bastards the moment he found the strength to do so. Good God, whatever liquor he'd overindulged in, he'd never touch again.

He remained perfectly still, breathing slowly, willing the swimming feeling in his head to pass. When it had somewhat abated, he gritted his teeth, pried open one eye, then the other. Complete blackness engulfed him. Where the devil was he? His rooms were never this dark. He tried to turn his head, but instantly abandoned the plan when a shaft of white-hot pain shot outward from his skull. A low moan rumbled in his scratchy, dry throat. Snapping his eyes closed, he concentrated on defeating the waves of nausea rolling through him.


After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than a minute, his insides settled and he drew in a cautiously relieved deep breath. His befuddled senses registered the briny odors of seawater and fish, and his stomach again threatened to rebel.

Another groan rumbled in his throat, but he slowly forced his eyes open. It took a moment for his sight to adjust to the darkness. He couldn't discern very much, other than the outlines of what appeared to be stacked crates. And he wasn't lying on a bed at all, but the rough-hewn planks of a wooden floor.

He frowned, then winced as pain ricocheted behind his eyes. Where the hell was he? This dank place was completely unfamiliar. The fishy odor indicated the river, but why and how had he arrived here? forced himself to concentrate, to try and remember. And suddenly he did.

Someone stealing from Austin. Following the culprit. Near the docks. Picking up a shoe. Then feeling no more. Until now… when body parts he hadn't even known he possessed ached and throbbed.

Picking up a shoe…

The cobwebs rapidly cleared from his brain and he drew in a sharp breath. That shoe… it had fallen from the sack slung over the thief's shoulder… and it looked exactly like Mrs. Brown's shoe. A shoe that had most definitely been attached to her foot when he'd left the town house shortly before returning for his walking stick. Which meant that the brigand hadn't stolen candlesticks and silver… he'd stolen Mrs. Brown!

A host of grisly scenarios regarding her fate flashed in his mind, and a film of cold sweat coated his skin. She might be robbed. Or worse. Raped. Murdered… her body dumped into the Thames… or had:she fallen prey to one of the growing number of grisly thieves who sold corpses for medical study? Outrage and something akin to panic pumped through him. He had to find her. Help her. God only knew what horrible circumstance might hav«e already befallen her while he was unconscious. Don't let me be too late… not again.

Spurred to action, he tried to sit up.

And discovered he couldn't move.

It was as if a weight were attached to him, holding him in place. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. To no avail. He attempted to move his arms, and realized the problem. He was bound.

Although his hands and fingers remained numb, it registered with him that the ache in his wrists was caused by the rough rope digging into his skin, and the pain in his shoulders was from having his arms bound behind him. He tried to move his legs. His ankles were as securely bound as his wrists. Looking down, he saw that ropes crisscrossed his chest and torso.

Damn it all! He had to free himself! He redoubled his efforts, and after what seemed like a decade-long struggle, managed to drag himself into a sitting position. Panting, grunting, and sweating, he fought to catch his breath and prayed for his strength to return. What the hell was tied to his back? It felt like the dead weight of a body…

His blood froze. Turning so swiftly his head swam, he tried to peer over his shoulder, but saw nothing save black. At that instant a low moan came from directly behind him. A soft, feminine-sounding moan. He sucked in a much-needed breath and caught a whiff of her elusive scent… that soft flowery fragrance. It had to be her. Had to be. Tied to him, back-to-back. And if she were groaning, she was alive. Hope surged through him.

He wriggled his shoulders. "Mrs. Brown," he said in an urgent whisper. "Can you hear me?"

Another soft groan filled the air and relief nearly rendered him light-headed. Jiggling his shoulders more firmly, he repeated, "Mrs. Brown? 'Tis I, Robert Jamison. Can you hear me? Please, speak to me."

An urgent-sounding voice filtered through Allie's mind, a tide expanding and receding in a deep, echoing cave. Can you hear me? Please… speak to me. Slowly, painfully, she emerged from the black abyss she'd fallen into. She hurt everywhere. Her head felt as if it had exploded and was preparing to erupt again. The world tilted behind her closed eyes, a sickening kaleidoscope of swirling colors that turned her stomach over. Her head fell forward on her limp neck, and sweat blanketed her skin. A long moan rumbled in her dry, sore throat.