tug her forward before he could get the stubborn girl to move. A footman was waiting outside the door with a branch of candles. He preceded them, lighting their way to the storerooms behind the kitchen. He unlocked the vegetable larder door and handed the key to Lewis before stepping out of the way. Lewis waved Sara forward.
"There's no window," he said, "and nothing you can steal. This should suit."
Sara let out an audible gulp as she peered into the narrow, dark room. "You want me to sleep in there?"
From her horrified tone, one would have thought he was throwing her into the mouth of hell. "Can't have the likes of you spoiling my father's bed linen, can we?" he said jokingly.
He pushed her inside and slammed the door before she could scamper back out.
"Toma!" she called to him. He locked the door.
The footman chuckled at her panicked cry, but Lewis walked silently away.
******************
He poured her a basin of water in the kitchen so she could wash the tearstains off her face. She looked pathetic, which was just what he'd intended, broken to his command. It was not a pleasant sight.
He did not relish having to spend the next few months in the girl's cowed company. He'd had to summon up every bit of cold resolve he could manage before facing his prisoner. He had to keep reminding himself that she was a thief, and getting off far better than she deserved.
It was just after dawn of what promised to be another hot day. Lewis had not had a pleasant night's rest. He was anxious to be away before his father rose, cup-shot and foul tempered as usual.
"Sleep well?" he asked his prisoner as she dried her face with a dishcloth. Sara flashed him a look of pure hatred. The force of it was enough to send him back a step. "Not too cowed, I see. Perhaps your company won't prove boring, after all."
"Drop dead."
She hadn't slept at all. The room had been stifling hot, airless, the darkness frequently stirred by the sound of rodents. She'd spent a lot of time crying, which made her feel weak and stupid. Lewis and his father's casually bigoted comments kept replaying themselves in her mind, keeping her very unpleasant company. She'd emerged from the storeroom in no mood to put up with anything from Lewis Morgan.
She stretched tiredly. "I want to be home," she said, more to herself or the ring than her smirking companion. "In a hot bath, listening to Richie Sambora. I cannot put up with a year of this."
Lewis grabbed her arms and pulled her to him. He wasn't a large man, but she was much shorter. He loomed over her. He looked coolly angry and dangerous. "Richie who?"
"What do you mean, Richie—" He shook her. "The guitarist with Bon Jovi," she explained hastily. "I really love his solo albu—"
"Is he your lover?"
Sara couldn't keep from laughing. "Don't I wish." She saw instantly that she'd given the wrong answer.
Her captor looked so angry that for a moment she was afraid he was going to hit her. Then his expression shifted from anger to contempt. Contempt she could deal with. "My fantasy life is none of your business," she told him. "He's a musician I listen to."
"Spends much time in your tent, does he? While you bathe?"
"I've never met the man. What is your problem? Jealous?"
He dropped his .hands so fast he might have been burned. He gave her a smile she would have found charming yesterday. "There's no man in your life but me from now on, darling." He reached out again, taking her by the hand this time. "Let's go, while there's no one on the streets who might recognize me."
He was dressed in his gypsy clothes, back playing Toma again.
"Go where?" she asked, following him out the door.
They were well away from Philipston House before he answered. "Back to your aunt's. She'll be worried about you."
He sounded amused about Aunt Molly being worried, but Sara didn't want to explore the subject of upper class humor. She didn't particularly want to talk to him at all, but there was so much she wanted to know. A
"There's no window," he said, "and nothing you can steal. This should suit."
Sara let out an audible gulp as she peered into the narrow, dark room. "You want me to sleep in there?"
From her horrified tone, one would have thought he was throwing her into the mouth of hell. "Can't have the likes of you spoiling my father's bed linen, can we?" he said jokingly.
He pushed her inside and slammed the door before she could scamper back out.
"Toma!" she called to him. He locked the door.
The footman chuckled at her panicked cry, but Lewis walked silently away.
******************
He poured her a basin of water in the kitchen so she could wash the tearstains off her face. She looked pathetic, which was just what he'd intended, broken to his command. It was not a pleasant sight.
He did not relish having to spend the next few months in the girl's cowed company. He'd had to summon up every bit of cold resolve he could manage before facing his prisoner. He had to keep reminding himself that she was a thief, and getting off far better than she deserved.
It was just after dawn of what promised to be another hot day. Lewis had not had a pleasant night's rest. He was anxious to be away before his father rose, cup-shot and foul tempered as usual.
"Sleep well?" he asked his prisoner as she dried her face with a dishcloth. Sara flashed him a look of pure hatred. The force of it was enough to send him back a step. "Not too cowed, I see. Perhaps your company won't prove boring, after all."
"Drop dead."
She hadn't slept at all. The room had been stifling hot, airless, the darkness frequently stirred by the sound of rodents. She'd spent a lot of time crying, which made her feel weak and stupid. Lewis and his father's casually bigoted comments kept replaying themselves in her mind, keeping her very unpleasant company. She'd emerged from the storeroom in no mood to put up with anything from Lewis Morgan.
She stretched tiredly. "I want to be home," she said, more to herself or the ring than her smirking companion. "In a hot bath, listening to Richie Sambora. I cannot put up with a year of this."
Lewis grabbed her arms and pulled her to him. He wasn't a large man, but she was much shorter. He loomed over her. He looked coolly angry and dangerous. "Richie who?"
"What do you mean, Richie—" He shook her. "The guitarist with Bon Jovi," she explained hastily. "I really love his solo albu—"
"Is he your lover?"
Sara couldn't keep from laughing. "Don't I wish." She saw instantly that she'd given the wrong answer.
Her captor looked so angry that for a moment she was afraid he was going to hit her. Then his expression shifted from anger to contempt. Contempt she could deal with. "My fantasy life is none of your business," she told him. "He's a musician I listen to."
"Spends much time in your tent, does he? While you bathe?"
"I've never met the man. What is your problem? Jealous?"
He dropped his .hands so fast he might have been burned. He gave her a smile she would have found charming yesterday. "There's no man in your life but me from now on, darling." He reached out again, taking her by the hand this time. "Let's go, while there's no one on the streets who might recognize me."
He was dressed in his gypsy clothes, back playing Toma again.
"Go where?" she asked, following him out the door.
They were well away from Philipston House before he answered. "Back to your aunt's. She'll be worried about you."
He sounded amused about Aunt Molly being worried, but Sara didn't want to explore the subject of upper class humor. She didn't particularly want to talk to him at all, but there was so much she wanted to know. A
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