Tempted by Pamela Britton Page A

needed air and freedom. He needed light. He needed to be able to move.
    He jerked sideways, but he couldn’t move. Not even an inch. And—devil take it—his feet were bound too. He tried to draw his knees up. That he could do, but it did little good, for his kneecaps came in contact with the lid of what he’d begun to suspect was a coffin sealed tightly shut above him.
    Bloody hell. All right, he was close to panic now. He could admit that. He jerked around in a futile attempt to free himself.
    And suddenly the lid opened, a dawn sky the color of pewter above him, with Mary Callahan momentarily blocking the view.
    “Shh,” she said, making a shushing motion with her finger. As if he could speak. As if he wasn’t lying in a bloody coffin and staring up at the one person in this world he least expected to see.
    She reached in, her hand grabbing his arm in a way that meant he should try to sit up. He was only too happy to oblige, but the moment the blood drained from his head, it left behind a mind-numbing ache that almost made him lie back again. Almost.
    “Hurry,” she hissed at him, her eyes darting around. “They’ll be back any moment.”
    Who?
    She shook her head, pursing her lips in a way that clearly answered back,
not now.
    It was then that he realized his casket was in between other caskets. Mary atop the one to his left, her red hair hanging loose around her, the gown she wore—no, not a gown, a
night shift
?
    Egads.
    The fabric hung open, her breasts nearly spilling out. He blinked twice at those breasts before realizing this was clearly not the time to be having lascivious thoughts about Mrs. Mary Callahan.
    He’d been kidnapped.
    Silly how the thought struck him then. It should have been obvious such was the case long before now. And on the heels of that realization came the realization that he’d interpreted the letter wrong. It was
he
the letter had referred to, not Gabby.
    Gabby.
    His daughter would be frantic.
    “Hurry,” she ordered.
    Devil take it. No time to worry about his daughter now. He lifted himself to his feet, though it was damn hard with his hands tied behind him. Next he tried to move, but he couldn’t because his bloody feet were tied. He almost fell atop her.
    “Careful,” she hissed up at him, her gaze darting around. “And squat down, will you?”
    “Mii feetth rrr tddd,” he tried to tell her.
    “Shhh,” she immediately ordered.
    He looked around for what had her so concerned. They were parked in a thin sort of wood. And yet just beyond the trees, visible through the mossy trunks and branches, was a tiny village. It was early morning, Alex noted. Roosters crowed a welcome to the chilly morning air, the reason for the village’s desertion apparent. Everyone was still abed, only the dogs were awake, judging by the way they barked nearby.
    “Miii feetth rrrr tddd,” he repeated when he spied no kidnappers, nor even a farmer.
    She shook her head, her manner one of lost patience as she stared down at him. “Here,” reaching behind him to jerk the gag off his face.
    “Ouch,” he cried, for she near ripped his nose off, too. “Hop out,” she ordered again.
    “I can’t,” he hissed back, and he could feel where the gag had left a mark on his face. His patience ended. “In case it’s escaped your notice, Mrs. Callahan, my feet are bound. I cannot lift my legs over the edge.”
    She glanced toward the appendages in question. “Bloody hell,” he thought he heard her curse. “Sit down and swing them out.”
    Good thinking. Alex felt miffed he hadn’t thought of it himself. Demme. They must have struck him harder on the head than he’d thought.
    He did exactly as instructed, Mary staying behind to close the casket lid, then replaced the tarp that had obviously been pulled over them.
    “Lean on me,” she said, after he’d hopped down.
Lean on her?
“Devil take it, untie my legs and hands first.”
    “We can’t. There isn’t time.”
    He leaned on her, her