Of course, that was my mistake. Mrs. MacGregor had no horse in the race, as it were. She was simply toying with us, whilst my own emotions were very much engaged. That enabled her to step back and judge where her next blows might best be placed for the maximum impact with the least effort.
She doubled up her fist, the key gripped in her palm, and bent, pushing from the knees like any boxer of merit might have done. She hit me once, in the stomach, driving the wind from my lungs. I doubled over, twisting to avoid the next punch, but she had anticipated this and swung her fist in an expert arc, catching me neatly in the kidney. I dropped to my knees, whooping for air even as my hand grasped a bit of the slack chain.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, stepping back smartly out of reach. “Sit down and mind your manners,” she advised. “I do not think I will have Göran bring you any supper after all. You can eat when your gentleman friend does. If I choose to leave you any teeth,” she added, snapping hers at me for good measure.
She left then, the imprint of my hand standing out bright red against the pale olive of her complexion. It was a small satisfaction.
CHAPTER
25
The next few hours passed as slowly as any I have endured. I marked the passage of time by the candle as it burned away. The air in the room was close and warm, and I began to wonder idly about suffocation. But by peering at the coal doors, I could just make out slender gaps between the boards through which the setting sun drove the last rays of light, and if light could enter, so could air. It was long after these gilded bars had faded to blackness that the door opened once more. I had tortured myself with thoughts of what Mrs. MacGregor and the taciturn Göran might be doing to Stoker, particularly in view of my intemperate provocations. I had failed to consider the woman might revenge herself upon Stoker, but the fact that she knew him to be dear to me would make him a perfect target for her ire.
I do not know how long I remained alone, but it required considerable discipline to keep my thoughts productive. I slipped once or twice into elaborate fantasies involving the many and comprehensive ways I could employ to inflict pain upon Harry Spenlove should our paths ever cross again, and this greatly cheered me when the hours dragged on.
I was just imagining him tied to a roasting spit, being turned in front of a merry blaze, basted in oils, a plump and juicy apple in his mouth, when the door opened. I expected Stoker, battered and bloody, but instead, Mrs. MacGregor stood in the doorway, dressed in an entirely different ensemble to the traveling costume she had worn before. As it happened, I had been quite correct about crimson suiting her complexion. She fairly glowed from the richness of the scarlet velvet against her skin—a good deal of which was on display. The garment she wore was a sort of wrapper or dressing gown, edged with lavish plumes of feathers dyed to match the velvet. It was cut far lower than decency would permit any garment to be cut, and the skirt was likewise split to her hip. Her hair was unbound, waving in a dark cloud to her waist, and I could smell even at a distance her fragrance—something musky and almost feral.
“I thought I would come to see how you are,” she said in a conversational tone. A small, knowing smile played about her lips. She looked entirely pleased with herself, sleek as a cream-fed cat, and when she moved into the room, she fairly undulated.
“I find the accommodations perfectly acceptable,” I assured her. “Although if you mean to make a habit of this sort of thing, you really must find some rats. All of the best dungeons, however makeshift, have rats.”
She laughed, a rich, mellow sound. “Do you know, Miss Speedwell, I think if we had met under different circumstances, I might have liked you. Or perhaps I would still want to break your fingers one by one, who can say?”
“The feeling, Mrs. MacGregor, is entirely mutual,” I replied.
She came near, circling the column to which I was bound, running her hands up the chains. “I am glad to see you haven’t been misbehaving,” she said, looking over the iron cuffs at my wrists and ankles. “Not even a scratch from a hairpin. No obvious attempts to escape. What a biddable and obedient little prisoner you are!”
Still grasping the chains, she leant near, putting her face close to mine. Her lips were rosy and plump, her eyes bright. “I must congratulate you, Miss Speedwell, on your choice of companions.”
“Harry Spenlove is no companion of mine,” I retorted. She smiled.
“I meant Mr. Templeton-Vane,” she said. She leant closer still. “So few men have mouths that taste of honey.” Her mouth hovered near mine. “Can you smell him upon my breath?”
I sighed. “No, but your perfume is giving me a dreadful headache. If you could step back just a little,” I urged.
She blinked, then laughed. “Oh, you think I am jesting.” She edged aside the ruffled neckline of her gown, baring her throat to reveal a broad, plummy bruise.
“Do you recognize his handiwork?”
“Yes,” I told her truthfully. “He is an enthusiastic practitioner of the osculatory arts.”
“Not at first, if I am honest,” she told me in a confiding tone. “He put up such a lovely struggle against kissing me back. But one is always at an advantage with well-bred gentlemen. That early training to be polite to a lady is difficult for them to resist, especially when the natural impulses are roused. In my experience, a direct approach is the most effective. They simply cannot find it in themselves to protest when an attractive woman puts her tongue into their mouths.”
“I do not imagine such situations are often found on the syllabus at Eton,” I agreed.
She smiled again, shaking her head. “He is such a delectable study in contrasts. The tattoos and the earring, the work-roughened hands—they suggest a certain coarseness. But the speaking voice! Such elegant diction in those deep tones of his. It sends a shiver down the spine. And the deftness of those hands . . .” She trailed off dreamily, but she watched me closely.
I yawned a little and she darted a hand in to rattle one of my chains. “Am I boring you? It is hardly sporting of me to keep you chained up like a little pet bird, is it?” She delved a hand into her cleavage and extracted a key. With a quick twist of the wrist, she unlocked one of the cuffs. It fell to the stone floor with a clatter.
“You know,” she said in a conversational tone, “you are exactly the sort of woman Harry Spenlove might find diverting. There is something unusual about you, Miss Speedwell. I heard you were a lady scientist and expected something quite . . . different,” she told me, her full lips curving into a smile. “So, I wonder, did Harry ever misbehave himself with you? You can tell me. It is, after all, just us ladies.”
I rubbed at my chafed wrist with my other hand. It was still bound by its iron cuff; Mrs. MacGregor might claim she wanted to be sporting, but she was not stupid enough to set me free entirely.