Page 93 of The Devil in Her Bed
Francesca ached for her pistol, but when she’d seen her costume for the night, she’d been chagrined to notice there was nowhere to put it.
That had been by Kenway’s design, she thought. He wanted them all not just naked, but bare. Defenseless. Vulnerable.
However, just because she had no weapons didn’t mean she was helpless.
As the stags focused on Chandler, she took advantage of their underestimation of her as a woman to turn for Kenway. He scurried to the south, away from the tunnels, followed by some of his people, to whom he paid no heed.
Men like him always saved themselves first.
No doubt he planned to escape to another of the portals that led from this cavern. They’d been built to drain water, she imagined, and if Kenway followed them, he would end up exactly where he belonged.
The sewers.
She needed to stop him before he escaped.
When she lunged after him, a burly man rose up from the panicking cultists and made as if to stop her. She drew her arm back to gather power and drove the flat of her hand into his nose, feeling the bone give way beneath the blow.
He collapsed instantly, and she turned back to where Kenway had last been seen.
Chaos had erupted, and two other men in suits had joined the fray, lawmen, it seemed, trained to capture and kill.
They shouted commands as they fought to regain control over the anarchy.
In the distance, whistles pealed, and footsteps echoed like cannon blasts on the granite.
The police!
People were scurrying everywhere, some frantic beasts, others pale-faced and terrified, having divested their masks as they made for the various tunnels.
She couldn’t worry about any of them. She had to get to Kenway. He’d almost disappeared.
Thunderous sounds drove her to her knees. Not cannon blasts, exactly, but deafening in the echoes of the underground. She covered her ears with a cry of distress that was lost in the din.
Strong hands lifted her, and she turned to strike out before she looked to find that Chandler had swept her from the floor and was conducting her—half running, half dragging—toward one of the very tunnels that were now filled with smoke from whatever charges they’d set.
“Kenway.” She pointed to where he’d slithered out, coughing against the smoke.
“Fuck Kenway,” he snarled. “I’m getting you out of here.” He shoved a handkerchief over her nose and, for the second time in their lives, led her through acrid smoke to safety.
The ringing in her ears disoriented her enough to make her stumble, and so Chandler picked her up and carried her through a distressing maze of catacombs. Every time he took a turn, he stomped out a candle that seemed to have been purposely left to illuminate a personal escape route.
He’d always been so endlessly clever.
Eventually, he paused where an ancient-looking passage gave way to a larger, more modern one.
Gas lamps replaced the candles at the far end ofwhat she assumed was the way to an active Underground station that had been locked and gated for the evening.
Which brought up a problem. She was still wearing the sheer robes. Gathering some of her wits, she squirmed to be let down. “Wait. Where are you taking me?”
“Home, where do you think?”
She was able to go slack enough to squirm to the ground, but there was no escaping his viselike grip. “But Kenway. We have to go back. What if he escapes?”
He turned on her, his expression one she’d never seen before. “You were not supposed to be here,” he thundered before forging ahead, still dragging her in his wake.
“Wait,” She tugged against his grip.
“I cannot imagine what possessed you,” he puzzled furiously, as if to himself. “How did you even find out?”
