Fires of Delight

By Vanessa Royall

A proud princess of ancient Scotland and a ruthless privateer continue their romance in this sequel to Flames of Desire.

From the Scottish moors to the shores of a new world, they fought for freedom and love...

Selena MacPherson is a beautiful rebel who was exiled from her native land. She swore to avenge her father's death at the hands of the British.

Royce Campbell is a bold privateer, scion of a fabled Highland clan. He would stop at nothing to bring the hated monarchy to its knees.

From a New York prison to a sensual nightmare of sorcery in Haiti to the streets of Paris ablaze with the flames of revolution, they were destined to cheat death and share a dangerous passion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626814141

Book preview

Escape into Danger

Selena MacPherson’s cell in the Battery fortress was eight feet wide, six feet deep, and just about six feet from damp stone floor to dripping stone ceiling. If she stood on tiptoe, the top of her head came within a few inches of the mortar-chinked rocks. Moisture seeped slowly through the walls too—the cell was below water level in New York harbor—coating the stones with a dewlike film. With a fingertip, she traced the American revolutionary motto, Don’t tread on me! The brave words stood out clearly for a moment, but then the constantly seeping dampness oozed forth to blot them out.

Selena, cold, wet, and alone, was waiting to be interrogated by British Lieutenant Clay Oakley on suspicion that she had aided and abetted the cause of the revolution and the armies of George Washington in their war to throw off the colonial yoke.

Oakley’s suspicion was well-founded.

You are never defeated unless you believe it, said Selena aloud, steeling herself against the coming ordeal with the favorite expression of her beloved Royce Campbell. Oakley was sure to question her about Royce, who had won dashing reputation and a small fortune running guns and ammunition through the British naval blockade to Washington and his men. She and Royce were both exiles from their native Scotland, she a nobleman’s daughter, he a scion of the fabled Highlands clan. In the eyes of the government of His Majesty, George III, they were less than outlaws. Selena had seen likenesses of herself on handbills affixed to the walls of New York. DEAD OR ALIVE, these notices proclaimed. ONE THOUSAND POUND STERLING REWARD!

Quite an honor, indeed, for a young woman who had fled Scotland years before, penniless and condemned, her father dead at the hands of a crown assassin, her ancestral home, Coldstream Castle, seized by the English monarch.

My enemies make me strong, she murmured in self-encouragement. Because of the fate that had befallen her father and family, she had come to detest all hereditary monarchs with a pure, savage fire, a peerless, driving emotion which had drawn her instinctively toward the Colonial cause.

And which had landed her, now, in a British dungeon.

An iron door clanged open at the far end of the taper-lit corridor outside her cell, hurried footsteps sounded on the stones, and Lance Corporal Phineas Bonwit appeared outside Selena’s iron-barred door. A grinning, towheaded Yorkshire lout, he brought her thrice-daily rations of black bread and barley porridge, and escorted her for an hour each afternoon to the walled-in cubicle known as the exercise yard, where he alternately leered and ogled as she trudged back and forth in her gray, sacklike prison garment.

The lieutenant’s a’ready t’ go t’ work on ye now, missy, Bonwit said, in the thick accents of his homeland. Pray put on this blindfold, eh? I’ll have t’ be takin’ ye to ’im.

He unlocked her cell door and handed her a stinking strip of coarse woolen cloth, which she reluctantly placed over her eyes and tied behind her head, cringing inwardly as she did so. She had been permitted only one visitor thus far, a charitable churchwoman given to calling upon the ill and imprisoned, and who had left Selena a small chunk of lye soap, a towel, and—wonder of wonders—a brush that the prisoner had used to groom her long, shining blond hair. Those locks were made for tiaras, not rags, but Selena had already known the best and the worst of life. She’d learned how to endure degradation without relinquishing a belief in a better life, a better time for which—she was sure—all humans yearned. Even Corporal Bonwit, who now grasped her elbow, propelling her forcefully into the darkness. If there is a way to rescue me, she thought, Royce will find it. Had he not, in the past, fashioned a hundred ploys and ruses with which to outfox the clever British? Had he not, more than once, cheated death itself?

Yet this hope brought small warmth and less succor. Even if Royce guessed that Oakley had brought her to the Battery fortress, he would have to cross water in order to reach her, scale stone walls, overpower dozens of English guards and—still more difficult—find her cell. She didn’t even know exactly where in the vast stronghold she was being kept: the blindfold, always worn outside her cell, prevented any chance of her getting her bearings.

Word t’ the wise, missy, offered the corporal as he pushed her along, best t’ tell Lieutenant Oakley what he wants t’ know right off. Save y’self the sufferin’ an’ the pain. Nobody can beat it anyway. They all talk in the end. I seen it happen time an’ again with my very own eyes.

I shall tell him nothing, vowed Selena, with an attempt at bravery that was not totally reassuring. Because of her association with Royce and, through him, with revolutionary espionage in New York, she knew a great deal of information that Oakley would find valuable. The problem was that she did not know what he knew, or what had been happening in the outside world since her arrest.

It was incredible how suddenly the borders of her world had changed. Having received word through a friend, New York businessman Gilbertus Penrod, that Oakley’s agents were on their trail, she and Royce had slipped out of the city and fled on horseback to Jamaica Bay on the south coast of Long Island. There Royce’s great black ship, the Selena, rode at anchor, with its majestic, towering masts, its three tier of cannon that had as much firepower as any ship in the British navy, and, atop the mainmast, that cavalier swath of Campbell plaid, Royce’s flag. But just as Selena and her betrothed had reached the water’s edge, urging their mounts into the cold surf, they had been attacked, set upon and separated, by Oakley’s dragoons. Selena had last glimpsed Royce clinging to the boarding ladder of his ship, one arm stretched out to her, in promise more than in farewell, his face a mask of horror and disbelief.

Until we meet again, she vowed, fighting back tears of loss behind the blindfold. She could not now permit herself to remember his long, hard body, nor how it had felt to hold him, to know his limitless stallion’s power. And she would weaken, too, if she thought now of his touch upon her, or of her fingers on him, on his body or tangled at midnight in his black, wild hair. The magic of the emotions he evoked would forever be mysterious: how his dark, unyielding eyes so quickly softened when she gave herself to him, how tender were the kisses of his strong, almost arrogant mouth.

Selena could not let herself think of those wonders, so instead, despite the blindfold, she concentrated, counting her steps, remembering the sensations of this passage through darkness. Sudden perceptions of empty air beside her meant that she was being taken past other cells along the corridor. She counted eight of these before she and Bonwit reached the iron door. She knew that there were other prisoners in the fortress with her, but conversation was forbidden under pain of the lash. Then the corporal turned her toward the left. Twenty-four steps. Up a staircase, thirteen steps. Straight ahead for a hundred and ten paces, then up another flight of stairs. She smelled sea air and sensed natural light rather than the torches of the corridor. Bonwit hurried her along now, fifty paces, maybe a few more. He stopped her, swung open a door, and pushed her, not urgently, into a room.

Here she be, Lieutenant, Bonwit said obsequiously, just as ye ordered. Ye wish me t’ remain?

No. The voice was deep and resonant, but cold as ice. No, just remove her blindfold and withdraw.

Bonwit did as he was commanded. Selena blinked in the sudden light and stifled a gasp. She had heard much about Lieutenant Clay Oakley, chief of British military intelligence in America, had heard of his cunning and cruelty and fanatical devotion to his monarch. But the sight of the man was even more disconcerting, and she understood why he usually remained out of sight, acting through his network of agents. His head was abnormally large, an effect enhanced by total baldness, although he could not have been more than thirty years old. She wondered momentarily if he had been in a fire, because he had neither eyebrows nor lashes. Large, colorless, frightening eyes studied her as she stared at him, and his unusually small mouth twisted strangely beneath a bushy red mustache that appeared to be pasted onto his upper lip. She realized that he was smiling.

You look startled, Selena, he said, addressing her in a parody of courteous familiarity, his voice at once limpid and quietly terrifying. Don’t be. I know you are partial to a man with a visage more appealing to the female eye, but I think you may find me worthy in other respects.

Oakley was seated at a small writing table on which Selena spied a stack of blank, cream-colored parchment, several quill pens laid in a neat row, and a small glass fountain of India-blue ink. Slowly, deliberately, as if he were enjoying himself, the lieutenant stood up so that she could take a closer look at him. He was not overly tall, perhaps six feet without the thick-heeled boots he wore, but his body was massive. His shoulders bulged beneath the fine fabric of his red-coated officer’s uniform with its fringed epaulets and gold braid. His waist tapered to a wide, black shining leather belt. And the muscles of his powerful thighs bulged alarmingly in tight white breeches.

You do not know the man who can best me, he said, again with that tiny, twisted smile.

The two of them stood there facing each other, the slim, fair young woman, whose wide, slightly slanted violet eyes could not hide a hint of defiance even under these circumstances, and the seemingly self-assured officer whose strength was as apparent as the brutal intelligence flickering in his immense eyes. Those eyes, and the mind behind them, would not miss much, if anything. Selena could not imagine a more intimidating interrogator.

She was puzzled, however. This room was no torture chamber. The only furnishings were Oakley’s table and chair. A large, rectangular skylight admitted flooding warmth and shafts of sunlight that sparkled on the highly polished oaken floor. The walls were hung with—she counted quickly—about twenty fine, framed paintings and portraits, among which she recognized the small-eyed, heavily jowled visage of George III. The paintings, mainly English landscapes and hunting scenes, were reverently, beautifully done, soft-hued and evocative. Clearly the artist loved England as much as she herself appreciated the sere, stark moors of her homeland and the wild Highlands that rolled on to the north.

I see that you have an eye for good art, Oakley said, not without respect. I accept the compliment of your interest.

You have chosen the work of good artists.

Thank you once again, Oakley said. I am the artist.

Astonished, Selena glanced once again at the massed paintings. This time she noted, too, the nature of the wall on which they hung, grainy and soft-looking. Cork! she realized. How unusual!

Then Oakley sagged into his chair and withdrew from his pocket a handkerchief of white silk, inhaling from it. Selena caught the strong scent of an astringent eau-de-cologne and she understood. This huge beast into whose clutches she had fallen had some sort of respiratory ailment. Cork was believed to filter the air; cologne was considered a specific in cases of asthma.

Indeed, the mere effort of standing for a moment seemed to have affected the officer. Let us proceed, he said, wheezing slightly and dipping a quill point into the fountain of ink. Preparing to write, he fixed her with a merciless, baleful stare. Today we shall have but a preliminary interrogation. I abjure you to answer my questions with the utmost truth. Your answers will be examined diligently for their veracity. If I find that you have lied or engaged in conscious obfuscation, we shall have a second appointment tomorrow morning in far less pleasant surroundings, the walls of which will be equipped not to enhance my comfort but to mute your screams.

Selena started. He meant every word of it. This strange man, who respected beauty but who was himself so ugly in feature, held his life in a balance of frigid intellect and private passion, characteristics of the most remorseless fanatic. Oakley combined the disparate aspects of beauty and beast.

Your name? he asked quietly.

Selena gave it and he wrote it down.

There followed a series of colorless questions as the lieutenant sought the basic facts of Selena’s life. Even as she answered, she was trying to prepare herself for the dangerous questions that were sure to come. Once, while taking her to the exercise yard, Corporal Bonwit had said something about heading home soon. Had he meant returning to England? And if so, did that mean the British were winning the war? Or losing it?

Now, he said, lifting his eyes from the parchment and looking at her, is it not true that your father, Lord Seamus MacPherson, was executed for treason against His Majesty?

No. He was assassinated. By an agent of military intelligence. Like you.

The memory of her father’s death was burned into every fiber of Selena’s being; she would carry it with her beyond the grave. The two of them, father and daughter, had fled Coldstream Castle one step ahead of Darius McGrover, special agent to the King. They had found refuge in a stone hut in far-off Kinlochbervie, a fishing village on the coast of northern Scotland by the tumbling seas of the North Minch. But McGrover pursued them there. And Selena had been forced to watch, bound and gagged, while her father’s throat was cut.

Ah! replied Oakley, with his fey smile. You are referring to my predecessor here in America. And wasn’t his body recently found near the luxurious Battery Park home you shared until recently with your former husband, Lord Sean Bloodwell?

Selena fought for control of her emotions. Oakley’s question upset her in several ways. First, it was she who had killed McGrover, avenging her father’s death by severing the assassin’s windpipe in the cellar of her own home and watching the frothy black blood of his evil life bubble away. Although she called it vengeance, the law had other eyes. Second, mere mention of Sean’s name was painful to her. She had married him years earlier, after hearing news that Royce Campbell was dead. And she had grown to love Sean too. But Royce’s reappearance, alive and well in America, had changed everything. Sean had sensed it, saw it, and permitted her to go. He had always known of her depthless, awesome bond to the Highlands warrior, had understood with the grace of his clear mind and honest heart that fettered love led to nothing but unhappiness. Finally, Sean had been a Loyalist, devoted to king and crown, in reward for which he had been elevated to the peerage. Their lives had taken startlingly different paths, which Selena simultaneously accepted and regretted, because theirs had been a genuine affection.

I am waiting for your answer, Selena, Oakley said, pressing the silk handkerchief to his shapeless fold of a nose.

I don’t know anything of McGrover’s fate, she replied, except that if he is truly dead I am not sorry.

Oakley laughed, a liquid, gurgling sound. We shall, in time, learn what you know. Truth has a way of surfacing. Tell me, how does it feel to know your former husband possesses the legitimacy and honor you yourself so deeply covet?

The man had an uncanny knack for sensing weakness! More than anything except Royce, Selena desired to reclaim Coldstream Castle, her rightful home. On countless nights she had dreamed of the as yet unimaginable day on which she would ride into the hills of her beloved Scotland, see great bonfires of greeting blazing on those hills, see Coldstream looming on the cliffs above the North Sea. And there were times beyond number when she had thrilled to think of herself riding through the castle’s mighty gate, beneath the keystone in the arch that read Anno Domini 1152, with her people cheering all around. Someday, somehow, she and Royce would return to Scotland in triumph, but that time seemed far away, a glimmering wisp of hope to a prisoner in a fortress in America.

You are never defeated unless you believe it, she thought once again. I am glad for Lord Bloodwell, she said. He has won his heart’s desire, and he deserves it.

"And what is your heart’s desire, my fine young lady? A man? A castle? Is that all? You disappoint me. In time, the man will die. So will you. In time, the strongest bastion will crumble into dust. Even those paintings that I have created will some day fade and wither. No, a person like you must be driven by something more, by something timeless. Or am I overestimating you?"

What I want you could not give.

Tell me, and we shall see.

Freedom, Selena said.

For yourself? That is easy. Just answer certain questions of a military nature that I am about to put to you now, and in no time you will be walking the streets of the city, free as air, and dressed in garments more suited to your beauty than those rags you have on—

I do not mean freedom for myself, she interrupted, but for this country, and for the people in every nation who struggle against tyrants!

Selena spoke heatedly. She thought that Oakley would be angry. Instead, he simply shrugged and gave her a look that he probably meant to be understanding and indulgent. "You are very young. Your tyranny is my freedom and vice versa. I seek a world in which I am at liberty to honor my king and strengthen his empire. You and your bloody ilk would deny me such liberty. Thus I must crush your petty idea of freedom in the cause of a greater and more noble good."

Who are you to say?

He smiled. Because I sit here backed by the greatest empire the world has ever known, and you stand before me in a filthy dress.

Your men took away my clothes—

I’ll rip that dress off your back too, if you’re not careful. Enough of this. He took up the quill again and dipped it expertly into the inkwell. Where is General Washington going to attack? he asked suddenly. New York or Yorktown?

Too late, Selena understood that Oakley had been distracting her until now with questions and conversation of a vaguer nature. The dangerous part of this confrontation had come abruptly, and she was off-guard.

I don’t know what you mean, she replied, stalling for time as he gelid eyes bored into her.

Lie to me like this tomorrow, he snapped, and before you have time to take a breath I will scar you for life from temple to jaw!

Disfigurement. Selena felt a wave of nausea pass through her, and realized how long she had been-standing there. Her legs were beginning to ache; a hot flush of fear brought beads of nervous perspiration to naked skin beneath the clammy dress. Lieutenant Oakley knew exactly where and how to strike. Selena had imagined the prospect of pain, but not mutilation…

Naturally, said the interrogator soothingly, a woman as lovely as you will want to protect her appearance. One never knows how a man like Campbell would feel about bedding a hideous wreck of flesh…

He let his voice trail off ominously. Selena suppressed a shudder.

Let me make this a bit easier for you, Oakley said. I know that the French Count Rochambeau and his army are in Newport. I know that Washington and his men are north of here, in White Plains, New York. They will shortly join forces, ten thousand men in all. With that number, they could dislodge us from New York. But that would be but a partial victory. Our main battle force, under General Cornwallis, is in Yorktown, Virginia, along the Chesapeake—

Selena nodded. She knew all this. Royce had told her.

—and defeating Cornwallis, Oakley continued, would in effect bring an end to the war. But to attack Yorktown, Washington must cover a great distance. Besides which Cornwallis has a fleet in the Chesapeake Bay to support him. It would be stupid, even suicidal, for Washington to attack Yorktown without naval support of his own, and we have learned the hard way that the Virginian is neither stupid nor self-destructive.

At least you have learned something, replied Selena, managing a show of bravery.

Why did your renegade lover journey to Haiti earlier this year? Oakley pressed, leaning forward and glowering.

He’s guessed! Selena realized frantically. Royce had gone to Haiti as a messenger from George Washington to the French Comte de Grasse, who had anchored his fleet there awaiting instructions. France, even though under the burden of a monarchy that was in many ways even more oppressive than that of Great Britain, was striking at the English by supporting the colonial upstarts. And at this very moment, Selena knew, de Grasse was sailing northward to aid Washington in what was hoped would be the final battle in the war for American independence.

At Yorktown!

Royce Campbell is a sailor, said Selena. That’s all.

Hah! He is a gunrunner, a smuggler, a complete opportunist—

He is not! Selena cried.

Yet once—it was true—he had been. Selena admitted it to herself. The Royce Campbell she had first known would not have troubled himself for one second over the outcome of a political struggle, let alone an enterprise without the two elements he cherished most: high adventure and monetary gain, not necessarily in that order.

She believed that her dedication, her conviction, her own unyielding spirit had changed and gentled him.

She remembered the Christmas ball in Edinburgh at which they had first met, Selena just seventeen. He had stepped out of the shadows at the edges of the vast ballroom and asked to be her partner in the Highland fling, a tall, lean, broad-shouldered animal of a man whose black-velvet dress coat and diamond-pinned cravat seemed out of place beneath a rugged visage and peremptory eyes. The fling was wild, as always, and the ever-strange, haunting whine of the bagpipes underscored the pace of the dance. About them, dancers shouted and leaped, whirled and spun. Selena had never felt as free, nor danced as well. All around the ballroom, dancers flashed and twirled, and when it came time for her and Royce to take their places in the circle, they had already become strangely mesmerized by motion and music, caught up in a dark attraction that was more than dance, more even than the physical magnet of their opposite natures.

Look at them, someone shouted, as she and Royce Campbell danced toward then away from each other in the leaping steps of the fling. Selena felt the blood pumping from her heart, her lungs aching for air, but it was glorious. Her golden hair was flying, her body too, and her very soul screamed for joy.

Royce had danced wonderfully too, with never a wasted motion, all economy and grace and style. And all about him, like an aura, was the glitter of the Campbell legend, of men who were more than mere men, of the timeless, moody penumbra of the Highlands. The Campbells were ready in the day, ready in the night, always ready for love or gold or glory. And if the wildest of them all had chosen her for this dance, what else might he have in mind?

The music pounded on and finally dancers began to drop out from exhaustion, but she and Royce kept on, the audience shouting encouragement, clapping time. Her lungs were shrieking now, and every muscle in her legs begged for mercy. But if he could go on,, so could she. That is it, she had thought. We are both thoroughbreds. We are the best.

Afterwards, he had led her out onto a balcony overlooking the North Sea. There, with the aurora borealis blazing in the enchanted winter sky, they clung to each other in the cold wind, and he kissed her for the first time. It had been the beginning of everything, of a love—she was sure—that not even death would be powerful enough to end…

And Selena believed that she had changed him, not by curbing or taming the seignorial impulses of his matchless nature, but by using her love to evoke the compassion that had lain dormant in his heart until they met.

Was she wrong?

Lieutenant Oakley certainly thought so. How much do you really know about this lover of yours? he asked sarcastically, smoothing the feathers of a quill pen. Did he ever tell you that an agent of mine approached him to spy for us?

No, that’s not true!

Yes, it is. It is true, my dear. And do you know how he responded? He said that we could not afford to pay him as much as the Colonials. That was, unfortunately, true. Lord North and His Majesty are men of economy.

Selena was about to reply that Royce accepted only expense money for his efforts—even General Washington was paid expense money by the Continental Congress—but then she saw the trap. Admitting such a thing would prove to Oakley that Royce was in the employ of the American revolutionaries. She bit her lip and said nothing.

Why did Campbell go to Haiti? her interrogator persisted. Will Washington attack New York or along the Chesapeake?

I don’t know.

Oakley let the silence linger. He pulled a chubby gold watch from his coat pocket and looked at it. Time runs short, he said. "You know, Selena, I had intended to verify your answers by questioning other prisoners before I conversed with you again. I am not a man who enjoys inflicting pain, and until one has a feeling for the habits and intelligence of a witness, torture is inadvisable. The victim will say anything to mislead the interrogator and to avoid agony. That is not good, and the subsequent information is often unreliable. But I think that you are lying through your pretty teeth."

He fixed her with his awful stare. Would you lie with no teeth at all?

I am not lying, replied Selena, her mouth dry. The muscles in her legs were screaming. She tried hard not to sway.

Corporal Bonwit! Oakley called loudly.

The door swung open and Bonwit appeared. At y’ suvvice, sir!

Take the prisoner to the Room of Doom. She has been particularly uncooperative, and events compel me to accelerate the procedure.

No, gasped Selena, in spite of an effort to maintain her composure.

Ah! Oakley smiled. You wish to answer my questions, do you?

I know nothing, Selena said, faltering.

Selena, Selena. Is there not a bond between us? We both respond to beauty. Why can we not share a love of truth as well? You cannot elude me, you cannot evade me. I shall pursue you, as it were, down all the corridors of time. Once you feel the bite of the whip, our union shall be consummated. I had wished it to be a bond of understanding, not of pain. But—

Oakley let his voice trail off. So be it, he said, lifting a hand languidly and letting it fall. Corporal, ready the prisoner for what she has chosen. I shall join you in a moment.

Why couldn’t y’ ’ave told ’im what ’e wanted t’ know? whined the corporal, as he led Selena from the room. I’ll ’ave t’ be there t’ take down your answers, an’ the wails an’ the cries turn m’ bowels all t’ mush.

Afraid herself and preparing for the worst, Selena still retained the wit to notice that Bonwit was genuinely upset. He had even forgotten to force the blindfold upon her. They walked in the open air. She saw the low buildings of New York spread out along the harbor, and the great houses along the Battery, one of which had been her own such a short time ago. (Sean Bloodwell had risen quickly in America, had become a prosperous merchant before his elevation to the British nobility.) The sun was large in the sky, gloriously warm, but falling across the plains of New Jersey to the west. It would soon be evening.

Y’ know, I…I take a likin’ to ye, Selena, Bonwit babbled. If there be some way I could get ye out of this…

Unlikely. Selena looked over the battlements of the fortress. She was about forty feet above the waters of New York Harbor, and it was at least fifty yards from the fortress to the piers along the shore. Quite a dive. Quite a swim. Broad daylight.

But she could attempt it.

If you were to turn away for a moment— she suggested.

The corporal shook his head. No kin do, missy, no kin do. Or it’ll be me a’screamin’ in the Room of Doom. Why couldn’t ye ’ave just told ’im what he wanted t’ know?

Loyalty, thought Selena. Loyalty to a cause, and to the people who served that cause. But loyalty is a double-edged sword, and she understood that Bonwit had his own neck to think about. Just before he guided her through a stone gateway, back into the gloomy interior of the fortress, she saw a small rowboat approaching the prison. It was filled with red-coated soldiers. They seemed excited, enjoying themselves, and she thought for a fleeting instant how wonderful it would be to be free again.

They passed down a long flight of flagstone steps and walked along a stony corridor, lit gloomily by waning torches in rusty sconces attached to the dripping walls. Selena’s mind was racing. I could tell Oakley that I don’t know anything, she thought, and stick to it—if I can—until he tires of me. Or I can hold out as long as possible, and then confess that Washington plans to attack New York…Oh, God, Royce, where are you? Think of something, Selena. Think of something to distract your body when the pain begins. Yes, think of Royce, of holding him again…

Oakley’s accusation that Royce was nothing but an opportunist niggled at the back of her mind. The lieutenant was deucedly clever. He knew how to attack the very foundation of personal assurance, which is faith. Strength may come from faith in a god, an idea, a nation, or a person. But when one is alone and endangered, thoughts for the safety of one’s special being have a way of usurping noble causes one reveres in safer times.

Coldstream! The thought of her home came to her in a flash. Yes, Coldstream Castle. Think of it, of its gardens and its magnificent courtyard, of its chapel and library and towers and mighty walls. The rightful heir to Coldstream shall not yield! vowed Selena. And even if I die my spirit will return there.

But how much better to return alive!

Her spirit flagged, however, when, with a gulp, Corporal Bonwit reached up and twisted a sconce on the wall. Great stones slid soundlessly aside, revealing a door that opened into a chamber Selena could not have conjured in her darkest dreams. She exhaled in terror as he shoved her inside, and knew, as the stones slid back into place behind them, why this horrible cavern was called as it was.

The Room of Doom was half-cave, half-grotto. Chains and iron manacles were embedded in one wall. Clubs and whips, pincers and tongs of all sizes hung from pegs on another. Thick ropes dangled from the high, curved stone ceiling. A squat wooden chair and a long, odd wooden table, both equipped with strange pulleys, gears, and levers, caught Selena’s eye. A coal fire burned in a grate at the far end of the chamber, the coals being stirred with a red-hot poker by a hooded figure who rose slowly and turned toward the two arrivals.

Bonwit, ye dolt! growled the hooded man, glaring at the corporal through eye slits in the ghastly shroud. Ye forgot the bloody blindfold.

The corporal babbled apologies. Lieutenant Oakley’ll be jinin’ us at any moment, he stammered.

The man seemed to nod—because of the hood it was difficult to tell—and stalked toward Selena. He thrust the fiery poker toward her face and she leaned away.

What have ye done t’ bring yuhself here? he asked without rancor, without, indeed, any feeling except possibly a professional interest.

Nothing. I—

Save yuh breath. Ye all say the same thing. I’ve heard it all before. Did Lieutenant Oakley say what he wants t’ use on her? he asked Bonwit.

N-no… managed the Yorkshireman.

The hooded man regarded Selena studiously through the slits in his hood, as if she were a piece of stone to be examined before sculpting.

Pretty, he said. Y’ poor thing. Tell ye what. ’Tis out of me ’ands what Oakley chooses fer ye, but I’ll hoist ye fer the lash, an’ maybe he’ll let us get away with it for a time. There’s other things far worse. Ye’re not made for pain, an’ I’ll try not t’ hit ye too hard. But ye better confess whatever it is ’e wants t’ know, or things’ll be out of my control.

Before Selena could respond, or even consider the strange nature of what this hooded figure probably thought to be charity, he had dropped the poker, thrown a loop of rope around her wrists, tossed the other end of the rope over a wooden beam, and pulled her up so that her toes barely touched the floor. The muscles in her legs, strained from standing so long in front of Oakley’s desk, began to ache even more. Very quickly, her stretched arms started to hurt as well.

Please, just lower me a little bit.

Best I kin do, lassie. An’ don’t say that when Oakley comes. ’E’ll make me raise you in the air.

Gulping, Bonwit sought parchment and quill. The hooded torturer selected a whip as if he were examining and discarding apples. It took every ounce of Selena’s strength to maintain even a shred of courage.

Then Lieutenant Oakley entered, walking heavily and breathing into his scented silk handkerchief. He looked disappointed when he saw her drawn up.

The hooded man swished the whip a time or two and bowed obsequiously. All ready, sar, he said, as ye kin see.

Oakley seemed to consider some of the other procedures he had mentioned in his office. All right. Time is of the essence. Bonwit, write down everything I ask and everything she says.

Yes, sir! quavered the corporal.

Oakley stepped in front of Selena. Their eyes were at a level. You have brought this on yourself, he said, as if pained. Tell me, why did Royce Campbell journey all the way to Haiti?

Royce. Coldstream. Royce. Coldstream.

I don’t know, Selena said.

She saw Oakley nod to the hooded man, who was standing behind her. She sensed a shiver in the air as the whip was drawn back, and braced herself for the blow. A governess had switched her once with a willow branch for purloining a specially baked holiday plum pie, complete with brandy, rum, and exotic bananas. She had eaten several pounds of the masterpiece all by herself and, in order to hide the evidence, had fed the rest to her favorite pets: a rat terrier named Spike, Boris the brood sow, and a tame skunk called Mitzi. After that, plum pudding reminded her of pain, but even so the switching hadn’t hurt as much as the stomachache.

She knew this was going to be far, far worse.

Wait, said Oakley, whose bald head seemed to glow in the light of the coals from the hearth. Tear away her dress.

No, Selena pleaded.

Are you prepared to answer my questions then?

I don’t know anything—

She felt the rough hands of the hooded man at her collar.

Then the stone doorway slid open and a British soldier stepped into the room. He was excited, stumbling as he hastened toward Lieutenant Oakley who turned, somewhat irritably, toward the newcomer. What is it? Oakley