Wherever You Are (26 page)

Morgan reared back, the sweet scent of brandy and the sickly smell of vomit still in his nose. “Then…no lance.”

Barun nodded to one of the men. Morgan tensed for another blow but the man walked out of the cabin. Morgan watched him go, a feeling of dread weakening his already depleted reserves of strength.

Barun walked around the desk and rested his hip on it. His thigh brushed the glass and it teetered before tipping over. Amber colored liquid pooled then dripped down the front of the desk. Morgan’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His lips, parched and cracked, bled. Brandy would sting the cuts in his mouth, but, oh, how sweet it would be.

He counted the drips. One. Two. Three.

Barun crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward. “I will take better care of her than you ever will,
daasa
. I can give her jewels and silk. I can wrap her in luxury. Power and glory will be hers.”

Four. Five. Six.

“She means that much to you?”

Seven. Eight.

Barun grabbed a handful of Morgan’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat.

“You are nothing,” he spat. Spittle flew from his mouth and mixed with the blood dripping down Morgan’s face. Frustration burned deep in his eyes and Morgan couldn’t help the smile that curled his lips. Barun released him so viciously that Morgan’s head flew back, connecting with the back of the chair with a crack.

Barun walked leisurely around the large cabin.

Morgan trained his eyes on the brandy.

“Hair as bright as the sun, eyes as green as the rolling hills of Ireland.”

Nine. Ten. The drips slowed.

“And her skin.” Barun sighed in appreciation. “Her skin is as soft as the silk my country produces. Softer and warmer and infinitely more desirable.”

Morgan strained against the bindings, his hands curling into fists.

Eleven.

A slight pause as a drop clung to the edge of the desk, hovering above the abyss, holding on against the gravity pulling it down.

It finally succumbed.

Twelve.

“Her lips so pink, her complexion so pale. There are others in your country with the same pale skin, the same golden hair, but none compare to Juliana.” Barun swung around, his hands in his pockets. “Don’t you agree?”

Thirteen.

“But of course you do. You wedded her after all.” He sighed. “Ah well. I had hoped to be her first. But,” he shrugged. “I will be happy with at least having her. And with the lance. The things I will do. The countries I will conquer.”

Fourteen.

He continued to stroll, apparently forgetting his audience of one. “My father had dreams. He dreamt of ruling the Indian Ocean and he accomplished his dream. No one was more feared than Conajee and his fleet of ships. But me,” he beat his chest with a fist and smiled. “I will do better. I will go beyond the Indian Ocean. Yes, the world will hear of Sanjit Barun. They will hear and they will tremble. And Juliana…” He paused. Morgan shuddered. The man was obsessed with his wife and he didn’t know what he was going to do to save her.

“Juliana will be by my side.” Barun placed a hand on either side of Morgan’s chair, leaned into his face and whispered close to his ear, “And she too will tremble.”

The door to the cabin banged open and his heart came to a stop.

“You fucking bastard,” he said between swollen lips.

Juliana stood in the threshold, her chin held high but a glint of fear in her eyes. Her dress was muddied and torn and there were rope burns around her wrists where her hands had been tied. Morgan pulled against his own ropes, his fingers clenching futilely.

She looked around the room, her gaze skipping over him, then flying back. She gasped. “Morgan?”

He couldn’t answer. If he thought his pride had been stripped in that prison all those years ago, it was nothing compared to his wife seeing him bloodied, beaten, defeated, clinging to consciousness and tied to a chair. He looked away.

“What have you done?” She flung herself at Barun, diving over his desk chair, her fingers curled into claws. Her nails scratched furrows down his cheeks.

“Juliana!” Morgan tried to stand, forgetting for a moment his pains, forgetting he was tied to the damn chair. Pain sliced through his ribcage and he fell back with a groan.

Barun howled in pain and rage and struck out. He hit Juliana on the side of the head. She flew backward, landed on the chair and tumbled to the floor. Morgan strained against his bindings, half standing to look over the desk.

“You bastard,” he said.

Barun looked down at Juliana with his hands on his hips.

She pulled herself up, her green eyes flashing fire. Slowly, she ran her hands down her skirts and a flash of memory swept through him of her dressing in that same gown for the ball, of smoothing the silk down in just the same way and of looking at him with all the excitement of her first ball. She glared at Barun. And slapped him.

“Juliana, no!”

Barun hit her with an open palm. Her head snapped back. Morgan lunged forward but the chair stopped him. The pain in his ribs made the room spin and everything go black for a heart-stopping second. The man behind him chuckled. Morgan shook his head, willing the darkness away. When he was able to see clearly again, an angry red welt marred Juliana’s cheek.

Barun turned to him. One of his cheeks oozed blood where Juliana clawed him, the other held the imprint of her hand. “I will ask you one more time to tell me where the lance is.”

The man was on the edge, teetering toward a madness both alien and frightening.

“Release her and I will take you to the lance.”

They stared at each other for several more moments. Barun turned to the men who’d been beating Morgan but who moved to flank Juliana. He nodded and Morgan’s heart faltered.

“No.” The word was torn from his lips, but came out as a whisper.

One of the men grabbed her arms behind her back. Her breasts heaved and her eyes grew wide as Barun reached for her bodice and prepared to rip it off her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Juliana tried to back away but the men behind her held her still . There was an unholy gleam in Barun’s eye, a frantic light that scared her. He was enjoying torturing Morgan and her. She lifted her chin and refused to cower, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Because that was what he wanted. He thrived on their fear and the power he had over them.

“No! Stop! I’ll tell you.” Morgan strained to break his bondages. Juliana still couldn’t believe the bloodied, beaten man tied to the chair was her Morgan. His face was swollen and covered in so much blood she didn’t recognize him at first and when she had she’d been so furious she acted without thought.

His pain-filled gaze flickered to her and she wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all. She knew how much Morgan despised being back in Barun’s clutches.

Barun turned to Morgan, his hand still on her breast. Her skin burned where he touched her and she felt as if she’d been branded by his evil.

“It’s in my townhouse,” Morgan said. “In the corner of my bedchamber.”

For a moment she was almost as stunned as Barun. The lance Barun wanted had been in Morgan’s bedchamber all along? She’d actually held it while waiting for Morgan to awaken from his drunken stupor.

Barun released her breast. “Take her away,” he said.

“No.” She struggled against his hold. “Morgan…” She wasn’t leaving him alone with Barun again.

Morgan’s gaze locked with hers. His eyes were almost swollen shut but she could have sworn she saw regret in them. Regret and love and sorrow.

“No,” she said, louder this time.

He pulled his gaze from hers and turned to Barun. “Get her out of here,” he said.

“No. Please—” The man behind her jacked her arm up. Searing pain ripped up her elbow to her shoulder. She cried out in agony. She was shoved in the back and stumbled through the doorway.

They only walked a few feet before he opened the door to a richly appointed cabin. He pushed her in and she fell to her hands and knees. Her head hurt and her shoulder throbbed. She was so dizzy and had to sit back on her heels until her vision cleared.

When she finally managed to stand, the room tilted and she had to catch herself on the bedpost.

Desperate, she stumbled to the door and yanked on the handle. It didn’t budge. She pounded on it. “Let me out of here!” she screamed. She kept pounding and screaming, praying someone would hear and open the door. Her knuckles and the sides of her fists were bruised and tender but she kept pounding until she had no energy left.

She slumped against the door and finally let her tears fall. Her terror, the horror, the grief, she let it pour out in huge sobs, not caring who heard. What did it matter anyway? Her chest felt tight. She knew it was the panic. The absolute fear that she and Morgan were in the clutches of a madman and Morgan might possibly die. Might be dead already.

She turned around and slid to the floor with her back against the door.

Oh, God. What if he were dead? What then? She lifted her head and looked around the room. Her sweeping glance took in the oversized bed, the area rugs decorated in deep jewel tones. She was in a gilded cage, wrapped in luxury but a prisoner nonetheless. A kernel of anger nudged at her grief. Anger at Barun for the happiness he had taken from her.

She stood on shaking legs and pressed her palms against the door until she regained her balance. Her anger grew, strengthened by the fear nearly consuming her. Together they were a potent combination, swirling through her, pushing her to do something.

You can’t stay in here and cry, Juliana. Do something.

But what?

Kill Barun.

Her stomach muscles cramped. Could she do it? Could she take another person’s life?

Her fear pushed at the anger, taking center stage for a brief moment and in that moment she knew. Yes, she could take a life, kill Sanjit Barun for taking Morgan from her, for beating him, for enslaving him all those months.

She couldn’t live without Morgan. Didn’t want to live without him.

She needed a weapon. She didn’t know when Barun would come for her but some sixth sense told her it would be soon. She’d found a weapon in the hold with much less to work with.

She managed to make it on unsteady legs to the dainty desk only to find it was attached to the floor. Standard operating procedure on a ship. Frantically, she yanked open drawers, tossing them on the floor when they proved to be empty. Finding a letter opener was probably too hopeful. Barun was smart enough not to give her a ready-made weapon.

Not a problem. She stood in the middle of the room and looked around, her gaze skipping over the large furniture. Time was running out. He would be here soon with some disgusting plan to make her his. She would die before she let him touch her again. But first she would kill him.

Some part of her knew she wasn’t thinking rationally, that the fear and anger she’d been pushing away took her over the edge into a deep hole she might never crawl out of.

She didn’t care. Her only thought, the only thing that kept her going was the deep-seated need to kill Barun. She tried not to think about Morgan, about whether he was dead. To think that would destroy her, so she blocked her mind to him and thought only of killing Barun.

Her gaze fell on the straight-backed chair she’d pushed out of the way to get to the desk drawers. She picked it up, tested its weight. It was well-made and would have cost a fortune in her day, but she lifted it over her head anyway and threw it with all her strength against the floor. The wood splintered with a loud crack.

She cocked her head, listening for footsteps, for someone to open the door wondering what the racket was about. When no one came, she threw it to the floor again. It took three more times for one of the legs to break.

Satisfied, she picked up the splintered piece and leaned the chair against the table, balancing it on its three remaining legs and hoping like hell no one noticed. She hid the weapon in the folds of her skirts as heavy steps approached and stopped outside her door.

She trained her gaze on the door. Waiting. Breaths shallow. Her vision was now a pinpoint, focused on the door. The blood roared through her veins. Her skin prickled in anticipation. For the first time since realizing it was Barun on the stone bench and not Morgan, she felt alive.

The door swung inward and Barun stepped inside. She tightened her grip on her crude weapon.

They stared at each other. She hoped he didn’t see the determination in her eyes, the killing fury that would take his life. She wanted to witness his surprise. She wanted to see the life drain from him. Only then would she be satisfied.

“Where’s Morgan?” She was surprised her voice sounded normal with the fury bubbling inside her.

“Where he should be.”

“And where is that?”

Barun stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Juliana didn’t take her eyes off him. Didn’t move except to take shallow breaths. Her palms itched to rush him.

He heaved a heavy sigh. “Juliana,
sanam
, when will you realize you are meant to be with me?”

“Never.” Her gaze flickered to the congealed blood on his cheek. His other cheek still held the faint mark of her hand. Her satisfaction was great, but not as great as when he would take his last breath.

He indicated the room with a wave of his hand. “I did this for you, to show you what you can have with me, what I can give you.”

“I want nothing from you.” Except your death.

“What have I done that is so horrible? Put an escaped slave in his place? He is nothing, Juliana. The best place for him is on a ship rowing.”

“You’re wrong. Morgan has given me everything I’ve ever wanted.” Air-conditioning, cars, telephones and faxes were well and good, but they were nothing compared to his love and acceptance. “If he dies, I die.” She lifted her chin. She meant every word and the flicker of uncertainty in Barun’s eyes indicated he believed her.

“A slave is better than me?” His expression showed disgust and the way he spit out the word slave, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth, snapped her tightly controlled anger and tore through her fear.