The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 26

The carriage rattled to a stop in a small village just as the last light of day bled into the sky. The soft glow of a nearby inn cast flickering shadows on the cobblestone road, but the picturesque scene felt suffocating to Isla. Every inch of her skin crawled with the sensation of Sinclair's eyes on her, as though he were waiting for any sign of rebellion.

He opened the door and jumped down, looking around carefully before reaching a hand up to her. "Out," he ordered brusquely. His smile was a mockery of the gallant gentleman who had once won her young heart. Bile rose in Isla's throat, but she forced herself to take his hand, her mind racing.

At least he had undone her bonds when they entered the town, but she still could not find a moment to escape.

She stepped down with as much grace as she could muster, her eyes darting toward the surrounding buildings, searching for someone to help her. But there was no one—no bustling town, no watchful eyes—just her, Sinclair, and the quiet, sleepy village that might as well have been a prison.

"We shall wait here until my cousin sends news of the vicar in the morning," Sinclair said casually, adjusting his coat as though they had merely come for a pleasant stay. "We shall have the ceremony the moment he arrives."

Isla licked her lips, grateful that the gag had been removed. She was dying for a sip of water, but she did not dare ask it of him.

"We cannot stay alone together and marry in the morning," she said, her voice hoarse from screaming against the gag. "Everyone will suspect that you have taken me against my will."

"We shall play the part of newlyweds," Sinclair said as he took her hand and forced it into the crook of his arm. His voice dipped into something low and menacing. "I trust you can behave, my dear."

Isla stiffened, pulling her hand free. "You shall regret this," she whispered, her voice trembling with fury. "At the slightest chance, I shall escape. Even if the vicar forces me to wed you, I shall not stay by your side."

"Then I will have no choice but to chain you up in the dungeon," Sinclair said, his tone laced with sarcasm.

"Then I shall kill you at the first opportunity," Isla replied, her voice shaking.

Sinclair smirked, tilting his head as if amused. "We shall see." His fingers brushed her arm lightly, sending a chill up her spine. "For now, we will keep up appearances. I would hate for anyone to think you're anything less than a willing bride."

The innkeeper, a plump woman with graying hair, greeted them with an eager smile as they stepped through the door of the inn. The warmth of the fire in the hearth did little to ease Isla's nerves, but she forced herself to smile—to play along. Perhaps if Sinclair dropped his guard a little them Isla could beg the innkeeper for help.

"A room for the night?" the innkeeper asked, beaming.

"Indeed," Sinclair replied, wrapping an arm around Isla's waist and pulling her closer. She bit back the revulsion rising in her throat.

"We are newlyweds, you see," he added with a sickening sweetness. "Just married this morning."

The woman clapped her hands, clearly delighted. "Oh, congratulations! Such a happy occasion." She bustled away behind the counter, and Sinclair's grip tightened around Isla's waist. His voice dropped to a whisper in her ear.

"Try anything foolish, and you'll regret it. Alert that kind woman, and I will not hesitate to silence her."

Isla clenched her fists, forcing herself to breathe through the rage. She had to stay calm. Think. There had to be a way out of this.

The innkeeper led them up a creaky staircase. Isla scanned the hallway, searching for anything—a door ajar, a window, a possible ally. When they reached the room, the woman turned to them, holding a key in hand.

"I've given you our best room," she said with a wink. "Would you like anything else sent up?" Her kindly eyes swept over Isla, lingering on her raw wrists.

Isla shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide her wrists in the fold of her skirt. She glanced at Sinclair, who smiled smugly.

"Some tea, perhaps?" the innkeeper pressed, looking from Isla to Sinclair.

"Yes," Isla said quickly, her voice soft and trembling. Sinclair's grip tightened around her waist in warning. "I'm ever so tired from the journey...perhaps tea and a little paper and ink. I should love to write my mother and tell her of our joyous news."

The innkeeper smiled. "Of course, dear. I'll bring it up shortly."

Sinclair's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing—until the plump innkeeper had gone back down the stairs and was out of earshot.

"Do not even think of writing a letter," he growled in her ear.

The charm fell from his expression, replaced by something more dangerous. He opened the door and shoved her inside, closing it tightly behind them.

"She would seem suspicious if I did not wish to write to my own mother on the day of my wedding," Isla snapped.

Sinclair regarded her for a long moment. "Do not try anything, Isla," he said coldly. "I have come too far to let you slip away now."

Isla swallowed and turned to face the narrow bed against the fire wall. "What do you expect me to do?" she whispered, her voice trembling with more than just fear. "I know you don't do this because you love me, Sinclair. What is this really about?"

"You always were clever." He stepped closer until he was just behind her. "This isn't about love. It's about what I deserve. What you owe me."

"Owe you?" She almost laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Although there was some understanding between us, there was nothing more."

"Ah, but you have disgraced me. You cast me aside like some common rubbish because I wasn't good enough for your family's fortune. But you will see. I will have your inheritance, and that fortune will be mine."

Now Isla did laugh out loud. "My family has nothing, Sinclair. The Duke already took it all."

He blinked, his confident smile faltering for the briefest moment. "That is a lie."

"It is the truth." Her hands shook as she gripped the folds of her skirt. "My family is destitute. There's nothing left for you to take." His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed. But before he could react, a soft knock sounded at the door.

The innkeeper returned with a tray of tea and a small stack of paper and ink. Isla's heart raced as she accepted it gratefully, her eyes catching the woman's for the briefest of moments.

The woman released the tray but then reached out, closing her hands around Isla's wrists. Eyes wide, she searched Isla's face.

Isla's heart thundered in her ears. She could not speak—not with Sinclair watching her every move.

"Your hands are chapped, my dear," the woman said gently, her gaze darkening. "I have some lovely cream with medicinal herbs. I shall bring it up to you."

She released Isla's hands and retreated from the room, casting a fearful look at Sinclair over her shoulder.

The door closed again, and Sinclair approached, eyes dark with frustration. "We shall see if you're telling the truth tomorrow," he hissed. "Until then, do not even think about running. You're mine, Isla, whether you like it or not."

Isla held the tray between them. The teacup rattled against the saucer as she struggled to control her trembling hands.

If he so much as stepped closer, she would chuck it at him and let the scalding tea burn him.

As if sensing her unspoken threat, he backed away and grabbed a chair from the nearby writing desk. He hauled it over to the door and sat with his back against it.

The unspoken threat lingered between them... He didn't need to say a word for her to know that there would be no escape.

Not that way, at least.