The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) by Devlin, Barbara (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📕

“Major, I know you want to believe that we will be rescued, but it is not going to happen.” Henry stared at his hands. “No one is coming for us, because no one cares about us.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t even think that.” Anthony struggled in vain against his cage. “You have to have faith, or Shaw wins.”

“That is the problem.” Henry wiped his eyes. “I have no faith, major. I have only despair and the realization that we are never leaving this place. If I had any shred of hope, it vanished when the guards carried you in here, imprisoned in that hellish contraption. Now, all I feel is fear. Deep-seated dread.”

“Please, for my sake, do not give up.” Anthony stretched out his dirty feet and licked his lips, when he spied a morsel of bread, which Thomas had attempted to toss into Anthony’s mouth at dinner, yesterday. “We must hold the line, for a little longer.”

“The major is right,” Charles said with a curt nod. “We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. If he believes we will be liberated, despite being locked in cage, unable to recline, eat, or relieve himself in the piss-pot, should we not support him?”

“Perhaps, we delay the inevitable.” Thomas sighed. “Sooner or later, Rockingham will have to come to terms with reality. He must face facts.”

“I’m sorry, Thomas, but you are wrong.” Anthony sought pretty words and phrases to reassure the wounded veterans. “Every day you spend above ground is cause to hope.”

“What makes you so certain?” asked Henry. “How do you know you are not mistaken?”

“Because I know my bride.” Anthony recalled Arabella’s declaration, freely given, that sorrowful night in Weybridge. “She loves me. She told me so, when last we met, and nothing will stop her from finding me.”

The telltale rasp of the keys signaled the arrival of the morning meal.

The usual two guards entered the chamber, carrying three trays. The larger brute, who often expressed enjoyment of Anthony’s pain, placed the customary bowl of porridge and hunk of bread at the foot of Henry’s bunk.

Instead of collecting the food, Henry scooted toward the end of the bed, picked up the tray, and swung at the attendant’s head. Charles followed suit, striking the hulk of a man just under his chin. A melee ensued, with Thomas employing the chain that secured him to choke the thug.

The smaller fiend shouted the alarm, and two additional henchmen charged the fray. An aide punched Henry, rendering him unconscious. Another villain slammed Charles’s head into the floor, and he collapsed. The first blackguard strangled Thomas, until the wounded warrior fainted.

“Grab fancy pants.” The scoundrel slapped Anthony, hard. “Shaw has something special planned for him.”

The chain at his neck loosened, and Anthony stood. Steeling himself for another session of torture, he marched alongside his captors, in silence. At the painfully familiar door to Shaw’s office, Anthony stepped aside, and the guard turned the knob and pushed open the oak panel. Inside, Shaw sat at the front edge of his desk.

To the right, a new addition to the room brought Anthony to a halt, but the sizable swine shoved him to stand at center. A long, narrow table hugged the wall, and a latch and panel marked one end, with a bucket situated beneath, on the carpet. He had seen something similar employed, in the torture rooms, by counterintelligence officers, and suspected he might not live till dusk.

“I see you are interested in my recent acquisition.” Shaw pushed from the desk and neared. “It is so rare to find a remnant of war that I can implement in my work, and I am most anxious to give it a try. What say you, Lord Rockingham? You never cry out when I administer treatment. You never make a sound, and I consider you a most unique challenge. Eventually, you will give me what I want. I wonder if that will happen, today.” To the attendants, he said, “Put him on the table.”

Anthony stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster with his eyes. It was a mundane task, but it kept him calm. The bastards tied down his legs with leather straps at the ankles and another belt across his torso, despite the fact he remained locked in the makeshift cage that kept him immobilized. An additional binding stretched across his forehead, pinning his head in place.

“So, who is going to run the buckets?” Shaw inquired of his henchmen. “I will require a steady supply of water.”

“I’ll do it.” The diminutive guard raised a hand. “I have no stomach for this.”

“All right.” Shaw doffed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. Then he hovered over Anthony. “Comfortable, Lord Rockingham?”

Anthony kept his gaze transfixed, overhead.

“Still no comment.” Shaw tsked. “Let us see if I can loosen your tongue.”

The evil doctor fiddled with a latch, and a panel dropped at an angle. Shaw covered Anthony’s face with a cloth, and then there was water. A deluge that filled his nose and mouth, and he fought to breathe.

“Ah, at last, we provoke a reaction.” Shaw chuckled. “You fight against your restraints but do not favor me with plea for mercy. What a pity.”

Another torrent threatened to drown Anthony, but he refused to yield. When Shaw snatched the cloth from Anthony’s face, he spat at his tormentor.

“That was unwise, Lord Rockingham.” Shaw leaned over and whispered in Anthony’s ear, “You will scream, or you will die.”

“Go to the devil,” he replied, knowing it could mean his doom.

Shaw resituated the cloth, and a veritable flood engulfed Anthony. He struggled to no avail, gasping for air, but he only swallowed more water. When he thought it a lost cause, that he would perish and never see his beloved Arabella again, the flow suddenly ceased.

With his face uncovered, he coughed and sputtered, vomiting water, as the belt at his legs loosened. Dazed, he could scarcely make out a silhouette, and