by Kim Bowman
Twice he bolted from the room then forced himself back. He had to be sure. Agitated, he fingered the small set of keys he’d found under a bench in the bathhouse. Definitely Rougemont keys, but they could have been dropped days or weeks ago. Martin could try all of the bedroom doors until he found a match, but only a footman or housemaid would carry such a set, so why bother?
Sophia had yet to come down, missing breakfast and now luncheon. She had spoken through the door, saying her condition was severe today and she wanted to rest. She’d never been so ill before, and the timing seemed random. He knew little of such matters, but were a woman’s courses not monthly? She had refused to open the door. “Go away, you insufferable man,” had been quite clear.
Moments ago Sir Vorlay had requested his coach be brought to the east entrance, making his sudden illness the excuse. The east door — sneaking off. Wilhelm knew he only had minutes to solve this before Vorlay got away but couldn’t rush out like a madman, making vague accusations he had no proof of.
To hell with it.
Wilhelm jumped out of his seat, striking his knee on the desk and toppling the chair. He ran from his office, shouting down the hall for Martin. He remembered how Vorlay had provoked him over Sophia before. Vorlay had arrived unannounced and leered at her all evening long. Wilhelm had assumed Vorlay was still sore over Wilhelm losing his temper in front of the Crimean officers, but perhaps it was worse than that.
He barked at Martin to fetch Philip, who had just returned from London. The blood smell in the bathhouse, Sophia feigning illness — No! He cursed then silently pled with every variation of deity on every continent. Oh, please not that! He quit pacing and squeezed his temples between his hands. When he could bear the pressure no longer, he turned and smashed the clock hanging on the wall. He tried desperately to keep from imagining the worst, praying he was wrong. Not likely.
He must have looked rabid, because Philip chased him down the hall shouting, “What? What is it, Wil?”
He could barely form words over the heat of fury creeping over him. “I will kill him. Tear him to pieces.” Wilhelm stormed in the direction of Vorlay’s quarters.
“Who? Wil, what in blazes is going on?” Philip darted ahead and blocked the hallway. Wilhelm almost slugged him before he shook his head, grasping for clarity. He hated how his anger incinerated his control. Insanity. Yes, he was definitely unsound. “Phil, I need your help. I suspect Vorlay attacked So— Rosalie.”
Philip cursed a word Wilhelm had never heard him utter, raking his hands through his hair. Wilhelm charged forward then turned, uncertain if he should see to Vorlay or Sophia first.
Sophia. Right.
“By any means necessary delay his carriage. Bar the door, bind him to a chair, knock him unconscious — whatever. But don’t kill him. Vorlay is mine.”
~~~~
“Sophia, there is no time for this. Let me in, or I shall ram through the door.” Silence. “This is merely a courtesy. I never bluff.” Shoulders squared, legs spread in a stance, deep breath in — Finally the bolt slid free.
Sophia cracked the door open and whispered, “I told you, I am unwell, my lord. Forgive—”
She started to close the door, and he forced it open.
Wilhelm gasped when he saw her. His stomach turned. Even though he’d instinctively known he would find such a sight, his knees went weak. Denial, utter travesty, sacrilege. Marks like this only had one cause. He went blind with fury, feeling it flush from head to toe in dark bloodlust. Don’t frighten her. He had to be the man she could trust. A source of calm and strength.
“Why did you not come to me?” He shut the door. Hands shaking with restraint, he pried away the fingers holding her robe shut at the neck. She made no resistance, paralyzed except for the fragile trembling in her hands. He worried with one wrong word or rough motion she would shatter. Had she been in such a dire state, alone, since the night before?
He moved slowly and muttered soothing nonsense as he would to a spooked horse. Finally she let him drop the robe to the floor, and she stood shivering in her shift, staring with hollow eyes. He brushed her hair over a shoulder and carefully tilted her jaw to examine the telltale finger-shaped bruises.
His vision flashed between black and red. Oh yes, Vorlay was a dead man.
Only years of battlefield discipline kept his curses silent and his teeth clenched when his every instinct urged him into a rage. He would take the bastard apart, piece by bloody piece, beginning with his stunted, putrid cock. Wilhelm would feed it to Vorlay, then do his worst.
Wilhelm shook himself and focused on her eyes. Pain. Anger. Exhaustion, fear, desolation. Tears welled, he saw her war with the urge to break down, a reaction to the trauma, now that she’d confronted it with him. He knew the process but feared she would sink into despair and not come out.
Strength, he urged her silently, stroking down her temple. Hold fast a little longer. She seemed to understand, blinking back the tears and holding her chin higher.
He nodded his intention as he pushed the straps of her shift aside and examined the bruises pooling in black and maroon under her delicate skin. Fists, like the marks on her jaw and cheek. Even worse, the shallow cuts on the edges of her cheekbones, jaw, and collar — her flesh split from being smashed with the points of large knuckles. Thick swollen welts spaced evenly from her collar down onto the slopes of her breasts. Claw marks. Her clothes had been ripped off.
Breathing in jagged gusts, he gently fingered her ribs over the fabric of her shift. She whimpered as he probed the right side but reacted with a sharp sob as he found where her ribs were cracked on the left side. He found he simply couldn’t venture any lower even though he was burning to know.
He couldn’t bear it. Wilhelm stepped back, shaking from the inside out. He could see what had happened to her, every excruciating detail. How had this happened on his watch? Wilhelm dropped to his knees and buried his face in her lap, clutching the folds of her shift. He moaned her name, he might have muttered something he would regret, but she didn’t react. He drew on her calm presence to ground himself, but his blood hammered a war cry. He wanted Vorlay’s head.
“Sophia, I am going to kill him.”
“No, Wilhelm, you are not.” Her body shuddered, but her voice came even and sure. He was compelled to listen through the fury pounding in his brain. Hearing his name on her lips was the fresh breeze of reason. He would do anything to hear it again. “This is not your fault.”
A growl roiled in his throat, but she silenced him with her fingers in his hair, raking gently along his scalp and teasing the nerves in his head. Luckily he was already on his knees; her simple show of affection moved the earth under him.
“There will not be any trouble, my lord. I promise. I will go away quietly, no one ever need know—”
That jolted him into action. “What? Oh, no. You are coming with me, right away.”
He whisked her robe from the floor and carefully arranged it over her shoulders. Sophia resisted his attempt to lead her by the arm. He heard a low snarl building and noticed the fourth dog, hackles raised, blocking the door.
“Hör auf,” Desist. Wilhelm growled back. The dog danced on its paws, whining in protest. Damned thing was more loyal to Sophia than its master. Then where had it been last night?
“He saved me.” Her voice sounded scratchy. “I called the pack. They dashed through the window and attacked Sir Vorlay. Those German commands — they work.” She tried to smile but winced as it pulled on her split lip.
“Good to know.” So the sodding dog acted as her hero, while he had been floating his eyeballs in cognac. I will go hang myself now.
“It could have been so much worse, Wilhelm.” She finally looked him in the eye — one swollen half shut, but still he saw her earnestness.
Could have been worse, meaning she had been spared rape, or she was merely grateful to have survived? Until she offered the tale, he would never ask. Wilhelm closed his eyes, metered his breath, and waite
d for relief to cool his bloodlust. None came.
“My father sent him.”
“What?”
“Vorlay knew my name. He said my father sent him to deliver a message.”
Months of work — espionage, baiting, posturing, undone in an instant by a betrayal he had not seen coming. He would deal with that later, he reminded himself, forcing his calm façade into place. “And the message?”
“This is the message.” She gestured vaguely, sweeping down her body to indicate the gruesome beating she’d taken from Vorlay and winced again, probably having aggravated her poor cracked ribs. “Last time — the attack at home before I ran away, my father told Lowdry if he could get a brat on me, he could have me. I imagine he told Vorlay the same. If I fail to produce an heir for Eastleigh…” she trailed, grimacing.
Wilhelm already knew Chauncey had gambled away money tied up in the estate. A son by Sophia would break the entailment, giving Chauncey legal authority to liquidate the assets. Apparently Chauncey wanted an heir — and thereby the money — at all costs. What kind of a man did that, farmed out his daughter for breeding like a common mare? Plotted to steal the inheritance from his own grandson?
“I will handle your father later.” Temper heating, Wilhelm’s mouth went bitter with disgust. Patience. “Vorlay’s crime against you is unforgivable. He must be dealt with.”
She furrowed her brows then gasped. “No! Oh, Wilhelm, please, that isn’t—”
“All right. For you, I promise to have mercy on the bastard.” He folded her in his arms, pressing her gently against his chest, mindful of her injured side. She didn’t seem to notice his omission of not defining mercy. He cradled her head in one hand and brushed down her back with the other. She fell to pieces, sobbing with a sound like heartbreak.
Wilhelm carried her to the rumpled bed and sat with her in his lap. Long minutes while she wept and he did his best to comfort her.
“Just let me go.”
“Never.”
“I want it to all go away.” She muttered Never again, over and over, then clutched his shirt in tight fists and struck her forehead against his chest, angry.
It spiked his own anger. He had justice to serve. He reached to pull the cord and summoned Martin to fetch Philip. Sophia shouldn’t be left alone.
Philip strode through the doorway, took one look at Sophia, and cursed. “Bloody hell.”
Wilhelm caught his eye and warned him to silence, gesturing for Philip to take his place. Sophia was in a fragile state.
On impulse he went back to kiss her forehead, praying the Sophia made of fire and steel, the woman he had come to adore, was not lost to him. No inferno in hell would burn hot enough for both Vorlay and Chauncey if Sophia had been broken. He couldn’t bear it.
He gave Philip a curt nod and Philip nodded back, communicating he understood Wilhelm’s intentions. The dog whimpered again, anxious. “Folge,” Follow, Wilhelm ordered, deciding the guard dog could have its turn with Vorlay. It had earned the right. The dog, as well as Philip, accepted what Sophia was either too frightened or too charitable to comprehend: an enemy so evil, once thwarted, would never rest until he exacted revenge. Wilhelm had to act first. It was the only way she would ever be safe from harm.
The long walk to Vorlay’s quarters allowed time for his cold assassin’s mien to engulf him completely. His vision saw only black and white, necessity and truth. He would try his utmost to take no satisfaction in this, but what was one more ghost among the crowd?
Wilhelm found the door and threw it open, striding in heavy steps with the dog flanking him in an attack stance. Vorlay had experienced Philip’s nautical handiwork with rope, bound immobile to a chair. A spindly old man, presumably Vorlay’s valet, frantically worked at the knots with a penknife, unaware of the company.
Vorlay wriggled an arm free and swatted the man aside. “Devon! What a relief. You would not believe what I have been through. That Cavendish nephew of yours—”
Wilhelm interrupted, pointing to the valet. “You, man. Your name.”
Vorlay seemed puzzled by the cold, flat tone of Wilhelm’s voice.
The valet wrung his hands. “H-Hanson, my lord.”
“Hanson. You will now depart in Vorlay’s carriage and deliver a message to Chauncey.”
Both men startled at the mention of Sophia’s father.
Wilhelm paced casually around the chair, palming a blade against his thigh. In a move so swift the others flinched, he sliced off Vorlay’s index finger, signet ring and all. Vorlay screamed like a woman, rolling his eyes as though he might pass out.
Placing the stump in the valet’s vest pocket, Wilhelm added blandly, “Inform Chauncey the rest of Vorlay will arrive shortly.”
The man blinked, stuttered, and Wilhelm barked, “Go!”
Hanson abandoned Vorlay, who writhed in horror, gaping at his bloody hand. Wilhelm nudged the door shut with his foot. He allowed a full minute of silence for Vorlay to contemplate his end. No need for theatrics — Vorlay knew what Wilhelm was capable of. The dog growled, riled by the scent of Vorlay’s blood, provoked by his obvious show of fear.
“You are stark raving mad, Devon!” He jerked against the ropes. “Let me out, and I shall forgive the matter of—”
“Did I ever tell you how the Russians perform an execution? Pouring liquid metal down the throat is my personal favorite, but I remember you once told me you deal in quid pro quo. You deserve no less.” Wilhelm twirled the knife in his fingers as he spoke, spattering Vorlay’s face with his own blood.
Vorlay seemed to swallow his tongue before blurting, “This is preposterous! I am a baronet and an officer! You have no right.”
Wilhelm laughed in low, emotionless chuckles. He used the same knife to cut through the ropes one by one until Vorlay shook off the coils and clambered out of the chair. Wilhelm tossed him a loaded pistol and stepped back ten paces, leaving Vorlay puzzled and bleeding all over the gun. The fool didn’t see a duel coming when it hit him over the head.
“You know I’m above the law, Vorlay, and I can make you disappear.”
Vorlay wet his lips and begged, “Old friend, brother—”
“I might have forgiven your betrayal to Chauncey, but the moment you laid a hand on my woman, you signed your own death warrant.”
“But he said—”
“For her sake it will be swift. Contemplate that as you burn in hell.” Wilhelm looked down at Vorlay, studying the man’s eyes, but Vorlay couldn’t stand to hold his gaze. Guilt, but no remorse. Fear. Contempt. He would try to shoot any moment now. “Your move, Vorlay. Strike first. I gave you the only pistol.”
“You have no idea what you are trifling with, Devon. He will have your head. Then the little whelp will wish she had me, after what he has in store. Chauncey is—”
Vorlay raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger in a poor attempt at a surprise attack. Wilhelm threw the knife with a small flick of his wrist, lodging it in Vorlay’s throat before he pulled the trigger all the way back. He sank to his knees, eyes wide with shock.
“A dead man,” Wilhelm finished.
He left the blade where it lodged and muttered a command to the dog, allowing it to finish the task. Fritz dove for Vorlay’s neck in a torrent of growls, ripping and yanking as he’d been trained to do with an enemy. Once Vorlay’s foot quit twitching, Wilhelm called off the dog, wiped his hands on Vorlay’s coat, and left the room. Martin would handle the rest, another old brother-at-arms and one of the few souls who knew all about Wilhelm’s sordid government activities. Martin would not be pleased, however, with the blood pooled on the carpet and spattered on the walls.
Wilhelm retreated to his office, threw open the window, and vomited. Justice might prevail, but it always took its toll. This time it was worse, because it was personal. He couldn’t seem to cloak his mind in oblivion. When had the ice in his veins melted? And while he could find no satisfaction in the deed, neither could he feel regret. Only the familiar taint of bloodshed.
He looked at his hands clutching the window sill, disgusted with the smeared blood.
How could he ever touch her again?
A travesty, since his next task was to go upstairs and convince Sophia she had to marry him, today. If he were a man to fear God, he might beg forgiveness. Alas, his penance would be to pass every day atoning for it.
If he made Sophia happy in some way, it would be enough.
~~~~
She had long envied the Cavendish girls their elder brother, the male protection without the strain of erotic undercurrents. Philip made her feel at peace despite every reason to the contrary — the pain in her ribs, the urgency to leave Rougemont, the thought of life without Wilhelm… She had nearly dozed off, until a nightmarish scream sounded from downstairs.
When she asked, Philip assured her Wilhelm would give over custody of Sir Vorlay to the constable, acting as magistrate. Even through his soothing tone, she knew Philip lied. Almost convincing, but Sophia knew more about deception than the average damsel. More telling had been the cool detachment in Wilhelm’s expression as he’d left the room. He killed Vorlay. And her father would know. What had she brought down upon Rougemont? On Wilhelm?
He made no sound, but Sophia sensed his presence when Wilhelm returned. Awareness vibrated on the back of her neck and chased down her spine. If she hadn’t become accustomed to the magnetic attraction between them after all these months, she probably never would. Philip deferred to Wilhelm and left the room.
Wilhelm sat next to her on the window seat then turned sideways, propping his back against the pane. He raised his knees and patted his collar, prompting her to rest against his chest. She obeyed, struck with the comparison of Philip’s pleasant company and the complicated effect Wilhelm’s touch had on her.
Both handsome, desirable men, but Sophia hadn't been tempted to turn her face into Philip’s neck and nibble on his ear. Her lips hadn’t prickled with the hope of a kiss, and when Philip looked down at her in that masculine way a man lowers his eyes at a woman, her stomach hadn’t dropped. She hadn’t once thought of Philip’s lap, whereas now she was all too aware of how her waist curved over Wilhelm’s groin. If she didn’t feel as though she had been wrangled by an angry sow, she might have made something of this rather delectable position.
