by Cheryl Holt
Robert chuckled. “I’m going to enjoy this so much.”
“Enjoy what?” Mansfield taunted.
“Whipping your stupid ass.”
Mansfield was clutching a belt, and he raised it and tried to strike Robert with it, but Robert jerked it away.
With his only weapon lost to him, Mansfield ran, but Robert tripped him as he passed, and he sprawled onto the rug. In a flash, Robert was on him, as Mansfield screeched like a girl and covered his face.
Robert pummeled him repeatedly, relishing how bone smacked flesh. It was over so swiftly that he was almost disappointed at how easy it had been. He rose, looming over the sniveling oaf, and was thrilled to note that he wasn’t even breathing hard. Blood oozed from Mansfield’s nose and teeth, his eyes were swelling shut, and he was crying like a baby.
“You contemptible swine,” Robert growled. “How dare you hurt Patricia! How dare you hurt any woman!”
Robert kicked Mansfield in the ribs, then went to Patricia and sliced through the ropes that bound her.
He’d imagined she’d hug him, but instead, she jumped up and stomped over to kick Mansfield several more times, landing her blows with much more vehemence and glee—and much less mercy—than Robert had shown. She grabbed what was left of the cords Robert had cut, and she wrenched Mansfield’s wrists behind his back and tied them securely, which caused a renewed wave of squealing.
“My arm!” Mansfield shrieked. “You broke my arm!”
“You wimpy little coward,” Patricia fumed. “Before I’m through with you, you’ll be lucky if that’s all I break!”
She stood over him, fierce as any Viking goddess; then she turned to Robert and—to his utter astonishment—she burst into tears. He pulled her to him and cradled her to his chest.
“You came for me!” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Of course I came for you,” he soothed.
“I was certain he’d murder me.”
“I know you were.”
“I thought I was all alone.”
“You’re not alone,” Robert comforted. “You’ll never be alone again.”
“Promise you won’t leave me.”
“No, Pat. I won’t leave you. I’m here to stay.”
23
We’re not so tough now, are we, Mrs. Bennett?”
“I’ll never be your Mrs. Anything,” Helen claimed.
“Really?”
“I’m tougher than you realize.”
Laughing at her helpless state, he checked the knots on the ropes that affixed her to the bed. “Such boasting! How long do you suppose it will last?”
“Quite a while, I’d guess. I’m perfectly capable of enduring, while you won’t be able to continue. You’re too crazy for words.”
“Crazy? No, Helen, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve never been more lucid.”
He laid his knife on her cheek. “You’re very pretty, so I don’t believe I’ll mar your face. As to the remainder of your body”—he drew the blade down her torso, enjoying each flinch as it passed—“I’m not overly partial to it, so there’s no telling what marks I’ll make under your clothes.”
The threat rattled her, and she screamed again. The racket was beginning to irritate him, and he was weary of listening to her. He wanted her begging for her life, which would occur soon, and in the meantime, he wanted silence.
He went to the adjoining dressing room and found a robe. He retrieved the belt from it and returned to her. He wrapped it around her neck, and as he pulled at the ends, obstructing her air, her screeching stopped.
“Very good.” He nodded with approval. “You catch on quickly.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
“Yes, you are. Let’s see how much more I can teach you.”
He tugged on the belt, and he was delighted to have surprised her. She’d assumed that a cessation of shrieking would keep the suffocation at bay, but she’d been wrong. There was nothing she could do—or not do, for that matter—that would have any effect on him, at all.
“My Lord, but you’re sick!” She was gasping, trying to fill her lungs before he started in again.
“Not sick, Mrs. Bennett. I’m excited to have you raising a fuss, but let’s have it be from real terror.”
“No, you’re sick. Call it whatever you like, but you’re stark-raving mad.”
His temper spiked. He was tired of her bravado. By now, she should have been pleading for mercy. “Be quiet or I’ll gag you.”
“Gag me. Don’t. You can slice out my tongue for all I care.”
Why did she insist on mocking him? Why persist with challenging his authority? What was it going to take for her to recognize that she had to yield?
Her clamor recommenced, the shrill timbre echoing off the high ceiling, and his patience was exhausted.
“I told you to be silent!”
“Well, I don’t choose to obey!”
“Shut up!” He tossed his knife on the floor, and he slapped her, but she was too stupid to cease, so he administered another blow. “You must heed me!”
There was a note of hysteria in his tone, and he couldn’t ever remember being so angry, not even when he’d strangled that fat whore Peg. Would he have to do the same to Helen? Would she be dead before the wedding night was through?
He’d just lifted his fist for a more vicious strike when a male voice bellowed from behind him.
“If you touch her again, I’ll cut off your hand.”
He paused, in his frenzy, not able to fathom how he’d been disrupted. He was master of the estate. Who would dare? Who would have the gall to barge in?
He glanced over his shoulder as Helen breathed, “Luke!”
“Get off the bed, you scurvy dog,” Westmoreland growled. “When I murder you, I want you standing on your feet.”
Adrian was unnerved by the Captain’s inopportune appearance but wasn’t afraid. Helen was his wife, had married him of her own volition, and he could treat her however he wished. It was none of Westmoreland’s affair.
Adrian scoffed, concealing any trepidation, and he climbed off the mattress, acting as if it was what he’d meant to do, rather than what Westmoreland had commanded.
“Why are you in my home, Westmoreland?”
“Your home?”
“I’m quite sure no one let you in, so you’ve entered without invitation. You’re not welcome. Go at once.”
“Luke, don’t leave,” Helen implored. “Please help me.”
“You know I will, Helen.”
Westmoreland walked toward her, ignoring Adrian as thoroughly as if he were invisible, and Adrian blocked his path. Westmoreland was taller and broader and renowned as a brawler, but in truth, he was little more than a savage, Adrian thought. No doubt, he’d be easily cowed by Adrian’s superior intellect and aplomb.
“Can’t you hear me, Westmoreland? Depart! Or I shall summon the law and have you arrested for trespassing.”
“You’ll never have the chance.”
Westmoreland swatted Adrian away like a bothersome fly, then extracted a knife and slashed through Helen’s bindings. She rolled to the opposite side of the bed and scrambled onto the floor, but her knees were weak and she had to brace herself against the wall to remain upright.
Westmoreland studied her reddened cheek. “He hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he do any worse?”
“He hasn’t had time.”
He turned to Adrian, his mouth a grim line, his eyes blazing with fury, and Adrian had to admit Westmoreland was a sight when riled. No wonder villains cringed in his presence. Adrian, however, was made of sterner stuff.
“This melodrama is over, Westmoreland,” Adrian taunted.
“Is that so?”
“Helen has neglected to mention an important detail.”
“That being . . . ?”
“She and I were wed this morning.” He’d hoped for a reaction, for some sign of dismay or disbelief, but there wasn’t a fl
icker of response, which was so annoying. “This is our wedding night, so I suggest you tot off so we can continue with our celebrating.”
“You married her?”
“Yes.” Adrian smiled in triumph as he waited for a wail of anguish or despair, but still, none was forthcoming. By all accounts, Westmoreland had doted on her. Why wasn’t he raging?
Westmoreland gazed at Helen. “Is it true?”
“Yes.”
She blushed with shame, conduct for which Adrian would punish her later.
“So, you see”—Adrian preened—“you have no business here. Begone.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you deaf? Stupid? What? She’s my wife, and I’ll—”
“Not for long,” Westmoreland interrupted.
“What?” Adrian barked.
“She won’t be your wife for long.”
“Of course she will be. The vows were exchanged but a few hours ago. The vicar presided, and witnesses attended. It was recorded all neat and proper. There’s nothing you can do.”
Westmoreland chuckled, and it was such a severe sound that Adrian felt the initial frisson of alarm slither down his spine.
“She may be married to you,” Westmoreland pointed out, “but you’re about to die, so very shortly, she’ll be your widow.”
“I am about to die?”
“Yes. By my hand.” Westmoreland was calm as could be. “Right here. Right now, and good riddance. I should have killed you the day I met you. It would have saved me the trouble of doing it in front of Helen.” He glanced over at her. “Although maybe she’ll be happy to observe your demise. What say you, Helen? Would you like to watch?”
“No.”
“Go out in the hall, then.” He was much more gentle than Adrian might have predicted. “Mr. Smith is there. Stay with him till I come out.”
Clutching at her tattered dress, she took a faltering step, then another, and once she’d rounded the bed, she ran past them as if she worried that Westmoreland was an apparition.
They tarried till she’d exited; then Westmoreland leaned in. They were toe-to-toe, and it was an incredible sensation for Adrian to have so much raw power focused on him. Westmoreland’s wrath was plainly evident, and Adrian supposed that he should have been scared, but he wasn’t. A man wasn’t attacked in his own bedroom. Not even a barbarian like Westmoreland would risk it.
“Aren’t you curious as to why she agreed?” Adrian goaded.
“Yes, actually, I am.”
“She has a little bun in the oven, a gift you left behind.” He glittered with malice. “In the eyes of the church, and the law, your child will be mine. Can you imagine it living to see its first birthday?”
Westmoreland hit him so hard that several teeth were knocked out. Adrian had been hit before in his life, but until that moment, he hadn’t really comprehended how deadly a human fist could be. He fell like a stone, his head smacking the floor, and he was completely discombobulated. Blood oozed from his mouth and nose, but strangely, he was invigorated by the pain.
A wave of indignation swept through him, an energy growing deep inside. Who was Westmoreland to presume he could stroll in and assault Adrian? Who was Westmoreland to presume he could behave however he pleased?
The knave obviously had no clue as to Adrian’s lack of fear. Prepared to defend himself, Adrian moved up on his knees, but before he could rise any farther, Westmoreland punched him again, a staggering blow that had Adrian’s ears ringing and his vision dimming. Reeling from the ambush, he huddled in a ball, hating Westmoreland more than he’d ever hated anyone.
Westmoreland chided, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to beat a woman?”
“I didn’t have a mother,” Adrian spit out, a loosened tooth plopping out on the rug.
“That I can believe,” Westmoreland concurred. “You’re likely the spawn of Satan, himself.”
“Perhaps, I am.”
“Now get up and face your death like a man.”
Adrian felt giddy, out of his body, as if the battering were happening to someone else. He wanted to oblige the Captain, but he couldn’t manage. He lay there, trying to concentrate, when he realized that the knife he’d used to terrorize Helen was right next to him. Apparently, Westmoreland hadn’t noticed it!
“Get up, you filthy swine!” Westmoreland hissed. “Get up so I can kill you.”
As Westmoreland grabbed Adrian’s arm and yanked him to his feet, Adrian curled his fingers around the pearly handle. He came up, braced himself, and with all his might, he stabbed Westmoreland, whipping out the knife before Westmoreland had a second to grasp what he intended.
With ease, the blade sunk all the way to the hilt. Adrian lurched away, grinning with amazement to see it dangling from the Captain’s stomach.
“Fuck you, Westmoreland,” Adrian sneered. “Why don’t you crawl away to perish in a rat’s hole? I have pressing business to conclude with my bride.”
As if naught were amiss, as if he were stabbed every day, Westmoreland casually peered down at his belly. “If you’re determined to kill me, Bennett, you need a bigger knife.”
With a quick jerk, he pulled it out, and he didn’t so much as flinch. Blood squirted everywhere, proof of how grievously he’d been wounded, but the injury didn’t slow him. If anything, it gave him greater strength. Bent on mayhem, burning with plans of homicide, he approached.
“Die, damn you!” Adrian commanded, but Westmoreland kept advancing.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Westmoreland replied. “Just now, I’m busy.”
Like a pair of dancers, they moved across the room until Adrian’s back was against the wall and he could go no farther. Westmoreland was clutching the knife, and though he’d taunted as to its small size, in his skilled hand it looked large and lethal.
“Are you a religious man?” Westmoreland asked, sweat popping out on his brow, blood staining his shirt and trousers.
Adrian couldn’t quit staring at the knife. “What?”
“Would you like prayers read at your funeral?”
Adrian refused to be slain in a common brawl with a felonious miscreant, and he haughtily claimed, “I’m not going to die.”
“Yes, you are.”
Westmoreland clasped him by the throat, as Adrian kicked at his shins and pried at his fingers, but to no avail. The man was strong as an ox, solid as marble, and Adrian couldn’t budge him.
“Westmoreland! Let’s discuss this rationally. You can’t . . . can’t . . . murder me! Not in my own bedchamber!”
“Yes, I can.”
“My God, man. It simply isn’t done!”
“Yes, it is. It’s done all the time.”
Without warning, without debate, Westmoreland plunged the knife into Adrian’s lung. There was an odd whooshing sound, and Adrian didn’t know if it was air speeding out of his body or if it was horror ringing in his mind.
You stabbed me! You stabbed me! He bellowed the phrase over and over, though no words emerged from his mouth. There was a nasty spittle spewing from his lips that prevented him from speaking.
Westmoreland filled his line of vision, seeming to grow bigger and bigger, until Adrian could see nothing else, not the plush bed, not the ornate furniture or the picturesque farm outside the window. It had all been his for such a short while.
Help me! he wailed inside his head, but there was no one in the entire world who would come to his aid.
Where was Archie? Couldn’t he have been bothered? Couldn’t he have pretended to care? At least in the end? Adrian was about to expire alone, with only Westmoreland for company. How morbidly pathetic!
Westmoreland leaned in. Closer. Closer.
“I love Helen,” he whispered, “more than my life. What were you thinking, harming her? Didn’t you understand that I’d have to kill you for it?”
He extracted the knife and thrust it in again, the second jab piercing the center of Adrian’s chest. To Adrian’s surprise, the new wound didn’t hurt. He was
detached from his torso, drifting above it and observing from afar. He couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t cry out or weep in agony. His gaze was glued to Westmoreland’s, his sight fading.
Good-bye, he attempted to say. Then, I’m cold.
A final shudder wracked him; then his eyes fluttered shut.
Luke watched dispassionately as Adrian Bennett slipped away, though he didn’t suppose Bennett would be winging up. His destination was straight down to the fires below.
“Rot in hell, you disgusting bastard.”
It was as much of a eulogy as Bennett deserved.
With the battle concluded and the soul having departed, Luke had spent the stamina necessary to hold Bennett. His own life was in poor condition, his gash painful and his blood loss dangerous. He was dizzy, disoriented, and drained of the energy required to remain conscious.
He released Bennett, and the prig dropped like a rock, his corpse falling with a muted thud.
Luke swayed, bracing his palms on the wall, as Robert rushed in.
“Oh shit!” Robert muttered.
He grabbed Luke around the waist, taking his weight.
“Did you have to murder him?” Robert asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”
“Well, the deed’s done. No use complaining.”
Luke managed a chuckle, though it was difficult to breathe, difficult to talk. “Where’s Helen?”
“I’m here, Luke.” She snuggled herself to his other side.
“Are you all right?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
At her reassurance, his waning strength evaporated. His knees buckled, and Robert and Helen had to fully support him. Patricia raced up from behind, a third pair of arms to keep him steady.
“Let’s put him on the bed,” Patricia said, her no-nonsense attitude making it seem as if all would be fine.
He didn’t want to lie down, but he couldn’t force himself to protest. He opened his eyes, and he was stretched out on the mattress, though he couldn’t recollect how he’d gotten prone.
“There’s so much blood,” Robert murmured, as Luke’s shirt and trousers were ripped away. “Oh, God! Look at that!”
“Press a cloth to it. Don’t let up!”
