Black Silk (26 page)
No wonder Sir William hadn’t worried about the window.
In one book she’d edited, a gothic about a deformed lord and an innocent lass held as his captive, the heroine had tried every way to escape, and every attempt led to more and more disaster. Soon the poor girl was locked in a small shed and broken until she called the lord her “master.”
Maryanne spun away from the window. “Come on, little one,” she whispered to her baby, “We won’t let a fictional story steal our courage. We will find something!”
But after searching every shadowed nook and cranny, she dropped to her knees on the plank floor to peer under the bed again, ready to scream in frustration.
The bedchamber was completely stripped of anything that might be thrown or swung. No fireplace poker. No shovel for the ash. Not a candle, not even a picture on the painted walls. Only the massive bed and a large chair. She’d tried to lift the chair with the idea of throwing it at the window but it was an ancient oak thing she couldn’t budge.
She couldn’t even brace the chair against the door, but since she was trying to get out, not lock herself in, that wasn’t a great loss….
What was happening to Dash? She slumped back onto the floor. He had shouted in such agony in his cell….
Tears bubbled up, threatening to spill.
No, she couldn’t give in to that. She would not be a helpless heroine who screamed plaintively for help.
Scrambling to her feet, Maryanne leaned against one carved bedpost and stared at the bed. Pillows, but what sort of weapon would they make? Sheets, plenty of them, and clean, too, but without an open window, they were useless.
She could hide when Sir William returned, but he’d find her under the bed or behind the drapes.
Perish it—how was she going to get herself and Dash out of this foul house?
She needed a weapon!
She rubbed her hands along her chilled arms. The fire was low in the grate; obviously Sir William wished to torture her with the cold….
The fire!
Hope, hot and exciting, rushed through her veins.
What better weapon than fire? The damage it could cause…and in the confusion, she could find Dash and—
And potentially perish. What if she trapped herself and Dash in an inferno? And what of Lady Farthingale, who was locked in the basement? What if there were other women trapped in this wretched house?
As much as this horrid place deserved to be leveled to ash, she wouldn’t set the house on fire.
But she had to do something.
And the fireplace beckoned—there were no flames, only a red glow flickering amongst the charred logs.
Only charred logs were left, but one would be good enough. One piece had broken off and fallen into the grate. She stripped off a pillowcase and then wrapped it around her right hand. Clenching her teeth, she plucked up the smoldering log. Warmth radiated through the cloth. She grasped the log as tight as she could. Holding it like a lance, she charged at the window.
The impact wrenched her shoulder, and she yelled in both pain and triumph. A long crack snaked up the pane of glass. She hit it again and again until it shattered. Small pieces exploded outward, raining down over the terrace below.
Long, jagged pieces stayed in place.
“’Ere!” called a masculine voice outside her door. “What’re you playing at?”
The rattle of the doorknob warned she didn’t have much time. Gently, using her cloth, she wobbled the largest shard of glass back and forth. The putty holding it broke and crumbled. She worked the spike of glass free.
The door swung wide, and heavy footsteps charged in. She spun, her weapon held behind her back. The florid-faced servant looked as solid as a wall. His gaze snapped from the broken window to her discarded log. “Twit,” he snapped. “Those bars can’t be broken.”
She launched at him, swinging wildly at his neck.
“Bloody ’ell!” he shrieked.
Her baby’s life was at stake. Dash’s life was at stake. She slashed. She felt the glass hit flesh, but she couldn’t bear to look and see what damage she’d caused. Blood splattered her thin chemise, and she fought nausea. Instead, she sprinted past him as he clutched at his throat.
She couldn’t have killed him, but she’d stunned him. But as she reached the doorway, she collided with a body racing in.
“Bloody hell!” Maryanne screamed herself as she slammed into a soft chest and rebounded back. The strong scent of sherry hit her. Georgiana stumbled back and wiped her lips, leaving a stain of red on her white satin gloves. She blinked tears and then stared dumbfounded at the guard who had sagged back against the wall.
“How in heaven—?” Georgiana broke off. She had been into the sherry. Remorse? Or too many victory drinks?
Maryanne yanked her hand back as her former friend reached for it.
“I must get you out of here,” Georgiana implored as Maryanne darted around her. Yanking up her skirts, Georgiana ran after her. “He’s mad. Utterly mad.”
“Oh, have you discovered he intends to chain you up and force you to lick his boots?”
Georgiana almost stumbled into a table and clamped her hand brutally tight on Maryanne’s wrist. “We must get away. I have a pistol.”
Maryanne understood at once. If Georgiana had her as hostage, she had power.
“I can’t leave Dash. He’ll be killed if I escape.”
“I’ve bribed two grooms to have my carriage ready—I’m stealing my own carriage! And you are coming with me.”
“No.” She had the shard of glass—nothing else!
She slowed, but Georgiana dragged her forward. Turning the corner, Maryanne gasped. Three large servants were racing toward them.
Georgiana raised the pistol with one hand, but the muzzle wobbled wildly. And as she fired, her arm kicked up in the air.
“Grab them!” one footman shouted, even as the ball shot past his ear and exploded harmlessly into the plaster wall. “The master wants her ladyship now.”
Maryanne’s hand tightened on her piece of glass, and she felt the pain of her skin parting. The wetness of blood. Georgiana’s pistol was spent, and though she clobbered one of the footmen over the head with it, he quelled her with a hard punch to her jaw. Georgiana fell back like a sack of coal.
Two servants bore down on Maryanne—Ball, the man who had captured her at first, and the one who had thrust her into the bedchamber.
She couldn’t fight three men with a piece of glass.
To keep the glass hidden meant she would have a weapon when she was dragged to Sir William. She fisted her hands in the skirt of her shift as the men grabbed her.
Courage. She must believe in herself.
“Now, my pretty,” muttered Ball, “you’ll get to see his lordship whipped within an inch of his life.”
Maryanne’s legs sagged, and she almost collapsed as her courage dropped away.
T
he lash whistled through the air and struck his flesh, slicing a burning line, a diagonal blaze across weeping vertical wounds.
Bent on one knee, Dash flinched as pain shrieked through him. Given that he’d enjoyed several erotic whippings in his life, he should be bloody able to bear this. Sir William wanted to decorate his back with an artistic pattern of pouring blood.
Maryanne—was she safe? She had to be. The bastard wanted to torture him; Sir William wouldn’t hurt Maryanne without doing it in front of him.
He slumped forward on his knees. Hell, what kind of husband was he if he could not get free?
He couldn’t lose her.
He’d spent a lifetime waiting for the final blow to fall, waiting to get caught in the trap that would finally kill him.
Now he wanted to live…he damn well yearned to live.
He wanted to hold Maryanne. He wanted to watch her grow big with their child. He wanted to watch her hold their baby. He wanted to watch her hair go gray and know they’d spent a lifetime together—
The whip hit again, but the pain—hell, that pain was nothing.
“Soon your wife will be coming to watch this delightful display,” Sir William goaded. “She will soon see how helpless you are. She will watch you suffer, knowing she is going to die.”
No. No, Maryanne was not going to die because of him. There had to be a way.
“How should I kill her? Like Eliza Charmody?”
Dash fought the rising vomit. “Touch her and I’ll tear your heart out.”
“Will you, now, Dashiel? I don’t think so.” The whip whistled—the tail hit the floor beside him. God help him, he flinched, and he gritted his teeth as Sir William laughed.
Dash found the strength to growl, “Why in the name of God are you doing this? Have you hated me all my life? Are you doing this for my blasted uncle?”
Sir William paced around Dash until he stood in front of him. “You have no idea, do you, you arrogant sot?”
“No, you piece of scum, I do not.” He had to suck in a deep breath, and he shifted his head to send his sweat-soaked hair dangling over his eyes. To hide the pain they must reveal.
Sir William lifted the whip. The flick of the tale riveted Dash’s gaze. He flinched again, and triumph spread across the magistrate’s face.
The one man he had thought he could trust.
What sort of nightmare was his life? His uncle, aunt, and cousin wanted him dead. And the man who had acted as a father, a mentor, a confidante—the man who had kept him sane wanted to torture him.
To kill him.
“You aren’t going to win,” Dash spat. When he’d been a boy, there had been many nights when he’d thought his uncle would win. When Dash had been willing to give up, just to stop the fear.
He had one light in his life. One reason to wake up in the morning.
Maryanne. He was not going to lose his chance for happiness with Maryanne.
Dash threw himself forward, threw all his remaining strength into launching himself at Sir William. But the bastard danced aside.
Two servants hauled him back into place as Sir William propped his booted foot on a low table of iron and oak.
His torture was being carried out in an elegant parlor. Thin lace curtains shielded the windows. Two bulky servants played guard outside the locked double doors.
“Miss Westmoreland.”
Dash frowned. “Amanda? If this is revenge over Amanda’s death, you have to believe I didn’t kill her. I didn’t care who she loved, who she intended to run away with—”
Sir William gave an evil chuckle. “Of course you didn’t kill her. I did.”
“Why—Jesus!”
The whip sliced toward his head, and he jerked to the side. With the blasted wood strapped over his shoulders, he was awkward, unbalanced. He toppled to the floor in a twisted position, the edge of the yoke jammed against the floor.
“I kept her, you see. All these years. I couldn’t keep her if she was alive—she loved you. You! You cast her aside, and she still loved you. I offered her everything—my heart, my soul, my wealth, position, children. Everything a woman could want. But she would rather pine for you, be alone and miserable, instead of accepting me. But I loved her. Adored her—the senseless witch.”
Sir William had loved Amanda? Dash grimaced as he tightened his gut muscles to pull the yoke off the floor and right himself. “But why kill her? How could you do that if you loved her?”
“It was the only way I could keep her with me.”
“You kept a corpse with you?” Dash’s blood chilled with horror. Christ Jesus, he had to get Maryanne out of here. How?
“I kept her with me, but I realized I was willing to give her up at last. And I wanted to see your face when Society accused you of killing her. For you did—you captured her heart, and you destroyed her—”
“I had to protect her from my blasted uncle.” The irony hit him cold. Anger burned through him. Why did Amanda have to lose her life, her future, because of a madman?
But Sir William paced in front of him. As though considering sentence. “Had you not wondered why I never married, or did you never trouble your shallow, drink-sodden mind to consider me?”
Dash groaned as he straightened so that his torso was upright and he was sitting on his haunches. “I assumed your tastes—”
“You thought me homosexual. Ah, no. I appreciate the beauty of both young boys and young girls—the taste of them, the softness of their skin. But Amanda, with her spun-silk hair, her ruby lips, her sapphire eyes…she was ethereal. A treasure.” Cold and ruthless, Sir William’s eyes glinted behind the spectacles. “Your wife is not as lovely. Common and plain. She hides her fear—it will be a delight to break her.”
Maryanne! “Why now?” Dash knew he had to keep Sir William talking. “Why give up Amanda now? Why try to make me look like a murderer?”
“Ah.” A playful smile. “It was so easy to torment you. You stole Amanda’s heart; she cried out your name as she died, even as she looked into my eyes and I told her how much I loved her.” Fury blazed suddenly in Sir William’s eyes. “She lied to me. The bitch asked me for advice, hung on my every word, made me believe she loved me and she needed me. And she turned me down for you. I’ve hated you always for that. I offered love—precious, sincere devotion—and you…you fuck whores. You are sick and perverted.”
Dash bit his tongue. Sick and perverted couldn’t begin to describe this lunatic he had once thought a great and just man.
“And Georgiana—what was she supposed to do for you? Was she supposed to lure Maryanne to me? Why?”
“I needed a distraction for you…and Georgiana provided me with an innocent. One with whorish tendencies—”
“Blast you!” Dash roared. He would not listen to this bastard insult his wife.
The whip flayed his chest, and he roared again, curling in to protect his bare skin.
“And then you married her.” Sir William chuckled. “It was magnificent. I hadn’t counted on that. I needed a victim to turn you once more into a stupid, dashing knight.”
“But why now?” Dash demanded, rising, even if it meant another wound.
Sir William threw aside the whip. He strolled to the desk, opened a drawer. Dash knew what the gleaming wood case was even before the magistrate opened it.
Dueling pistols.
But, given the blackguard had no honor, he withdrew them both himself. “Primed and loaded in preparation. One ball for your heart. One for your wife’s.” The silver barrel leveled at Dash’s chest. “You asked me why? Because I am dying, Swansborough. No physician in Harley Street can save me. I will stand on the dock before God and be judged. But I could not leave this earth and let you go unpunished.”
“For what sin?” he demanded.
“For stealing the woman I loved from me.” Sir William cocked the pistol.
Dash tensed his muscles, ready to jump aside—
The door flew open. “Here is her ladyship,” Ball announced.
Dash’s heart skipped a beat as Ball pushed Maryanne into the room. Blood spattered her shift and her face. God, was it hers?
She screamed as she saw him.
Another servant rushed in the open door, a scrawny-looking boy. “There’s been riders spotted, master. Approaching.”
Sir William frowned. He threw aside the whip, drew out a pistol from his pocket. “Ball, take the men and intercept them.”
Riders? Hell, could it be men from Swansley? Then Dash’s blood ran cold. Could it be Moredon? Christ, if it was his brother-in-law, what in blazes was he doing riding into danger?
Sir William slammed the door. “Now we are alone. Though I suspect you would not mind an audience, would you, you tarty wench.”
Fury boiled in Dash as Sir William pulled Maryanne close. She winced and tried to pull away.
Sir William’s hand yanked up her tattered skirt. “I am going to cut you to pieces, my dear. And you will feel every slice of my blade—”
“No!” Dash launched forward, swinging the wooden yoke strapped to him.
“No!” Maryanne cried, and she slapped Sir William’s face.
Blood ran from a slash across his cheek.
Sir William clapped his hand to his face. “What in blazes…?” He aimed the pistol at Maryanne’s head. Grinned. “Stop where you are, Dashiel.”
Dash froze.
“Good. Now retreat. Get down on your knees.”
Dash’s gaze met Maryanne’s terrified brown eyes. He knew he had no choice but to go back and kneel.
“I have one shot.” Sir William laughed. “Now who should I use it on? Dashiel, I think. Not to kill, but only to maim—”
Footsteps pounded outside the door, voices shouted, and the doors flew open. Sir William jerked the pistol toward the door. Bound, his body screaming in pain, Dash spun, too. Maryanne, thank heaven, had the good sense to leap away.
But Sir William quickly swung the pistol to point at her back.
A shot fired, and Dash’s brain almost exploded in panic. Confused, he saw Sir William scream in agony and reached for his leg.
Dash leaped forward, twisting as he did, and slammed the yoke into the back of Sir William’s head. The pistol roared, but the barrel pointed at the floor. The ball slammed into the floor at the exact moment Sir William’s skull cracked into the low table on which he’d propped his boots.
Deafened by the explosion of the shot, Dash didn’t hear the impact of bone and wood, but he saw Sir William roll off to the side. Blood spurted from the wound, and before his eyes, Sir William’s gaze turned glassy.
Dead.
“Dash! Oh, Dash!” Maryanne was racing toward him, darting around furniture. Stunned, Dash realized that Trent and Moredon were at her heels. And another man….
A man with a scarlet kerchief tied around his neck and wild, long, gray hair. The man who had fired the pistol at Sir William.
The famed and scandalous artist of erotica, Rodesson.
Rodesson rushed forward to embrace his daughter.
But Maryanne cried, “You must help Dash get free!” She spun and glared down at Sir William’s body.
“Don’t look, sweetheart,” Dash pleaded as he stumbled toward her.
But she didn’t scream. Or faint. Or turn white. She stamped her foot. “If he wasn’t dead, I’d kill him myself.”
“Oh, love.” Dash felt a mad chuckle rise in his throat. “And what in blazes did you cut him with?”
“This!” She held up a shard of glass. “I broke it out of the window when he locked me in the bedroom.”
“You, my wonderful wife, are the bravest person I have ever known.”
She brushed at tears. “You are. You’ve endured hell….”
He did not want Maryanne to see his carved-up back, so he edged around. He jerked his gaze up to his two brothers-in-law and his father-in-law. Trent’s brow lifted—Dash didn’t even want to think of how gruesome he looked with the yoke and chains in place and blood running over his flesh.
Trent nodded. “Our men have the servants rounded up—and your steward has brought the runners Sir William was using. They had no idea what was actually happening. And we also have Georgiana. We’ll turn the lot of them over to the local magistrate.”
Dash lifted his shoulders. “Before that, would you mind unlocking me? I would like to hold my wife.”
Several hours passed like a blur. Sir Jasper Dayle was the magistrate, and his lovely, adept wife, Lady Dayle, tended to Dash’s wounds. Though Dash protested, Maryanne insisted on helping. He made it damned difficult for her because he kept stopping her to hold her hand, to kiss her lips.
For the rest of his life, Dash was going to keep Maryanne close. He was going to touch her, kiss her, cuddle her. Treasure her. Despite Sir Jasper’s invitation to stay the night, Dash knew he wanted to be home. For once, returning home didn’t fill him with dread.
Even with his uncle still there.
Home felt like home now, simply because it was the home he shared with Maryanne.
The carriages were prepared, with Trent assisting weak Lady Farthingale, who cried helplessly for her “master” and clutched the clothes given to her by Lady Dayle.
As Maryanne helped Dash down to Sir Jasper’s drive, she suddenly whispered, “Come with me.”
Surprised, he did. Twining her fingers with his, she led him onto the lawns to the wide trunk of an ancient oak. Gray-brown branches, bare of leaves, reached for the pink-blushed sky as Maryanne leaned back against the tree. Though he felt damned confused, he knew an opportunity when he had one—he pulled her to him, cradled her face, and kissed her.
There wouldn’t be a chance in the carriage—they’d be sharing it with Trent.
Dash reveled in the delight of holding her close.
Soft hair brushing his fingertips. Her hot lips on his. Her tongue—a tease that had his cock standing up in an instant. A jolt of pain hit him as the skin wounded by wax drips rubbed against his clothes. He blocked out the pain, wrapped his leg around hers, dropped a hand to her low back, and held her to him.
He was never going to let her go.
Heat flooded his soul from their joined mouths. The dying sun painted the snow pink, and a breeze sent branches clacking together.
He eased from her delightful, addictive mouth. “We should return to the warm carriage,” he began, but her lashes swept over her large brown eyes, and the horror of what might have been swept over him.