The faint nausea that had been plaguing her for the last few days grew worse. She clapped a hand over her mouth and waited, praying, wordless prayers winging up. She had the errant thought that she must believe in God after all, no matter how ill-used she felt. Perhaps this time, when she most needed it, help would be forthcoming.
Closer, closer. He had a particularly heavy footfall, and Elinor shut her eyes in despair. He was coming closer, and there was nothing she could do. No ornate pistols in this dim place, nothing like the one she’d threatened Rohan with. Nothing to defend herself with but her hands.
She had a brooch on her cloak, a large, ugly thing that her…brother had given her as an engagement present. With shaking hands she unfastened it. If nothing else she could try to jab it in his eyes, anything to slow him down.
And then there was no more waiting. He stood over the small place where she hid, and she knew he’d have that affable smile on his thick lips. “There you are, wife,” he said genially, and put his ugly hands down to haul her up.
Rohan, she thought, clutching the pin, the sharp side out. If she were to die, the last thing she wanted to see in her mind’s eye was Rohan. Marcus drew her up, out of the small well, and she lashed out with the pin, aiming for his eyes.
He howled with pain, dropping her, and she went down hard on the ancient stone floor, the pin flung from her grasp. She looked up, and saw him—saw Rohan, and she wanted to cry. Death was merciful, and he would truly be the last thing she’d see. A vision or a dream, it didn’t matter.
“Get away from her. ”
The voice was low, deadly and very real. She lifted her head. He was there, he really was, with Charles Reading behind him. Rohan looked like the wrath of God, and she tried to get to her feet, to run to him.
Marcus’s meaty hand caught the edge of her hood and hauled her back. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“You can’t get away with it, Harriman,” Rohan said.
“Lord Tolliver to you,” he said stiffly. “And I certainly can. If anyone finds out you’re in this country you’ll be executed as a traitor. And who’s going to believe a scoundrel like Reading when it’s his word against a peer of the realm?”
“The title’s stolen,” Reading said. “It belongs to Elinor’s son. ”
Marcus had a thick arm around her throat, choking her, and she struggled, fighting him. Elinor’s son, he said, and she knew, with sudden blind, crazy certainty, that she was carrying a son. Rohan’s son.
She felt a surge of fury, and she slammed her elbow into his soft stomach. Marcus grunted in pain, but his hold didn’t loosen. She struggled, kicking back at him, and his grip tightene
d until she felt the blackness beginning to close in. She reached up to claw at his hands, raking her fingernails into his skin, but he was impervious.
“Don’t be a fool,” Rohan said in his lazy, elegant drawl. “You really can’t hope this will work. If you hurt her I’ll disembowel you while you watch, and Reading will help me. I’ll be on my way back to France before they even find your body. But I’m prepared to treat you like the gentleman you profess to be. ” His voice dripped contempt. “You do fancy yourself a gentleman, do you not? I’m willing to fight you for her. Surely you wouldn’t refuse a challenge. ”
“So you can skewer me like you did that poor fat bastard?” Marcus laughed. “I’m no fool—I’m a better swordsman than Sir Christopher Spatts, but I’m no match for the likes of you. I…”
The sound of that hated name shocked her, her response so visceral that she kicked back, somehow managed to connect with something sensitive. He let out a yelp of pain, releasing her, and she scrambled away, running toward Rohan, needing him.
But Charles moved in front of her, grabbing her arms and pulling her out of the way, and Rohan’s hard blue eyes didn’t even glance at her. “You’ll fight me, Harriman,” he said. “Or I’ll kill you anyway. This way you have a chance. ”
There was silence from the end of the ancient hallway. And then Marcus spoke, his voice full of bravado. “I’m afraid I don’t have a sword. ”
“Charles, be good enough to lend this man your sword,” Rohan said lazily. There was murder in his eyes, deliberation in his movements. “And then remove your sister-in-law. ”
Charles withdrew his sword, still managing a restraining hold on Elinor, and handed it to Rohan, who tested it. “A good blade, Harriman. More than you deserve. ”
“Come with me, Elinor,” Charles said, pulling her away.
She tried to fight him. “No,” she cried. “What if something happens—”
Author: Anne Stuart
“Something will happen,” Rohan said without looking in her direction. “Your false husband will die. Leave now. ” His voice was like ice.
“No,” she cried. Not wanting to leave him, terrified that Marcus might win. And then there was a part of her, a dark, ruthless part, wanting to see Harriman’s blood spilled.
“If you stay here you’ll distract me and that could cause my death,” Rohan said calmly, not even glancing at her. She had no choice.
Charles pulled her out of the underground hallway, and in comparison the overcast day was blindingly bright. She had managed to twist her ankle in some part of her flight and simply not noticed, but Charles put his arm around her, supporting her until they reached a place to stop. She rested against one of the many overturned stones, looking up at Charles in despair.
“What if he kills him?” she said in a choked voice.