Page 17 of Brutal Serpent

I could hear noise and bustle in the stable yards, and people yelling, so I hastened down past the stalls, heading to the far corner of the building. Casting my eyes over each stall, I chose what seemed like the cleanest and nicest-smelling hay to hide in and I dove down, with only a little pang for my beautiful wedding clothes.

What did they matter?I thought bitterly. The Viscount hadn’t really wanted to marry me. He would’ve married anything or anybody as long as her name was “Miss Wendover.”

When the barn door opened slowly, I felt a chill go down my spine.

Maybe it was just a random ostler.

I held my breath, not daring to make any noise.

“Catherine Wendover,” the voice came. Silky-sweet with malice, velvety, cruel.

It was my husband.

Then I heard his low mocking laugh.

“Oh, but you have a new name now, don’t you? That name that means legally I own you and can do what I want to you.”

Raising my eyes up carefully, I saw him pick up a big pitchfork. My stomach roiled with fear and I tried to tamp it down.

“Come out, Catherine St. Erth,” the Viscount said again. “You see, very unpleasant things happen to people who don’t do what I say.”

I suppressed a scream as he jabbed the pitchfork down savagely into the first stall, stabbing the soft hay there over and over again.

What if I had been there?He would have killed me! My husband was a dangerous madman!

“Come out,” he said, low and wicked, his slow steps seeming to echo against the wood. “It doesn’t suit the dignity of a Viscountess to sleep in a barn.”

My knees felt as weak as jelly, the fear coursing through my body. I didn’t want to wait for him to skewer me. But what would he do when he caught me? I didn’t think he was the kind of man to show mercy.

Maybe he wouldn’t try every stall? Maybe if I stayed absolutely still?

I lay there trembling. My husband moved closer, his tall body moving with slow sure steps in the shadows.

“Not going to come out, Catherine?” he asked.

Then he moved to the next stall, and down the pitchfork fell again. He didn’t even kick the straw, or feel around to see if I was in it. Just thrust the pitchfork down as hard as he could, the sickening clang of the viciously sharp implement hitting the barn floor rattling through my teeth.

I wasn’t even sure Icouldget up. I felt too frightened to move. Maybe this was better. At least if he killed me he’d get in trouble.

Wouldn’t he?

I was afraid I didn’t know. Maybe he had enough money to get out of that, too.

“There’s no escape for you, little Catherine,” my new husband said, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the terrible beauty of his face as he drew closer. There was one stall left before mine.

“Come out, wife,” he said again. “You don’t want to know what I’m capable of.”

Then he struck at the stall, and it seemed to my terrified eyes that he struck hardest with this one, his broad shoulders stretching back so he could impale the hay.

I imagined that pitchfork going through me. Would the Viscount be surprised when his next blow pierced through my skin, when he skewered his wife through her guts?

He reached the door to my stall and I saw him raise the pitchfork high.

I lurched to my feet. “Stop!” I cried shrilly. “You’re insane! You could have killed me!”

I was trembling uncontrollably.

There was a beat of unpleasant silence and then St. Erth stalked into the stall and, before I could move, he had yanked me back against him and ripped open the back of my dress.

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