Page 31 of Too Wylde To Tame
“You are coming with me,” he whispered harshly. “Do not fuss or make a struggle of this. I’ll kill you where you stand. Do you understand me, Charity Wylde? I’m a man with nothing left to lose.”
The slight shifting of her head, nodding in understanding, was almost imperceptible, but he was attuned to every movement and every sound in that darkened room. “Get up. Get dressed… and do not make a sound.”
TWENTY-TWO
Charity said nothing. In part because she was doing as instructed, in part because she was too busy formulating a plan of escape to bother with defiance for the sake of it. The terror of waking up with his hands on her and him looming above her had left her shaking. She was startled, she was reasonably afraid for her life, but she wouldn’t be cowed by him. Whatever he had planned for her, she was fairly certain that the further he got her away from Randford House and those within its walls that would offer aid, the less likely it would be for her to survive.
Retrieving the discarded day dress she’d worn earlier in the day, she slipped it over her head and fastened the buttons at the front. She hadn’t bothered with stays. Next, she put on her stockings and boots, all while he hovered nearby, watching every move she made. The humiliation of that was unbearable.
When she was done, he approached her once more. This time, he pulled his cravat free from his stock and then used it to bind her hands behind her. “Just in case,” he said. “I am not so foolish as to think you can be trusted to behave, Miss Wylde. Now, will you remain quiet or will you require a gag in addition to your bonds?”
“No. I will not require a gag,” she answered quietly. “Where are you taking me?”
“Back to London,” he said.
“For what reason?”
“Revenge, Miss Wylde. For revenge,” he said.
“I’ve done nothing to you,” she protested hotly.
“That is arguable. Regardless, you are merely the instrument of revenge and not the object. My brother has been a thorn in my side my whole life long. The paragon of virtue to whom I could never live up… He was the heir. He was thegood one. The only role that was left to me was that of villain, Miss Wylde, and I mean to live up to it.”
Charity shivered at the threat in his voice. “You have a choice, Lord Jameson. We all have a choice.”
His grin was cold and grim. “And mine has been made.” His hand closed over her elbow in a bruising grip as he ushered her toward the door. There, he paused to peer out into the corridor.
When he pushed her through the door, the corridor beyond was dark and entirely deserted. Recalling Delia’s statement that many of the guests had departed early, she frowned. There would be far fewer opportunities for aid, fewer people to intervene on her behalf. With that in mind, she strained to hear even the slightest noise from within any of the bedchambers they passed.
She had almost given up hope when she heard the low murmur of voices. Drawing in a deep breath, Charity opened her mouth to scream. Before a single sound escaped her, she felt pain exploded along her cheek.
The blow was staggering. He’d struck her, his closed fist striking the side of her head with such force that it addled her wits and left her ears ringing. Even as she sank to her knees on the hall carpet, he was dragging her toward the hidden servants’ stairs. The bedchamber door opened just as the panel concealing the servants’ stairs closed. There would be no help. No one would even know that he’d taken her.
The barrel of the pistol he carried suddenly pressed against her temple. “I will shoot you. Do you really think me incapable of ending your miserable life?”
“I know that you are not,” she admitted. Uttering that truth aloud was terrifying. It was the first time she’d really faced the fact that he might well kill her. She might not survive long enough to marry Frederick. “But to do so would see you ruined.”
“I am already ruined,” Jameson said with a sneer. “Or didn’t you know that it was me who tried to murder my wretched brother today?”
“Yourwretchedbrother,” Charity said, still palming her battered cheek, “Had elected to keep the identity of his assailant a secret. Even after what you had done, he was willing to protect your reputation, to see you have some semblance of a normal life, even if it was far from here. Your petty jealousy is the source of your misery… not him.”
There might have been a flinch from Jameson. Whether it was a slight attack of conscience or some remnant of filial emotion, she had no way of knowing. But it was the first hint of vulnerability that she had seen in him. She pressed on. “You revile him, but your brother cares for you. He has done nothing but try to help you, even attempting to save you from yourself and your own wickedness.”
“Shut up! Not another word from you!” He grabbed the thick braid of her hair, yanking her head back painfully before abruptly releasing her.
Charity stumbled, nearly falling down the stairs. She managed to right herself but only just. Her knee banged sharply against the edge of one step and her shoulder connected painfully with the wall. But there was no time to catalogue her injuries. He had grasped her arm once more and was half dragging her down the stairs. Apparently his temper had superseded his desire for discretion. He was being so loud that it would be impossible for them not to be overheard by someone. And on the off chance that someone did attempt to intervene, Charity knew their best chance was her to keep him distracted.
“If you mean to shoot me, you will do so whether I’ve spoken my piece or not,” she said. “You are the orchestrator of your own downfall, Lord Jameson. Your jealousy, resentment and pettiness have led you to a life of dissolution which has only further colored your perception of everyone around you. You see your own wickedness and selfishness in others!” They had reached the bottom of the stairs and the kitchen was just beyond.
“You are the worst sort of coward,” she continued. “A man incapable of taking accountability for his own actions and blaming all his failings on others. Had you expended half as much effort on doing something worthwhile with your life as you did on thoroughly squandering it, I daresay you’d be in a very different place now.”
His hand flew back, ready to strike her again. “You have no idea when to quit, do you?”
“You may strike me as you wish. It will not alter the truth.” Over Lord Jameson’s shoulder, she could see Frederick. He was standing in the doorway of the small room they’d placed him in for his convalescence. Far from hale and hearty, but he was at least steady on his feet. And armed. He had a pistol in his hand.
Jameson sneered. “I could kill you right now. I could put a pistol ball right in your brain and I’d suffer no greater punishment for it than is already waiting for me. Attempted fratricide may not see me hanged, but that, coupled with my attempted abduction of you will surely seal the deal. If it does not, the people to whom I owe my debts—people who will now know that I have no hope of inheriting anything—will surely see me dead. I told you before, I’ve nothing to lose.”
“But you do.”
