Page 73 of Tempting the Scoundrel
“Fine. Fine, I believe you. I believe him, O’Sullivan.” Thorne toyed with the handle of the blade, reveling in the small sounds Gibbons made when he twisted it a tiny bit deeper. Gibbons had been a master at this particular game when Thorne was a lad. All of Whelan’s men were experts in torture. “How about this: did you know that Patrick Whelan lives, and did he tell you to return and help him take back my fucking city?”
There it was. A slight shifting in his gaze. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what you . . .”
“Wrong answer,” Thorne said softly, sinking the knife in further, finding satisfaction in the way the other man howled for mercy. “Quiet now. You feel that, Gibbons? One more push, and you stop breathing. Do you really wanna lie to me?”
“I . . . may have—”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. How about you tell me where I can find Whelan and I’llconsiderpaying someone to stitch you up.” But Gibbons was shaking his head, his mouth set in a firm line. “No? That’s a shame. My blade hand isn’t as steady as it used to be and I might slip—”
“I don’ know. He always comes and finds me!”
Thorne leaned in. “If you don’t know, then give me a good reason why I should let you live.”
“I—” Gibbons’ breath was ragged. “I . . .”
Thorne gripped the hilt of the blade; he could press it in so easily now. But not yet. He wanted last words. “When your very long list of sins decides whether you enter paradise or go straight to the devil, how will you plead?”
Gibbons looked helplessly at O’Sullivan, but found even less sympathy from that quarter. O’Sullivan smiled grimly. “Please,” Gibbons whispered.
Thorne paused, rage simmering like a storm inside him. “Please?” he repeated, very softly. Beside him, O’Sullivan tensed. “What did Gibbons do, O’Sullivan, with the lads who said that word?”
“He laughed.” O’Sullivan curled his lip. “And then he punished them for it.”
“That he did,” Thorne murmured. “And I’ve the scars to show for it, don’t I, Gibbons? You used to have such a way with a blade. I learned it from you.”
Gibbons’ chest rose and fell. He knew his time was up. The devil had come to call, and this man was about to die of the same fate he had given so many others. “You’re never gonna find Whelan, you fuckin’ bastard,” Gibbons suddenly hissed, baring his teeth. “He’s gonna kill you first. You and that fuckin’ cunt wife—”
Thorne shoved his knife in to the hilt. Gibbons sagged against him, muttering some last valediction that was lost to the sound of blood garbling up his throat. Thorne lowered the body to the ground and retrieved his weapon with a swift tug. He barely noticed the stickiness of blood as he wiped the blade against his jacket.
“He died faster than he deserved,” Thorne told O’Sullivan.
O’Sullivan looked down at the dead man. “Better fast than not at all.”
Chapter 23
Dear Lady Alexandra,
Please find enclosed the documents required for your divorce petition. Should Mr. Thorne cooperate with your request, he need only sign where indicated and inquire about further arrangements through our office.
Should he mount an objection, I invite you to make an appointment with my secretary at your earliest convenience.
Cordially,
Miss Annabel Dawes
Alexandra pacedthe length of her room, tapping Miss Dawes’ letter against her dress.
Why had she slept with Nick? Why had she done it?Why, why, why? Retreating to the safety of her bedchamber had done nothing to ease her agitation. Her manuscript offered little reprieve from the tumult of her thoughts—it being another cause of her troubles.
But now her foremost concern was a husband. One she thought she’d no longer wanted and now . . . now . . .
This means nothing.
God, how she’d wished that were true. When had she taken to lying? She, who demanded such honesty from him?
There were marks on her throat from his teeth; they had faded a day ago, but the memory of his touch lingered in her mind. She had brought herself to completion the last two nights, imagining it washishands touching and tormenting her. When she woke in the darkness to find herself alone, she ached to open their connecting door and curl herself against him. She wished to feel his solidity, his scars beneath her fingertips. He had so much more to tell her about each one.
Alexandra sighed and set Miss Dawes’ letter down on her tiny desk. Beside it, a scrap of paper documented her pathetic attempts to refocus on the future she had built in her mind:
