Page 98 of Never Beguile a Duke
“The length of my finger.” Mr. Curtis moved behind the chair, circling Winifred as though she were prey. “The width will depend upon my temperament and how much you struggle. Now, where am I cutting?”
Heart hammering, she licked her lips. “I can’t bring myself to ask you to harm me.”
“Then I shall decide…” The knife tip scraped over the exposed skin of her shoulder. “And I select your leg.”
He knelt and grabbed the hem of her skirt. Before she could react, he sliced the blade through the delicate linen and her petticoat in one swipe. Then, he set the knife on the floor and ripped the material from the hem to her waist, exposing her leg.
Winifred screamed as the room’s chilled air caressed her bare skin.
“Please let me go,” she begged, tears leaking from behind the blindfold.
“If your fiancé pays for your life, then you have nothing to fear.” Mr. Curtis pushed the ruined dress aside, and his fingers closed around her thigh, pinching the flesh. “This may hurt a bit.”
The blade pressed against her leg.
Muscles tensing, she sank her teeth into her lower lip and waited for the agony that would certainly accompany the removal of a section of skin. However, before Mr. Curtis gouged the knife into her body, a muted thudding echoed through the lower floor.
He paused.
The muffled pounding came again, followed by a low yell.
“Bloody fool!” Mr. Curtis muttered, releasing Winifred’s leg. “If he keeps up that racket, he’ll draw attention to our location.”
“You are working with someone!” Winifred gasped, her chest squeezing.
“Someone had to think of the scheme.” Mr. Curtis stomped toward the staircase as the banging intensified. “Although, at this moment, I’m regretting allowing him to live.”
“Who?” Winifred asked, but Mr. Curtis didn’t respond, his heavy footfall on the staircase indicating his descent.
The front door slammed, and an indistinguishable male voice drifted up the staircase.
Her breath caught between her teeth, Winifred inched forward, wincing each time the chair legs scratched the floor. When her toes crashed into the doorframe, she stopped, uncertain where the stairs began, and strained her ears.
“Why are you here,” Mr. Curtis asked, “and not stationed outside the Duke of Beaufort’s residence?”
“It’s nightfall,” the second man said, a slight whine in his reply. “If I spend the whole evening outside the house, I’d freeze to death.”
She couldn’t place the voice’s owner, but the unusual twang was like a bee sting, pricking at her mind.
Where would I have been introduced to this man?
Mr. Curtis flung something heavy at the wall, and the item exploded, ripping a scream from Winifred’s lips.
Feet poised to shove the chair backward, she held her breath, her blood crashing through her ears, and prayed neither man would investigate the shriek.
“The purpose,” Mr. Curtis said after a long moment, his shoes grinding the broken pieces into the floor, “of your presence was to ensure the Duke of Roxburghe didn’t come searching for his fiancée prior to tomorrow’s meeting.”
The second man moved toward the staircase. “And how would I communicate that information if I were deceased?”
“I suppose,” Mr. Curtis replied, grinding his teeth together, “that the Duke of Roxburghe won’t risk the weather tonight either. However, you may not reside here.”
“Where do you expect me to stay? I have no funds.”
A sickening crunch, accompanied by an anguished howl, reverberated through the downstairs.
Mr. Curtis strode across the floor, his voice fading. “I will secure a chamber for the night at the gaming hall where the Duke of Roxburghe is scheduled to meet you tomorrow. But whatever debt you accumulate is your responsibility. Understood?”
The second man moaned his consent.
