Page 70 of The Damsel
He isn’t yours any longer … you’ve pushed him away far too many times, and now you’ll die without ever telling him how you truly feel.
Opening her eyes, she heaved a sigh. She would meet her fate, taking comfort in the knowledge that she’d had a hand in taking Bertram down before her demise. She might not have saved Lady Downing, but she hoped that her actions might have saved others. Unlike Downing and Stratford, her other targets might have learned a valuable lesson about how it felt to be a victim, to be helpless and degraded.
And Robert … well, at least he was safe. By tying him to that bed and leaving him behind, she had kept him from being caught up in this storm of her own making. Her actions and mistakes had led to this, and now she would suffer the consequences.
She darted a glance at the man sitting beside her. Downing had fallen asleep, his head resting against the seat, mouth hanging open as his soft snores filled the carriage. Her fingers tightened around the sheet, making the gash on the inside of her forearm throb.
Could she overtake them somehow? Looking across the vehicle, she found Stratford watching, her dagger held in one hand. He pressed the tip lightly against his palm and spun the hilt, making the steel gleam in the meager moonlight streaming through the carriage windows.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, turning the knife so that the blade faced her. “I’ll slice you to ribbons before you even lay a hand on him.”
Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him and calculated the risks. Downing was fast asleep, and if she lunged at Stratford it might be a moment before he regained all his faculties. By the time he’d come to, she could overpower Stratford and take the knife before jamming it into his chest. But, she’d be too slow and weak, and if she failed ...
Cursing her weak, battered body, she sank deeper into the confines of the bed sheet. She should conserve her strength on the chance that a true window of opportunity arose for her to escape. For the moment, it seemed the only way out of this was death.
“Help me understand something,” Stratford said, taking on a conversational tone. “Was publicly testifying against Fairchild not enough for you? The man you claim raped you—”
“He did rape me,” she snapped. “Just like you raped Randall’s wife.”
Stratford rolled his eyes “Hardly got the chance before the little bitch started fighting me. Killing her was an accident, but … well it was her fault for mauling me.”
Bile rose in the back of her throat as she thought of her own ordeal at Bertram’s hands, the paralysis caused by fear that had kept her from fighting him. Would she have suffered the same fate as Randall’s wife had she fought him?
“No, it wasn’t enough,” she spat, her hands shaking with the force of her anger. “It will never be enough as long as there are men like you in the world.”
Stratford snorted. “I hate to sully your grand illusion, but men like me are all there are in the world.”
“No,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to her filthy hands. “You’re wrong.”
Months ago she might have agreed with him. For five long years, she’d been unable to look at any man without seeing her assailant. But then, there had been Robert. He’d proven himself to be the opposite of Bertram in every way.
“There are men who know how to get what they want without hurting others,” she continued, lifting her eyes to meet Stratford’s gaze once more. “They have the decency to care for people weaker than them, not abuse them. That's what a real man is. But, you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Satisfaction flared within her at the way his face contorted, lips pinching, nostrils flaring as he wrestled with his anger. Leaning forward a bit, she smiled, despite the way it made her swollen face ache and her split lip sting.
“Go ahead,” she taunted. “Hit me. Cut me. Prove me right about the sort of spineless coward you are. You could never take me in a fight without Downing … I proved that the night I ran your carriage down on this very road.”
Instead of retaliating, Stratford slouched in his chair and gave her a chilling grin. He went back to playing with the dagger, touching its point to each of his fingers.
“I am going to enjoy breaking you,” he murmured, his voice silky smooth yet as sharp as the blade in his hand. “Just wait until we arrive in Devon. You will not have so much to say between screams.”
Before she could open her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, a cry arose from outside the carriage, followed by a lone gunshot.
Cassandra started, turning to glance at the carriage window. With the curtain drawn, she could see nothing, but she heard the shouts of Stratford’s driver as well as the startled screams of the horses.
“What the devil?” Stratford mumbled, pulling the curtain aside just as the carriage jolted to a sudden stop. “Downing! Wake up, you fool! I think we’ve been overtaken by a highwayman.”
Sir Downing came to with a snort, blinking his bleary eyes as he glanced about the carriage with confusion etching his face.
“What’s that? Highwayman, you say? Nonsense, we’ve the Masked Menace right here.”
“Well, apparently, there’s another one.”
Cassandra’s heart began to race as she listened to the driver shouting at whoever approached, warning them that this vehicle belonged to the Earl of Stratford, and there would be hell to pay. He cried out before a thud rendered him silent, followed by the thump of his body hitting the ground.
Now wide awake, Downing leaped into action, dropping to his knees on the carriage floor and reaching into the compartment under the seat. Her eyes went wide as she recalled the night she had accosted him, and the shot of the blunderbuss that might have killed her had she not expected it.
She did not know who had overtaken them, but she would rather take her chances with another highwayman than these two brutes.
