Page 146 of The Viscount's Seduction
Twitchy, he was. Perhaps he’d seen the troubles with Hollister earlier.
She stopped and caught her breath. Her cousin was dead, Bakeley had said so. She’d slipped his noose. She needn’t fear him.
And her husband had brought up her horse, her own horse, her Pooka.
She pushed through the stable door, and the quiet alarmed her. The stalls were empty, except for the wild black mare who poked her nose through the gate of the loose box. The fear that had slithered within began to pound through Sirena’s veins. She touched Gram’s good luck knot and let her senses roll out in all directions.
Pressure built in her nerves. Evil was here.
Banshee squealed and kicked at the slats, fear echoing.
She needed out. They both needed out.
She lifted the latch, pulled at the gate to free the horse, but a hand came up and banged the gate on Banshee’s great nose, and Sirena found herself locked in a man’s grip.
Fear choked her. Oh, God, his smell. Two nights in a row. This couldn’t be happening.
Bam.Let me go let me go let me go.
Bakeley? Where are you Bakeley?
Banshee whinnied and thumped on the wood again.
She took a deep breath. “Let us go.”
A chuckle. “Us? The groom who fetched you is mine. He’s long gone.”
Fool. She’d meant the horse.
Bam.
Banshee’s eyes rolled wildly. She couldn’t calm the mare if she couldn’t calm herself.
Mid-breath, he jerked her hands back making her gasp. Ropes cut her wrists as he cinched them together.
Bam, bam, bam.
Bakeley.I need you, Bakeley.
Her cheek hit the box’s gate and mashed against the wood, and another rope laced her waist through the slats until she was firmly tied. Chest heaving, she opened her eyes.
Banshee stared back at her, nostrils flared, ears and lips pulled back.
She closed her eyes and breathed out a moan. “We’ll get out.”
The mare lowered her head and pawed the scattered straw, fear momentarily calmed, and Sirena’s with it.
“What do you want, Donegal? Sterling Hollister is dead. Why not go home to Ireland? Run away now, I’ll not turn you in.”
“Ireland is not my home. The Irish are pigs.”
She heard the sharp scrape of a flint striking.
A fire. The words shrieked in her. Banshee raised her head, ears twirling and squealed.
A pungent smell sent the horse’s nostrils flaring. Sirena craned her head around and spotted the lit end of a long piece of string that coiled in a wide circle around a barrel.
Terror washed through her and the mare. They were drowning in it together.
