Page 15 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
Her stomach flipped and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed hard. “Sw-sweet talk,” she spluttered. “Flowers. P-poems.”
“You have your flowers from me, I see, on your dressing table.”
Those flowers had been from him?Her gaze darted to the withering blooms. No wonder they had shriveled so quickly.
Her hand tightened on the dagger’s hilt. He still held the candle in one hand. He had arrived stripped down to his open waistcoat and his trousers. Somewhere in this house was a servant holding the rest of his clothing. Perhaps he was just outside, guarding her door. She must be careful and silent.
She saw no weapons on him. He was larger than her—most men were—but in the dark...
He leaned close and that breath...Diosthat breath...
“And anyway, ladies are wooed. Other women are taken.”
Rage roared through her. She snatched the pitcher and swung it, water flying. He grabbed for it just as the candle went out, and he lunged at her, straight into the point of her dagger.
He yelped, and the pitcher clattered. She yanked the knife out and ran.
The door was locked. He slammed her to the hard panel driving the blade into the wood.
She must hold tight to the hilt. She must not lose it to him.
“Help.” The door muffled her scream, and he bellowed, “Bitch!”
He clawed at her neck, one-handed. She ducked, freed the dagger, and scuttled out of his reach.
One of his hands clutched his belly, but the light from her dressing table candle showed a dark spot spreading beyond the press of his filthy hand.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt, her heart clattering. A stab to the belly, the cloth pushed in—it might fester and kill him, but not soon enough. A man on his feet always had a chance, Papa said.
She edged toward the other candle. She must put it out. Darkness would help her. In the dark, he wouldn’t see her blade coming at him. She must stab him again.
Or…he was weakened. She could club him.
The empty grate with its poker was too far away. Her tortoiseshell brush would not fell a strong man.
The vase with his vile, wilted flowers twinkled in the candle light. The vase was a heavy lead crystal.
He staggered but stayed on his feet, just barely. No true pirate was he. No soldier. Nocaballero. Like her guardian, this man beat only those he thought to be weak.
She would never be weak again.
“Go and lie on my bed,” she said in a rush. “When they find you there, it will serve just as well to your purpose of ruining me.”
He lunged at her, and hit the wall. The darkness of his belly was spreading, two hand widths now.
She must wear him down. “I will call your man to tend to you. He is waiting outside, no?”
He was panting now, great gasps of air, but under the glaze of what must be pain, his eyes hardened.
Ay Dios, she would have to kill him. She wouldhaveto.
“Your master is hurt,” she shouted. No answer. No shuffling feet or pounding on the door. No one was lingering in the hall.
He would have the door key in a pocket, but she did not want to touch the man or his trousers.
“You think your little prick has hurt me?” he growled.
Do not expect your little prick to hurtme.She clamped her lips tightly over the words. Actions must speak more loudly than words, Papa always said.
