Page 16 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
“Hand over the dagger.” He extended a hand streaked with blood. “I will need it to cut off this shirt.”
And I will use it to cut off your hand.
He took a step closer. She backed up to the dressing table knocking over the chair. With her free hand she groped behind her, grabbed the candle and swirled it in front of her like a weapon.
His hot breath assaulted her again, the flame died, and she skittered back, dropping the hot wax.
Fingers curled around the wrist of her knife hand, twisting. His other groped for her neck, finding her shoulder.
His smell, oh, his smell. Choking and holding her breath, she fought for control. Pain laced up her arm as he bent back her wrist, her other hand scrabbling across the dressing table.
Rot. Water. Stems scratching. The vase.
As her fingers grasped the thick, smooth lip he gave up trying to find her neck and applied both hands to her wrist, bending the knife back upon her.
She shrieked and jerked her knee into his trousers, hitting a lump like a rock.
Dios.Violence aroused him. “Pig.” She struck him there again harder.
He swore, staggered and some of his force waned. And some of hers. Her grip on the knife loosened. She heard it skitter across the floor.
With another curse, he released her wrist.
“Vile.” With both hands she hoisted the vase. “Pig.” Leaded crystal slammed into his head.
Anoofpopped from his mouth. He lurched and grabbed the edge of the dressing table.
She coshed him again and watched him fold to the floor. With the vase as a shield, she peered closer. Whether his chest moved, it was too dark to tell, and the stench could be him or the rot of the flowers. For a long moment, she waited for him to stir, trying to think.
The dagger. Where was it? It was a treasured gift from Papa and must go with her. She would need it to face other threats on the London streets. She scrabbled over his dark form, expecting his hand to reach out for her ankle, keeping her own hand poised to cosh him again.
When he still didn’t stir, a new wave of terror surged in her.
Get away, Graciela. You must get away.If this man was dead, it would be bad for her, but if he lived, it would likely be worse.
She skirted around the narrow bed and swept open her window curtains, her eyes welcoming the dim bit of light. Somewhere in the fog, there must be a moon tonight.
Edging back again, she honed her vision, searching the dark masses at her feet, the wooden flooring, the carpet, the body.
There. At the corner of the bed lay something. She poked with her toe.
She gathered the blade, wiped it on the bedcover and shed the heavy shawl. The dark wool had cushioned her body from the force of the wooden door and protected her wrist from the full impact of his grip. Now, it would only pull her down. She must be light as a cat tonight.
He stirred and she gulped in air, relieved that he lived, terrified he would try to stop her escape.
Finding the key was out of the question, as was taking the time to pick the lock. She tossed the vase on her coverlet, drove the blade into its sheath, tied her skirts at her waist, and opened the window. The light-filled haze stung her nostrils. A faint dusting of coal, lighter now that the cold English spring had arrived, mixed with the jungle scents of Lord Kingsley’s garden and a more familiar scent.
The sea. She was three stories up, but no matter. She had climbed the main mast and walked a yard arm more than once in her days when Papa was not looking, and the next chamber over wasn’t so far.
