“I would never have married you. You’re a bully, and I hate you too much.”
“I realize that. You were too eager to play the whore for Captain Price.”
“I loved him.”
“Love, bah! Fat lot of good it’s done you.”
“He loved me too,” she lied. “He’ll retaliate against you.”
“No, he won’t. He’s too stupid to figure out that you’re missing.”
“Someone will tell him.”
“Who will notice that you vanished? Not your paltry earl. You’re so vain that you assume others care about you.”
“Nicholas Price is ten times the man you’ll ever be.”
“Be silent!” Mason fumed.
“He is! That’s what galls you, isn’t it? You could never match up to him. You’ll spend the remainder of your days, working for him, following his orders, obeying his commands.”
“Shut up!”
“In your entire pathetic life, you’ll never be anything but a servant to your betters.”
“Whore! Whore!”
She twisted away and scratched at his face, slashing his skin. He wailed with outrage, as he wrapped his hands around her neck and started to squeeze.
With her comments, she’d simply meant to distract him, using diversion to foster escape, but she’d been too successful at antagonizing him. He was angered to the point of madness, and in seconds, she was in desperate trouble.
He pushed her onto the bed, and he was leaned over her, his wrath and larger size an unbearable force. She pried at his fingers, but she was off balance and had no leverage. Swiftly, she was discombobulated. Her torso grew limp, her vision failing. Her world was reduced to only Benedict Mason, his evil eyes, and the onslaught of pressure on her throat.
Some odd banging noises wafted by, but they were far off in the distance and irrelevant to her dire situation. She was losing consciousness, fading away. Was she hallucinating too?
A door crashed open and footsteps tromped across the floor.
“Unhand her,” a voice shouted, “or I will kill you where you stand.”
Mason frowned, confused, but he didn’t ease his grip. He was too intent on strangling her.
“Unhand her, you dog!”
There was another bang, this one very loud and very real. Mason fell away. He glanced over his shoulder, a palm on his chest. Blood oozed into the fabric of his shirt.
“You shot me,” Mason muttered, peering down at his wound in disbelief.
A man approached, and he seized Mason by his coat and flung him away.
Emeline couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see straight. It seemed as if Lord Stafford had arrived, as if he’d come to save her. But that couldn’t be. He’d just gotten married. He was on his honeymoon.
She shook her head, struggling to focus, but he was still there.
“Em, Em,” he said, “are you all right?”
She tried to answer him, but speech was impossible.
He reached for her and pulled her into a tight embrace. Instantly, she was soothed by the familiar odors of leather, horses, and tobacco that always clung to his clothes.
“Oh, my Lord,” he murmured, “say something. Tell me he didn’t hurt you.”
Anxious to reply, she gazed up at him and collapsed in a stunned heap.
“What have you to say in your defense?”
“Nothing.”
Benedict Mason glared at Nicholas Price, visually sending all his malice and ill-will, but the exalted Lord Stafford hardly noticed.
“Humor me,” the earl coaxed. “I’m fascinated by your behavior. What were you thinking?”
“I have no comment,” Benedict responded.
“When I first hired you, you seemed like such a rational, stable fellow. Look at you now.”
They were in the library at the manor, with the earl seated behind his desk and Benedict facing him. Luckily, he’d been permitted to sit in a chair. If he’d been ordered to stand, he couldn’t have. His wound had left him that weak.
After he’d been shot, the Price brothers had tossed him in Pratt’s wagon and returned him to the estate. Through the entire trip, he’d been bumped and jostled, and though he’d been seriously injured, they’d offered him no medical treatment.
Upon arriving at Stafford, he’d been locked in a room in the cellar. A footman had brought wine, bread, and bandages. He’d wrapped Benedict’s chest as best he could, but he was no physician.
The bleeding had stopped, but no other care had been rendered. Benedict thought the ball might still be lodged under the skin, that it needed to be dug out. The wound was festering, and he felt feverish and confused.
“May I see a doctor?” Benedict inquired.
“No. Why would you assume you could harm Emeline Wilson and her sisters?”
“I demand to speak with an attorney.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“I demand it!” Benedict decreed, but he wheezed out the words, so they lost their impetus.
“All the attorneys in the neighborhood are busy.”
“Then take me before a judge. I insist on posting bail.”
“There’s a magistrate assigned to this area, but he’s not due to visit for several weeks.” The earl flashed an evil smile. “In his absence, it’s up to me to mete out any punishment.”
“I refuse to be judged by you,” Benedict sneered.
“You act as if you have a say in the matter.”
“Where is Sheriff Pratt?”
“Pratt is dead. I killed him myself.”
“Dead! You can’t murder an officer of the law.”
“Really?” the earl sarcastically replied. “No one told me it wasn’t allowed. Besides, let’s not refer to him as an officer of the law. I think we can agree that he forfeited any respectable title.”
“Where is his body?”
“I buried him in the forest.”
Benedict gaped with dismay. The earl was completely calm, not concerned in the least that he’d committed cold-blooded murder. If he would blithely kill a sheriff, what might he do to a mere land agent?
“I’ll see that you hang for it,” Benedict stupidly threatened.
“Will you?” The earl’s lazy gaze meandered down Benedict’s torso, assessing his deteriorated condition. “Can you actually suppose anyone would believe you over me? I’m a peer of the realm and a decorated war hero. What are you?”
What indeed? Benedict mused, and he mumbled, “Cocky bastard.”
“Now, now, let’s don’t bring my poor
