Governesses Under The Mistletoe. Liz Tyner
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in darkness and finding your way. It’s not safe at night for a woman out and about. Just last month, one of the women, Molly, went out. They found her the next morning, bruises on her neck. Blood on her hands. Buried her in a pauper’s grave.’
Before she answered, he was at the curtain, her satchel clasped in his hand.
She stood, glancing around, hoping no one would see her follow. She would be ruined. If she wasn’t already. But it was better to be ruined than buried in some lost grave. She didn’t quite think Mr Wren would be rushing to see that a proper burial would take place.
She watched his retreating coat. She would never again complain about being a governess.
He had the only funds she had—hidden in the bag. An unmarked grave would not quite fulfil her dreams. She followed, planning to grab the satchel as soon as he released it and run.
Stepping through the curtain and into a cramped office, relief brightened her spirit. A copy of a Mrs Radcliffe novel lay on his desk. Surely a man who liked to read had some refinement.
* * *
‘Please sit.’ He indicated a chair, one rung missing from the back. She did, noting he sat the satchel down at his right side, his body between her and the bag. He still stood. He turned.
‘I don’t believe you realise what position you put me in.’ He shook his head while picking up the novel. ‘We can’t have that.’
‘I just—’ She moved to rise, the fish smell wafting over her.
He crashed the novel to the wall. Before she could believe what her eyes told her had just happened, his hand clamped on her shoulder. The surprise and force thrust her on to the wooden chair seat.
‘I—’
‘You wish to hear me out.’ She could feel all of the fingers again. This time they pressed. Pinched. His hand slid, not releasing, until his thumbnail rested in the soft skin at the base of her jaw. He took a step, moving his body forward, still beside her, her head held back by his thumb. Her backbone firm against the chair, him above forcing her neck back. He untied her bonnet strings and pushed it to the floor.
Her mouth dried. She could breathe—just. Her hands clasped his wrist, pushing. But she could not move him.
‘Sweet, you have to understand, I looked for a long time to find just the right woman. Just the right blend of woman. Taller than most so she stood out. A haunting voice that could also trill in happiness. A look of freshness. Eyes that made a man think he could see her wanting him. Lips that he could imagine on his body.’
‘No,’ she gasped.
‘Do not interrupt.’ He put his other hand over her mouth and leaned closer. She shuddered. All of his bulk loomed over her, his cheeks ruddy. ‘You understand that even the other women would increase their coin by satisfying your cast-offs. You would even be a boon to them.’ He paused. ‘Feel free to nod.’
He took his hand from her throat, but not her mouth. One of his legs pressed against hers.
‘Nod.’ His eyes glistened with an intensity that covered her like the coil of a serpent’s skin against hers.
She didn’t move. Her lower face was in his vice-like grasp. She could feel the pressure of his thumb. The tightness. But no pain. Nothing hurt. Nothing. Except she could not breathe.
His clothes rustled and he moved so that she could see nothing but his face.
‘You understand, I have to have you. I have no choice. No choice. I’ve spent too much time finding you and waiting on you.’ He reached to his waistcoat and a thin sliver of steel flashed in front of her. The blade pressed at her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’
She did—the barest amount.
‘You understand there are rules one must observe to work here. You will learn them in time.’ The knife moved, tracing the circle of her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’ He moved her head up and down with his hand. ‘Get used to that.’
She remembered how easy it had been to convince the couple of a lie. She nodded, moving her hand from his wrist. He trailed the blade in the same way of an artist’s pen making swirls on a page. He slipped the tip to her shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about me hurting your face, permanently. But a man might be aroused by a gentle scar trailing away under clothing.’ The blade caught her sleeve, but rested at skin, pressing. Testing. Drooling, he stared at the blade. ‘He might wonder where a scar led. Where it ended.’
The blade pressed harder, and the sleeve pulled, fabric falling away—no barrier to the steel. Pressure flared at her arm.
Spit pooled at the edge of his lips. ‘Scars, in their way, can be beauty marks.’
* * *
William glanced across at his cousin. Sylvester scratched his earlobe, stared at the cards, and grumbled.
Something had thumped in the back, but none of the others’ attentions wavered from the cards.
Miss Plume was beyond the curtain with Wren. William tapped the side of his mug and pushed his chair back, standing. With the woman on the way to finding whatever she looked for, he had no wish to continue enjoying the smell of worn boots.
He stared at the curtain, unable to move, imagining the look on the woman’s face as she’d left the room. Wren had swooped up the bag and darted to the back. Miss Plume had hesitated before moving.
He shrugged, noting the worn threads where so many had touched the curtain before him, but striding towards it.
He walked through and saw several doors. This would not be the time to open the wrong one.
Ignoring his misgivings, he pressed a hand to the first door and pushed it.
Wren stood over a woman, a blade at the woman’s arm. Instantly, it moved to her throat. In seconds Wren could slice and nothing would be able to erase the moment, ever.
William’s breath left his body. His mind took a moment to adjust to the sight his eyes tried to make sense of. The woman was one movement from death. Wren’s face had the look of a rabid animal, all thoughts absorbed by the sickness. No way to understand reason.
William could not move forward to rescue the woman because Wren could act on impulse. The knife pressed against the slender neck. Wren could kill in the moments it would take William to close the distance. A jolt against Wren’s arm would press the blade into skin. She would be dead and nothing could ever change those seconds.
Wren increased the pressure of the blade. Isabel’s pulse thumped against the tip.
‘My pardon,’ the man at the door spoke. ‘I didn’t realise this was a private conversation.’ Nothing flickered on his face. He didn’t even seem to see her.
‘Get the hell out,’ Wren rasped.
Isabel swallowed. Could the man not understand there was a blade at her neck?
‘I certainly will,’ the man at the door spoke. He leaned back a bit, turning his head.
His hand tightened on the door and he was going to leave, letting Wren do as he wished. She could tell. The stranger had not once looked at her eyes.
‘But, I was thinking of making an investment.’ Soft words from the man at the door. His body stilled before turning in her direction.
Finally, he noticed Isabel. His brows lifted and he wet his lips. He appraised her in the same way a butcher might decide which chicken was to be the first to the block. A nausea filled her.
‘I would like to invest, Wren.’ He chuckled. ‘And all it would take would be a bit of pleasure to convince me.’
‘I need no investors.’ The knife didn’t lessen.