I wake to a hand over my mouth. I jolt, screaming futilely into the leather glove of my assailant. For a moment I think it’s Malcom—he’s back, he’s angry, I’ve done something—but then the man takes a fistful of my hair and drags me from my bed.
My knees slam onto the cold flagstones. Where is Pete? Callie? Jen? Watery moonlight falls through the window, illuminating a sleek man in all black, his face concealed by a mask.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls at me. His accent is thick. I’m certain I’ve never heard his voice before. “Scream, and I’ll push you out the window and watch your pretty little body splatter on the rocks.”
Fear lances through me, turning my bones to ice. I nod hysterically, whimpering as he moves his hand from my mouth. But I don’t dare scream.
“Shoes,” he bites out at me. I scramble to my feet, shaking so hard I drop my boots twice before fitting them on. “Come here.”
I obey. He pulls a length of coarse fabric from his coat and ties it tightly around my mouth, muffling my ragged breathing. Hot tears soak my cheeks as he turns and reaches for my jacket, hung on a hook by the door.
I have no time to hesitate. No time to think. I seize the nearest object—a thick, wrought-bronze candlestick—and slash him over the head with it.
He barks out a curse, staggering, and I lunge for the door. The candlestick falls from my hands, clattering across the stone floor as I race down the stairs. His footsteps thunder after me.
Halfway down, his hands catch my shoulders. I attempt to scream, but the gag is on too tight. The man easily yanks me backward, slamming my back against the wall. Before I can catch my breath, he slams one fist into my jaw.
I’m on the floor, the vaulted stone ceiling whirling overhead. I blink stars from my eyes, lifting my head off the steps. My temple is pounding and wet with blood. I touch it tenderly, my fingers coming away red. The stairs multiply, swinging before my eyes.
I wait for the man to seize me again, to beat me or kill me or drag me down the stairs and into the dizzy, frigid night. But he doesn’t. When my vision finally rights, I manage to sit up. He’s gone, and I’m alone. Futilely, I try to pull the gag from my face. My hands shake, making it impossible, and the world beneath me undulates like a sea.
Darkness swarms my vision. At the foot of the stairs, I realize the door is open, a figure framed in it. The assailant? Has he come back?
Then he steps into the light, and I see the shock of dark red hair, the beard, those flashing emerald eyes—for once a comfort instead of a fright.Malcom.Is he there? Is he only a dream?
Either way, I find serene safety in his presence. Then the dark slides over my head, and the world falls away.
10
Malcom
Gone.
Gone into the night, no trace but his blood on Emma’s floor and tire tracks cut into the gravel drive. Someone broke in last night and nearly took her. Could have killed her.
I pace the hall. I should have slept, but instead I spent the night searching every inch of the grounds and the estate. Pete called in backup, a pair of Scotsmen from this part of the country. I don’t know their names, but I don’t care. Pete vouches for them, and at this point, I’ll do anything to ensure Emma is watched and protected at all times.
Your fault.
What was I thinking, leaving her here alone like this? Vulnerable and unprotected? I was naïve to think my absence would make her safer. That if I wasn’t here, she would be less frightened and might begin to feel freer, maybe even happy at Rosehill. I was stupid. And it nearly cost her her life.
When Callie steps out of Emma’s room, I stand at attention.
“She’s alright, Mr. Walker.” The maid’s face is pale but satisfied. Her first-aid training has come in handy in the past, but no more than tonight. “She’s awake. You can go in and see her.”
A surprising surge of tenderness comes over me. I touch Callie’s shoulder briefly. “Thank you.”
She nods and dismisses herself, and I go in.
Emma lies in bed, bathed in pale morning light. She wears a clean silk night gown, her temple bandaged expertly and her eyes surprisingly bright.
“You have impeccable timing, you know,” she says. It’s the softest she’s spoken to me since I brought her here.
“Impeccable would have been arriving in time to keep him from breaking in at all.”
She shrugs, eyes going to the water pitcher on her nightstand, just out of reach. I pour her a cup, moved just a little at the visceral gratitude in her face as she takes it and drinks.
“Well,” she says, when she’s done, “who was he?”
