ulian stared into the darkness and willed his fierce arousal to abate.His head ached with a low, steady throb, a needling reminder that he wasn’t entirely healed of his injury. That alone should’ve been enough to keep his mind from Clara, who was likely sleeping the slumber of the innocent just next door while he tortured himself with images of her lovely curves. Now he knew the precise color of her nipples. A lush, warm pink, sweeter than any rose he’d ever seen abloom. Now he knew her taste as intimately as he knew her musky citrus scent. And he bloody well knew how it felt to sink inside her tight, wet heat and lose himself.
It felt like pure heaven on earth, that’s what.
And if the sentiment rendered him nothing more than a mooning imbecile, well, it couldn’t be helped. For she had infected him, had ravaged his body and his mind as completely as any disease. He could only think of her. Of wanting her. No, damn it, more than that. Ofneedingher.
Ah, it was true. He needed Clara more than he’d ever needed anyone or anything in his life. He needed her more than money, more than liquor, more than sin.I’m here because I care, she’d said to him, earnest and without artifice. She cared for him. The idea had been so laughable—that a lovely innocent as pure and true as Clara could somehow care for a reprobate like him—that he’d been ill equipped to deal with his reaction.
So he’d made an ass of himself, settling into his familiar mantle of aloof apathy. He’d pushed her away. He regretted his actions now as he waited for sleep to claim him. He wished he could be a man worthy of her love, one who had not given away so many pieces of himself that almost nothing remained.
But sleep didn’t seem to be forthcoming. He’d damn well tried everything to lose himself into the abyss of slumber. He’d tossed back a not insubstantial quantity of whisky before settling into bed. He’d taken a tepid bath in an effort to cool his ardor. He’d turned up a lamp and settled on a volume of particularly dry poetry. He’d turned the lamp back down and tossed the volume aside.
He’d used his own hand to reach his release twice already.
Nothing he’d tried thus far had been effective. He was still hard as marble, his thoughts consumed by her, wishing he hadn’t decided to let her rest for the night without taking her again. Surely she was sore. She’d been a virgin. He’d done his best to blunt the pain but he’d still torn into her like a savage, and there’d been blood enough to show that their lovemaking hadn’t been entirely pleasant for her.
Tomorrow he would make it up to her. Tomorrow, he’d woo her and charm her, strip her bare and touch and kiss and lick every beautiful bit of her. Tonight, however, was another matter. Tonight, he was tortured and frustrated, feeling like an amnesiac who’d woken within a strange body, uncertain of who he was and how he ought to act.
To hell with trying to sleep. He threw back the bedclothes and turned the lamp up, searching for the trousers he’d discarded in one of his fitful attempts to distract himself. As he pulled them up over his hips, an odd sound cut into his heavy musings.
Very odd indeed. It was muffled and high, almost like a cry. A series of muted thumps followed the sound. His mouth went dry as a surge of unadulterated fear surged up his spine and exploded into a thousand jagged splinters. For a moment, he remained still, listening, praying he was wrong, that he was overreacting. Another high, shrill sound split the night.
A muffled scream.
Jesus, it wasClara’smuffled scream.
Heart hammering in his chest, he ran to the door adjoining their chambers. The knob refused to turn. Locked, goddamn it. Who had the key? Did he? Damn it, the chamber had been empty for so long, and his servants were so sparse, that only God knew where the key could possibly be. There wasn’t time to ring for a servant. There wasn’t time to try the hall door. Clara was within, and she needed him.
No one would hurt her. Not his Clara. No.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself into the door, shoulder first. Wood cracked. The door didn’t budge. Bracing himself, he summoned all the strength and unholy anger, the fierce urge to protect his wife, and slammed himself back into the portal. He’d break down the bloody door, and when he crossed the threshold, Lord have mercy on the bastard on the other side.
Because Julian was going to fucking kill him.
She woke to a heavy body pressing her to the mattress. As sleep left her and awareness returned, part of her knew something was wrong. The body atop hers was too heavy and bulky. The scent of him was all wrong too. He was breathing heavy, and the smell of spirits and smoke clung to him.
No, it was not Julian who had laid himself upon her above the bedclothes. It was a stranger. A large man. A man who intended to do her harm.
She let loose a scream but a hand clamped over her mouth and nose. She could scarcely breathe. She struggled to free her arms, but they were trapped beneath the bedclothes and her attacker’s weight. Dear God, he meant to kill her. Whoever had attacked Julian had come for her this time. And he was going to murder her in her bed.
Still fighting to breathe, she forced her mouth open and sank her teeth into the fleshy pads of her assailant’s fingers. She bit him as hard as she could. Until she tasted the copper tang of blood and heard him curse her.
“Damn it, you bitch.” His other hand snagged in her hair, gripping it so hard that tears ran down her cheek at the awful, wrenching pain.
But she was in a fight for her life, and if she had any say in the matter, her husband would not wake up in the morning to find her body, limp and broken lying in her bed. She would live for him, for herself, for the life they’d build together. She bit down harder, summoning up all the fury within her.
He released her hair. “Goddamn it.”
His fist connected with her cheek, gnashing her teeth together. White stars flew before her eyes in the inky darkness. In her shock, she released her grip on his finger, and he didn’t waste a moment in striking. His hands clamped on her neck, tightening.
“You’re going to die tonight, you little American bitch,” he growled.
Dear God. Perhaps she was. She choked, struggling to breathe in, but no air would find her lungs. His grip was so tight. And the blow to her head had made her weak. The lack of air made her weaker still. But she had to continue fighting. She thrashed her legs on the bed, thumping as hard as she could. Perhaps someone would hear. Her fingers clawed at her attacker’s manacle-like hands, scratching and scraping and trying to draw more blood, then to his face when she failed. He kneed her in the stomach, sending a fresh wall of pain crashing over her.
She couldn’t free herself. Her vision seemed hazy and indistinct now, even in the darkness. The stars returned, along with a buzzing in her ears. So this was it. She was going to die after all, she thought in grim horror. And she hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell Julian she loved him. To bear him children. To take away his sadness.
Life seemed to slip from her. She could feel it leaving. The darkness was there, beckoning, waiting to claim her. Another minute and it would all be over. She’d be gone. She wanted to fight, but her body, attacked and starved of air, wouldn’t cooperate.
Suddenly, her assailant released her throat and rolled away from her, his weight leaving her body. She gasped, the breath returning to her aching lungs a violent shock. Her hands went to her neck where just seconds before, her unseen attacker’s fingers hand been. She rubbed, trying to bring the life back, trying to erase the pain and the violence both.
