“Not far enough, it would seem,” Riverdale said, reaching for her hair.
Pins fell to the carpet as he plucked them free. The heavy mass of her braid fell loose down her back and then spilled into waves.
He had touched her more intimately yesterday, and yet somehow this infraction felt far more intimate. Far too familiar. Before she was even aware of what she was doing, Sybil’s hand shot out, and she slapped Riverdale across the face.
The sound rang through the chamber just as her voice had.
For a moment, she could do nothing more than stare at the rapidly blooming pink of his cheek, stunned at herself. She clapped her palm over her mouth, shock sending a tremor through her.
And still, Riverdale just stared.
He moved toward her suddenly, and she flinched, backing away, raising her arm and hiding her face to defend herselffrom the blows about to rain down upon her. No blows came, however. Nothing but an icy, heavy silence.
“Sybil.”
His voice cut through.
Slowly, she lowered her arm, releasing the breath she’d been holding. He was staring down at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.
“Did you think I would strike you?” he asked with deadly calm.
“I…” She faltered, not knowing what to say.
Her reaction had been instant, instinctive. A mistake for how much it had obviously revealed.
“Has someone raised his hand to you?” Riverdale pressed.
She stared, stricken, not wanting to answer. Her mother had begged her to never say a word.
Riverdale took her arm in a gentle hold.
She tensed. “What are you doing?”
“Bringing you into the light so I can see your eyes when I speak to you,” he said grimly, guiding her to the nearest sconce on the wall. His pale gaze searched hers. “Now answer me honestly, if you please. What man has hurt you?”
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“There’s no need to defend him now,” Riverdale added. “You’re in my protection. He can’t hurt you ever again.”
“It was my father,” she blurted.
He stared at her. “Your father?”
There was a deceptive calm in his voice, one that frightened her. “Yes, but you mustn’t say anything to him, please. It will only make matters far worse for my mother.”
“He strikes Lady Eastlake as well?” Riverdale demanded.
She thought of her mother’s whimpered cries from another room, the plum-colored flesh she had caught glimpses of thatshe hadn’t been meant to see. Then of the day her father had raised a hand to her for the first time.
“Yes.”
“How? You have witnessed this?”
“Occasionally. He doesn’t often allow his rage to show unless he’s in private. But he has slapped her. I’ve seen him pull her hair. Pulling at her arm in a harsh and angry grip. It’s when he is in his cups,” she added.
“That doesn’t excuse his actions,” Riverdale said, taking her chin in his thumb and forefinger and tilting her head. “Look at me, Sybil.”
She couldn’t do it.
