“My son has a soft, weak heart. However little he wants you, he’ll suffer knowing you’re paying for his sins.” Eliza’s heart panged for the horrors Benedict had suffered, even as it trilled with terrified recognition of her own tenuous situation.
Blackwood nodded at her to play her trick. She won the first and the second before she braved a glance at him. His pale skin had an angry red tinge to it now. The third and fourth she won as well.
Her heart hammered as she set down the final card, her jack of spades, with a silent prayer that he had a king of spades in his hand and had forgotten to announce it in his fury.
When he set down the king of hearts, tears pricked her eyes. A vole. She blinked back the moisture before meeting his gaze.
“How are you doing it?” he demanded. “How are you cheating?”
“I’m not,” she insisted, hating the way her voice had gone small and high.
“You’re exactly like your father. A filthy cheat!”
“I haven’t cheated. My father never cheated you either!”
He shot up, knocking the table between them to one side with a dullthunkand clatter. Eliza recoiled and her chair landed with athudon the floor. She scrambled back, but her foot caught in the rungs and sent her toppling to land in a heap beside it.
“You have—you have and I know it, you deceitful bitch!” In a single step, Blackwood advanced. Looming over her, he snatched her arm in a viscous grip and hauled her to her feet before whirling her around.
“You’ll taste the sting of my whip and beg to tell me how you cheated before I’ve finished.” He groped behind him blindly, feeling for the wall and the promised retribution.
Eliza gasped at the strength of his hold as she pried at his digits with her own.
The hairpin—her precious salvation—poked at her belly in reminder.
Abandoning his fumbling for the lash, Blackwood raised his other hand and wrapped gnarled fingers around her neck.
She spat in his face.
He recoiled, offering her the single second she needed to draw the pin-knife from its busk sheath.
By the time he’d wiped the spittle from his eyelid and turned his attention back to her, she had the pin clasped in her fist. Eliza slashed wildly, frantically, at his face.
Blackwood reared back, grasping his cheek. His foot caught on the fallen chair, sending him careening backward. He landed with a painful snapping sound.
That was the moment Eliza noticed the searing, agonizing heat.
Fire.
The flames of hell gorged on the curtain beside her, licking at the walls and floor. Thick, noxious smoke rose in vile plumes to pool on the ceiling. Before her, in front of the door, Blackwood lumbered to his feet, clutching his wrist to his chest.
The blaze burned hotter, surrounding her with each agonizing breath—every heaving gasp drew more caustic soot into her lungs. Her chest protested, an excruciating, heaving cough racking her as the world around her started to dim.
And then—the most beautiful sight in the entire world appeared behind Blackwood’s staggering frame—Benedict.
Chapter Forty-Six
Shaking and slick with sweat,the men finally cleared the log. The horses must have sensed their urgency; they surged forward, slotting the carriage between the remains of the rotted oak.
They raced at full speed across the final miles until at last the house appeared in the distance. The moon above, dimmed by cloud cover, reflected off the shingles, leaving the front facade dark, sinister.
As they drew closer, Benedict noted an odd flickering glow in the windows. Not the pinpoint of candlelight, or the dull warmth of a hearth fire.
“Fuck!” he cried, then stumbled from the still-moving carriage as it pulled up the rutted drive.
“What?” Wayland followed, tumbling out behind him. He cursed at the sight before him, his feet scrambling on the gravel after Benedict.
Benedict raced to the door and ripped it open as Wayland reached him. Thick, caustic smoke poured out, engulfing the men. Wayland shoved a torn piece of damp cloth into his hand.Benedict turned to find him fastening its twin across his nose and mouth.
