He gestured with the pistol. “Get in the record room before I decide I must shoot you.”
“Yes, of course.” She clutched her arms close, trying to make clinging to her reticule look natural. She did her best to appear vanquished, cowed. She still meant to prevent him from getting the will signed. How, she didn’t know, but she would come up with a plan. One that didn’t involve being shot.
He took another step. She could smell his breath now, onion and mead. Lanora slid along the desk toward the doorway to the little room. She tried not to look at the will. There was nothing she could do. Once she was free of him, perhaps, but not now. She backed into the little room.
Lethbridge closed the door. The key turned in the lock. Lanora slumped against the cluttered shelves in relief, happy to have the stout wood between her and Lethbridge. She’d never had a pistol pointed at her before. It was an altogether unpleasant experience.
She went to the door and put her ear to it. She could hear him moving. From the sound of it, he was replacing the strongbox and painting. She should have thrown the second will on the fire. She wouldn’t have had time to stir the flames, but a slightly scorched, charcoal-covered document wouldn’t look respectable enough to convince anyone it was meant. She nearly cursed, angry she hadn’t thought of tossing the pages in the fireplace until she was locked away.
As soon as he was gone, she would free herself. She would go to the militia and tell them everything. Maybe, on her word, they would lock Lethbridge away. Hers was only the word of a woman, not so highly counted in a court of law, but she was daughter to a duke. At least she could try. Lethbridge would have a difficult time marrying Lady Madelina from prison.
She heard him cross back to his desk. There was a rustle, then the sound of pages being tapped into a neat stack. He was leaving with the will.
“Lethbridge, you bastard,” a familiar voice roared, footsteps bursting into the office. “Where is she?”
