Giddy at the thought, Marguerite shifted in the tub so the water covered her breasts, though her knees had raised higher. She knew she couldn’t linger too long, though the maidservant would be coming soon with that last bucket.
Walker had said they would be leaving Gretna Green within the hour and she needed to dress and make sure everything else was packed in the trunk. Her clothes and his clothes as a wife might do—yes, she was a wife now! Wedded and bedded quite thoroughly by the man of her dreams…
Oh, Lord. Her cheeks suddenly burning, Marguerite splashed some water on her face as heated memories of earlier that morning enveloped her.
Yet there had been poignant moments, too, when she’d seen for the first time the scars upon Walker’s back.
Felt the healed ridges of flesh when she’d gripped his powerful shoulders in the throes of ecstasy. She’d said nothing to him about it later when, both of them sated, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms.
She knew from Lindsay’s letters—and from what Corie had shared with her—about Jared’s impressment aboard a British man-of-war and time spent in a West Indies prison, which had been endured as well by Walker. There would be time enough for him to tell Marguerite himself of all he had suffered.
She sighed heavily, tears biting her eyes that life had been so cruel for him, but thankfully that had changed. Life had become so sweet, so very sweet for both of them…
The door suddenly creaking open made Marguerite sit up higher in the tub, anxious to finish her bath now that the water was growing tepid. One last bucketful of warmer water streamed over her head would feel so lovely—
“Oh!” Marguerite had no chance to utter anything else as she was shoved forward violently and pushed facedown into the water before she could take a breath.
Powerful hands gripped her, holding her down, dear God, someone trying to drown her!
She thrashed wildly, trying not to inhale water as her lungs screamed for air. As if from a great distance she heard a piercing scream and a thud, then whoever held her suddenly let her go.
Coughing and sputtering, she surfaced—and heard the door slam and the lock being thrown. Then heavy footsteps pounded back toward her even as she struggled, gasping for breath, to rise from the tub. She had only an instant to glance behind her to see her attacker—a big man, burly and russet-haired—before she was shoved back into the water.
“Bitch!”
His voice guttural, cruel, she knew then he intended to kill her. Her head pushed roughly once more beneath the water, Marguerite knew, too, she had to do something—anything!—to try and save her life.
Donovan’s voice came to her, “If anyone grabs you, fight! Fight hard!” Yet already she felt as if blackness was very near to enveloping her, precious little air left in her lungs.
No, no! With every last ounce of strength she possessed, she turned her head and latched her teeth upon her attacker’s thumb to bite him. Hard! She heard him roar in pain as he released her, which allowed her to jump from the tub in a spray of water and fall to the floor on the opposite side.
Gasping for air, she cared nothing for her nakedness but dodged first one way and then the other as the man tried to come around the tub to grab her. God help her, she had nothing for a weapon—nothing save her wits and her tongue!
“Get out of here while you still can!” she screamed at him while yet he lunged to try and catch her. “Or my husband will kill you!”
“Your bloody husband is already dead if Oliver’s done his job,” the man grated, squatting down to grab hold of the tub. “Fair retribution, I’d say, for winging him last night in the shoulder—dammit, wench, the baronet paid me to see you dead, too, and I’ll not be thwarted!”
With a great heave as Marguerite watched in horror, her attacker upended the tub and spilled water across the floor. Then he hurled the empty tub into the wall with a crash and lunged at her again, his arms outstretched to catch her.
She screamed. He howled in fury, a terrible sound that suddenly became a curse of surprise when he seemed to slip on something and pitched forward, losing his balance.
Marguerite had barely an instant to twist out of the way as he crashed into the coal stove behind her, hitting his head with such force that she heard a sickening crack.
He was dead, she knew it, before his heavy body hit the floor. Tears streaking her face, Marguerite could only stare in shock as she sank to her knees.
Walker…dead? Dear God, she could not fathom it. Please, please tell her it wasn’t true—
“Marguerite!”
Walker’s roar made her gasp as he kicked open the door with a crash of splintering wood. She gaped at him, such relief swamping her that she began to sob uncontrollably.
Even when he pulled her from the floor into his arms, hugging her fiercely, she could not stop crying.
As if mocking her, the dead man’s eyes stared unseeing at her, his face contorted into a terrible grimace. Then Walker turned her chin to look at him, his voice ragged, his gaze tortured.
“God help me, woman, I didn’t know what I’d find. First a bastard with a knife attacking me in the carriage house and then a serving maid screaming that you were being drowned—”
“He told me his friend had killed you…that-that you were dead.”
