“I’m afraid I did,” he said casually, as if he were admitting that he’d stolen the last biscuit.
“Are you to kill me as well?” She did her best to keep her tone even but knew she failed, knew he could smell her fear as a predator sniffed out its prey. She shuddered. “It is always a possibility, but I suspect it won’t come to that. Fielding does seem rather fond of you. Perhaps he’ll rescue you.” He sipped his brandy, rolling it around on his tongue with obvious relish. “Yes, you’d make a tasty bit of cheese with which to set my trap.”
“Is that what you’re counting on?” she asked. “That he’ll come here and make some sort of bargain with you to save me? I can assure you that despite what you must believe, Fielding harbors no tender feelings toward me.”
“Well, then, perhaps I will have to kill you.” He stepped into the hall. She could hear him murmuring but could not decipher any of his words. A moment later he reentered, this time with a familiar man following behind him.
“Ah, Miss Worthington, I believe you’ve met Thatcher.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Thatcher looked much as he had the night he’d kidnapped her. Dressed head to toe in black; long, unkempt hair tied at the base of his neck. He winked at her lasciviously as he passed by.
How was she to get herself out of this mess? Panic began to claw its way through her belly, but she forced herself to calm down. Hysterics had never solved anything. She needed her wits about her if she was to survive this. If the Raven had wanted her dead, wouldn’t he have already killed her? Hoping that thought would soothe her nerves, Esme tried to lean back into the vulgar chair.
The two men stood over by the sizable desk and talked quietly. She strained to hear what they were saying but couldn’t make out their conversation.
The Raven bent down and retrieved a large rolled-up piece of parchment, perhaps a map of some sort, which he let spread across the desk. Bent over the desk, both men motioned to different places on the paper, but only the Raven spoke. Though she did her best to eavesdrop, Esme was able to make out only the words guards and majesty. Thatcher put both hands down and leaned forward casually. The gold band shimmered against his tan skin. She longed to get close to it, read the inscription, but she didn’t dare move.
She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. The Raven stopped talking and stared intently at the bracelet.
“Take it off,” he muttered.
Thatcher’s face pinched with confusion.
The Raven reached over and grabbed Thatcher’s arm; he tugged on the bracelet. “Why won’t it come off?”
“I told you, I’ve tried everything,” Thatcher said. He pulled his arm back.
Esme momentarily thought about volunteering the information Fielding had uncovered about the curse’s effect, but she decided to keep it to herself.
“What are you planning to do?” Esme asked, still curious about the map.
“We have a brilliant plan,” Thatcher said. “We are going to—”
“Careful, Thatcher,” the Raven warned. The man’s eyes again were drawn to the bracelet.
It had to be greed, Esme realized. Every time the Raven saw the band, he couldn’t help but look at it. In the carriage, with her own band, he hadn’t tried to take it off her, but he had touched her, more than once, perhaps afflicted with a touch of lust in that short amount of time. And in the previous meeting with her, he’d seemed calm, as if he was utterly in control of not only himself, but her as well. And now, it was the greed bracelet that was seducing him.
“You’ll have to wait and see what we’re going to do,” Thatcher continued. “We’ve got it all figured out, though. We—”
“We? ” the Raven roared. “We? There is no we. This is my plan. And you work for me.” With the last word, he pulled the sword off the wall and in one clean stroke brought it down onto Thatcher’s hand. Blood sprayed over the desk, creating a red-splotched pattern across the map.
Thatcher howled in pain and fell to the floor, holding a bloody stump where his hand had been. Esme caught her own scream as she pressed both hands to her mouth. Her heart raced to a degree she wasn’t certain would allow it to ever slow again.
“No we,” the Raven repeated. He plucked Thatcher’s hand from his desk. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.”
Esme watched in horror as the Raven tried to pull the bracelet off the severed hand, but as if there were an unseen barrier, it would not budge.
Thatcher continued to scream in pain. “Quiet!” the Raven growled.
Tears streaming down his face, Thatcher cradled his bloody arm to his chest and rocked back and forth against the desk.
The Raven swore loudly. “The bloody thing still won’t come off.” He stepped around the desk to loom over Thatcher. “You are worthless,” he said. With one quick thrust, he sank the sword into Thatcher’s chest.
This time Esme was not able to silence her own scream.
“I suppose his hand will work just as well. I need only the band,” the Raven said. He took several steps toward Esme.
